A Son of Aran Page 7

  ‘I’m sorry, Seosamh, that I didn’t heed your advice about swimming in deep water. I beg of you don’t tell daddy—I don’t want him worrying about me.’

  Hand in hand they walked the beach until she regained her composure and felt equal to returning home. It was the first of many trysts on their part.

  ‘Will you miss me when I go to Carna?’ Eileen asked one afternoon as the day of departure loomed. ‘Will you take up with some other girl when I have gone?’

  ‘I’ll not be looking for any other girl in Aran, that’s for sure,’ Seosamh replied. ‘I’ll be out of here as fast as legs can carry me. I’m tired of planting potatoes and gathering dilisc—there’s no future in that.’

  ‘Where will you go then?’ Eileen asked; the concern in her voice was audible.

  ‘I haven’t made up my mind yet. An aunt of mine, my father’s sister in America, wants one of us to go over. She says there’s plenty of opportunity for anyone prepared to work. I don’t particularly want to go to America, neither do I want to stay in Aran. If I could get work in Galway I’d go there for a start. I’m told there’s great freedom in the city if you have money to spend—pictures, dancing, all kinds of amusement—I might even meet some nice girl there,’ he teased.

  ‘Please, Seosamh, don’t turn your back on me. You know how fond of you I have become. I’ll be home for holidays every year; it will be no time until I have finished school. If you decide to go to Galway we might meet there occasionally. I’m told the nuns go in every week for supplies. I’m sure I can find an excuse to go along with them.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Eileen, I’ll not desert you. Where would I find another girl that I like so well? We’ll keep in touch— you’ll be first to know what I decide.’

  ‘Kiss me, Seosamh,’ she whispered, as she twined her arms around his neck.

  Aran was teeming with visitors when Eileen arrived home for her first summer holidays. Seosamh was there too. He had inquired about the date when school broke up. Peadar and Máirtín went across in the hooker to collect her. They invited Seosamh to accompany them but he declined, telling them he had some chores to look after on the family farm. By this time his brother, Thomás, had emigrated to America—the only one left to help their parents was Micilín, the youngest of the family. Although willing to help, he was still too small to mow with a scythe. Much as Seosamh disliked the job he would have to cut the hay before he went back to his job in Galway.

  The sea was calm. A gentle westerly breeze kept everything cool on this balmy June evening. Eileen, delighted at coming back to Aran, regaled Peadar and Máirtín with stories about the nuns, her companions at school, and the countryside around Carna, Letterdescert, Mweenish, and other places where the girls went for walks in their free time. She gave them news of Tadhg too whom she had met while on an outing to Kilkieran. She remembered the nights she and Peadar had spent there on their trip out of Galway.

  ‘Why, Daddy, did we have to take such a roundabout route that evening when you could have sailed direct to Aran?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t you remember the storm that blew up’ he replied. ‘I had only you to help me handle the hooker. If we hadn’t tied up in Kilkieran we might never have reached Aran alive.’

  When they arrived home, Eileen couldn’t wait to see the cow, throw food to the hens, and give milk to the cat. She searched in the fuchsia bushes and came in with four eggs which she promptly set to roast among the gríosach(warm embers) in the chimney place. Having partaken of a meal of bread and tea, she hurried to pay a visit to Sorcha who threw her arms around her in welcome.

  ‘Let me look at you,’ she exclaimed as she held Eileen at arms length. ‘My, oh my, you have grown six inches since we saw you last. And look at the sheen on those curls— you’ll turn heads in the chapel on Sunday.’

  As the evening sun was setting in a glorious splash of red in the north-western sky, Seosamh suddenly appeared on the doorstep.

  ‘Welcome back to Aran,’ he said as he planted a light kiss on her cheek.

  ‘Where did you come from?’ she asked excitedly. ‘I thought you were in Galway.’

  ‘I was, until I heard that you were due home—I wanted to surprise you,’ he replied. ‘Now that we’re both here, how about a stroll on the beach.’

  In the light of a summer moon, with an arm around her waist, hand in hand they walked and talked until well past midnight, pausing at intervals to embrace and kiss. Eileen recapped on the months she had spent in the convent at Carna; she liked the school and she had made many friends among the students. Apart from maintaining a high degree of discipline, the nuns were outgoing. A number of the sisters were young—they treated the girls as equals rather than students. Subjects on the curriculum were interesting and presented little problem to her. She particularly liked geography—she would love to make this her major study if she should go on to third level.

  ‘That,’ she said, ‘is a long way down the line. Things may occur in the meantime to prevent me going to college.’

  Seosamh told her about his job in Galway. When he went there first he knew nobody; he had to search for days before he got a job. Finally he discovered that the Railway Hotel wanted a boy for general duties, acting as doorman, bringing patrons to their rooms, carrying bags, and running errands. He had to be up early to open the door, take in the post, and collect the daily papers from a local news agency. After a week’s trial the proprietor gave him the job. He shared a room with the night porter and took his meals with domestic staff. Accommodation and food were tip-top. He was paid two pounds a week which was great for a start. Sometimes he got tips from visitors when he carried their suitcases, or called a car to take them to the railway station. The newsagent’s shop where he went every day had a small lending library from which he was able to borrow books. In his spare time he had read Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Kidnapped, Treasure Island, and King Solomon’s Mines, and he was half way through Old Celtic Romances. The shop was run by two elderly ladies—as time went on he got to know them very well. Their first job, on opening at seven in the morning, was to carry in the newspapers and put them on display in the shop. The bales were heavy and tied with strong cord. One morning when he approached the shop he found one of the ladies bent over a large bundle of papers in an attempt to lift it.

  ‘Hold on,’ Seosamh said, ‘I’ll take that for you.’

  He carried the bale inside, opened it, and took out the hotel papers. Seeing that she was short handed, he opened the other parcels for her too—she was most grateful. He normally arrived at the shop ahead of opening time and continued to carry the papers inside every morning; he had to wait in any case until they were sorted before he could take away the hotel copies. A few weeks had gone by when the ladies mentioned one day that they would like to talk to him about a job in the shop.

  ‘As we’re both getting on in years,’ they told him, ‘we find that running the place has become tedious for us. If we could find a reliable person to assist in the shop, we could take time off in turn while still retaining overall management of the business. Would you be interested in the job?’ they asked. ‘Pay would be three pounds a week; you would have to find your own accommodation but you could eat with us every day. You would work on Sunday mornings but you could have one day off every week and annual holidays as usual.’

  ‘I couldn’t believe my good luck,’ Seosamh told Eileen. ‘Working in a news agency, one meets so many people that, in the short time I’ve been there, I already know half the population of Galway. From my previous experience of them, I felt the sisters would be easy to get on with. I gave the matter some thought before telling them that I was agreeable to take the job. I started last week—so far everything is to my satisfaction. I have free access to the library and I can borrow for free all the books I want.’

  ‘Seosamh Ó Loinigh, I am delighted for you; this is the first rung on your business ladder. I have no doubt that in a few years you will have your own shop—down the line the old ladies may want
to sell the news agency. I am proud of you and I wish you every success.’

  ‘I love you Eileen,’ Seosamh said spontaneously, as they took the last few steps to her door. ‘I missed you more than I ever thought possible these past months. I have to go back to Galway in two days time which leaves us little opportunity to be together. Do you think you might come to Galway for a few days during the holidays?’

  ‘I’d love that,’ she replied. ‘I’ll ask Peadar if he’d mind. Maybe he’ll take a trip to Galway himself—it’s a long time since he’s been there. Good night, it’s time we were both in our beds,’ she whispered, as lingeringly they embraced one more time before parting.

  ‘See you tomorrow—same time,’ Seosamh called, as he whistled a lively tune and disappeared down the rock strewn path.

  ‘Will you come with us to Galway next week?’ Peadar asked Máirtín. ‘Eileen would like to see the city, meet Seosamh, and savour the atmosphere of the races which will be on there for three days. I would like to say hello to friends of mine—men that I worked with in MacDonacha’s, fisher-men that I knew in the Claddagh, and my dear friend Festy if he is still around. You and I would knock about together while the young pair go off on their own. They have taken a great shine to one another—for Eileen’s sake I’m pleased. Seosamh is a solid character—he won’t lead her astray.’

  ‘You know, Peadar, I’ll be delighted to go with you. I haven’t been in Galway for a long time; there’ll be good fun there during the races. We’ll need to book a place to stay; boarding houses are always full that week although, from what I hear, some of the beds are never slept in; roistering and drinking go on all night.’

  ‘I’ll drop a line to Festy today and ask him to fix us up somewhere—he’ll know where to put us. The young people might be able to stay with him if his rooms aren’t occupied. I’m delighted that you are coming with us. We’re entitled to a break after our hard work during the year. Sorcha will keep an eye to things while we’re away—there isn’t much to be done during these months in any case. We’ll leave on Monday if that’s all right with you. Eileen will be ready at the drop of a hat. When a trip to Galway is on offer she doesn’t have to be asked twice.’

  ‘Seosamh, surprise, surprise, I’m here. Didn’t I tell you Peadar would be willing. You and I are going racing tomorrow—we’ll have a great time together. At what time does the shop close this evening?’ Eileen asked, wild with excitement.

  ‘I’ll be free today at six. During the races tomorrow, and for two days after, most shops in Galway close for the afternoon. I’ll be ready at one o’clock each day after which we can go wherever you please. How about a trip to Salt-hill tonight? The promenade will be crowded with people in town for the races—we might meet somebody we know; we’ll go dancing in The Hanger. There’ll be great commotion around Eyre Square with buggies and jaunting cars carrying people to Salthill and the greyhound track. C’mon, we’ll go to Lydons’ for a bite to eat before we start. If I know Peadar and Máirtín they’ll down a few pints before they go to bed for the night.’

  Eileen tested the polished dance floor of The Hanger. It had been an aeroplane hanger during World War One. Re-erected in Salthill, it was adapted as a functional dance hall. It’s high arched roof, light cladding, and convenient location in the centre of a green lawn a few hundred yards from the sea, gave it that special atmosphere that appealed to lovers. It was crowded on race night.

  ‘Come on, Seosamh, let’s shake a leg,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not too sure that I should; I never learned to dance the Palais Glide or the Foxtrot. I’m scared in case anybody that knows me might be watching. Wait until they call a Siege of Ennis—I could manage that.

  ‘You’ll be waiting all night then,’ said Eileen, ‘I don’t think Irish dances fit into tonight’s programme. Come onto the floor and I’ll show you. Before I went to Carna I couldn’t dance modern steps—the girls there taught me. One of the young nuns played a melodeon and we practised with each other until we got the hang of the various steps. There’s nothing to it—if you listen to the rhythm of the music, by keeping time you can make any movements you like; nobody will notice whether or not they are correct.’

  ‘We’ll have a try then,’ replied Seosamh as, holding tightly to each other, they took to the floor. Following a few initial faltering steps, having trodden on Eileen’s toes a time or two, Seosamh began to enjoy the experience.

  ‘Begorra,’ he said, ‘I could do this more often.’

  ‘Now, now, behave yourself; don’t go dancing with any other girls when I’m not with you—if you do I’ll hear about it.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Eileen, I’ll stay true to you in spite of all distractions.’

  ‘Thank you, Seosamh, I know you will,’ she replied, planting a big kiss on his forehead.

  The race course at Ballybrit was a sea of ruddy faces. Clad in lightest garb, gents and ladies ambled leisurely in the glare of the July sunshine—men wiping perspiration from their brows, ladies fanning themselves with race cards in an effort to remain cool. The frantic fever of appraising the horses, looking for tips from those who should know which one was likely to win, and placing bets, added to the atmosphere of the races. The elation of those whose chosen horse came in first was countered by the greater number who tore up their betting slips in frustration. Bookies were the ultimate winners when all was counted. Neither Eileen nor Seosamh had ever placed a bet on a horse. He suggested they should be courageous and have a try. Between them they picked a likely looking animal in the parade ring, identified the horse’s name, and proceeded to the nearest bookie’s stand.

  ‘Two to one Jason’s Pride, eight to one the field,’ the bookie shouted. The young pair stood perplexed.

  ‘Who’d want to bet on a field?’ Eileen asked aloud. A bystander, hearing her remark, explained: ‘The odds are eight pounds against each pound bet on any horse in the race apart from the favourite.’

  From the names listed they picked one.

  ‘Ten shillings on Quicksilver,’ Seosamh said as he handed a note to the bookie.

  ‘That’s probably the last we’ll see of our money,’ he commented as they went to the rails to watch the race. They had neglected to identify the colours under which the different horses ran. When the race started they didn’t know where Quicksilver was positioned—all they remembered was that he was grey in colour as the name suggested. When the runners came into sight around the last bend in the course, shouts arose on all sides –’Come on Tallyho Boy, good stuff, Partry Lad, oh, bad luck, Glenfiddle—the f…….is after falling,’ that from a disappointed punter. ‘I hope he broke his bloody neck,’ the man added in frustration.

  Over the last hundred yards the chant from the stand changed, a neck to neck contest was taking place between two leaders. ‘Come on Jason one lot shouted, ‘come on the grey,’ screamed others. In the end it was Quicksilver that passed the winning post by a short head. Seosamh and Eileen cheered—with arms around each other they danced through the arena.

  ‘C’mon,’ said Seosamh, when the bookie paid him four pounds and ten shillings, ‘Eileen, we have money, let’s go and get something to drink.’

  IV

  CROWDS OF TOURISTS SWARMED ASHORE FROM THE ferry as it docked at Kilronan pier on a summer day in 1951. Locals took advantage of their arrival to offer horses, jaunting cars, and buggies for hire as conveyance around the island. Others led guided tours for those who were willing to walk. The latter set out in twos, threes and fours, keeping close to the leader in order to glean information on places they passed. One solitary figure brought up the rear. He appeared more interested in assessing the living pattern of the Aran population. Men and women bent to work at making hay in little stonewalled fields, or gathered seaweed and shell-fish along the craggy shoreline.

  ‘How on earth,’ he wondered to himself, ‘can people make a living on this desolate island of outcrop rock and infertile soil? Peculiar it may be, but the potato is one crop that appears to fl
ourish among the rocks—how this can be is difficult to understand.’

  Taking advantage of a lull in questions from other visitors, he discussed his observations with the guide—the reaction he received puzzled him even more.

  ‘When God made Aran,’ the guide said, ‘he created a race of people, strong, and healthy, who don’t expect too much from life, and are happy to live the type of existence you see. Because of the continuous perils under which they live, dangers on land from storm, rain, and pestilence, dangers on sea from tide and waves, they have great trust in God; they accept all that happens to them as His will.’

  ‘What wonderful faith,’ exclaimed the stranger. ‘Can you tell me how many families live on the island? How many in population are there?’

  ‘I can tell you the number of houses without any difficulty although many of these are not inhabited. The population changes from one week to another. People come, some stay, others leave; not many natives remain here after they reach the age of twenty. You’ll find more people of Aran stock in London, Boston or Chicago than here at home. It’s been like that for generations.’

  ‘Is there a family by the name of O’Flaherty? I met a person of that name some years ago; I think she returned to live here.’

  The group leader laughed: ‘There are so many O’Flaherty families that, if I were to throw a pebble over my shoulder, it would surely land on one of them. The O’Flahertys were chieftains here at one time, their descendants are numerous. If you have more precise information on the family you mention I may be able to help you.’

  ‘The husband’s name was Peadar, his wife was called Saureen, and they had a daughter named Eileen. I would like to meet them if they are still here.’