A Son of Aran Read online

  ‘Everybody into line,’ the controller shouted. ‘Order please, you’ll all get there if you have patience.’

  While they awaited their turn to go aboard, Peadar stretched his legs to look at the accumulation of trucks and containers that lined the wharf.

  ‘Did you ever see such traffic?’ he commented to another Irish man who was similarly taking the air before going on board. ‘I never knew there was so much trade in goods between our two countries.’

  ‘Exports and imports keep economies ticking over,’ the man said. ‘It would never do if countries kept all the stuff they produce for themselves. Trading is the name of the game. What would farmers in Ireland do with their cattle, sheep, and pigs, if they hadn’t an outlet for them in Britain?’

  ‘Tis funny how we hate the English,’ Peadar remarked, ‘but we cannot do without them.

  Come on, it’s time we were making tracks—we wouldn’t want the ferry to Ireland to sail without us.’

  ‘Dirty Dublin, here we come,’ Seosamh shouted, as the Pigeon House and city chimney stacks came into view in a surround of smog and smoke. Peadar had carried him on deck in order that he could get a better view. Gathered at the prow of the ship, a group of American ladies cried copiously with emotion as they looked at Killiney Head basking in morning sunshine.

  ‘What a wonderful sight,’ one lady exclaimed. ‘I lived there with my dear late husband for fifteen years before we emigrated. They were the happiest days of my life.’

  ‘I wasn’t fortunate or wealthy enough to live there,’ another replied, ‘but we passed Killiney Hill every Sunday on our way to the seaside at Bray. I envied people who lived on Vico Road, their gardens overflowing with flowering trees and shrubs.’

  ‘They were the days,’ a third woman commented. ‘In our youthful enthusiasm we couldn’t wait to get away; all that’s left to us in our declining years are memories coupled with thoughts of what might have been. Let’s collect our luggage before the ship docks. I wonder if any of our relatives will be here to meet us!’

  ‘Sloppy sentimentality,’ Seosamh commented to Peadar. ‘They have their God-given faculties and still they’re not happy. At least we know we have Seánín and Cáit waiting for us in Galway, and Máirtín, Sorcha, my mother and brother, all pleased to see us when we get to Aran.’

  ‘As Aran díbh? (you are from Aran?),’ the officer said to Eileen, as she drove through the customs checkpoint at Dunlaoire. ‘Gluaisteán Spáinneach atá á thiomáint agat (you are driving a Spanish registered car). Cén chaoi a thárlíann sin? (how does that come about),’ he asked.

  Eileen explained to him that she, her husband, her children, and her father, lived in Spain. Her husband had been injured in an automobile accident. They were coming to Aran for the wedding of a friend who wanted her father to be his best man.

  ‘Cuairt sealadach atá á dhéanamh agaibh, an ea? (your visit is temporary, then?),’ he asked. ‘Bhuil sé d’aigne agat an gluaisteán a thógaint thar tír amach arís? (do you intend to take the vehicle out of the country again?’

  ‘Yes, we intend to return to Spain in due course,’ Eileen assured him.

  ‘Ar aghaidh libh mar sin (In that case you may go ahead).’ Customs officials in Galway will check with you after a lapse of one year. If you dispose of the vehicle before then, you will become liable for payment of the appropriate duty.

  ‘Go n-éirí an bóthar libh (a safe journey to you).’

  ‘What a difference of approach, when compared with that b……..of a Spanish customs official!’ Peadar remarked as they set out for Galway. ‘In all I have travelled, I find none to beat the Irish for civility and kindness. Maybe we should stay at home altogether.’

  On the group’s first stop at Galway, a few things had to be attended to before catching the ferry to Kilronan. Peadar wanted to visit his old friend Festy, tell him the news, and meet his Claddagh acquaintances for a pint or two.

  ‘No matter where I go,’ he told them, ‘I find no pint to equal the one we get at the Hole in the Wall in Eyre Street.’

  Eileen declared the sleeper van to the Customs authorities before going with Seosamh to negotiate with her favourite bank manager. She produced the stache of pesetas they had smuggled out of the Spain, explained the circumstances in which they were obliged to take their savings with them, and asked his advice about converting these into Irish currency.

  ‘That is not a simple matter,’ he told her. ‘Normally there is little problem about converting small amounts of foreign currency that accrue from tourism and trade. Any attempt to transfer a large sum at one time is liable to be questioned by the Central Bank. I suggest that, while withdrawing some for day to day requirements, the bulk of your money should be deposited in the bank for safe keeping until an opportunity for conversion of larger amounts arises. In that way you will be in a position to make use of your finances as situations demand. You should be aware that currencies fluctuate in value all the time; this may be to your advantage or disadvantage—it’s a risk you will have to take.’

  ‘I’m sorry to part with my wheelchair cushion,’ Seosamh said, as he and Eileen left the bank. ‘I got a great thrill from sitting on it, especially when that Spanish customs fellow did his best to find something illicit in his search of our vehicle.’

  ‘It’s a pity that you weren’t living along the border with Northern Ireland during the war years—you’d have made a great smuggler. Of course, in that event, you would probably be doing time now, along with all the other ‘cute hoors’ that thought they could outwit the Irish customs men. Count your blessings, Seosamh—if you had been sent to jail we might never have met.’

  The remaining chore to be undertaken, was going to be difficult—Eileen proposed to discharge it alone. The Prior of Claddagh Dominican Church greeted her affably. He was silent as she told him the purpose of her visit and related to him details of the demise of their former seminarian. Yes, he would be pleased to direct her to Philip’s family—they lived at Moneen on the outskirts of the city.

  ‘Be sensitive in your discussion with them,’ he advised. ‘Philip’s mother is in poor health—she hasn’t recovered from the shock she suffered when the story of him missing was relayed to them. Details supplied by the Spanish Authorities and the nuns in Salamanca were sparse—she hopes and prays he will arrive home at any minute. Creaking of the gate at night is enough to send her rushing with out stretched arms to meet him. His father and his sister, Bernadette, have accepted that something, not yet revealed to them, has transpired. Breaking the news that you have related to me is going to be painful. If it makes your task easier I will accompany you.’

  The stone built cottage at Moneen was resplendent in the evening sun. A carefully tended garden was ablaze with colour; flowers of many hues sprawled across the kerbs onto the neat gravel path that led to the front door. Their timid knock was answered by Bernadette. She greeted the priest and lightly kissed Eileen whom she remembered from their days in the university.

  ‘May I ask how your mother is today?’ Father McHugh inquired.

  ‘Not very well, I fear,’ Bernadette replied. ‘She is restless all the time—she cannot sit still for five minutes, and sleeps but fitfully when she eventually goes to bed. At the moment my dad has taken her for a brief walk in the evening sunshine in the hope that this will lift her spirits. All the time, she keeps calling for Philip as if he were in the next room. She cannot understand why he does not answer. We are fearful that she is losing her mind.’

  ‘The news that Eileen brings is not going to help,’ the priest continued. ‘I am not sure that she should be told while her health is frail.’

  With arms around Bernadette, Eileen related the story of Philip’s attachment to the Basque people after his release from hospital in San Sebastian, his innocent involvement in the transport of arms for the revolutionaries, and the subsequent ambush in which he and a daughter of the house in which he was a guest, were killed. She told of having visited Philip’s grave in t
he Catholic cemetery at Ardigo, and her conversation with the pastor of the church there. A rosary beads and wrist watch removed from Philip’s body before burial had been given to her by the priest—these were now being returned to his family.

  ‘Bernadette, I am truly sorry to be the bearer of this sad news. Spain, at the moment, is an unsavoury place in which to live; outrages and reprisals are the order of the day, particularly in the Basque region. Philip, in his innocence and generosity of spirit, became a victim of one of those atrocities. We ourselves have found it expedient to leave the country for reasons of safety and security. On the day before we departed, the story of Philip’s death was relayed to us through an intermediary; we were able to locate the church where he rests, and to bring you these meagre details of what transpired. May he rest in the peace of the Lord! You and your father must decide whether to break the news to Philip’s mother—may God direct you. If I can be of assistance to recap once again, the whole sad episode, I will be available to you at any time. For the foreseeable future I can be located at my old home in Aran—please do not hesitate to contact me.’

  ‘May God bless and console you and your parents,’ Father McHugh prayed as they departed.

  ‘After all our travelling, it is good to be back in our own nest again,’ Peadar commented, as they sat around the hearth fire and shared a glass of spirits. ‘I remember,’ he said, ‘a lesson from our first Irish book at school that read like this:“fear go raibh an domhan go léir taistealta aige—agus é ag seoladh isteach i mBá Naples, dúirt sé go raibh áiteacha in Éirinn chomh deas agus chomh hálainn leo go léir” (a man who had travelled the world, as he sailed into the Bay of Naples, declared that there are places in Ireland as beautiful and picturesque as any he had seen).’

  ‘Peadar, this cottage is tiny by comparison with Castillo de Tirelle. Where will we all fit—you, Eileen, two children, and me in my wheelchair?’

  ‘Seosamh, it’s not the space within the house that counts—it’s the space we have for one another in our hearts. Many a family of six, eight, or ten children, together with their parents and grandparents, were forced to live in houses smaller than this. Unlike us, they never missed what they never knew. If the place here is not to your liking, maybe you should stay with Micilín and your mother for a while until we can arrange something better. Put a beggar on horseback and he’ll ride to hell,’ he added to Eileen, when Seosamh was out of hearing.

  ‘Don’t be hard on him, Dad, he’s been through a lot. I don’t blame him if he feels a bit down. Coming home in a wheelchair must be hard for him to take; he would love to be able to boast to his friends about Spain and our new-found wealth.’

  ‘Chuala mé go bfuil Peadar Ó Flathartaigh tar éis teacht ar ais ón Spáin, a iníon Eileen, agus beirt clainne in éineacht leis, agus Seosamh O Loinigh, a fear céile, i gcathaoir rotha. N’feadar céard a thárla dóibh thall ansin. Sé mo bharúil go bfuair Seosamh cúitiamh mhaith as pé timpist a bhain dó.’ (I heard that Peadar O Flaherty has come back from Spain together with his daughter, Eileen, two children, and her husband, Seosamh Ó Loinigh, in a wheelchair. I wonder what happened to them over there. I am of opinion that Seosamh got good compensation for whatever accident he suffered.) Conversation outside the chapel after last Mass on Sunday, had ears all agog.

  ‘Muise, nár bfearr dóibh fanacht in a dtír féin ná bheith ag bogadh thart fén domhain mar a ndearna siad. Bhí ortha teacht thar n-ais sa deire thiar thall.’ (Wouldn’t it have been better for them to have stayed in their own country than to be wandering around the world as they did. They had to come back home in the heel of the hunt.)

  ‘I’ll go around and visit Máirtín and Sorcha,’ Peadar announced on the day following their return. ‘We have a lot of catching up to do; it’s a long time since we were together.’

  ‘My mother hasn’t been very well these past months,’ Máirtín told him. ‘She took to the bed following a bad bout of flu last spring and she hasn’t been up since. Siobhán O’Donnell, the district nurse, comes every day to tend to her needs. They get on well together—I don’t know what I would do without her. Her coming leaves me free to do a bit of work around the land; fishing trips away to sea have to be put on the back burner. I miss the herring and mackerel fishing, but I’m not complaining. If you’re back for good, we might take up where we left off all those years ago. But come, I’m doing all the talking, what story have you about yourself and Eileen? How did things work out for you in Spain?’

  ‘It’s a long story, Máirtín; it has taken many a turn. Eileen and Seosamh married soon after they went back— they have two children, a boy named Carl and a girl called Eileen Óg. Seosamh was injured in a motor accident and he has finished up in a wheelchair. Spain has a lot of unrest due to the actions of the despot, Franco, whom Irishmen went out to help in his war against the Communists more than thirty years ago. He has turned on everyone who dares to oppose him; even the catholic clergy, who were his greatest allies, have been targeted. He has murdered and plundered the Basque people who, for centuries, have been trying to gain independence for their territory that borders Spain and France At one time, Franco got his German allies to drop a bomb on one of their towns in an effort to subdue them. In the area around Estat de Tirelle where we lived, people were generally well disposed but, away from there, we never knew who were our friends or our enemies. We received threats from unidentified quarters. Seosamh’s injuries were no accident—he was pushed off the road as he drove home from Salamanca where he had just put Eileen and their first baby in care of the nuns for security reasons. We were discussing leaving the place and returning to Ireland when an invitation to Seánín Mhicil Dubh’s wedding arrived. It was the excuse we needed to get away without arousing the attention of government spies, who note and report everything to the establishment. Although we filed no complaint following Seosamh’s ‘accident’, we had a visit from the Civil Guards who asked questions about who was responsible for ramming the car. Seosamh had no answers—he couldn’t identify the perpetrators. I think the police availed of the opportunity to check us out—we didn’t know what their next move might be; we decided to move. We’ll have to wait and see how things turn out over there but, as far as we can see at present, we’ll be here for some time. Maybe it’s all for the best; you know the old sayings, ‘Far away hills are green,’ and ‘far away cows have long horns,’ but ‘there’s no fireside like your own fireside.’ From what I saw of the hills in Spain, they weren’t nearly as green as our own; as for their cows with the long horns, I wouldn’t swop a purry black Angus from Aran for the lot of them.’

  ‘Now that you are all back home, what do you intend to do here?’ Máirtín asked. ‘I take it that none of you has to work for a living, but idleness does not lead to happiness. Becoming involved in some activity that appeals to you, can be fulfilling—have you anything in mind?’

  ‘What you say is absolutely right—I will give it consideration. For the moment, we have Seánín’s wedding to think about. After that, we must make some arrangements for accomodating our rapidly expanding family. My little cottage is no longer big enough for all of us. A vacant house somewhere in the vicinity would fit the bill—can you suggest where I might look?’

  ‘Máire O’Connor has a house that she lets to visitors for the summer months every year; she might find long term letting easier to arrange. There would be an advantage for her in having the place heated and cared for throughout the year. Maybe you should approach her before the season commences. The house is conveniently situated in relation to your own—if you do business with her you could run the two places as one.’

  ‘Thanks, Máirtín, for your help—I’ll get on to her right away.’

  In preparation for the wedding, Seánín’s house had been given a major face lift. The walls had been rebuilt; new lintels had been put into place over doors and windows; a white Stanley range was installed in the re-modelled chimney place. The old decayed thatched roof and rafters were replaced by
fresh wooden beams and Blue Bangor slates. Outside walls were faced with rounded stones from the shore, an ornamental wooden gate was hung at the entrance, the walls of the house were washed with burned lime, doors and windows were painted a fiery red. A local carpenter was engaged to fit pine ceilings and window recesses; a shiny tiled floor gave an air of oppulence to the living room and kitchen. Cáit maintained a watchful eye on the entire procedure—’Why shouldn’t I,’ she said, ‘amn’t I paying half the cost?’

  Seánín couldn’t believe his luck. ‘After all my rambling, I have landed on my feet,’ he told everybody. ‘Only for meeting up with Cáit, I’d be beyond in England with nobody giving a damn about me.’

  The wedding day arrived; neighbours and friends gathered in the parish chapel to see and support the happy couple. Seánín arranged transport on a jaunting car for the bride, the groomsman, the matron of honour, and himself. The jarvey, seated top centre, applied his whip to the rather reluctant pony, and the party set off at a fast trot along the uneven road surface. Screams of terror arose from the ladies when a wheel hit a rut, and the car swayed on its springs. For safety, Cáit clung to her Seán, and Siobhán hung on to Peadar—they were in no danger really—it was all good fun. On arrival at the church, a brief interval was allowed for smoothing ruffled bonnets and setting strands of hair displaced by the wind. Seánín, resplendent in the pin-stripe suit that he wore on his journey from England, never since taken out of the box, marched up the aisle, straight as a lamp post, his left arm hooked in Cáit’s right.

  ‘Maise, don’t they make a lovely couple,’ a neighbouring woman said to another, ‘it’s a shame they left it so long.’

  After the church ceremony, Seánín wanted to bring the whole attendance to the local pub for drinks; Cáit wouldn’t hear of it. They adjourned instead to their newly painted dwelling house, where a tent had been erected in the garden to accommodate the crowd. Whiskey for the men, sherry for the ladies, followed by a buffet of turkey, ham, tomatoes, and green salads—there was food and drink for everybody. Ladies sat on chairs and stools, men lay down on the warm sward. Eating and drinking, continued for hours, helped by generous libations of poitín and best Bordeaux brandy on which excise duty had been evaded. Seosamh came propelling his wheelchair; Eileen wheeled their youngest in a pram, and carried their son, Carl, in the crook of her arm.