A Son of Aran Page 22
The proprietor eyed him closely as he entered the shop. He knew every islander by first name—this one he hadn’t seen for a long time.
‘Arrah, Seánín, is it yourself that’s in it? Where have you been at all since I last saw you?’ He extended a hand in greeting.
‘England,’ Seánín volunteered by way of reply.
‘And how are things going for you? With the fine suit you’re wearing, I don’t have to ask.’
‘I need a couple of items for going over on the boat—a pair of heavy trousers, a knitted cardigan, a peaked cap— you’ll know yourself what is suitable.’
‘No problem, Seánín, come with me and we’ll see what we can do to fit you out.’
‘I suppose a lot of Aran people come to see you all the time,’ Seánín casually remarked.
‘Indeed they do; even if they don’t want to buy something, they call anyway to say hello.’
‘Ah, Neachtan Beag shop is known all over Aran,’ Seánín added, determined to keep the conversation from becoming personal.
‘Are you on a short visit or will you be staying?’ the owner persisted.
‘Haven’t made up my mind—I must wait until I see how things are at home. Maybe I’ll try on these garments—you used to have a changing room.’
‘Straight ahead, and to the right—would you like any help?’
‘No, I’ll manage on my own—thanks for the offer.
‘Do I look alright?’ he asked, as he emerged from the rear of the shop, clad in his new purchases.
Having paid for his outfit, it was Seánín’s turn to ask a few questions: ‘Do you know if any Aran girls stayed around Galway after they left the island—Cáit Mulhern, Brídín Curran, Sorcha Concannon, are ones I used to know?’
‘I’m sorry—I wouldn’t know about these. Hold on, I’ll ask my wife! She tells me that Brídín Curran works in The Southern Hotel—maybe she could tell you about the others. I hope you find whoever it is you’re looking for. Thanks for the custom. Good luck, whatever—Seán.’
On returning to Estat de Tirelle, Eileen found a letter from Father Benedictus. Judging from the postmark, it had been sent two weeks earlier. He asked if she would contact him on her return. His news was alarming: ‘Your friend, Philip, who was discharged from the hospital in San Sebastian on Friday of last week, went missing two days later. Despite intensive investigation by the Spanish Guardia Civil, no trace of him has been found. The Dominican nuns, in whose house he lived, have informed his superiors in Ireland, in the hope that they, in turn, will relay the news to Philip’s family.’
‘This is most distressing.’ Eileen commented. ‘Poor Philip, out here without a friend in the world, isn’t it unfortunate that we were called away while he became ill; we might have been able to help him.’
‘He shouldn’t have come to Spain in the first instance,’ Seosamh curtly remarked. ‘I had a strange feeling about that man from the time we first met him—a student for the priesthood, trailing a girl who didn’t want him. I hope he had the good sense to go home after he left hospital; his religious community might be able to get him back on track.’
‘You’re very sore on him, Seosamh. Young men fall in love all the time, whether or not they have offered themselves for priesthood. You weren’t even his age when you fell for me. Maybe I am to blame for his mishap? It is one of the penalties I pay for my free manner and good looks. I hope nothing untoward has happened to him; if it was in my power to help him I would gladly do so.’
Peadar was astounded at the extent of developments that had taken place on the estate since he last saw it—areas that had been lying semi-waste were now growing crops of maize, barley, potatoes, and vegetables; water pumped from underground wells resulted in crops flourishing with the help of irrigation. Smallholders, who had been allocated extra land, appeared happy with their new farming practices; some had already procured two-wheeled iron-horse tractors to relieve the drudgery of manual cultivation. A market for their surplus produce was arranged through a co-operative venture that they formed. Through the same co-operative, they were able to purchase seeds and fertilisers for their crops at favourable prices. Seosamh’s advice to them on judicious application of those commodities had begun to pay off. All told, a pronounced air of prosperity and satisfaction was evident among the people.
The university authorities in Salamanca had commenced research activities on lands adjoining Castillo de Tirelle, designed to establish the characteristics of soils in the region, their suitability for cultivation of specific crops, and their deficiencies in soil nutrients. Jago was employed to assist the team of agricultural experts who worked on soil analysis and crop experiments. With his help they set up a base in the yard, commuting to work there from their respective homes in surrounding areas. Peadar was given the job of caretaker and supervisor of offices where records of field trials were maintained, and laboratories in which experiments and soil tests were conducted. In his white coat and matching beret, he cut a dash that pleased him no end.
‘This is a far cry from mixing fertilisers in MacDonacha’s factory in Galway,’ he commented to Eileen. She was pleased to find him fully recovered from his ordeal of previous years and to see him happy in his new-found role.
‘Thank you Lord,’ she fervently prayed, ‘for Seosamh, Carl, and my father, all here with me under one roof. You have come to our assistance in so many, many ways. Thank you for the goodness and mercy you have extended to us.’
Sunshine and intermittent soft sea mists greeted Seánín as he stepped ashore from the ferry in Kilronan. The crossing had been calm; tourists lined the deck as the island came into view.
‘What a beautiful sight,’ they exclaimed in chorus. ‘And the weather—aren’t we lucky! People told us to take our rain gear, saying that it rained here all the time. Today there is no rain.’
They hastened to disembark as soon as the ferry tied up on the quayside. Soon they were surrounded by a host of enterprising islanders offering services of transport around the island—horse drawn buggies, jaunting cars, motor vans converted to act as mini- buses. Others, for a consideration, offered conducted walking tours, in the course of which places and objects of interest were pointed out and commentaries provided on the history of each. Seánín wasn’t interested—he was familiar with every field and monument on the island; he could assume the role of commentator if required. He headed instead for the oldest pub in Kilronan where he hoped he might meet some of his former schoolmates and acquaintances. He wasn’t disappointed.
‘Seánín, my auld son, where have you come from? It’s so long since we heard tidings of you, we thought you were dead.’ With a grip of iron, Thomasheen Mulhern shook his hand.
‘Tis well you’re looking although, no more than myself, there’s not much spare flesh on your bones. Did John Bull’s beef not agree with you? You’ll have a drink for old time sake—what’ll it be, whiskey or porter?’
‘I’ll settle for a pint,’ Seánín replied modestly. ‘How are things with you, Thomasheen? Did you stay in Aran all these years? I thought that, being the lively lad I used to know, you would have travelled the world by now.’
‘Like you, I would have loved to go away but circumstances dictated otherwise. I never got farther than Galway. There I met a young woman who convinced me to stay—we finished up getting married. That put a halt to my travel ambitions—a working wife and four children in five years. Now they are nearly as big as myself. I was their baby sitter for the first years, she looks after them now—we parted company a few years ago; that’s why I’m back living in the auld spot. I can’t complain—it’s great to be free again. What about you, Seánín, have you thrown your eye on any woman?’
‘No, Thomasheen, I’m as clean as the virgin snow. I had my chances, could have been married, but it never happened. I’m afraid I was too much of a rover to settle anywhere.’
‘Will you stay at home now? Your old home could do with a face-lift; there’s no one living there since you
r parents died and that brother of yours went away to America. The land is in need of a bit of doing up too; the walls are all knocked down—neighbours’ cattle eat whatever is in your fields. ‘Tis sad to see a fine place like it going downhill—it’d be worth a few pounds if it was put in shape.’
‘I haven’t decided yet what I’ll do. I arrived on the ferry only an hour ago—I must take time to study the situation. In the meantime Peadar O’Flaherty has offered me the use of his house for as long as I want to stay.’
‘Did you say, Peadar O’Flaherty? Didn’t that man die years ago—drowned while he was out fishing. How could he be alive? Are you sure it’s the same man you’re talking about?’
‘It’s the same Peadar all right. Sure he wasn’t drowned after all. He turned up in England a year ago as large as life. It’s a long story—I’d prefer if he told you about it himself some time. You mustn’t have been here when he came back to visit. Didn’t Father Corley say a special Mass of thanksgiving on account of him being saved?’
‘And how do you come to know all this and you away in England at the time?’
‘That’s a long story too, Thomasheen; I haven’t time to tell you now. I must go and make contact with Máirtín Neachtan—he looks after Peadar’s place in his absence. Good luck for now, that was a great chat we had. Tell me something before I go—I knew a sister of yours named Cáit when we were both going to school—whatever happened to her?’
‘Funny you should ask about Cáit—she went to America at eighteen years of age, met an Irish man, and married him. They had no children. Her husband was drafted for active service with the American forces during World War Two. He was killed on the Normandy beaches on D-Day. She got a big army pension and, on the strength of it, she came back to Aran. She is living with me in the auld homestead at present. I’ll tell her you were asking about her. You might meet her sometime.’
‘You’re not from this country,’ a fellow patient remarked to Philip when he was well enough to be released from solitary accomodation and consigned to a hospital ward.
‘No, I am from Ireland,’ Philip informed him.
‘And, how come you are in hospital in San Sebastian? Do you not have medical treatment in your own country?’ the man persisted.
‘I became ill while I was a student in Salamanca. When I am well enough I intend to return to my own country.’
‘Salamanca—isn’t that where they train young men to be priests?
‘Yes, I am a seminarian,’ Philip replied. ‘I came here to study Spanish before going on the mission to South America.’
‘Ireland, South America—very interesting. You are aware that here you are in Basque country. My people have a common bond with revolutionary groups in Ireland, Cuba, and Chile. Have you heard of ETA, the organisation for freedom of the Basque people?’
‘Vaguely—in the seminary we are not allowed to follow outside events closely. What does your association do to obtain the freedom you seek for your people?’
‘For many centuries we have pleaded with successive Spanish governments to give our people autonomy; ours is an ancient culture that has nothing in common with Spain. Our native language and traditions are Basque, not Spanish. We sought freedom to govern the Basque region, which lies between France and Spain, as a separate principality. Following decades of broken promises and attempts to subdue our people by outright oppression, we had no alternative other than to turn to organised subversion. At present we have volunteers who, at short notice, are prepared to sacrifice their lives in harassing the forces of government, and in assassinating leading Spanish political figures when the opportunity is presented.’
‘I can empathise with the predicament in which your peo-ple are placed,’ Philip told him. ‘Ireland has similar problems. For four hundred years we have been trying to wrest control of our own affairs from England. In 1921 when they eventually conceded independence, this was only partial. Northern Ieland, still governed by Britain, is a source of conflict similar to what you have described, involving activities by subversive groups; atrocities are frequently committed on both sides.’
‘Philip—may I call you by your name? I see that you are a revolutionary at heart and have an interest in our Basque affairs. If you don’t mind I will ask some of my associates to speak with you on the subject; nothing can equal person-to-person dialogue when it comes to explaining problems.’
‘Philip has been discharged from the enclosed psychiatric wing of the hospital,’ Father Benedictus told Eileen when she met him after class in Salamanca. ‘At present he is recuperating in sheltered accomodation under medical supervision and he is free to come and go as he sees fitting. His sister came from Ireland to be at his side; I understand he is allowed to have other visitors also. One of his lecturers is going to San Sebastian to see him next week.’
‘Thank God for his recovery,’ Eileen replied. ‘I am so glad for his sake.’
‘I wonder if we should go to see Philip,’ she said to Peadar and Seosamh that night as they partook of evening tapas.
‘Not on your life,’ Seosamh quickly replied. ‘That fellow has been nothing but trouble since he came to Spain. Seeing you, would most likely set him off all over again. Better to leave him alone until he is well enough to go home to Galway.’
Peadar, never having met Philip, had no advice to offer.
‘Seosamh has a point,’ he conceded. ‘Maybe it’s best to let the hare sit until we have more information.’
Eileen, though disappointed, yielded to their advice.
‘Would you like to see something of the Basque country and meet some of our people while you are here?’ his visitor said to Philip.
‘Anything is better than this environment,’ he replied. ‘I would appreciate some clean air and open space. I’ll ask the doctor if he will allow me out for a few days. If he consents, and your people don’t mind, I will be glad to accept your offer.’
The sound of Atlantic waves pounding the craggy coastline, the sight of lush green hillsides separated from one another by rapidly flowing mountain streams lifted his spirits. His guide led him deep into remote valleys where hamlets of small dwellings pickled the landscape. Native people, huddling together, whispered to one another as the stranger appeared in their midst. Philip shuddered to think of the kind of reception he might have received if he hadn’t been in the custody of one of their people. When his presence was explained, their resistance abated. Any friend of Diego was welcome in their community.
Addressing Philip, one of them declared with feeling: ‘We are aware that many people in Ireland sympathise with the Basque struggle for independence. Like us, you have struggled for many centuries against oppression, economic sanctions, and enforced emigration. During the past hundred years, due to government sanctions, and lack of opportunity at home, thousands of our Basque people have emigrated to Argentina, Mexico, Chile and other Central and South American countries. Many others have been arrested, tortured, and executed by the Spanish Authorities because they dared to take a stand for their traditional way of life and their right to rule themselves.’
For the greater part of a week Philip was hosted by families throughout the Basque region between which he was moved at night to avoid detection. In the process he was introduced to members of the underground movement whose primary objective was to sabotage institutions of State, and to prevent their effective operation in every way possible. He was not given access to their leaders or to information on available fire power, but he was given to understand that ETA was ready and prepared for military action at any time should an opportunity arise. Members had sworn on oath to give their lives if necessary in pursuit of their ideals.
‘What value has a man’s life when he cannot attain his God-given legitimate aspirations?’ Philip said by way of consolation. ‘In my own case, while I have no appetite for inflicting punishment on people that I perceive as having done me injustice, my spirit is wounded to the extent that I don’t care about life any more. Not v
ery long ago I thought of ending it but, by the grace of God, I was deterred from carrying it through. The girl I love and with whom I had hoped to find happiness on this earth, informed me that she was about to marry another man. It was more than I could take—my mind snapped.’
‘My poor man,’ a young woman said. ‘Please, don’t let your disappointment get to you. In time it will pass—you are not alone. I mourn for my husband-to-be who was arrested by the Spanish Guardia Civil on suspicion of being a member of ETA. Having been forced to release him for want of evidence, they shot him in the back as he left the barracks, and claimed he had tried to escape. In cases of injustice like you and I mention, the individual has no redress. We just pick up the pieces and get on with our lives. Time is a great healer. Perhaps an opportunity will be presented through which we can exact retribution.’
During his continued stay in San Sebastian hospital, Philip was visited from time to time by some of the people he had met. Conversation usually centred on his plans after final discharge.
‘Would he return to Salamanca? Would he go home to Ireland? Perhaps he would like to remain in Basque country and learn their native tongue which was so different from formal Spanish language that he had come to perfect;’ questions posed were persistent and direct.
‘In my role as a seminarian preparing for priesthood, I am subject to direction by my Dominican superiors. Due to my illness, I am, for the present, absolved from their strictures. Salamanca has too many unpleasant memories for me; I don’t plan to return there. Perhaps I will accept your offer of sanctuary until I am well enough to travel to Ireland. I’ll let you know when the time comes for my return.’