An Ark of Light

by Dermot Bolger

  ‘Sure what trouble are you putting me to?’ The young man laughed, anxious to minimise his efforts on her behalf. ‘If I wasn’t here I’d only be sitting at home in my vest, with the mother taking the shirt off my back to iron it for a third time. When I was small the nuns told me that God sees everything, but not even God has an eye for invisible creases in a shirt like a mother has.’

  ‘You look very dashing,’ Eva assured him. ‘And isn’t it exciting that you’ll be one of the six singers this year? That’s what I always find about life: it’s just so exciting.’

  ‘Exciting is one word, I suppose.’ The young man’s features took on a certain circumspection. ‘But it will be an odd feeling. I remember, as a boy, hearing my late father sing these carols and him telling me how his own father sang them back before the war. I’ve no idea if my great-grandfather sang because he had a fierce weakness for drink and drank his way through two farms until cirrhosis of the liver saved his wife and children from total ruin. My great-grandfather doesn’t get mentioned too often in family chats, but we wouldn’t be a proper family without at least one black sheep in the shadows. If you think hard enough, there was probably even one in your own family too.’

  Eva’s peal of laughter sounded girlish as she thought back over the journey which had taken her to this field. ‘To be honest, my problem would be trying to name a white sheep in my family. But they were all wonderfully true to their character and beliefs, no matter where those beliefs took them. Besides, nothing is ever black and white. Everything is a hotchpotch of dabs of this and that. The wonderful thing with colours is that they’re just as muddled up as we are.’

  ‘I’ll tell you someone who is muddled up.’ The young man laughed as he removed a cassette of The Smiths from his inside pocket. It had been a parting gift from Marcus when she was leaving Turlough. ‘Mother of God, but that Morrissey chap could moan for Ireland – and him an Englishman. I stuck it in the cassette deck of the Massey Ferguson when I was bringing winter feed to the sheep, and the journey never seemed as long. I had to stick on Garth Brooks to lighten the journey back. Say what you want about Garth Brooks, but he definitely has the tractor factor.’ The young man placed down the borrowed cassette, almost apologetically. ‘The Smiths are just not my type of music, no more I suppose than the old carols I’ll be singing over Christmas. But I’ll still sing those carols, even though it will be a queer feeling knowing that my father stood in the same spot at my age singing them. Still, I suppose that’s the thing with Christmas: it’s hard not to remember those you’ve lost.’ He paused, fearing he might have strayed into private emotional territory. ‘And I know you’ve lost more than your fair share, Mrs Fitzgerald.’

  ‘I have.’ Eva glanced back at her arrangement of old photos on the one small strip of wall not lined by bookshelves. Francis and Hazel and Alex were there, and a photo of Freddie too, arms folded while wearing a military uniform so that he still managed to look like a countryman out in a field. ‘The funny thing is how over time – an awfully long time – you realise how we never truly lose them. I don’t mean that their ghosts are standing watching down over us, but I think that if you love someone they leave an essence, an infinitesimal radiance of who they truly are, and this shines on like the light from a dead star so you’re never truly alone after they’re gone.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ the young man agreed. ‘I never much thought about it that way. I was only taught about heaven and hell and by the age of fourteen I wised up to how everything I’d been told was hocus pocus. I’m not saying religion is a bad fairy tale as fairy tales go, because it plays a big part in my mother’s life and her friends, and I won’t belittle them. But it’s just not for me. Do you know what I mean, Mrs Fitzgerald?’

  ‘I do.’

  The young man looked embarrassed, as if he had revealed too much. ‘I don’t know what has me rabbiting on … maybe it being Christmas and all.’ He hesitated. ‘You’d never mention…?’

  ‘I’d never discuss your business – or any friend’s business – with anymore.’ Eva assured him. ‘Not that I’m presuming that you consider me a friend.’

  ‘I’d consider myself lucky if you thought of me as one. Dropping in here for our little chats is better than going to confession and there’s no three Hail Marys or three bags full at the end of it.’ He laughed. ‘That is except for the three full bags I still have for you in a cardboard box in my boot. And here’s me after leaving your door open so the cold air is getting in. I won’t be a tick.’

  She returned to the doorway to watch the young man cross the grass. Last week his mother had called to The Ark, bringing a small box of Nestlé Black Magic chocolates as she urged Eva to join her family for Christmas dinner. It was one of four invitations Eva had received, the most recent being when David himself called in this afternoon to again ask her to spend Christmas with Jacquie and their small children in the old farmhouse they were restoring. Eva had assured David that – while deeply touched by their concern – she was looking forward to spending Christmas day alone in The Ark. Kilmore was not Costa Rica, but over the past four months it had proven to be the sanctuary that, at eighty-seven years of age, Eva needed most. Leaving Mayo after fifteen years was difficult, but now that the move was made she hoped to rebuild the peace of The Ark for Johnny and her two remaining cats. She was infinitely grateful to David for making her feel welcome here, while also understanding that she needed to retain her independence by possessing her private space in his field.

  She missed the friends she had made in Mayo, but would not miss the bleak winters there, which played havoc with her bones. She now knew that she should have left Turlough after the sale of Glanmire Wood. That was when she had truly become a woman of no property, with no remaining link to that village. Over the years, she had no shortage of offers from local farmers wanting that land, but she had been patiently waiting until she found the perfect owner for Glanmire: a quiet-spoken organic farmer whom she encountered through an environmental campaigning group. Eva respected this man’s integrity and knowledge of nature and knew that he would preserve the wood as a wildlife sanctuary. Eighteen months ago, when the deeds were signed over and Glanmire finally passed out of Fitzgerald hands, she had experienced a deep sense of relief, as if a millstone were removed from around her neck. Beyond a sadness in knowing that she would never again set foot on the lawn where Francis’s ashes were scattered, Eva felt no nostalgia for a place that had intermittently been her home for over half a century. Nostalgia was a dangerous sentiment used by people as an excuse when afraid of change. Eighteen months ago, Eva had been ready for change, still possessing her dream of a move to the sunlight of Costa Rica. What had prevented her leaving Ireland was Johnny and the two more recent stray cats who decided to take up residence in The Ark: creatures whom she could not bear to see starve. These would be her last pets and when the final one died, she would eventually be released from all earthy responsibilities and free to once again be blown about like a sepal at her creator’s will.

  The young man was returning across the field with her provisions neatly arranged into different bags inside a cardboard box. She stepped back to let him enter The Ark and set it down on the low table. After he was gone Eva would slowly and painstakingly put every item away but it was important not to delay him now. Nor should she offer him any money beyond the price of the groceries, which he had told her in advance and she had carefully counted out into an envelope. He would be embarrassed by any suggestion of a tip. This would change their relationship and make it harder for him to speak with such candour whenever he stopped by The Ark. The young man looked around as if checking for any other task he could usefully perform.

  ‘You’re sure you’ll be all right over the Christmas?’ he asked. ‘You do know if there is anything I can do…’

  ‘There is just one thing,’ Eva said. ‘If I am not delaying you.’

  ‘You’re not delaying me at all,’ he assured her, although she had seen him discreetl
y check his watch. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Sing me for,’ Eva said. ‘I don’t mean the whole carol, just the opening lines. I never found any organised religion that I felt I belonged to, although I liked sitting in silence among the Quakers in Dublin years ago. I’m a bit like my father, who went to church but only so he could sing. The joy in the singing is the only thing I miss about religion. Would you sing some of the carol for me?’

  ‘You won’t get much joy from a crow like me,’ the young man said, so bashful now that Eva was convinced he would not sing. But after a moment, he closed his eyes and the same words that had been sung in this village for over two centuries filled up her caravan.

  ‘The darkest midnight in December,

  No snow, no hail, nor winter storm

  Shall hinder us for to remember

  The Babe that on this night was born.

  With shepherds we are come to see

  This lovely Infant’s glorious charms,

  Born of a maid as prophets said,

  The God of love in Mary’s arms.

  No earthly gifts can we present Him,

  No gold nor myrrh nor odours sweet.

  But if with hearts we can content Him

  We humbly lay them at his feet.

  ‘Twas but pure love that from above

  Brought Him to save us from all harms

  So let us sing and welcome Him,

  The God of Love in Mary’s arms.’

  The young man stopped and opened his eyes again. ‘That’s the gist of it anyways, although you can hear that I’m no Caruso, or Joe Dolan either.’

  ‘The magic would be destroyed had Caruso sung them,’ Eva said, her heart uplifted by the lyrics. ‘Their magic is that they were written for ordinary men to sing. The mystery is in the ordinary – where all mystery lies in the end. You sing beautifully and you’ll sing even better at the Mass. It’s your turn to be the guardian of those words and they are safe in your hands. Now off you go and enjoy it. It will be exciting: I promise you.’

  ‘I will enjoy it,’ he said, enthused by her enthusiasm. ‘I’ll remember my late father when I sing and think of you also. Am I your last caller of the night?’

  ‘You are. I have everything I need for the coming days, though I suspect David will pop his head in at some stage tomorrow evening, despite me telling him I’ll be fine. Now go and enjoy it.’

  ‘I will.’ He leaned down awkwardly to lightly kiss her on the check, something totally out of character. ‘You lock up tight and answer that door to nobody, do you hear me, Mrs Fitzgerald?’

  The young man was gone then, racing across the grass as he became conscious of the time. From her doorway Eva watched his headlights swing around and his red tail lights disappear. She was alone then, gazing out into the darkness. Johnny was beside her, tail down, his nose sniffing the night air as if some instinct made him uneasy. Eva grew aware of how cold the night had become. A low moon beyond the hedgerow cast just enough light on the empty landscape for her to become conscious of just how isolated she was in this field a quarter of a mile away from the nearest house. In Turlough, the pub yard, just a hundred yards away, had always given her a sense that other people were close at hand. She shivered unexpectedly: Johnny’s unease was somehow permeating her own mood, which had been upbeat until the car’s tail lights disappeared. It made her uncharacteristically cautious as she locked the caravan door and checked it twice for reassurance, although she knew it was too flimsy to stop any determined intruders, who could make as much noise as they wished with a crowbar and not be overheard.

  There was a soft thud behind her as one of the cats entered through the open skylight and jumped down onto the table where the box of groceries needed to be put away. Normally Eva attended to such chores at once. The caravan was untidy enough with her numerous cardboard files of letters to attend to, newspaper articles cut out from The Observer, if she felt they would interest particular callers, and lists of new books to ask for on trips to Wexford library. She could live with paper chaos because it was a trait of an active mind, but in such a small space it was vital to be punctilious about household chores. Despite this, she allowed herself to sit in silence on the window seat with Johnny beside her, panting slightly even in his sleep. The larger cat regarded the single armchair as her private fiefdom and would hiss at the smaller cat if she ever tried to stretch out there. Both cats observed her now, heads utterly still as if listening for sounds. Hazel used to scold Eva about what she had called Eva’s stubborn refusal to allow herself to be unhappy, claiming that Eva used happiness as a way of blocking out the inevitable day when she would need to go back and confront the weight of the tragedies she had endured in her life. But just now she was forced to admit to an unexpected surge of loneliness on this, her first Christmas in Wexford since the days when Alex’s presence used to light up The Ark in Curracloe.

  She was not entirely cut off from all sounds of human life because occasionally she heard cars pass on the winding road into Kilmore as local people drove to the church to get an early seat for Midnight Mass. With most of the cars the sound faded away within seconds but one driver seemed hopelessly lost: Eva became conscious of the same noisy engine passing close by The Ark several times before speeding off again, almost as if it were a gang of robbers casing the area for soft, isolated targets. Curiosity made her want to open the door and listen, but prudence made Eva light a candle, turn off the electric blub and sit still, knowing that this one flickering candle would be impossible to glimpse from the road and would render her invisible to any driver prowling these unlit lanes. It took ten or fifteen minutes of total silence outside – although time was hard to measure without a watch or clock – before she felt reassured that this lost driver was gone. Even then she did not switch back on the electric bulb, preferring this candlelight to meditate in.

  Last Christmas, she had no real thoughts about leaving Mayo, or at least not until Johnny’s spirit passed on to wherever dogs go if they have known love in this life. Maybe she should have been listening more carefully to her intuitive inner voice: it was now clear that her purpose in Mayo had essentially ended when she signed over the deeds of Glanmire Wood. But mentally she had let herself grow complacent, forgetting that she possessed no legal claim to that site in Turlough where her caravan had been parked for the previous fifteen years. As well as her state pension she was still receiving her biannual annuity of one hundred and thirty pounds, purchased from Standard Life back in the 1950s when she had no idea of inflation and presumably Standard Life had no idea that she would live so long. But it would have been prudent to have held onto more of the money received from the sale of Glanmire Wood, rather than relish the chance to finally be able to donate to the antivivisection, vegan and animal welfare campaigns whose newsletters littered the table in The Ark. At least she had used some of the money to repair the leaking roof of The Ark and purchase strong ropes which local men had stretched over the caravan roof to firmly anchor it to the ground after it came close to being blown over in several winter storms.

  Looking back, it felt as if that day, when workmen battened down her battered caravan with ropes as if staking her claim to that field, was an omen that marked the start of her irreversible uprooting from Turlough. In truth, the farmer who owned the field only ever treated Eva with courtesy and kindness, refusing to increase her peppercorn rent. But it was inevitable that, as a new generation grew up, his family would one day need to ask for that plot back. Being situated so close to the village, it was the perfect site for a new bungalow. This was the sole reason she was asked to leave, but in her mind it became tied up her starting to gain a reputation for interfering in animal welfare cases. Two farmers had stopped their cars while she was taking a walk to remonstrate with her after young people in Castlebar established a branch of the Irish Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. Perhaps she made a nuisance of herself when visiting another farmer on the road to Breaffy to plead with him to take better care of young c
alves crammed in a shed, whose bellows of distress went through her with equal pain as if someone had hammered a nail into her palm.

  Or maybe people grew tired of her trying to interest them in the increasing local pollution, rumoured to be linked to a nearby American chemical factory. One teenage boy timidly called to her one morning, distressed by how the local river had turned the colour of red lemonade overnight, with dead fish floating on its surface. But people shrugged when Eva suggested organising a protest. Times were hard, with young local people having to emigrate again to Birmingham and Boston. Nobody wanted to initiate protests that might jeopardise local jobs. Therefore no one complained either about open-backed trucks driving through Turlough to dump chemical waste in a disused quarry behind Glanmire Wood. When that dump went on fire, a plume of carcinogenic smoke hung over Turlough, with many leaves on the trees in Glanmire Wood turning black, and parents urged to keep their windows closed until the wind changed direction. Afterwards, everyone angrily agreed that it had been a danger to their children’s health. But once the fire burnt itself out, the trucks resumed their daily convoy through the village and Eva again made herself unpopular by continuing to raise awkward safety concerns that might endanger the jobs of young neighbours – already struggling to cope with crippling mortgages – if the plant closed down. Most locals who held opposing views still treated her with great civility, but something subtly changed after she ceased to own the last of the Fitzgerald land. It was Eva who always talked about one day moving to Costa Rica; Eva who had claimed to only want to stay for a short while in that field in Turlough. So why was her self-confidence utterly shaken when the kindly farmer, who eventually needed to apologetically call to say that, while nobody was rushing her, it would be greatly appreciated if she could seek an alternative location for The Ark because there were plans afoot to build a bungalow on the site where it was parked?