A Son of Aran Page 26

  Looking after Seosamh presented a major problem. Eileen employed a nurse to assist with his physical needs; she herself spent as much time with him as her other duties allowed. Baby Carl had to be tended and fed. Her second pregnancy was nearing finality. She was compelled by doctor’s orders to rest for some hours each day. Peadar tried to be helpful but, apart from wheeling Carl out in his buggy to allow the baby’s mother to get some rest, there was a limit to what he could contribute. The future looked bleak—it was a worrying time for all.

  ‘Eileen, please don’t be despondent’ Seosamh said, as he looked at the anguish on her face. ‘Try to look on the bright side. I might have been killed in that accident. Although I am immobile, I can still do a lot for myself. I may be unable to walk, but most of my other faculties are unimpaired—I can think, I can speak, I can see, I can feed myself—I can bounce Carl on my lap and play with him, I can even fondle you in bed at night. Things could have been much worse.’

  ‘Thanks, Seosamh, for your words of consolation. ‘For your sake, for Carl, and for Peadar, I’ll try to be brave. The trauma of the past weeks has been too much for me. I’ll pull myself together and face up to what has happened. Thank God, I have you and my father to give me support. Together we’ll work things out.’

  ‘Señora, we are sorry to trouble you. We understand that your husband has recently been involved in a motor accident in which he sustained serious injuries. From hospital records in Salamanca, we have been able to trace him. We would like to speak to him about the occurrence’—the Guardia Civil officers appeared sympathetic.

  ‘Can you tell us what happened?’ they asked Seosamh.

  He related the events that caused him to be pushed into a ditch by a heavy vehicle, his recollection of being rescued some hours later, and his eventual hospitalisation.

  ‘Do you know who pushed you off the road?’ they asked.

  ‘I only know that the heavy vehicle in question was driven by two men whose faces I did not recognise.’

  ‘Do you wish to make a formal complaint in the matter,’ they asked. ‘There is a question of prosecuting the individuals concerned if they can be identified, also the removal of your car from private property, and repair of attendant damage to the lands, for which you are held responsible.’

  ‘I prefer not to answer that question until I have access to legal opinion,’ Seosamh replied. ‘May I ask if a charge has been brought against me by the landowner?’

  ‘Sorry, we are not permitted to divulge this information. We will give you the name of the person in question. You may negotiate with him privately if you so wish. That is all for the moment. We may need to ask further questions later.’

  ‘What do you make of that?’ Peadar asked when the Guardia Civil officers had left. ‘Did you think the main purpose of their visit was to establish whether you knew the identity of those who were responsible for ramming you?’

  ‘In this country, it’s hard to determine who is genuine and who is not,’ Seosamh replied.

  ‘We’ll only have to await developments. In the meantime, it might be well to talk with the landowner and settle for the damage incurred. Hopefully, our motor insurance policy will cover the cost of replacing the Taurus as well as paying compensation for my own injuries. We’ll consult the solicitor who acted for Carlos—he will negotiate for us. Meanwhile, Eileen will have to purchase a replacement vehicle— with the baby due at any moment, she must have transport if she gets a sudden call. If she buys a car that is specially adapted for invalids, in the event of an emergency, I will be able to drive it. ’

  ‘Don’t you think of everything, Seosamh,’ said Eileen, who heard his last remark, as she entered the room. ‘Put your mind at rest—I think I can handle that situation if it arises.’

  ‘I am Joseph Barlenda, of the Tenants Revolutionary League,’ their visitor announced. ‘You, I believe, are Eileen O’Loinigh—this must be your husband, José. I come to tender my sympathy on his recent misfortunate accident. I am very much aware of exhaustive measures initiated by you both to improve the lifestyle of our members—I assure you that your benevolence in this regard is much appreciated. I understand that you come from Ireland—a country well known to my associates in the Basque region. I want you to know that, despite animosity shown to you in recent times by certain organisations and individuals, your occupancy of Estat de Tirelle is entirely acceptable to our members. I assure you that they are willing to defend your rights of accession to the property should these be questioned.

  I have been asked by friends in Pais Basque to convey to you the sad news of the death of your Irish friend, Philip O’Donnell, who lost his life in an altercation with forces of the law while on a courtesy mission for ETA three years ago. His remains have been laid to rest in the cemetery at Ardigo, adjacent to the town of Espelette. If you wish to pay your respects by visiting his grave, Father Fariano of Ardigo Catholic Church, will facilitate you. He has in his possession some small personal items that belonged to Philip—a rosary beads, a wristlet watch, and the photograph of a young woman that he was known to treasure. Should you wish to have these, Father will be glad to release them to you. I regret that I am the bearer of what, for you, must be very painful news. By way of consolation to those who mourn for him, although Philip was identified with the Basque Freedom Movement for a brief time only, his memory is revered in our country.’

  ‘Seosamh, this is terrible news about Philip,’ Eileen sobbed inconsolably. ‘Why did he have to come to Spain in the first place? Why did he become involved with the Basque revolutionaries? It looks like he had a death wish. How must his family back home be suffering in the knowledge that he is dead? Seosamh refrained from comment.

  ‘Eileen, what should I do with the spare time I will have from now on? I could continue to study agriculture but Spanish manuals are far too complex for me in the absence of a good knowledge of the language. For the same reason, I am unable to read books from the library. I like to listen to the radio but most broadcasts are in Spanish; I have failed to tune in any Irish station. Do you think it might be possible to get a set of uileann pipes? I could learn to play these. When I was young in Aran I had a desire to play the pipes but, at that time, I couldn’t afford a set. When, eventually, I went to Galway and started to earn a few pounds, I was always on the look out. On one occasion the customs authorities had an auction of confiscated items—a set of uileann pipes was included. Excitedly, I went to the auction in the hope that nobody else was interested, and that I would get the pipes at my own offer. Tough luck; a buff with long hair down his back and rings in his ears outbid me—I couldn’t reach the price he was prepared to pay; I didn’t get the pipes. Maybe it was just as well—digs were not the most suitable place for practising a musical instrument—other occupants of the house would object to the unharmonious sounds emanating from a learner. Here in the tack room, there would be no interference—I could practice away to my heart’s content. Wouldn’t it be great if I was able to play? A swirl of pipes is great for lifting the spirits.’

  ‘I’ll ask around when I go to Salamanca. I have a feeling pipe music is not the norm here, but you never know. Maybe some former seminarian had your affiliation to uileann pipes and left a set behind. If I can’t get pipes, how would you like to try a flute or a tin whistle? These are somewhat similar to the chanter, and would afford you an opportunity to practice the various notes.’

  When no uileann pipes could be located in Salamanca, Seosamh turned his attention to a gramaphone that Santa Clara found in an upstairs attic. Records that accompanied it were in Spanish but that didn’t worry him. Songs by Nelson Eddy and John McCormack, evergreens in any language, were sweet to his ears; soon he was adding his own recollection of the lyrics. Flamenco coplas, played on guitar, provided a new dimension in instrumental music that he was unable to imitate without an instrument. Peadar and Eileen came to listen to the gramaphone.

  ‘Music has a powerful influence on us,’ Seosamh exclaimed. ‘Do you know
, I reckon there are worse penalties in life than being confined to a wheelchair. With more than one million pesetas in disability compensation on the way from the insurance company, I can afford tuition on any musical instrument of my choice. Wait until I get hold of a set of uileann pipes!’

  The arrival of baby number two added to the responsibility of all members of the household. Seosamh was ecstatic as he held the little bundle in his arms in the maternity unit of Salamanca hospital.

  ‘Isn’t she a darling,’ he exclaimed as, from his wheelchair, he leaned forward to embrace Eileen who was still confined to bed. ‘A beauty like her mother,’ he added, ‘where would she leave it? I remember, Eileen, the first time I took you in my arms when I carried you out of the tide in Aran after saving you from drowning. The little one reminds me of that event all over again.’

  ‘What name will we call her?’ Eileen asked when she and Seosamh were alone. ‘Had you a particular name in mind— your own mother’s, perhaps?’

  ‘No, not my mother, much as she means to me—if I have a choice, there’s only one name I want to call our daughter— it is Eileen Óg, the spit and image of her mother, closest to the name of my wife and sweetheart.’

  ‘I fear I will become jealous of another Eileen in your life,’ she said laughingly, but I’ll take a chance on that. Thank you, Seosamh, my husband and best friend. Eileen Óg it shall be.’

  ‘Would you like to see our new transport?’ Eileen asked when the day arrived for her to leave hospital. ‘Now that our family has become more numerous, having regard to the need to accommodate your wheelchair, I have chosen a high roofed sleeper van. It is more expensive than our first car but the insurance company has compensated us to the extent of two thirds the value of the Taurus. If we want to go away for a break at any time, the vehicle will double as a sleeper, and will solve the problem of booking into hotels and guest houses that haven’t facilities for a wheelchair. I think you’re going to like the spacious interior and the special controls that can be operated by hand. When we get insurance cover, you will have your dream of being able to drive again.’

  ‘Super, Eileen, I approve entirely of your choice; I love you for having considered my disability. May we all have many years of safe and pleasant driving in our new coach! We’ll get Father Benedictus to raise his hand over it in blessing before we leave for Estat de Tirelle.’

  VII

  IT WAS NINETEEN FIFTY NINE. THE FRANCO ADMINISTRATION in Spain had become increasingly despotic. Rumours of harrassment, imprisonment, and torture of persons deemed to be antagonistic to the regime, were rife. Nobody felt safe; it was sufficient for a person to be fingered by an enemy, to incur the attention of the authorities—guilty and innocent were subjected to the same vile treatment. Foreigners and ETA sympathisers were especially suspect of being antiestablishment. Without creating suspicion, Seosamh, Eileen, and family, would be glad of an acceptable reason to leave the country for a period until things settled down. Restrictions had been imposed on sending money out of Spain. Seosamh’s insurance compensation and the income from rents accruing to Eileen from the smallholders, had accumulated in the special account set up for their benefit by Father Benedictus. In the interests of safeguarding their money, she would welcome an opportunity of getting it back to Ireland.

  A valid reason to return arose unexpectedly. Seánín Mhicil Dubh and Cáit decided at last to tie the knot. Seánín, having no close relative of his own, wanted Peadar as best man at their wedding.

  ‘Didn’t we both save each others lives in one way or another,’ he said to Cáit. ‘There is no way I am going to get married until Peadar returns.’

  A wedding invitation, designed by Cáit, reached the Irish group at Estat de Tirelle. Peadar, Eileen, Seosamh, and children, were to attend—regrets would not be accepted.

  Preparations were put in place without attracting undue attention. Evoking sentiments of joy and exhiliration at the wedding invitation, Santa Clara and Jago’s family were told in confidence of their plans. Arrangements for looking after Estat de Tirelle in their absence were put in place— a day was fixed for departure. The sleeper was loaded to capacity with personal effects and essential items for the journey. Driven by a woman accompanied by two young children, a wheelchair-bound husband, and an elderly father, an Irish group returning to their country for a family wedding was unlikely to draw unwarranted attention at the border checkpoint with France. With high hopes they set out for San Sebastian en route to Bayonne and Biarritz.

  ‘I suggest,’ said Eileen, ‘that, on the way, we should say a prayer over Philip’s grave, try to obtain further information surrounding his death, and take what remains of his possessions back to Galway for his family’s sake.’

  Seosamh wasn’t too sure that Eileen’s suggestion was a good idea.

  ‘We may be asked what we are doing in Basque country,’ he said. ‘You know how travellers are screened by the Guardia Civil.’

  ‘We have to go through Basque territory in any event on our way to Bayonne,’ Peadar interjected. ‘If we are questioned, we can truthfully say we were visiting the grave of a Dominican seminarian who died a few years ago on his way to Ireland.’

  ‘We’ll take the chance,’ Eileen decided. ‘It would appear uncharitable to his family if we were to pass close by and not pay our respects.’

  Father Fariano extended a cordial welcome to the Irish group when they paid him a visit. He spoke to them at length about Philip whom he had met during a brief vacation in the home of one of his parishioners. He explained how, in his desire to repay their kindness, accompanied by the daughter of the house, Philip volunteered to collect a consignment of farm seeds for them at Bilbao. Unknown to him the sacks contained, not seeds, but arms for the ETA organisation. On their way home they were ambushed by Guardia Civil personnel. Both Philip and the girl were killed. Immediately afterwards the Guardia officers were themselves intercepted by ETA men and taken prisoner. Having commandered the cache of arms, the bodies of those killed were taken to his church by the organisation for secret burial. He had not been told what became of the captured policemen.

  Having treated them to a repast of locally baked bread, cheese, and cider, the priest took them to the cemetery where he pointed out the graves of Philip and Elsa, side by side, each marked by a simple stone cross. After reciting some prayers together, he blessed them, and bade them safe passage to Ireland. In parting, he presented Eileen with Philip’s rosary beads, his watch, and the photograph he had treasured so much. A tear came to her eye as she gazed on it at length—a warm summer evening, dressed in a light floral cotton frock topped by a broad rimmed bonnet, boats on the Corrib, young bloods paddling their loved ones upstream to some shady nook, romance in the air. How old was she, eighteen, perhaps? Thoughts of young love are not easily eroded from memory! Wiping the tear away, she replaced the photograph in its envelope.

  ‘Señora, to where are you travelling? May I see your passport and driver’s licence please. Also the passports of your companions—are all of you related? Hm, I see you are of Irish nationality—how long have you been resident in Spain? What is the purpose of your journey to Ireland?’

  Following inspection of the documents, the customs officer had more questions: ‘Are you carrying any goods that are liable to customs duties? Have you in your possession any firearms, drugs, or alcoholic spirits? I wish to examine the contents of your vehicle—everybody out please—everything on the road; what is the purpose of this wheelchair?’

  Eileen took the two children. Peadar linked Seosamh and sat him down on the wheelchair.

  ‘One moment; I wish to see if anything is stowed under-neath your cushion. All right, you may sit. May I ask how you come to need a chair?’

  While Seosamh explained that he had been involved in a car accident, the man proceeded to rifle through every box and garment. Having found nothing dutiable, he helped to restore the articles to the vehicle, and waved them forward. They crossed into French territory.

&
nbsp; ‘Huh, that guy didn’t leave much to chance,’ Seosamh remarked. ‘Smart as he was, he didn’t detect the Spanish currency notes sewn into my wheelchair cushion.’

  ‘Don’t crow too soon,’Eileen replied, ‘we must cross two more frontiers before we reach home.’

  Leaving behind the Pyrenees and Basque country the two-day journey via Bordeaux, Poitiers and Nantes was uneventful. Seosamh and Peadar shared the sleeping van, while Eileen and the children checked into a hotel at night. At Cherbourg they boarded the ferry for Southampton where customs examination, production of passports, and inspection of the vehicle and its contents, again took place. Tourist traffic was heavy—their vehicle was waved through with a minimum of delay.

  ‘Two down, one to go,’ Peadar commented. ‘I never knew there was such formality in travelling from one country to another. The authorities appear to look with suspicion on everyone that passes through. Do they think we are all subversives or smugglers at heart?’

  ‘Some of us, only,’ Seosamh laughed.

  On the road again en route to Hollyhead—avoiding London, they passed through Reading, Birmingham, and Chester, ‘all big centres of Irish population,’ Peadar informed them.

  ‘At least,’ he said, ‘I understand what people are saying over here, not like those bloody Spaniards. Maybe we should stop somewhere—I could punish a good pint of Guinness.’

  ‘What about these Welsh placenames?’ Seosamh asked humourously, as he read names from signposts along the route, ‘do you think you could get your tongue around Merthyr Tydfal, Dinas Mawddwy, or Melin-y-ddol?’

  ‘When you have travelled as far as I have, you’ll not wonder at unusual names of places,’ Peadar replied with a touch of sarcasm. Seosamh took his cue—he remained silent for a long time afterwards.

  Eileen negotiated her way through a welter of motor traffic onto the pier at Hollyhead.