A Son of Aran Read online

  ‘The hold-on-tight idea sounds interesting. What will happen if we both fall off?’

  ‘Let’s find out. A lot of herbage on the hills consists of sedge and moss—if we fall we’ll have a soft landing.’

  The glow of early morning sunshine lightened their spirits as Chrissie, riding behind Vincent, held on for dear life until the sensation of falling off had abated. Holding on was, in itself, sufficiently pleasurable to outweigh any terror she might have otherwise felt. At a moderate trot they soon drifted into open marginal land in the foothills which, undisturbed by cultivation, presented a paradise of wild flowers and native plants that both of them admired but neither could identify. Vincent was ecstatic:

  ‘From my agricultural education,’ he said, ‘I am familiar with most wild plants in Ireland but I would need a special qualification in botany to come to terms with the plethora of beautiful specimens we find here. As Chrissie spread a cloth and laid out the picnic, Vincent disappeared out of sight; he came back with a sheaf of colourful blooms which, with mock curtsy, he presented to her. By way of appreciation he received a gentle peck on the cheek.

  ‘Why don’t we tie the horse to a bush and walk for a bit?’ he suggested; ‘it would be more comfortable than sitting astride the saddle in this midday heat.’

  ‘Sounds fine by me,’ Chrissie replied with enthusiasm. ‘I hope that, while we are out of sight, nobody decides to nick our transport. In that case riding would again become top of my list of preferences.’

  As they strolled, arm in arm, through the lush growth, or sat for a time in the shade of a bluff, they regaled each other with stories from their respective lives in Ireland, their experiences, and characters they had met on the way—the discussion threw up interesting comparisons between urban and rural living. Vincent recapped on his chat with Seosamh about the possibility of following a career in farming; Chrissie told of her ambition to become the proprietor of a tourist hotel in some western seaside resort.

  ‘A pipe dream,’ she added; ‘probably it will never happen.’

  ‘Well then, let’s dream our dreams together while we have the opportunity,’ Vincent said as they stretched on the grassy sward, and he enfolded her in his arms. Chrissie did not resist.

  ‘What have you two been up to all day?’ Eileen called from the veranda when, later that evening, they strolled slowly up the avenue, deep in conversation, leading the horse by the halter.

  ‘From here,’ she added, ‘I can’t be sure whether the horse or you appear the most exhausted. Come inside and have a cool drink. Chrissie, I want you to tell me all about your day.’

  Eileen entertained the Coughlan sisters, taking them, in turn, to Salamanca where they viewed the magnificent central plaza, ornate cathedrals, the museum, the ancient façade of university buildings, and the site of the former Collegio d’Irlanda. They visited Palencia and Zamora with their plethora of ancient churches and mixture of Celtic, Gothic, and Byzantine architecture, all of which fascinated her visitors who had never before been to Spain. L a c k of the language precluded them from interacting with the native population but Eileen, acting as interpreter, led forays into fashion stores and market stalls where they bargained for leather goods and souvenirs to take home with them to Ireland. The weeks of holiday were quickly evaporating—in a few more days they would be bidding ‘adios amigos’ to their hosts—(they had learned two words of Spanish during their stay).

  ‘Before you leave you must experience a flamenco session,’ Eileen suggested. ‘Although this type of music and dance is widely performed, tomorrow, if you wish, we will pay a visit to its traditional home in Andalucia.’

  The passion of performance displayed by singers, instrumentalists, and dancers, left her friends in a hypnotic state. One act dovetailed into another, spectators clapping hands to the accompaniment of the music, girls flashing long frilly dresses and shawls, men in tight black trousers and broad hats, all circling and linking one another in a frenzy of music and dance. Agreement was unanimous: ‘This is the highlight of our vacation; we wouldn’t have missed it for anything.’

  For the farewell meal, on the eve of their departure, Santa Clara and her young assistant served a suckling pig flavoured with olives, herbs, and garlic, roasted on a spit over the broad hearth fire. Starting with a white albarino as aperitif, the meal was simply served with tapas, bread, and Rioja wine.

  ‘Appetising, ample and thoroughly enjoyable,’ was the all-round verdict. Speaking on behalf of the visitors, Vincent paid tribute to their hosts and thanked them for their hospitality. He pondered how they might reciprocate their generosity. ‘Sometime, perhaps—who knows?’ he concluded, to rapturous applause from the others.

  ‘The house seems so empty without our visitors,’ Eileen remarked on the day following their departure. ‘In the short time they were with us, we had become quite a family. I hope the liaison that started between Vincent and Chrissie will blossom when they are back in Ireland. A pity we weren’t in a position to provide male company for Mary and Seona—such beautiful and talented girls—I feel sure they will both meet their chosen partners in due time. Now that I am free, I must devote more of my time to Carl—will you accompany me, Seosamh, while we take him for a walk in his baby carriage?’ Seosamh was unusually silent as they set out on their walk.

  ‘Is something on your mind? Eileen asked. His response was studied and deliberate:

  ‘Do you think, Eileen, we made the right decision when we came to live permanently in Spain? I have heard rumblings that disturb me. The incursion of the party that Peadar saw last week was not accidental. Franco’s attitude towards persons who pose a threat to his autocratic regime, is well known. He has ruthlessly suppressed the Basques and other subversive groups, his hand-picked goons arrest, murder, and indiscriminately mistreat those he suspects of plotting against the establishment—guilty or innocent doesn’t appear to matter. The rebels who unilatterly took control of a major porton of Estat de Tirelle some years ago despite Carlos’s protestations and divided the lands between their friends, are obviously some of the factions that oppose Franco—in consequence, those affiliated to them are also considered non-grata. Because of our assistance to the smallholders, in official circles we may be tarred with the same brush. Even though Carlos and his father were favoured sons in the earlier Franco regime, that same patronage does not extend to us foreigners who now own the greater part of the estate. I don’t wish to sound alarming, but I feel we should hold ourselves in readiness for a quick exit if trouble arises. I’d prefer that you didn’t tell Peadar any of what I have said—his impetuous nature might cause him to react in the wrong way.’

  ‘Now you have me worried,’ Eileen replied. ‘In the light of what you have told me maybe, Seosamh, you should detach yourself gradually from your advisory role with the smallholders and stay more around the house until the situation crystalises. I need you here if we are visited by government agents—you know how their henchmen can take advantage of a lone woman. Carl also has to be to be considered—evil minds would see a baby as a bargaining factor if an altercation should occur. Let’s pray that such never happens.’

  Misfortune raised its head sooner than expected. As Seosamh, Eileen, Peadar, and the baby, returned from an afternoon outing to Zamora they found a window on the ground floor had been shattered by a brick to which a note in bold Spanish capitals was attached.

  SALGA A LOS ESTRANGEROS

  There was no signature.

  ‘Now, who can be responsible for this outrage?’ Peadar asked. ‘It reminds me of the sort of threat that was issued to landlords in Ireland during the land war. Many of them deserved that kind of treatment for the way they harrassed their tenants but surely, Eileen, we cannot be looked upon in the same light. All we have ever done is help the local people to improve their lot. You inherited this land—you own it. Why should you be labelled a trespasser? You don’t deserve to be intimidated like this.’

  ‘The line between what is right and wrong in thi
s country is very thin,’ Seosamh commented. ‘This might well be a private vendetta. Remember the African trio that accosted Jago and me one day. We haven’t been troubled by them since we related our experience to Jago’s father, but I am told they are still around. On the other hand this may be a warning from some of Franco’s henchmen that they intend to appropriate the estate. Again it may be an attempt by someone who would like to scare us into leaving so that they could acquire a stately mansion at their own price. One way or another, we’ll know soon enough—the brick episode will, no doubt, be followed by a visit from some of those gentlemen. If what I suspect is the case, we cannot expect protection from the Guardia Civil. They will not confront such intruders—in fact they may well be in league with them. We have no option but to wait and see; as non-nationals we have no influence that we can call on; we are powerless to resist. Meanwhile we should be on the alert at all times.’

  ‘The prospect of more trouble arising really frightens me,’ Eileen said. ‘If it were only my safety that was at stake, I could endure the suspense. I am more worried for baby Carl and what evil people might do to him. On top of that, I am carrying another child. Do you think perhaps that Carl and I should take refuge in Salamanca until the problem blows over?’

  ‘I reckon that would be a good idea,’ Peadar interposed. Seosamh wasn’t so sure.

  ‘Won’t that allow them to think they have succeeded?’ he said. ‘I’m all for calling their bluff.’

  ‘Seosamh, do you not think the safety of your wife and baby is more important than standing on your dignity? I am not one for running away from trouble, but I fear that ………………’ Eileen broke into tears as she spoke.

  ‘OK, Eileen—take it easy—let’s do as you say. We’ll go to Salamanca tomorrow and talk to the nuns about accommodation for you and Carl. We might have a word with Father Benedictus too—he has his ear to the ground on the activities of movements such as we mention. I’d like to have his opinion on our predicament.’

  The priest was in no doubt whatsoever. ‘You have done the right thing,’ he assured them. ‘There is considerable unrest among people at present due to the repressive actions of Franco’s government. Priests are not immune from harassment; the Jesuits have been banned from operating publicly; we ourselves are keeping a low profile in order to avoid similar treatment. This is not the Franco that we knew during the civil war when catholics from several countries, including Ireland, rallied to his cause against forces of the left. Since then he has shown himself to be a despot in many ways. Eileen, I am confident the nuns will facilitate you and your baby. You will be safe in their care until the storm blows over.’

  Saddened at the prospect of being deprived of Eileen’s company, Seosamh set out on the long road home. Wrapt in deep emotions as he drove along, he failed to observe a delipadated wartime vehicle that followed close behind. Looking in the mirror, he noticed it was occupied by two burly figures with coat collars pulled high around their necks and hats drawn low over their faces.

  ‘Strange,’ he thought, ‘that men should be wearing heavy attire at this time of year.’ He had little time to ponder the question; the vehicle pulled abreast and proceeded to edge closer to him and push him closer to the verge. Next moment, with a surge of force, the Taurus was rammed heavily several times.

  ‘What’s this about,’ Seosamh thought to himself. ‘Are those fellows drunk?’

  He steered hard against the impact and slowed as if to stop. The other vehicle slowed simuntanously and, with renewed force, pushed his car off the road into a deep gulley where it overturned, pinning him underneath. The offending vehicle continued on its way. Attempts to extricate himself from the wreckage were of no avail; he was caught between spars of metal; his body was numb; he was trapped and unable to move. He called for help as loudly as his voice would carry; nobody came to his assistance. He fainted and drifted into unconsciousness. He didn’t know how long he lay there before he heard voices and a rasping sound as of somebody attempting to open the driver’s door.

  ‘Not so good,’ a female voice whispered, as she lifted his right arm and felt his pulse. ‘This man needs assistance as a matter of urgency. I’ll remain with him while you alert a rescue team and an ambulance. He must be got to a hospital straight away.’

  In his semi-comatose condition, Seosamh felt it reassuring to hear a friendly voice. The rescue team arrived; using cutting equipment, they relieved the pressure of metal members from his body, allowing the doctor to conduct a superficial examination.

  ‘Lift him gently,’ he advised, ‘he may have spinal injuries—we’ll not know the full story until he is examined in theatre.’

  Deftly and quickly, Seosamh was placed on a stretcher. Accompanied by the woman who had first found him and was, he was later informed, a nurse, he was taken in the waiting ambulance to a hospital in Salamanca. Documents retrieved from his clothing and car identified his name and address. A telegram was sent to Estat de Tirelle to acquaint his family.

  ‘It never rain but it pours’ Eileen exclaimed, when the news of Seosamh’s accident was relayed to her gently by Peadar, ‘first, my mother, next you, Dad, then Philip, and now Seosamh! What have I done to deserve this litany of tragadies? Has the old Montmorency curse fallen on us? Is this a follow up to the threat of the coloured woman and her son who claimed his right to inherit Estat de Tirelle? I am beginning to wish I never got sight of the place.’

  On her first visit to the hospital, Eileen threw her arms around Seosamh and cried bitterly. Smothering him with kisses, she called out in frustration, ‘Seosamh, Seosamh, what is going to become of us? I don’t think I can endure any more of this trauma in our lives.’

  Seosamh was pleased to have his wife and baby son close by. They visited him every day, bringing flowers and fruit. Eileen smoothed his hair and fixed his pillow to make him more comfortable. Out of Seosamh’s hearing, she had a consultation with the doctor who tended him on first admission.

  ‘Señora, I will be frank with you. Fortunately, your husband was rescued before he lost too much blood. He incurred multible injuries which, in themselves, are not life threatening. More serious, however, is the damage to his spine and nervous system which has cost him the power of his legs. In my opinion, your husband will no longer be able to walk. I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news.’

  Eileen was inconsolate as she relayed the doctor’s diagnosis to Peadar. What are we going to do, Dad?’ she wailed. ‘Why did we ever have to come to this evil place? It has brought us nothing but trouble.’

  They went together to visit the patient. Try as she might, it was impossible for Eileen to conceal her disquiet.

  ‘Is something wrong, Eileen? Why are you in such low spirits? Praise the Lord, I am alive! Is everything all right with your pregnancy?’

  ‘I’m fine, Seosamh; the baby is fine too. It’s you I’m worried about. Has the doctor mentioned your injuries to you? Has he told you that you have damage to your spine?’

  ‘The doctor didn’t have to tell me, love. When I regained consciousness, I knew instinctively that my spine was injured. I couldn’t move my legs or wriggle my toes. I reckon I’ll not be able to walk; I may have to be in a wheelchair for the rest of my life. I could have told you sooner, Eileen, but I didn’t want to distress you.’

  ‘You’re being very brave, Seosamh. Don’t lose hope; we’ll seek further medical opinion. All may not be lost.’

  Peadar excused himself, while they sobbed and sobbed in one another’s arms.

  Days went by—long drawn out episodes of hospital visits, mutual consolations, light conversation, neither willing to bring forward the more serious question of where to next? Now that Seosamh’s less serious injuries, broken ribs, skull fracture and superficial wounds, had received attention, the time had come for his discharge from hospital. Eileen procured a wheel chair and hired an ambulance to take him back to Estat de Tirelle. A ramp created at the rear door of the house leading to the tack room facilitated entry of t
he wheel chair. The room adjoined the drawing room on the ground floor; it was adapted as a temporary bedroom-cumsittingroom. Eileen pondered if they were wise in returning there at all in the light of what had happened but, for the present, it was their only home. Before leaving Salamanca she consulted Father Benedictus, explained their predicament and asked for his advice.

  ‘What should we do about the Estat? In view of Seosamh’s incapacity, remaining there longterm does not appear to be an option. The greater area of the lands has already been assigned to you as trustee for the benefit of the smallholders. Should I offer the remaining fifty hectares and the mansion for sale? In view of the University’s role in using the land as a research centre, would that institution be interested in purchasing the place outright or in taking a long lease on it?’

  Father Benedictus was not in a position to make a commitment on behalf of his college. He promised to bring her proposal before the board of management.

  ‘Have we been wise in returning to Estat de Tirelle?’ Eileen asked Peadar after they arrived and settled in for the night. ‘Will there be further attacks? Our personal safety is in question. We don’t know who the perpetrators are—we have no way of determining to what lengths they will go in order to force us out.’

  The shattered window had been restored; Santa Clara reported that there had been no further interference. As a precaution, Jago’s father and some adjacent smallholders mounted a nightly guard on the place. The word was out on what had happened. They could only hope there would be no recurrence.

  Consultation with an emminent physician in Madrid did nothing to relieve Eileen’s anxiety. Lengthy examination of Seosamh’s injuries and perusal of X-ray photographs, served only to confirm the first doctor’s prognosis.

  ‘Short of a miracle,’ the consultant said, ‘he will be unable to walk again.’