Ireland

by Frank Delaney

  “Good. Lovely. Suits you. And we wish you both. Plus a rich husband, which I doubt you’ll find among any of these gallants here. All bollocks and no brass, I’d say at first glance. But thankfully very little acne. I hate acne, I had a student here once—between pale and acne, God, his face looked like the surface of the moon.”

  Professor Ryle scratched himself with staggering intimacy.

  “Rowena’s a Saxon name, perhaps, not Welsh—aha! Yes and no. Geoffrey of Monmouth, a scurvy tosser if ever there was one—he has a Rowena.”

  She said, “And there’s a Rowena in Ivanhoe, isn’t there, sir?”

  “My God! There is!” T. Bartlett Ryle clapped a hand to his forehead like an actor playing torment. “Well observed, child. Christ, I love Scott. He was so blatant, always by all accounts tugging at his genitals. The Scots do that. Very energetic people, the Scots. D’you know that he pointed out one of the great truths of English literature? And do you know what it was?”

  T. Bartlett Ryle surged around his study, half skidding on a pile of papers and crashing into a globe of the world.

  “Sir Walter Scott pointed out that in Jane Austen’s novel Pride and Prejudice, Miss Elizabeth Bennet showed absolutely no interest whatever in her beau Mr. Darcy until—

  UNTIL—she saw the size of his estate in Derbyshire. He was right. He was RIGHT! Gold-digging little bitch.”

  Ronan recalled Kate’s—and the priest’s—remarks on Ryle; he felt it was safe to laugh and relax.

  “I’ve never read Jane Austen’s books, sir.”

  The others looked admiring of Ronan’s courage.

  “Excellent for social history, O’Mara,” intoned T. Bartlett Ryle. “But regrettably Miss Austen knew less than a gnat’s arse about the Statutes of Kilkenny in the year of thirteen-sixty-six. The date is probably as much as any of you knows about them too.”

  They all tried to look somewhere between calm and wise.

  “Never mind. We shall have Socratic dialogue. Excellent way of learning. Let us begin. Why did Kilkenny attract the making of such important legislation? Was it for the food? And if so, do we know what standards of cuisine prevailed in a filthy Irish city in the High Medieval period?”

  Rowena Hayes said, “Because it was a Norman stronghold.”

  “Or”—the professor scratched again; things shifted in his clothing—“was it more than that? Was it in fact the locus of Norman power in south Leinster?”

  “Yes, it was,” said a black-haired boy, “and it had a cathedral; therefore it had church power too.”

  “And,” said Ronan, feeling competitive, “it was the outer limit of the Pale.”

  “So Kilkenny was not beyond the Pale,” said T. Bartlett Ryle. “Now, what was the name of the family that dominated medieval Kilkenny? And why were they called that?”

  “The Butlers,” said the black-haired boy. “I’m a Butler myself.”

  “In which case, polish the silver and fillet the fish,” said T. Bartlett Ryle. The black-haired boy looked puzzled. “Therein lies the answer, you goose.”

  “The Butlers—were they descended from the man who was—the king’s butler?”

  “Young man,” said Bartlett Ryle to the black-haired boy,

  “you’ll go far, and pray you don’t have to go soon. Like so many of our race, you’re descended from a domestic servant. But who was the townsman—note my inflections carefully aspirated and separated—‘the towns-man’—who was the townsman family opposite to the Butlers?”

  Nobody answered. Ronan felt he was in a quiz show.

  “Listen to my language. ‘Towns’—the ‘s’ is genitive—meaning “of the town”—the man of the town. Think, and when you have thunk, essay—that is one of my many reusable nostrums (or nostra, if you prefer)—think, and when you have thunk, offer me some thoughts on other words for town. Useful words, I want.”

  Ronan said, “Urban.”

  “Borough,” said Rowena Hayes.

  “Yesss,” said Bartlett Ryle. “And from borough we derive—what? Think! Think! Think ‘Edin-’ and ‘Ham’—those should help.

  “Burg?” said the black-haired boy.

  “Indeed. Now we have it, do we not?”

  “Burke?” said Ronan.

  “Indeed. Descended from William de Burgh, the earl of Kent, who hammered seven shades of shit out of the MacCarthys of Munster.”

  Ronan tried a joke. “My mother’s a MacCarthy of Munster.”

  “Then she’ll know what I mean by seven shades of shit—is she taking anything for it?”

  The tutees laughed, Ronan most of all.

  “Now, the Statutes of Kilkenny. What were they? And don’t confuse me; don’t tell me they were equestrian carvings or figures standing aloft, with their hands on their swords and flowers growing out of the place marked ‘arse.’ I said ‘statutes,’ not ‘statues.’ The Statutes of Kilkenny.”

  The black-haired boy almost yelled.

  “Sir, they were the most vital moment in the early English governance of Ireland.”

  “Most vital? What about the soldiers with the swords and the lords with the lances and the longbows and the strong bows?”

  “Sir, that was military, I’m talking about governance.”

  “Aha!” said T. Bartlett Ryle, “a splitter of hairs. Go on with your governance.”

  The black-haired boy hit a fast, memorized stride.

  “Sir, the Statutes of Kilkenny comprised thirty-six laws or statutes intended to stop the Normans who were now governing Ireland from becoming more Irish than the Irish themselves.”

  T. Bartlett Ryle took over. “The laws were very particular in what they prevented, and by ‘particular’ in this instance, I mean that they were more personal than impersonal—the Normans were prevented from doing things that many people would regard today as too personal for legislation.”

  He leaned back against one of his book-lined, disheveled walls and galloped onward.

  “For example, they had to ride a horse in the English fashion and not the Irish. That is to say, they had to sit on a saddle and use stirrups and not sit flat down on the horse’s back with their legs stuck out on either side like the Irish. They had to get their hair cut properly and not wear it like the Irish did, sticking up all over. They weren’t allowed to be godparents to the native Irish children, they couldn’t take Irish girls as concubines—

  “By God, this is good and racy,” said T. Bartlett Ryle. “Who can continue in this happy vein? What else couldn’t they do?”

  “Irish musicians couldn’t go and play music in the Norman houses,” said the black-haired boy. “An Irishman couldn’t become a soldier in a Norman militia. The Irish couldn’t buy horses from the Normans.”

  “And in your salty estimation,” said the professor, “what was the most serious statute—I mean, they were all serious, but what was the one with the most serious implications?”

  The black-haired boy thought—but for too long; Ronan nipped in.

  “The change in the courts.”

  “Thank you, O’Mara. They changed the way disputes were settled. In the old Irish tradition, if you had a dispute with your neighbor, you simply rode over and helped yourself to some of his cattle or his women, depending what kind of fit you were having that day. Under the Normans, there had to be a litigation, in court, before the ruler, and all sorts of stuff like that. What was the real significance of the Statutes of Kilkenny? And remember, history looks forward as well as back.”

  This last remark puzzled everyone. With his fingernail plying like a plectrum, the professor made a desperate assault upon his regions.

  “Come on, now. That’s the clue. ‘History looks forward as well as back.’ You’ll hear it many times from my lips.”

  He waited, then released them.

  “It began and established a pattern of English rule in Ireland where the state, that is to say the ruling body, that is to say the monarchy—and later the elected Mother of Parliaments—felt and exercised
the right to interfere in people’s lives in a minute way. To put it differently, it paved the way for oppression on a personal scale, because it struck at the personality of a people. And that is the hallmark of true prejudice, of true despotism. The principles of democracy as the Greeks invented it, and as it is practiced in the least worst political systems in the world, allow room for debate as to whether government has the permission to control people’s intimate existences—and to what degree.

  “In Ireland, England as a ruling body has always felt it had the right to govern minutely, even down to decreeing what kind of hairstyle a man might affect or where he might buy his horses or indeed his food. But the more astute of you—if there are such in your midst—may point out to me that it was their own people, the Normans, who were affected by this intimate governing. And I’ll point out to you, Yes, but when you control a man, you also control all who deal with him, whether you mean to or not.

  “In the Statutes of Kilkenny, the Norman English, governing from England, denied certain areas of commerce and activity to the native Irish by saying they couldn’t trade in certain spheres with the Norman Irish. Therefore and thereby, they coerced both sides.

  “Above all, they introduced a certain type of government that, in time, they exercised over and over again. And through the centuries they elaborated upon it, intensified it, and made it more prohibitive and ultimately punitive and despotic. You’ll uncover all the gory details in my lectures, and I expect to see them regurgitated through the inimitable kaleidoscopes of your interpretations in your various essays.”

  In the weeks that sped by, Ronan studied ever harder. His routine never changed—college by day, study at night. He read the course ahead; he missed no lectures. Nobody got to know him; he took no breaks; he made no friends.

  By now he had begun to organize all his Storyteller material into files, and on the wall of his room he had pinned a large map of Ireland. Flags marked every place that he knew the Storyteller had visited; his own home; Mrs. O’Callaghan’s village; Barry Hanafin’s in Clare; Dublin, for the radio broadcast; Cootehill in county Cavan for the Folklore Commission; county Derry with Sam Hanna Bell; Ballinamore in Leitrim. None of the “sightings” had anything in common; no pattern emerged, no rhythm, no routine.

  He also saw that Kate watched his every move. Once or twice she asked him whether he had joined any of the college societies.

  Ronan shrugged her off.

  “I’ve too much to do.”

  “But you never go out.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Ronan, you have no friends.”

  “I have you. That’s enough.”

  He wondered that she did not press further—but he also observed how she seemed so often distraught. This was new, and when he dared to ask, she pleaded work. Then came the day, the awful day, the day of dismay.

  Deep in December, a week before Christmas break, Kate met Ronan at the head of the stairs.

  “Pack a bag. We have to go.” She checked her watch. “The last train.” Her eyes burned red with pain.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “We have to hurry.”

  “Kate?”

  “Ronan, we have to rush. Come on—please.”

  She offered nothing further until under way—and he pressed hard.

  “Right. What is it?”

  “Your Dad.”

  His stomach heaved. “What?”

  “He’s not well.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I don’t know enough.”

  “How bad—”

  “I don’t know! Wait till we get there.”

  It rained all the way, and he watched her image in the streaked window. She sat looking straight ahead, dazed throughout the hours, sometimes moving her lips in silent talk. Ronan could not rest; he fidgeted; he stretched his legs; he failed to read.

  From the train they took the only cab, a car of cigarettes and rust. Kate said, “Saint Anne’s”; the driver turned and looked.

  “Aha—I have you now,” he said, from behind green teeth. “That O’Mara man, right?”

  Ronan followed a dictum that his father liked repeating: When you don’t know what’s happening, listen before you speak. The car drew up at a clinic.

  In the hallway Kate stood square before him. “You’d better know now. This isn’t good.”

  In a quiet corner room lay a sleeping John, his skin gray as slate. Alison watched; she looked like a woman with no face, and their entry brought her no surprise.

  Ronan looked around the wide room and felt his lips grow cold; a bowl of grapes, unopened newspapers, ominous towels, a vase like a funeral urn.

  “What’s happening? What is it?”

  “Tell him, Al,” said Kate. She pleaded. “Al, we have to.”

  “Your father has cancer.”

  “Cancer? Cancer how?”

  “Where,” corrected Alison, looking to him for hope.

  “Cancer?” said Ronan again, as though to convince himself.

  “Yes,” said Kate. “That’s what he has.” Her voice died away.

  Alison said, “He’s had it since—”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? You should have told me.”

  “He didn’t want you worried.”

  Kate said, “He thought he’d get better.”

  “But you’ve known all along, you knew the last time we were down here. You should have told me so that I could come and see him—”

  Kate held his arm. Alison said, “He wanted to get over it and tell you afterward.”

  “But he’s not over it, is he?”—and when Kate said, “Shhhhh,” Ronan knew he had begun to yell. He ripped himself away.

  “Dad?!” To Alison, “When’ll he be awake?”

  “He’s sedated. Painkillers.”

  “Dad never had a pain.” Ronan stood bewildered, like a man falsely accused. “How much pain?”

  He looked down at his father; mouth vulnerably loose; hair untypically lank; eyes shut as shades. Odors floated up—ointment, medicine, sweat.

  “A lot of pain,” said Alison. “A lot.”

  Ronan reached for John’s hand and felt surprise at its warmth.

  “A lot of pain?” he said in a half-aloud query. “Dad, are you in a lot of pain?”

  “The sedation’s heavy,” said Kate, now sitting upright in a simple chair.

  “When will he wake? Dad?”

  “Shhhhh! He can’t hear you.” Alison looked through the curtains—she could see the town clock. “About two hours.”

  “Dad?”

  Ronan drew back from the bed and rubbed his fingers along his eyebrows, a habit he had picked up from his father. No breath stayed in his lungs.

  “Where’s the doctor?”

  “They’ll be here soon.”

  He rubbed his eyebrows again. “Can they cure it?”

  “He had a lump,” said Alison.

  “What lump?”

  “There’s always a tumor,” said Kate.

  “And the veins near it,” said Alison, “when they swell, they’re said to look like a crab’s legs. Hence ‘cancer.’ Your father told me that.”

  “Where’s the lump?”

  “The liver,” said Alison and began to cry soundlessly, a desperate sight. “The liver, isn’t it awful?” Neither Kate nor Ronan went to her.

  “Will I be able to talk to the doctors?”

  Both women said, “Yes.”

  Ronan put his back flat against the wall, like someone being measured for height.

  None of them moved. None went to the bathroom, nor into the night street to take the air. Nor did they speak much.

  Alison asked about the train journey, and, “How did you know to come today?”

  Kate shrugged. “I just knew.”

  Ronan watched his father’s face. From time to time he came forward, picked up John’s hands, and caressed them. At college, they had begun work on the Elizabethans in Ireland, on Ann Boleyn’s father in Carrick-o
n-Suir; they had skirted round the small peaks of Edward Bruce and Silken Thomas and their brief, stylish rebellions. So much to report, and so much to ask; the Ballinamore letter; how to tell stories; the homburg hat.

  At almost exactly the two-hour moment John woke up. Ronan sensed it first, leaped across, and clasped a hand. John took a second or two, then registered.

  “You got here,” he said. “I needn’t have worried.”

  Moments later, Dr. and Dr. Kelly arrived, both tall, both austere, both immeasurably kind. The husband, shyer than the wife, shook everyone’s hand; she, known universally as “Mrs. Dr. Kelly,” went straight to the patient.

  “Now, John. How’s it this evening?”

  The doctors’ conduct sang of care and thought; no swift movements near the patient, everything looked at and checked, the gentlest of touches—they brought good spirit into the room.

  “And the pain, John?”

  “Maureen, how long is it since you saw Ronan?” said John O’Mara.

  She looked across at the tall, nervous student with the dark red hair and the college scarf.

  “He’s even more like you now,” she said. “Tell me you’re sick and tired of the food, John,” she continued, and said reassuringly to Ronan, “It’s always a sign they’re improving when they complain about the food.”

  Her husband came to the bed and reached for a pulse.

  “I’ve felt weaker horses,” he said.

  “They were carrying my bets,” said John.

  Mrs. Dr. Kelly took a small wooden spatula from her bag.

  “Open a little.”

  She inspected his tongue and withdrew.

  “Is life worth living? It depends on the liver,” said John in wisps of breath. “Do any of you know—how often—I’ve used—that joke?”

  “We all know, Dad.” Ronan could do nothing but observe.

  Alison said, “Would you like us to leave the room?”

  Dr. Kelly shook his head. Mrs. Dr. Kelly adjusted her bun of gray-black hair.

  “James Harrington sent you his best. I met him in town today. The new wife was with him.”

  “Is it true?” said John.

  Mrs. Dr. Kelly laughed. “Yes—she’s at least thirty years younger.” And to Ronan she said, “That’s another good sign—when gossip comes back in.”