The Heather Blazing

by Colm Toibin

  He was almost at Curracloe now and looked back along the strand. The day was becoming hazy and the sand being blown along the shore lessened visibility. There was nowhere he could sit to eat the sandwiches he had packed without the sand being blown into his face. He walked up the strand towards the dunes where there was more shelter. His back was beginning to pain him and he was glad to take off the rucksack. He sat down and removed his canvas shoes. His feet were hot and there was a small blister on his heel. The skin around it was red and raw. He took out the towel and put it behind his head as he lay stretched out.

  He looked up at the pale sky, feeling sleepy but knowing that he must not sleep. He would have to keep going. He sat up and opened the flask, poured the hot tea into the cup and unwrapped the sandwiches and ate without thinking, staring down towards the sea, which was washed of all colour now, just vague hints of blue and green against white and grey.

  He threw away the last drops of tea and re-wrapped the sandwiches which were left, then packed everything, including the canvas shoes, into the rucksack and stood up again. He rolled up the bottom of his trousers and walked along in his bare feet, but the blister was too painful so he had to sit down on the sand, open the rucksack again, put on a pair of socks and his canvas shoes.

  He set off walking again. He carried no watch or clock so he had no idea how long he had been on the strand, but guessed that it was one o’clock or two o’clock and that he had been walking for two or three hours. He passed a few people, but there was no one lying on the sand or going into the sea to swim; the wind was too strong. The sand was softer nearer the sea; he walked where it was wet. At low tide, he knew, you could pick cockles here, but the tide was well in and the strand grew narrower as he walked along. In a few miles it would disappear altogether. Then he would take to the road.

  After a mile or so the sun became stronger, although there was still a haze over the sea. The wind had died down. He sat again and fished into his rucksack to find his togs. He took out his towel as well and slowly took off his clothes and put his togs on. The blister on his foot was bigger now. He tried to burst it but it was too hard. He stood up and tested the water. It was not too cold. He limbered up, arching his back to see if he could get rid of the pain at the base of his neck which spread down his back every time he moved his head. But the pain was still there. He turned and walked slowly into the sea, ignoring the waves and wading without hesitation once the water was up to his waist. Without stopping, he dived in and swam out, lifting his head only to take in air, trying to exercise his arms to relax the muscles in his neck.

  He set himself goals: to swim out twenty strokes and back in again, and over to the side and back again, and over to the other side and back again once more. Growing tired he rested his head on the water and floated. He closed his eyes unsure now whether he was floating in towards the shore or out towards the horizon, but on opening them he found that he had let himself float a good distance northwards and swam back until he was close to where he had left his rucksack.

  When he had dried himself he moved away from the shore, further up the strand. He dressed himself and lay down, too tired to put off sleep. He placed the towel under his head and closed his eyes.

  On waking he knew he had been in a deep sleep. He was cold and reached into the rucksack and took out his pullover. His legs were stiff. He wished that there was a bed close by with clean white sheets that he could crawl into, but there was still a long day ahead. If he went back now, he knew he would sleep and then wake in the night, and he could not bear that prospect. For the first few days in Cush he had been unable to spend time inside the house but instead had sat in the garden or gone into the village. He had begun to sleep in the car, having made a bed for himself in the back seat. But when he woke after an hour or two—as he usually did—he felt a terrible blackness.

  He had nowhere to go. The court was on holidays and the house in Dublin was too big and empty. Soon he would have to go back there, he could not carry on like this day after day, this interminable walking from the morning until darkness fell, this trudging along, forcing himself to keep going. There was nothing else he could do here, he could not read, or listen to music, or sit in the garden. He hated going into the house. At least now at the end of the day, on arriving home at nightfall, he could sleep the whole night long. He was occupied walking; it kept him going. As he lay there in the afternoon haze on the empty strand beyond Curracloe he knew that he could not turn back, that he would have to go forward for an hour or two more, before making his way home.

  The sky had become clear by the time he started back. He walked up a long lane, past a few white-washed farmhouses and along a well-worn track across a field, before hitting a by-road which led to the main road from Wexford to Curracloe. He took off his canvas shoes and put on the stronger leather shoes which he carried in his rucksack. The blister on his heel had become more painful and he felt a pain, too, in the back of his legs each time he took a step. Walking was more difficult on the road. Each step became an ordeal, but he knew that he still had miles to go.

  The weather had settled, and the late afternoon sun was strong. He tried to concentrate on patches of white in the sky, small impermanent wisps of vapour like he had been taught to imagine the soul would look when it would fly out when you died and soar into the sky if you had no mortal sins. He believed in nothing now, no soul, no cloudy spirit offered him consolation. He believed that death was absolute, the body died and became dust.

  He was tempted to stop and have a drink in the village pub, but he knew that alcohol made him broody and morose, even one drink turned his mind towards self-pity. Also, he was afraid to go into the pub to have an orange juice or a glass of water because he did not want to stop now, he knew how hard it would be to begin walking again. He turned from the village back down towards the strand. It was important, he knew, not to think about how near or how far he was from his destination. Everywhere was far. He walked: took step after step and only allowed himself to think about the ground he had already walked along.

  When he reached the Strand Hotel at the top of the hill he could see the sea and the pale line which the horizon made. He felt a sudden surge of warmth as he walked through the marsh towards the sand dunes. His back still ached and his heel pained at each step and the pain in the muscles of the back of his leg persisted, but still he felt intensely alive as he passed the shop and walked along the old wooden rampart which led over the dunes to the strand.

  He recognized the exhilaration: it came each day unless there was rain. It came, he thought, from walking a long distance and then turning towards the light, or witnessing a sudden brightness in the sky. He walked faster now, breathing in the rich sea air. He sat down and took out his sandwiches and flask again, but kept his eye on the sea as much as possible. It was so still now, grey-blue and glassy. The sun behind him was warm. He was content, he ate what was left in the wrapping paper and finished the tea. He put the flask and the paper back in the rucksack and changed into his canvas shoes.

  He still did not know what time it was, but he guessed by the light that it was seven or eight o’clock: the sun was going down and there was an edge to each colour and shape, a darkening, an increased distinction and definition. He imagined himself and Carmel in Wexford for the day, standing in the vegetable shop, looking at the sugar peas, wondering how long they would keep. And then walking beside her down Main Street until they came to the butcher shop she liked. And lamb, she turned to him, would they have lamb? Or would he prefer pork? The pork was always good here, and the stuffing. Eventually she made up her mind, and they both watched as the leg of lamb was weighed and then wrapped and paid for. “I have potatoes,” she said to him. “I need to get mint sauce and we need to get wine. We should get a few bottles to have.”

  They stood in the off-licence looking at the wine. She smiled at the assistant and then went over and examined the labels, squinting her eyes slightly.

  “What do you think?” she aske
d.

  “I prefer red,” he said.

  “Yes, we’ll get a few red and maybe two white, but I’d like to get one good bottle for tonight to go with the lamb, the peas and the new potatoes. Something special.”

  They looked through the selection of red wines. He tried to help her, aware, however, that in the end she would make up her mind without his help. Still, she liked him to be there and to comment.

  As he walked back towards Ballyconnigar in the fading light he imagined Carmel and himself picking out the bottles of wine and carrying them to the counter. He saw her changing the good bottle for an even more expensive wine and saying to him that they did not often spend money on wine, but this evening, this evening they would have a special dinner.

  “No reason, no special reason,” she said.

  She was dead. Carmel is dead, he whispered to himself, but still he imagined them wandering in Wexford. He saw himself opening the boot of the car to put in the groceries, closing it again and then opening the driver’s door and pulling up the lock on the passenger door for Carmel to get in. But there was no one there for whom to open the passenger door; there was no point in pulling up the lock. And when he thought of this as he walked slowly northwards his eyes filled up with tears.

  This always happened at the end of the day when he neared home, the exhaustion and the wondering what he would do when he climbed up the cliff at Mike’s house, when he turned in the lane and saw the corner field full of white clover and walked straight ahead in the lane full of midges; what would he do?

  He was still walking along slowly as the lighthouse started up, its beam still faint. There was a dew falling and it was becoming cold. He knew that he could not face the house. He was hungry and wanted a bath and a shave, but he knew that he could not bear to enter the house where they had lived.

  As he made his way up the cliff he noticed that it was much easier than usual; he was becoming fit. He glanced at Mike’s house to see if his cousin had returned or had left his chair behind, but there was no sign of him. There was a red stretch in the western sky; soon, that, too, would disappear and night would come down. He was tired; he knew how simple it would be to shut his eyes and fall into a deep sleep, despite the hunger he felt. But he knew too that if he was hungry now, he would wake in the night and he was desperate not to face an hour lying in the dark waiting for the grey light of dawn to appear over the sea.

  He left the rucksack against the door of the house and went to the car. He had filled the leg-space between the back seat and the front seat with cushions and pillows, but ignored these now and put the key into the ignition and turned the car around. He opened the gate to the lane, got back into the car and drove towards Blackwater. He tried to drive slowly. He knew that he was tired.

  He drove down to Etchingham’s in the village and left the car outside. There were a few men in the pub who looked up when he came in; there was a family group, who looked like holiday-makers, in the corner. Closing the door, he walked into the grocery which was also a bar. There was no one behind the counter. He sat up on a stool and waited. When the barman came he asked for a small whiskey from the bar and a loaf of bread, some butter and a tin of tuna from the grocery. The barman served him the whiskey first with a jug of water. After a while he came back with the groceries in a white plastic bag.

  When the drink was finished, he went back to the car. He knew that he would have to go into the house to get a knife and a tin opener, and he wanted to have a shower. He thought that if he did not turn on the light, if he searched the kitchen in the darkness and used the bathroom without any light, it would be easier.

  He turned on the car radio and listened to a song he vaguely recognized; he tried to keep his mind on the driving. He had to stop and move in towards the ditch when another car approached. He saluted the driver, without knowing who it was.

  He drove the car in through the gates to the front of the house, turned off the lights and sat there for a while, staring at the lighthouse. The beam was fainter than usual as the moon was bright, the sky cloudless. He got out of the car and looked up at the stars, fumbling in his pocket for the keys. The sky was inky blue. He turned, walked towards the front door and went inside. There was a stale smell, and the rank smell of damp was there too. He left the front door open and fumbled his way to the bathroom.

  He knew there was no hot water, but still felt he needed a shower. He turned on the cold tap and put his hand under the spray of water to test it. It was lukewarm from the day’s heat. He took off his clothes, searching in the darkness for the soap and shampoo.

  When he had finished he dried himself and went towards the bedroom looking for a change of clothes. Here there was another smell, a mixture of mothballs and lavender and perfume. He wanted to get out of the room as soon as possible, close the door behind him, leave the room locked in its smells. He rummaged in a chest of drawers and found some socks and underpants and a shirt he had brought from Dublin. He put them on and went back to the bathroom to get his shoes. His blister was throbbing and he was desperate to get to sleep. He searched in the kitchen for a tin-opener but was unable to find one in the dark. He did not try for very long; instead, he went out to the car and fixed up the back seat so that he would be comfortable. He closed the door and curled up then until he was too hot. He opened the windows and the sun-roof and took off his shirt and trousers. He fell asleep.

  It was past dawn when he woke. He was thirsty and still tired. He lay without moving. He could not face another day’s walking. And yet the thought of staying around the house and garden all day seemed impossible. But he could not go on: he already had a few days’ growth of beard. There had to be some end to this. He closed his eyes and curled up again, but realized he would not get back to sleep.

  He had left the door of the house open. The day was grey, the sky low, threatening rain. He went into the living room and sat at the window before going into the kitchen to get a glass of water. The sink was full of dirty dishes and there was a green mould on some of the plates. He drank glass after glass of water.

  He went into the bathroom and found his shaving gear. His face had become thin and brown and the grey stubble made him look old, like someone in a hospital. He wet his face and spread the shaving cream on his beard. It took time to shave; the bristles had become strong and tough.

  Later, he went into the bedroom, which had become untidy, like the rest of the house and drew the curtains and lay down on the bed. He thought that he might sleep again now. He went out to the car and retrieved the pillows from the back seat. Having closed the front door of the house, he took off his clothes in the bedroom and lay between the clean sheets of the bed. He was conscious that he had begun once more to let himself believe that she was alive, that she would come in at any moment with a breakfast tray, or the newspaper, or to fetch something. He began to imagine how they would talk, letting his mind range over the details, her dress, the smell she had left in the bed, her voice. He smiled to himself at the thought of her and then he covered himself with the quilt and fell into a deep sleep.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The days remained grey and overcast with light showers of rain coming at intervals. He swam in the sea when he could and tried to keep the house tidy. He sat in the porch and if the sun came out he moved into the garden. A few days he went walking, wandering northwards as far as Morriscastle and then back along the road.

  He had brought with him a number of recent books on the law. He now kept these and a notepad on the living-room table and spent much time reading them, going over old cases and the implications of recent legislation. Two of the books dealt with the law of the European Community, about which he knew little. He had left that to his younger colleagues. But now he felt it was an area he might take up to keep his mind occupied in the long winter which was to come.

  For much of the time, however, he still thought of Carmel, of days they had spent together in the past. Odd moments became vivid in his mind, clothes she wore, expression
s on her face, snatches of conversation.

  One day when they were married for less than a year and still living in his old flat in Hume Street, she had telephoned him at the Law Library. She was pregnant, he remembered, five or six months pregnant. He recalled coming back from a case and seeing the message and being concerned. Normally, she never telephoned him at the court. He was worried about her and he phoned her as soon as he got the message.

  “I bumped into your Uncle Tom and Aunt Margaret on Dawson Street. They are in Dublin for a few days staying in a guest house in George’s Street and they weren’t going to contact us because they thought that we’d be too busy. So I invited them out either this evening or tomorrow.”

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  “What about tonight then? Why don’t we take them to dinner at the Russell Hotel?”

  “I’ll ring the guest house so. Will you come home first?”

  “Yes. I’ll see you soon.”

  It was early June, the weather was soft and warm as he walked from the Courts up to St. Stephen’s Green. The case he was working on was long and laborious, but he had done most of the preparation in the spring, reading through all the documents, checking and cross-checking precedents and potential lines of attack in the spare room at the desk which Carmel had set up for him. He was a senior counsel now and most of his work was for the state. Over the past few years he had begun to turn down briefs which did not interest him or which he did not have time to do. He had begun to represent the state in any of the constitutional cases which arose in the High Court and the Supreme Court. Unofficially, he had been offered a seat on the bench in the High Court when a vacancy arose in the autumn. He had not yet asked Carmel what she thought; it would mean a loss of income, and among his colleagues the view would be taken that he was too young to become a judge. He would be ten years younger than any of his colleagues.