A Son of Aran Page 21

  ‘For days they fed me hard tack, corned beef, and strong drink. My clothes, ragged and torn, dried quickly in the sun; I was put to work sawing, chopping, and shaping, until the mast, now considerably shorter, was fixed in place. Other members of the crew stitched and sewed sails until they were made functional. After several days of hard labour, the craft assumed the appearance of a sawed-off seagoing hulk. Bales wrapped in heavy fibre were stowed below deck—I wondered what they contained? Long and rectangular in shape, they were very heavy to lift. I wasn’t told; I refrained from asking. From their whisperings and gestures to one another, I had a premonition that they planned to get rid of me when my usefulness had passed. From the position of the sun, I reckoned we were sailing in a southerly direction. In a hazy mist, land appeared momentarily on the western horizon and disappeared again—it looked familiar. Was it, what I was thinking—the fabled Hy Brasil? There was no time to ponder. In mist and fog, a larger vessel hove alongside. Transfer of similar bales onto our boat was slowly achieved before the ship moved on. This time there was no mistaking the contents—I had seen similar bales transferred to small fishing craft off the Irish coast on numerous occasions. I pretended not to notice as I helped the crew to stow them below.

  ‘“Ve can’t ave em on board ven we make land,” the captain said. “Ee’s castaway—no name, no papers. E draw attention ve don’t vont.”

  ‘“Vat you say, ve put him back in the vater?” one suggested. With a punch to my head, one of them knocked me to the deck. Another seized my right arm and swung me around violently, dislocating my shoulder. They lashed me to a beam of floating balsa wood and threw me overside before moving away in full sail. Shipwrecked again, in the heat of the sun, cringing from my wounded arm, deprived of food and water, I drifted with wind and waves until I lost consciousness. I dreamt I had reached the land of eternal existence. I don’t know how long it was before, gabbling incessantly about a place called Hy Brasil, I was rescued by a fishing vessel, transferred to a coast guard launch, and taken to a hospital somewhere on the coast of Africa. There I was nursed back to health by doctors and attendants whose language I did not understand and with whom I couldn’t communicate. I had no recollection of who I was or where I came from. Following discharge from hospital, I wandered aimlessly around the port for weeks until, by the grace of God, I got passage to England where I was held by the immigration authorities pending investigation. The rest of the story is known to Eileen and Seosamh who, when contacted by the British authorities, came over from Spain to identify a man who claimed to be her father but who, they assumed, was somebody attempting to impersonate him. At this stage you know how my memory was miraculously restored, when without thinking, I jumped into the sea to save my friend Máirtín from drowning. Moladh le Dia as ucht an chaoi ar tharla sé sin (Praise to God for the manner in which that happened). The ways of the Lord are truly wonderful.’

  It was a story that Peadar was called upon to relate over and over during weeks and months that followed, as reporters, local and national, vied with each other to bring his story to their readers. The influx of newspaper correspondents and curious visitors brought an upsurge of business to Aran that was similar to the busiest summer tourist season. At a special Mass of celebration, Father Corley compared the incarceration of Peadar to that of the biblical figure, Jonah, who spent three days in the belly of a whale before being vomited back on shore—the difference being that Peadar had to suffer three years of aggravation before he obtained his reprieve.

  ‘Miracles,’ he reiterated, ‘do happen if we have the faith to believe.’

  ‘With all the notoriety lavished on me, I feel like I have grown a halo,’ Peadar remarked to a member of the congregation who came to congratulate him after Mass had ended.

  ‘Ag Dia an chreidiúnt go léir (God must take all the credit),’ he added modestly.

  It was like old times as he walked in freedom through fields so tiny by comparison with those he had seen in Spain. When he walked by the shore, he threw stones at sea birds and skimmed the water with flags, like he had done when he was a boy.

  ‘Moladh le Dia (God be praised),’ he said to himself over and over. ‘If I hadn’t endured such hardship during these past years, I would never have experienced the elation and satisfaction of feeling a new man again. If only I had a few cattle to look after! The lovely black ‘purry’ Angus that I used to rear, appear to have gone out of favour; all I see around the island now are the white heads and spotted flanks of crossbred animals. The boats that I knew have changed too. Except for an occasional hooker like the one that Máirtín held onto, smaller sailing boats have given way to fishing trawlers with engines. With all the changes that have occurred, I feel like Oisín when he returned from Tír na nÓg. I have no intention of going back to fishing; I’ve had enough of that for my lifetime—I don’t want to remain in Aran any more.’

  ‘Seosamh and I are making plans to return to Spain with our baby son,’ Eileen said to her father one day soon after. ‘Will you come with us, Dad?’ she asked. ‘It will be very lonely for you here on your own; there will be little opportunity of coming to visit you because of the distance and difficulty of travel. Seosamh and I would love if you came to live with us at Estat de Tirelle. The people there know us by now and they respect us for what is being done for their welfare and advancement. You will be able to visit them; it won’t take very long to learn enough of their language to keep up a conversation with them. Think of the stories you’ll have for them about this part of the world that they have never seen, our way of life in Aran, the fishing, the farming and of course, the saga of your escapades over these past years. Seosamh and I will have to learn their ways of living, their customs, and traditions—all in all, it will make an interesting study. Think about it, Dad. We don’t wish to put any pressure on you but we would be pleased if you would consent to come even for a short spell. Little Carl should have an opportunity to get to know his grandfather; you are the only grandparent he has and, for the moment at least, he is your only grandchild.’

  ‘Eileen, you don’t have to persuade me. I have been turning things over in my mind. Loath as I am to desert my native Aran, I have already decided that I am not going to stay here. I could go to live in Galway where I have friends but what would I do there? I don’t have to work for a living any more—to tell the truth, I have no regrets on that score. Being with Seosamh and you, I could become interested in what you are doing for the smallholders—I have something in common with them. I would like to see their living conditions improve. And, of course, I could fill the role of babysitter when you are too busy to look after Carl! My mind is already made up—I am coming with you to Spain.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad. You have taken a great weight off my shoulders,’ Eileen replied, as tearfully she hugged him.

  ‘Before we go to Spain, however,’ Peadar said, ‘there is something I must do. I want to return to the prison in England where I was detained by the Immigration Authorities, to plead for the release of Seánín Mhicil Dubh. Only for him I would be there still, not knowing who I was or where I came from. Seánín didn’t reveal to me the seriousness of the crime for which he was committed to prison but I suspect it was no more than being found drunk in a public place or involved in a brawl. I will bail him out and, if a fine is acceptable as an alternative to imprisonment, I will pay for his release. Can we arrange to travel through England on our way to Spain?’

  ‘No problem at all, Dad. Take all the time you want. I too will be glad to see Seánín released. A poor defenceless Aran man in England—I feel sure he didn’t do very much wrong. We’ll go and talk to him—maybe he’ll tell us his story about what happened.’

  Negotiations with the prison authorities proved to be not quite as simple as they had visualised. The charge sheet on which Seánín Mhicil Dubh had been convicted was comprehensive: drunk and disorderly, no fixed abode, assault of a policeman, resistance to arrest, and abusive language. The police officer in question had suffer
ed broken ribs, head injuries and concussion, which caused him to be hospitalised for several weeks. In prison, the pattern of abuse and disruption for which Seánín was committed had continued unabated. The prisoner had shown no regret for his unruly behaviour.

  ‘What are the chances of arranging bail?’ Peadar asked. ‘In sentencing him, was a fine stipulated in place of detention?’

  ‘I am not party to the findings of the judge in this case,’ the prison officer replied. ‘Application of bail is a matter for the courts, as also is the question of a fine in lieu of imprisonment. You are free to make application on his behalf on both counts.’

  ‘We’d best engage a lawyer,’ Eileen suggested. ‘We’re not conversant with legal procedures in this country. While we await the decision of the courts, perhaps we should visit some of the haunts of Irish workers here in London—Camden Town, Brixton, Kentish Town, and similar places, in order to find out for ourselves how Irish people like Seánín live and are treated. We might even come across some of his mates who can tell us more about him. Maybe the poor man has been unemployed or sleeping rough because he couldn’t afford a place to live. Conditions, like those, drive many an Irish man to desperation and drink—low self image, loneliness, friends evaporating when money runs out—it could happen to any of us in like circumstances. I’m sure there are many of our countrymen in situations similar to Seánín’s. If we knew of these, maybe we could do something to help them. Come, we have time on our hands and nothing to lose.’

  During the ensuing months, while awaiting the court’s decision on Seánín’s case, they visited a number of public houses and clubs in the London area where they met and mixed with men from several counties in Ireland who had come to England in the hope of obtaining employment, and earning enough money to eventually return home and settle down in comfort. Their stories did not differ substantially. They worked on buildings and public works where manual labour was in demand. No job was too demanding or too dangerous as long as the money was right. Initially, strong, healthy-looking, lads had no difficulty in getting a ‘start’— assembly at a street corner at seven in the morning. to be carried on the back of a lorry to an out-of-town site, bringing their food with them or going to the nearest café at midday, back at seven in the evening, dirty and tired, a quick wash and shave, a bite to eat in their lodgings and round to the local for a few pints. It was a congenial life style for those who kept their heads—how else were they to occupy themselves in their off hours and at weekends? Not so good for those who tippled to excess, got aggressive in their cups, fought with those around them, staggered home at closing time, and were absent from roll call the following morning. Despite excuses and firm assurances that it wouldn’t happen again, boss men got tired of such behaviour and dropped them from their team. Word soon got around—other ‘gaffers’ didn’t want to know them. Without work, and with no money to spend, they became isolated from their mates and friends, couldn’t afford to pay for digs and finished up sleeping rough.

  ‘That’s the same story my friend, Máirtín, told me from the time he spent over here on the buildings,’ Peadar remarked. ‘He had enough sense to go back home before he got addicted to the drink.’

  ‘We’re looking for a man named Seán Ó Doirnín, from Aran,’ he told men they met in one of the pubs. ‘I grew up with him at home; I wonder if any of you ever knew him?’

  A protracted silence followed during which customers looked at one another.

  ‘Is it Seánín Mhicil Dubh you’re talking about?’ one man said after a while. ‘Sure everyone in Camden Town knew Seánín. Wasn’t he the best man to have at your back in a row when he was in his prime—he could handle any two men who were foolish enough to take him on. He hasn’t been seen around here for a long time. He drank a lot; his health wasn’t too good. Some say he moved to Hounslow or Ealing—if you inquire in those places you might be lucky enough to get tidings of him.’

  The lawyer they had hired eventually brought news. Records revealed that, when Seánín was convicted, the court judge ordered that he should be fined one hundred pounds in respect of injuries inflicted on the policeman. In the event of non-payment of the fine, a jail sentence of nine months was imposed. The authorities conveyed that, if the fine was paid, the accused could be released forthwith. This was the outcome Peadar wanted to hear. He immediately discharged the fine and Seánín became a free man.

  ‘Come, we’ll celebrate,’ he said with animation, after he had thanked them profusely for getting him released.

  ‘Hold on for a minute,’ Peadar admonished, ‘we can’t have you jumping from the frying pan into the fire. We’ll go with you surely to celebrate, but there’s to be no arguing or fighting or you’ll soon be back inside again. If you don’t mind, we’ll all book into a hotel where we can eat and drink, in moderation of course, without being disturbed. After that we’ll get you a new suit of clothes and a soft hat so that you will hold your head as high as anyone in the queen’s realm. Aran folk mustn’t let the side down. We’ll have a long chat about what you are going to do from here on—do you want to stay in England, would you prefer to go back to Aran, or will you come with us to Spain where you can live with us as your new-found family? After all, you’re one of us now. I wouldn’t be where I am today if it weren’t for you; I owe you, Seánín.’

  ‘Peadar, I am grateful for your offer of a life with you in Spain. I’ve heard it is a great country where the sun is always shining and there’s lots of luscious fruit to eat and wine to drink. ‘Twould be a fine place no doubt, but I’m not ready for that kind of living yet. I have a couple of things to do first. Now that I have a new suit of clothes on my back, I’d like to pay a visit home. I haven’t been back there since I left at eighteen years of age. My parents passed away many years ago. My older brother went to America; I haven’t heard a word about him since. I would like to see the old homestead, meet the neighbours, tell them how I made it good in England, and that I am doing well. I’d throw a few pounds around in the local pub, treat everyone, and spin tall yarns about life over here. There’s only one problem—I don’t have the few pounds that it takes. There’s a Galway man in Chiswick that I worked with a few years back. He got on well— now he is a building contractor in his own right. If I look for a loan from him I’m sure he won’t refuse me. I’d work off the debt when I get back. I’ll go over there tomorrow and ask him. I’ll not mention anything about being in jail. He knows that I sometimes took a drink too many, but I’ll convince him that I’m on the dry. He’s a decent sort of fellow; I know he’ll oblige me.’

  ‘Seánín, I’m delighted to hear you say you want to go home to Aran. There’s no need for you to go begging to anyone for money,’ Peadar assured him. ‘I will give you whatever it takes. When you have spent some time there, you may not want to return to England at all which, in itself, might be a good idea. If your own old home is not in shape, you can have the use of my cottage for as long as you want. If you let my friend Máirtín Ó Neachtan know you are coming he will have everything ready and he will supply you with whatever you need while you are staying there. Máirtín and Sorcha, his mother, don’t know about your drinking problems or your term in prison; even if they did, they would be unlikely to advertise it for they are not gossiping types. Think about what I’ve said, Seánín, and don’t take too long in making up your mind. We want to see you on the boat to Dublin before we leave for Spain. Here is our address in Spain so that you can contact us. We’ll be waiting for news on how you get on in Aran.’

  ‘This is the last time we’ll have to make the journey to Spain by boat,’ Eileen said, as they boarded the ferry at Southampton en route to Le Havre from where they would take a train to Paris and from there to San Sebastian. ‘A new air flight from Dublin to Madrid, introduced recently, will get us there in a few hours.’

  ‘Won’t that be great,’ said Seosamh, ‘I’ll be able to pop back and over to Galway in jig time to meet some of my friends.’

  ‘Don’t you
be getting notions, Seosamh; you’re not going anywhere without me. If you go to Galway, Carl and I are coming with you. I can’t have you flitting off on your own any more. Remember you have responsibilities now.’

  ‘Oh, misery me, why did I have to get married!’ Seosamh mockingly replied.

  On board ship to Ireland, Seánín thought to himself: ‘Amn’t I fortunate not to have formed a relationship with a woman on either side of the Irish Sea. Apart from a few romps with girls of my own age in Aran before I emigrated, I didn’t attach myself seriously to any woman. I wonder if any of those girls are still around! Too long ago,’ he mused, ‘they’ll have found partners at this stage.’

  Before taking the ferry to the island, he decided to spend a day or two in Galway.

  ‘I have to get a few items of clothes. If I appear in Aran in this fine-cut suit, fellows who were in England will know damned well that it was purchased specially for the homecoming in order to create an impression. I must find something more in tune with island garb. Neachtan Beag is the place to go; every island man and woman that comes to Galway pays a visit to the High Street shop to purchase items of wear traditional to Aran. There was a time when the island women carded and spun, knitted heavy woollen stockings, and wove materials for the tailor to make baggy trousers and sleeveless jerkins for their men. I hear the homespun trade has diminished in recent years. Now they buy similar items from shops in Galway. Their main source of supply is the shop they call Neachtan Beag.’