A Son of Aran Read online

  ‘Peadar O’Flaherty and his young daughter live on the island; the woman you call Saureen is not with them.’

  ‘Oh, how disappointing—it was Saureen I particularly wished to meet. Can you tell me where she may have gone?’

  ‘How well did you know this woman? Are you related?’

  ‘I am not a relation; she was a friend; I would like to meet her for old time sake.’

  ‘I am afraid you are going to be disappointed. The woman you ask about never actually lived on the island. She came here once to meet her husband and daughter but she never found them. Go ndéana Dia trócaire ar a b-anam (may God have mercy on her soul)—she was tragically drowned offshore. I hope this news does not distress you.’

  Carlos turned deathly pale. This was not the sort of tidings he had been looking forward to. Excusing himself, he left the group and, with ponderous steps, he made his way back to Kilronan. In a public bar he ordered one cognac after another and sat in deep contemplation. Taking with him a bottle of spirits, he adjourned to the sea wall where he sat for more than an hour, drinking, meditating, silently gazing into the waves. ‘Somewhere out there it happened! Saureen, Saureen, why did our love have to end this way?’ he murmured, as the surge of an incoming tide lapped his feet.

  ‘Why did I so callously dismiss you when our attempt to carry off your daughter failed? My rash behaviour drove you to pursue your husband and daughter to their island home and to a watery grave. I must accept responsibility for our illicit relationship, for the break-up of your marriage, and your untimely death—entirely my fault.’

  He reminisced on the relationship which had developed between them over several years, the birth of her daughter, their plan to abduct the child, and his anger when that plan was foiled.

  ‘I am responsible for Saureen having, presumedly, set out in search of her husband in the hope that he would take her back, and for the tragic outcome of that search. Was her drowning accidental? Was she murdered? Had she deliberately taken her own life? How am I to know the truth? In the circumstances it would be inappropriate for me to attempt to locate Peadar and the girl—such approach would only serve to add insult to their trauma. I must think of some means of finding them and making amends for the manner in which I have wronged them both.’

  In a state of mental anguish, Carlos started to make his way towards the pier, determined to get off the island as quickly as possible to avoid recognition.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ he mused –’what about the parish priest? Might I not speak with him in confidence! I could confess my part in the sad saga, ask for forgiveness, and enlist the help of the priest in making atonement to Saureen’s husband and daughter.’

  Retracing his steps, he turned into the gravelled driveway, and rang the priest’s door-bell. A lean-faced stern looking female answered the door. He intimated that he would like to speak to the parish priest.

  ‘And what would you be wanting to see the priest about?’ she asked. ‘Father is resting—he doesn’t like to be interrupted. He isn’t young any more; he gets tired from all the work he has to do; if you tell me what you want, maybe I can help you.’

  ‘My business with Father is confidential,’ Carlos said firmly. ‘Please tell him that a gentleman wishes to speak with him.’

  Hearing the commotion, the priest emerged from his sitting room, breviary in hand. He removed his dark rimmed spectacles as he walked.

  ‘That’s all right, Mary,’ he said, ‘I’ll take care of this.’ With glowering looks she departed in the direction of the kitchen.

  ‘Will you step this way?’ the priest added, addressing himself to his visitor, and closing the door of his room. ‘Now, if you will be good enough to tell me what I can do for you?’

  ‘It’s a long story, Father—I want to make a confession,’ Carlos answered.

  ‘Very well,’ said the priest, as he placed a purple stole around his neck, ‘where do you wish to start?’

  ‘To begin with, Father, I must explain. I come from Spain. I am of the Roman Catholic persuasion but I have not practised my religion for many years. My reason for coming to you is that I have gravely injured two of your parishioners. I want to ask for absolution and to make amends for the wrongs I have done. The latter part will not be easy. I would ask for your help in bringing about reconciliation with the parties in question.’

  The priest listened without comment as Carlos reiterated the story of his sexual association with Saureen, wife of Peadar O’ Flaherty, a child conceived raised by Peadar as his daughter, the break-up of the couple’s marriage, and the death of Peadar’s wife. He had come to Aran today for the purpose of tracking down the family, meeting again with Saureen, and claiming custody of the girl. In the process of his inquiries he learned for the first time of the tragic death of his former concubine. On contemplation, he realised the gravity of his nefarious actions and wanted to make atonement. Father Corley remained silent for a long time before he spoke. Having asked the penitent to reaffirm his guilt, his sincere contrition, and his resolve to refrain from further sin, he imposed an appropriate penance, granted him absolution, blessed himself, and removed his stole.

  ‘What you have related to me is under the seal of confession and may not be revealed by me. You may talk to me now as person to person and tell me where you feel I can be of help to you in repairing the damage you have done. I can give no guarantee that I will be able to assist in such a sensitive and complex situation. What is it that you would like me to do?’

  ‘Two things,’ Carlos answered: ‘Firstly, I have reason to believe that I am not the father of this girl. Much as I would otherwise wish, I have been told that I am not capable of fathering a child. A story related by the people of my native place in Spain, claims that a curse was put on our family many years ago by the widow of one of our tenants who was evicted from her home by my paternal grandfather. According to the curse, from that time onwards no member of our line would ever inherit the family estate. My father, the subsequent heir, was not, it appears, the natural son of my grandfather. I have no knowledge of the circumstances of my own birth as my mother died soon after I was born. Having been intimately involved with Saureen O’Flaherty before her marriage, when she gave birth to a child I deluded myself into believing that I had successfully laid the ghost of this curse to rest. In the light of events now unfolding I cannot, in justice, continue to sustain that delusion. Secondly, I would like to meet with Peadar O’Flaherty. I want to ascertain if his daughter has been told the circumstances surrounding her birth. I assume that, being forced to live on this rather barren island, he is of limited financial means. I, on the other hand, am a man of considerable wealth. I own vast property in my native Spain. Having no family of my own to share with, life there is very lonely. It would be a source of great consolation to me if Peadar and the girl would consent to be my guests. I would be prepared to arrange a financial package that would see them both comfortably provided for during the rest of their lives. In doing this I would hope we could bury the past and be friends. Thank you, Father, for listening to me. I return to my country much chastened by what I have learned today. If you can be of help I will be most appreciative. Here is my card—you might be good enough to get in touch with me at your convenience; I don’t expect an immediate response. Please accept this donation as a token of my appreciation for what you have done for me just now and to cover any further outlay you may incur. As I leave here, I feel great peace descending on me. May God bless you, Father—once again, my sincere thanks. I hope your efforts on my behalf will prove successful.’

  After his penitent had left, the ageing priest chuckled to himself as he perused the ornate card he held in his hand: Carlos de Montmorency, Estat de Tirelle, via Salamanca, España.

  ‘The sunny land of Spain!’ he mused. It brought back memories of the Catholic University of Salamanca where, in pursuit of advanced studies, he had spent time more years ago than he cared to count.

  ‘How I would love to relive that perio
d of my life!’ he thought.

  Eileen and Seosamh savoured the atmosphere of Galway during the remainder of race week. In the evenings when the news agency had closed for the day, they walked through the streets looking in shop windows where the latest models of hats, dresses, and frocks were lavishly displayed.

  ‘If only I had enough money,’ Eileen exclaimed, ‘I’d buy one of those nice little numbers. Would you love me more, Seosamh, if I wore fashionable clothes?’ she teased.

  ‘Now, how could I love you any more than I do?’ Seosamh retorted.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me that more often then? I don’t remember you saying those words since last night.’

  ‘I love you to bits, Eileen. You know that without I having to tell you.’

  ‘Thanks, Seosamh. I like to hear you telling me over and over. Don’t ever stop. Here’s your reward—she planted a kiss on his cheek.

  Peadar and Máirtín didn’t go to the race course at Ballybrit. Instead they sampled Guinness in a number of pubs between High Street and Wood Quay where they met with a number of Peadar’s former acquaintainces from The Claddagh and New Docks. They visited Festy too and took him to their old drinking hole in Eyre Street where, over several drinks, Peadar brought him up to date on events that had occurred since they last met.

  ‘I’ll never forget your goodness to me the night we first met in the chapel beyond,’ Peadar said, ‘and the way you stood by me when my mother, God rest her, passed away.’

  ‘Ah, sure I’d ha’done the same for anyone who was in trouble.’ Festy replied. ‘What’s the point of living on this earth if we can’t do some good for people less fortunate than ourselves. I’m glad to know that things came right for you in the end although, in between times, you suffered more than you deserved.’

  ‘I’d like you to come with me to the Long Walk,’ Peadar said to Máirtín on their final day in Galway. I want to see if anything that belonged to Saureen was left behind when we moved out of there in the middle of the night. I’d like to visit the house in Sickeen too. She couldn’t have taken all her belongings with her when she left to go to Aran. I still have keys to both places—if nobody changed the locks we should have no trouble in gaining admission.’

  The signal-red paint on the door at Long Walk had faded since he last saw it. Heads appeared in adjacent doorways when the two stopped in front. Hinges squeaked grudgingly as the big door swung open; the airless passage inside reeked of damp. A rusting wall lamp still contained some oil; the wick, solid from encrusted carbon and infrequent use, responded to Peadar’s gentle massage as he applied a match and replaced the dirty globe. The rusted black range bore the remnants of a coal fire that had died of its own accord without being raked. Rats had made inroads into the cupboards and, thankfully, had devoured whatever food remained uneaten at the time of their hasty departure. In the bedroom, sheets, coverlets, and pillows lay covered in a film of grime and dust. Drawers in the dressing table and bedside locker contained an assortment of letters, cards, and writing materials, all of which Peadar thrust into a sack for perusal at some later stage. The two upstairs rooms were unlocked. In the front window facing the estuary, a dust-covered telescope remained focussed through the cobweb-covered window on an imaginary boat entering the harbour. Today no vessel appeared within its compass. The other room, the one Saureen had referred to as her office, was where she kept her confidential papers. Never before having been permitted to enter this room, Peadar was intrigued to find out what sort of records it contained. Subsequent events in their married lives made him suspicious that data recorded by Saureen might not be altogether naval in character. The only items of furniture were a roll top desk and a dust-covered cushioned chair. In the desk an assortment of papers strewn higeldypigedly throughout the main compartment were consigned to the sack for future perusal. When the desk was emptied two small inset drawers came to light. Both were locked.

  ‘Hold the lamp for me Máirtín,’ Peadar said as he located a poker and prised them open. One drawer had a diary; its worn cover suggested frequent use—the other contained foreign currency notes.

  ‘Begorra, Peadar, this is our lucky day; we’re in the money,’ Máirtín said, laughingly. ‘I wonder will you be able to change these into Irish money when the bank opens in the morning!’

  ‘I’ll not be looking to have them changed—not yet at any rate,’ Peadar, thoughtfully replied. ‘I’ll hold onto them for a while,’ he added, as he carefully folded them, tied them with a piece of string, and put them in the inside pocket of his jacket. Above the desk was a faded unframed photograph of his late wife. This he placed in the sack with the other material.

  ‘That’s about all we’ll find that’s of any use to me,’ Peadar said as he quenched the lamp and locked the front door. Inquisitive heads ducked back inside the houses as the two men retraced their steps in the direction of the Spanish Arch.

  ‘We’ll go to Sickeen while we are at it,’ he said, as he clutched the sack in one hand and indicated direction with the other.

  The cottage at Sickeen was small by comparison. Apart from dresses and other wearable items left behind by Saureen, some child’s clothes worn by Eileen, and a few of his own working trousers and shirts, there was little by way of personal belongings. The few trinkets, ear rings, bracelets, and chokers, didn’t appear to be of any intrinsic value; nevertheless, Peadar took them with him for Eileen’s sake.

  ‘Sometime she might like to have mementoes of her mother,’ he said to himself. ‘That’s enough, Máirtín. Thanks for coming along with me; I would have found it hard to go through Saureen’s things without your company.’

  ‘Any time, Peadar, that’s what friends are for,’ Máirtín replied as they made their way to the rooming house where they were staying.

  ‘Come,’ said Peadar, ‘we deserve a good meal and a few pints after our day’s work. It’ll be back to porridge for both of us when we return to Aran tomorrow.’

  Fr Corley pondered long and hard on the mission given him by Carlos: ‘The situation I am faced with is fraught with difficulty,’ he thought. ‘It is sensitive and personal, particularly in the light of Eileen being unaware of the trauma that surrounded her birth. Why does Carlos continue to intrude on the lives of Peadar and Eileen now that his former mistress is dead? Could he be persuaded to withdraw from the scene at this stage? What sort of person is he in reality?’ the priest wondered. ‘Does he, as he claims, own vast property in Spain? Is he married, separated, or divorced? Has he a history of profligacy? Does he entertain other women back home? I have only his word for the story he related to me. I must endeavour to verify the situation before I approach Peadar.’

  An idea came to mind, outlandish perhaps, but worth a try. The address given by Carlos was in the Salamanca region of Spain. Father Delaminco, who taught social studies in the university, would have a wide knowledge of the area, and would have contacts among the native people—what better way to get a run down on our friend than through those sources? The lecturer, if still alive, would be very old. If he has passed on, his successor in social studies may be in a position to supply some background information. Taking pen and paper he addressed a letter to the Irish College, Salamanca, marked: ‘Confidential—Attention Father Delaminco (or successor in Social Studies).’

  Outlining his own connection with the college, he requested, in strictest confidence, information on one Carlos de Montmorency, Estat de Tirelle. He awaited a response.

  Summer holidays from school were rapidly coming to an end. Eileen made the most of whatever days were left; she helped Peadar with tasks around their home; she cooked his meals, cleaned the house, laundered his clothes and bed linen, and left every thing in apple pie order. Outside the house, she looked after the hens, collected their eggs, milked the cow, fed the young calf and, when Peadar was away fishing she tended the cattle ensuring they had adequate forage and more particularly water. Artesian wells were uncommon in Aran; water for livestock came from rainfall collected in man-made
receptacles which in periods of drought often became empty. In between chores she walked the beach, collected shells and, conscious of her earlier misadventure, she confined her swimming to shallow water. She was lonely for Seosamh’s company; they hadn’t met since their time together in Galway during race week, but he had promised to visit her in Carna on his days off when opportunity permitted. They wrote to each other every week; she made a collection of his letters, tied them with blue ribbon, and kept them under her pillow from where she frequently took them to re-read what he wrote.

  ‘Seosamh, none other, you are the love of my life’, she whispered.

  After Eileen had returned to school, in the privacy of his own cottage, Peadar commenced to peruse the accumulation of material that Máirtín and he had brought back from Galway. Sorting through miscellaneous loose papers, he tried to put these into some sort of order—purchase dockets, bills, pawn tickets, private letters, photographs—most of which emanated from sources that he didn’t recognise. Letters in many instances bore no sender’s name, writers resorting instead to initials—a number of the dockets bore similar identification only. Contents of correspondence almost invariably consisted of declarations of eternal love and devotion, some pleading for the opportunity to profess their feelings personally. Bills and purchase dockets related to costly attire purchased from leading fashion outlets in Galway and tickets issued by one or other of the pawn shops in the city. Items lodged with these establishments were described as rings, bracelets, necklaces, and watches. Saureen’s dealings with pawnbrokers and fashion outlets were a revelation to him.

  ‘How,’ he thought to himself, ‘did all those activities go unnoticed by me during our years of our marriage?’

  The much-thumbed diary and foreign currency constituted an even greater source of amazement. He couldn’t estimate the origin or value of the currency notes but he could see that they were logged against specific entries in the diary.