The Heather Blazing

by Colm Toibin

  People looked back in alarm and wonder and then turned again to face the altar, glancing back sometimes to see if it was all over. Eamon left his seat and walked back down the church, but the doors were blocked by latecomers standing at the back, all of them men. He could see now way through. It had happened so quickly. He went back to his seat again. He looked for the man who had made space for them in the pew but he was gone. There was no one around him whom he recognized. He knelt until he heard the bells for the consecration, then he decided he would try and push his way out into the front yard of the cathedral. He stood up and genuflected, as if to make clear that he was leaving the church. He took his father’s missal and walked hesitantly towards the back of the church. Through a gap in the figures kneeling in the doorway he caught a glimpse of his father lying in the foreground of the church, with men standing around him. He turned away. And when he did so he found that he was facing the altar just as the priest raised the host and the bells rang out. He knelt down where he was and waited. After the consecration he went back to his seat. He was shaking. He thought that they would come looking for him and it was best if he stayed where they could find him.

  He did not want to go outside. After the Mass he did not join in the rush to leave, but sat there and waited. He saw faces that he recognized but he did not know what to say to them. Eventually, he joined the crowd edging down the main aisle. Outside, he looked around, but he could not see any of the men who had carried his father out of the church. The churchyard was thronged now, and he had to follow the pull of the crowd towards the gates. He waited on the other side of the railings, wondering what he should do. Eventually, when no one approached him, he decided that he should go home. His father would be at home by now: people often fainted in Mass, he had fainted at early Mass once himself.

  He knew, however, as he approached the house that his father was not there. He let himself in, put his father’s missal in the press, took off his coat and put some coal and slack on the fire. He went into the kitchen and began to wash the potatoes, scrape the carrots and put them into saucepans of water on the gas rings. Several times he went to the window and looked out, but the street was empty. He took the breakfast things from the table in the back room and put them into the sink. It would take twenty-five minutes for the potatoes to boil, he checked the clock in the back room for the time. It would take fifteen minutes for the chops to grill. If his father was not back in ten minutes he would put his own chop on.

  When he had eaten he went back to his Latin, took an unseen from the sample exam papers which his father had got for him in Dublin and tried to work on it. He read it first to get a general impression of its meaning, and then he set about translating it line by line, feeling frustrated at the sentence which contained words he did not know. He resisted guessing and simply left them blank.

  A few times he went to the front window and looked out. It had started to drizzle, the day had darkened and Vinegar Hill was only faintly visible. There was nobody on the street. It was cold. He went upstairs and took a blanket from the bed. He lay down on the sofa in the front room with the blanket wrapped around him. He turned his face away from the window and soon he fell asleep.

  * * *

  It was dark when he woke again. He heard the sound of a key in the door, and heard the light in the hall being turned on. It would be easy, he thought immediately, to have his father’s pork chop cooked in fifteen minutes and he could put the potatoes and carrots into a colander and heat them up over a saucepan of boiling water.

  “There’s nobody here,” he heard a voice saying. He was not sure who it was.

  “I’m here,” he shouted out.

  The light was suddenly switched on in the front room, and when he turned towards the door the light blinded him and he had to shield his eyes.

  “You shouldn’t be here on your own,” his Uncle Tom said. “We’ve been looking for you all over the place.”

  “I couldn’t find anybody.”

  “You should have waited around.”

  Another man stood there, a man who lived in Court Street and was in the St. Vincent de Paul with his father.

  “Your father’s after having a turn,” his uncle said. “He’s been taken down to Wexford. It looks as though they’re going to move him to Dublin.”

  Eamon said nothing. He tried to weigh up what he had been told. He wanted the two men to go.

  “Do you want a cup of tea?” he asked.

  “No, we’re all right now,” his uncle said.

  He stood up from the sofa and drew the curtains.

  “I’d better check the fire inside,” he said and walked past them into the back room.

  “We rang your Aunt Kitty in Tullow,” his uncle said. “You’d be better up there until your father is well again. You can’t be here on your own, and there’s no one to look after you down below in our house.”

  “How long am I going for?”

  “You’d better pack your things for a while. Have you got a suitcase or a hold-all?”

  He noticed that the other man was looking around the room, taking it all in.

  “What hospital is he going to in Dublin?” he asked his uncle.

  “We don’t know yet. It’ll probably be Vincent’s. But there’ll be time enough for that now.” He made a motion as though to hurry him on.

  “What am I going to do about school?” he asked.

  “You’d better take your books with you, and enough clothes.”

  “Enough clothes for what?”

  “You’d better hurry up now, your Auntie Kitty is going to meet you off the bus.”

  Upstairs he went into his father’s room where the bed was still unmade and his father’s pyjamas lay on the floor. He picked the pyjamas up and put them on the bed. He found a suitcase under the bed, full of old clothes which he emptied out on to the floor. He took the case into the back room and rummaged through his chest of drawers, putting what he thought he would need into the suitcase. He carried it downstairs and piled books and papers into it as well, going through each school subject and making sure that he had enough books and material. The suitcase would not close, so he took some of the books out and put them into a separate bag. His uncle and the man from Court Street were sitting down on chairs in the back room.

  “How long will I be away?” he asked his uncle.

  “I don’t know. He’s gone to Dublin for tests. It depends on what the tests say.”

  “I thought you said he was going to Dublin. I thought you said that he is in Wexford now.”

  “They decided to move him.”

  “Have you told the Brothers that he won’t be in school tomorrow?”

  “We’ll go down and do that after we’ve dropped you at the bus.”

  They walked through the town, the two men taking turns to carry the suitcase, and Eamon carrying the bag with his books. They waited at the bottom of Slaney Street until the bus came. His uncle bought him his ticket and slipped him two shillings.

  “Will you see him?” he asked.

  “He’ll be home before too long,” his uncle said.

  The bus nosed slowly along the narrow road to Bunclody. It was smoky and overheated. The windows were covered in condensation. When he cleared a space to look out, Eamon found that he could see nothing except his own reflection and the droplets of rain clinging to the glass.

  The rain became heavier as they climbed beyond Bunclody into the mountains. If the bus broke down, he thought, there would be no one around for miles. He pictured all the passengers walking back in the rain in search of a farmhouse with a telephone. The man opposite him who was smoking a pipe leaned over and spat out on to the passageway. The man cleared his throat and spat again, and then sat back in the seat, smoking his pipe.

  His aunt and uncle met him at the bus stop in Tullow. His mother’s three older sisters lived in America, but Kitty was younger than his mother and had married into a farm in the hilly land above the river near Tullow. He hardly knew her; he had
met his cousins, her children, a few times, but, being from a farm, they were different; also, they were younger than he was and they had country accents.

  “You’ve gone very tall,” his aunt said.

  They put the suitcase into the boot and set off.

  “Who left you to the bus?” she asked.

  “My Uncle Tom and another man.”

  “Weren’t they very good?” she asked.

  They talked among themselves in the front of the car. He listened but he barely understood. He had been to their house once before, but this time the journey seemed longer.

  “I’d say you’ll find it different up here,” his aunt said.

  They parked the car at the side of the house where they were met by several sheepdogs, which stood around him barking when he got out.

  “Don’t mind them,” his uncle said. “Don’t mind them at all.”

  The children were sitting in the kitchen around a table; there were clothes hanging over the range. There was a girl younger than him, and two boys aged about seven or eight, and then another girl younger again, and a baby in a pram. There was a serving girl working at the sink.

  “We’ll put the tea on now,” his aunt said, “and then you’ll all want to go to bed early.”

  Eamon stood against the wall, his bag still in his hand, and looked at them, looked around the kitchen. He wondered if there was a school nearby he could go to, he wondered where he would sleep. He wanted to explain to his aunt that he studied every night before he went to bed, but she was busy with the baby.

  “Sit down and have your tea,” his uncle said to him.

  After supper they went to bed. He would have to share a bed with his two cousins who wore their underpants and vests in bed as well as their pyjamas.

  “Are you coming to school with us in the morning?” one of them asked.

  “I don’t know. Is there a secondary school?”

  “It’s a national school.”

  He stayed awake for a while trying to think about what was going to happen, but he could think of nothing except the empty house at home, everything still and untouched in the darkness, all of the rooms quiet, the fire gone out, the milk he collected in the morning, which now seemed so far away, slowly going rancid in the night. He imagined each room, each piece of furniture until slowly he, too, fell asleep.

  CHAPTER THREE

  They moved closer together in the half light of the bedroom. As they started to make love they could hear the baby crying in the living room. Eamon closed his eyes and let his tongue run around Carmel’s neck and shoulders as she reached into the slit of his pyjamas and held his penis. The baby stopped crying and they could hear Niamh moving about, talking to the baby as she put him in the pram.

  “I’m too old,” she said and kissed him.

  “Don’t worry, it’s okay, it’s nice being here like this,” he said.

  She began to masturbate him, slowly and rhythmically at first. He stroked her hair and ran his hands along her thighs. When he began to ejaculate she held him and kissed him.

  “Holidays,” he said and smiled.

  “I hope Niamh didn’t hear us,” she whispered.

  When they were dressed they went out into the garden. Eamon carried out a table and chairs and they had breakfast with Niamh while the baby slept in the pram in the shade. It was a warm day; a high wind blew clouds across the sky.

  Carmel made more tea as Niamh drove into the village to get the newspaper and some groceries.

  “I’d say the sea is rough today,” he said.

  “Donal’s coming today,” Carmel said. “You’ll be able to go for a swim with him.”

  “How’s he getting here?”

  “He has a car. He’s had a car for two years. I think he’s bringing a girl.”

  “He’s been causing a lot of trouble over free Legal Aid.”

  “I know.”

  “He’s not going to get much of a practice if he continues issuing statements.”

  “He’s actually doing very well. Also, he has a lot of principles.”

  “They all start off like that,” Eamon said.

  “He’s a little like you when you were his age, very earnest, with no sense of humour about himself. It’s a Redmond trait.”

  “Are they going to stay for long?” he asked.

  “No, they’re only coming for the day,” she said.

  Later, when Niamh returned, Donal and his girlfriend were with her. They had met in the village and driven together back to Cush. Carmel stood up to greet them. As Eamon stood too he noticed how much happier and more animated Carmel seemed now that Donal had arrived. Donal looked thinner each time he saw him, more adult and distant. Today he was wearing a collar and tie. His girlfriend was wearing a summer dress, her hair was cut very short.

  “This is very remote, isn’t it?” she said. “It’s a real hideaway. You’d never find it if you didn’t know it.”

  “Donal’s father’s been coming here since he was a child,” Carmel said.

  “Donal told me about the cliff.”

  “Has it eroded much this year?” Donal asked him. He made the question sound professional and serious.

  “It’s much worse at Keating’s than here, but there’s a big gap this year where Mike’s house used to be, so at least it’s easy to get up and down to the strand.” It occurred to him as he spoke that they were using up a vital topic of conversation.

  “Lunch is in an hour,” Carmel said, as she stood in the doorway. “There’s chicken and new potatoes, and there’s a salad, that’s the menu. It will be served when Niamh comes back.”

  “Where’s Niamh going?” he asked.

  “She’s going to get your Aunt Margaret,” Carmel said, “so that we can have four generations of the family together. I’m going to take a photograph.”

  “I’ll take it, so you can be in it too,” Donal’s girlfriend said.

  “Someone’s going to have to change Michael,” Niamh said. “Will you do it, Donal? It’ll be good training for you.”

  “There’s no need to start,” Donal said.

  “I’ll do it,” Donal’s girlfriend said.

  “You’re on your day out, Cathy,” Carmel said as she lifted the child. “He’s used to me. When I bring him out he’ll be all clean.”

  Donal unfolded several deckchairs and they sat in front of the house, facing the sun.

  “Has the weather been good?” Donal asked his father.

  “It rains at some stage every day, but it’s been warm.”

  “What’s the sea like?”

  “There’s been no real scorching day, but it’s getting warmer, or maybe I’m just getting used to it.”

  Cathy had been out of earshot, wandering in the garden. She came towards them now.

  “This is a lovely house,” she said. Her accent was pure south Dublin. She was very confident.

  “You don’t recognize Cathy?” Donal said to him.

  “Recognize her? I’ve just met her.”

  “He wouldn’t remember me,” Cathy said.

  Eamon noticed that both of them had become hostile. “I’ve a very good memory for faces,” he said. “It’s not as good as Carmel’s, but I think that I would remember you if I had met you before.”

  “Maybe it’s a guilty conscience,” Donal said.

  Eamon looked at him sharply. “What do you mean?”

  “She appeared before you,” Donal said.

  Eamon looked at her again, but he could not remember her face.

  “I was the one who looked for costs in the Ryan case. I was the junior at the hearing. I didn’t have much to do until the last day,” she said.

  “You’re in the Law Library?” he asked.

  “That’s right, but I’ve only appeared before you once.”

  “And you were acting for the sacked teacher, is that right?”

  “That’s right,” she said politely.

  “Did you see what The Irish Times said about your judgment?” Don
al asked sharply.

  “It’s a funny day now when a newspaper starts making legal judgments.” He was suddenly angry. “But I don’t think that we can discuss the case, if you don’t mind. I’d rather go back to discussing coastal erosion or the temperature of the Irish Sea.”

  “I’m sure you would,” Donal said.

  “She won’t be appealing anyway,” Cathy said. “She hasn’t got the funds.”

  “Maybe you could donate your fee since you feel so strongly about it.”

  “I didn’t get paid,” she said.

  “I should say that Cathy asked me not to mention the case,” Donal said. “But I felt that it should be raised, just to clear the air.”

  “The air down here is perfectly clear,” Eamon said. “At least it was before your arrival.”

  “I’m sorry that we caused trouble,” Cathy said.

  “I’m sorry that Donal has caused it,” Eamon said.

  He went inside and told Carmel what had happened.

  “Each of you,” she said, “is as sanctimonious as the other.”

  “I’m going for a swim,” Eamon said. “I’ll be back before lunch.”

  “Ask Donal and Cathy to come with you.”

  “I don’t want them to come with me.”

  “It would be a nice gesture.”

  “It would be better if they stayed here. Maybe you could ask them to mind their manners the next time they come down.” He walked out of the house and through the garden without looking at them.

  * * *

  When he came back he found that they had carried the dining-room table into the garden. Donal was carrying out chairs, while Cathy set the table.

  “I’m under instructions to apologize to you,” Donal said.