“Oh my God! Childie! Dr. Sullivan and I delivered you. Ah childie, what have you done to yourself? Come here to me, childie. Darling lad, I helped your mother Sissy bring you into this world. Oh Sissy, what can we ever do for you now? All right everyone! Now up the steps. Right. Let’s get down to theatre. They’re waiting for him. It’ll be a long night what ever happens. Pray. All of you pray that Mr. Connelly—the best surgeon in the county—does the will of God tonight. The lad may be better off if God takes him. God will decide. But we’ll do our best. Hurry now. Hurry …”
Hurry! Run a race down the corridor. Down. Am going down life corridor. Into theatre. What play am I in? Real life. It’s real life! What is real life? Reen. Irene goodnight Irene … Reet Petite … Irene goodnight Irene. Reet reen reet … the finest girl you ever wanna meet … I go to meet my maker. Not yet! Mama, Dada, where are you? Where? Last hours, like Pearse. Alone. But I have no last poem for you, Mama. Not like his for his mother before the British shot him. We all had to learn it. Olivia used to make visitors cry when she recited “The Mother”: “I do not grudge them: Lord, I do not grudge / My two strong sons that I have seen go out / To break their strength and die …” Pale Pearse, pale like me, she says. Tried to be a hero to Mama. “Turn me over, don’t let my mother see me.” Not much of a hero. No one will tell my story. Oh Mama, I feel all wet and cold … I can hear you Mama: “Come in child. Out of the rain. You’ll get drenched. Come over here by the fire, I’ll hotten you up.” You always said that Mama. Oh thank you Mama for hot drinks on cold nights, for long-sitting through gasping asthma, for looking away from down there when you helped me out of the bath because I was very weak once. Mama, Dada, am off to Tír na nÓg. I’m sorry, but I think I will have to go there now. There’s nowhere else for me. I can’t stay here. Goodnight Mama. The land of Tír na nÓg, the land of the young is bundling up the clouds, high, high. Am sky-flying. Hold on to me, Mama! Hold on! Don’t let me fly away! Hold on to me! Catch my legs! Leg! Other one too soft. Bone soft. Something’s wrong. Hold on to my good leg. Hold on Mama! Mama? Dada! Hold on! You’re heavier, Dada. Heavier than Mama. So you hold on to me, Dada. Don’t let go of me Dada. Dada? Irene goodnight Irene. Ireeeeeene goodnight… Goodnight Mama Irene goodnight, I’ll see you in my dreams. Dreams. Dreams. Goodnight … goodnight. Oh Ireeene goodnight Irene. Ireeeeeene goodnight… goodnight Mama … Irene goodnight I’ll see you in my dreams. It takes some time to fall asleep. I’ll see you there. Hold my leg Dada! Am floating all away. Dream dreaming. I dream of you. Irene goodnight Ireeeene, goodnight… goodnight Ireene … I’ll see you in my dreams.
“Dada?”
“Olivia? Is that you, Olivia?”
“It is Dada. I’m here outside your bedroom door.”
“Come in child.”
“No, Dada. I’m standing outside. Can you come out Dada?”
“Ah! Ah! Yes. Coming, child.”
“What is it, Tom? Tom, what is it? What’s happening? Olivia? Olivia! Come in here this minute.”
“No Mama. It’s nothing Mama, it’s nothing. Just there’s a mouse in my room. Will you come Dada? Will you come now? Quickly!”
“Coming, child. I’m coming.”
“That’s rubbish, Olivia. Go back to sleep. You’re seventeen. Tell her, Tom. Tell her she’s got to stop this nonsense about mice and spiders in her room. It’s all nonsense.”
“Ah please Mama, if Dada’d just come and check for me I can go back to sleep and we can all go to see him in the hospital first thing in the morning. Please come now Dada.”
“I’m coming, child.”
“Don’t close the door Tom!”
“I think I will Sissy. You need to sleep, Sissy. I’ll be back in a minute. And don’t worry, she’ll grow out of the spider thing.”
“She’s seventeen Tom … ah … Hurry back to me Tom.”
“I will Sissy. I will. I’ll just close the door for a second.”
“Olivia? Child?”
“He’s dead.”
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Who told you?”
“Father Dwyer. Just now. I heard a car turn into the road. I knew it must be Dr. Carter or Father Dwyer. I knew he was dead. About half an hour ago. I just knew. I felt it. I felt him … gone. I got up and I dressed and sat on my bed. And I waited. For the news. And it came. I heard the gate and then I opened the door—I didn’t want him to press the bell—and Father Dwyer was just standing there. I looked at him and he shook his head. He couldn’t find the words. And I closed the door on him. And I went into my room and thought, how can I bring the news to Dada without her knowing first? And I thought of all my old fears—spiders and mice … ah Dada, Dada. What will we find to help us tell her? What words will we find? Where will we find them?”
“I don’t know, Olivia. I really thought we’d have time. I thought this awful night—hiding the truth from her—lying there—a liar—trying to save her from the truth, clawing at time, Olivia—we clawed at time to try to save her from the shock—to get her through the shock—which I thought would kill her. I was certain it would kill her and that if we could hold it off—then I’d give the time to him. I thought he had a chance. I thought he’ll be unconscious and … They’ll come to tell me—to come—they’ll tell me—I was waiting for Sullivan … What have I done? Oh God, what have I done? God must help me now. Help our family. Help us tell her. We’d better face it now Olivia. There is no waiting now. No way out of this one, is there Olivia? Listen child, whatever you’re about to see—after all you’ve seen today—know it can be survived. Just stay beside me, Olivia, and together we’ll go to the bedroom. Just wait for a second. Help me now God, because now I’m going to open that door slowly.”
“Tom? Tom?”
“Yes. Yes, Sissy. Darling, Sissy.”
“Did you find the mouse?”
“No Sissy. You were right. There was no mouse.”
“There’s never been a mouse! Have you ever found a mouse or a spider in that girl’s bedroom?”
“No, Sissy.”
“What were you two whispering out there in the dark? What Tom? What whispering? What?”
“I think we must face it now Olivia. Hold my hand now, Olivia. We can’t stop her knowing now. It’s rolling in, rolling over us, the truth.”
“Olivia was always too imaginative wasn’t she, Tom?”
“Say nothing now, Olivia.”
“Wasn’t she, Tom, always too imaginative? And tonight, how could she do that to us tonight? Too imaginative. Tom? Olivia? Answer me! Weren’t you always too imaginative? Wasn’t she, Tom? Put on the light Tom! Tom? Let me look at you Tom. In the light. Come over to me. Look at me in the light.”
“Here I am Sissy.”
“Come closer Tom. Let me look at you Tom, in the light.”
“Look at me Sissy. Look at me.”
“Oh no! No! No! No and no.”
“Oh my God Olivia … Stop it, Sissy. Stop beating your fists on the wall, Sissy you’ll hurt yourself. Let me hold you, darling Sissy.”
“No, no. Not my boy. Not my darling boy. Not my darling child, my darling boy …”
“Stop it Mama.”
“Olivia, run to Daragh’s room. Don’t let him in here.”
“Let me beat this wall for him. Let me out of this bed. I will beat the floor down to the earth … Let me beat down the earth for him, my darling boy. Boy. Boy. Never let me stop beating this down, beating it down.”
“Hurry—stop Daragh, Olivia. Go now.”
“I’ll be back in a second Dada.”
“Ah Sissy, let me hold you Sissy.”
“Let go of me Tom. Let me beat this down, down.”
“Olivia?”
“It’s all right Dada. Daragh’s just sitting there looking out the window. He’s not even crying. What’s that noise at the door? Someone’s beating on the front door. Why don’t they ring the bell? Ah there! The bell’s ringing. I’ll get it Dada.”
“Dr. Sullivan! Come in.”
�
�Where is she, Olivia? Where’s your mother?”
“They’re in the bedroom.”
“Right. Let’s go. Tom? Ah Tom, what can I say? Stop that, Sissy! Give me your arm. Come on now. You’ve got to do this for me. Sissy I want you to stay still for just a second. I’m going to give you an injection. Help me roll up the sleeve of her nightdress, Tom. This will knock her out. She won’t sleep for that long but when she wakes she will be under control. Good girl, Sissy. Let’s get you back into bed. Well done. God, why wasn’t I here when it happened? I know why! Christ, I was in Tipperary with that bloody son of mine who is never out of… Oh God, sorry Tom, me talking about my boy. Sorry. I got here as fast as I could. I talked to Carter and to the surgeon, Connelly. There never was any hope at all. No hope at all that he could have survived what happened. And Tom it’s best that he didn’t. Hold on to that piece of knowledge. And here take these. These pills will take the edge off the shock of it. I’ll give half a one each to Olivia and Daragh. Do what you’re told now, Tom. And Tom, I know why you did what you did—staying here with Sissy. In holding it off—the truth, by staying with her here, keeping her away from the hospital—you did the right thing to try to pretend for a few hours. She’s been so ill after the death of the little girl. So you bought her a few hours. Essential Tom, because with the raw memory of the other, this shock would have been too much for her. Her mind needed time to absorb it a bit. I’d say she knew immediately but she ran to a hidden place, a buried place. And you gave her time there Tom. You saved her mind. You saved Sissy. And that’s love, Tom. Love helped you do the right thing. You were right. Remember that. No man has ever loved a woman more.”
“Love? For love we’re asked to do the strangest things in life. Love! It asks the strangest sacrifices.”
ONE
… today, June 18th, 1962, I, Thomas Middlehoff, known locally as “the German,” attend my first Irish funeral. My housekeeper, Bridget, informed me that there would be no objection. The iconography of this particular death and burial is an unfamiliar one in this place that has known peace for decades. As in all such towns there are recognised routes to eternity: the heart that fails; the cells that in either boredom or rebellion rise up against their host and triumph; the accidental tumble over the edge of life in cars or on bicycles; the exhausted surrender to the sudden storm on water, which “tossed the boat around like …”—the metaphor is always dramatic. All these routes eventually seem to have been pre ordained. This one does not.
The intensity of heat that yesterday had so startled this small town in Ireland has today abated somewhat. The sun shines but its light is now less troubling. The day is warm but it no longer soars in triumph as though it had wished to teach an uncomfortable lesson to those who had failed to factor its burning rays into their sartorial decisions.
The cathedral is full. Mourners who’d arrived too late to be seated huddle in the aisles, some leaning against the confessional boxes in which they normally kneel in darkness. I stand at the back and carefully follow the proceedings in a missal loaned to me by Bridget. It had been handed to me with an air of solemnity, as though it were an ancient letter of introduction that would guarantee safe passage to its recipient. Bridget herself had received it from her grandmother, no doubt with equal solemnity. Bridget has two missals. The new one, a gift from her son, has, perhaps due to a generational imperative, supplanted in importance the older gift which, nevertheless, I was honour-bound to return to her after the funeral.
The ritual of mass begins with the sign of the cross, the ultimate emblem of the sacrifice that mass celebrates. So that no one need doubt its significance, the sign of the cross is made no fewer than fifty-two times during the ceremony. Bridget’s son had evidently counted them once at a Sunday mass, a fact that, though it impressed Bridget greatly, implied to me that this was not a boy in whom resided excessive reverence.
This is a Mass for the dead. Bridget has explained to me that as such it is shorter, due to the omission of certain psalms, “Judica me,” which Bridget had quoted to me with such feeling I had later turned to it in the missal and memorised it. “For Thou art my strength; Why hast Thou cast me off? And why do I go sorrowful whilst the enemy afflicteth me?” It is magnificent. Its omission is appropriate. I concentrate on my missal and after some time I note a certain stirring in the congregation. Slowly the mourners stand up and move from their pews. Someone behind me whispers “offerings.” An orderly queue is formed and men—mostly, I would guess from their age and bearing, the heads of families—are joined by a number of women who shuffle forward with lowered faces, clutching large handbags to them as though they were an aid to gender identification. A number of the men hold white envelopes clasped tightly in their hands and stare straight ahead. Others have placed their envelope carefully in a jacket pocket from which it slightly protrudes, like the edge of a carefully ironed handkerchief.
All move forward silently until they stand before Tom O’Hara and Father Dwyer who are positioned together behind a dark carved-wood table. This has been placed to the left of a small side chapel, in which, on a high bier, the body of Tom O’Hara’s son lies in its coffin. Each man hands over his envelope, his offering. I note all this as I too make my way forward, as Bridget had told me would be expected of me. When it is finally my turn to stand before this man, this bereaved father, Tom O’Hara, I do not look at him. I had noted from their bowed heads that those in front of me had also failed this test of courage. His “thank you” is muffled. It’s a strange gratitude. Bridget had informed me that all monies go to the Parish and that the amount collected is, in a sense, a measure of the sympathy and grief. Measure for measure. As I walk back to my pew I observe Mrs. O’Hara and her daughter and son sitting in the front pew. They sit motion less, isolated in a place of honour no one begrudges them.
Then it is over. Everyone stands. Family and relatives now make their way to the side chapel. To bear witness, no doubt, as the coffin is borne out to the waiting hearse on the shoulders of men, among them his father. Mourners scatter; the men scurry, heads down, towards their cars. Their wives walk slowly, smartly dressed, suits mostly though it is a summer day, heads adorned with discreet hats, mantillas on the heads of the younger women. Car doors open and close with care. Noise cannot be borne today. Everyone, even children, senses the need for quietness.
I decide that I too will walk behind the hearse. It is, I feel, correct that I should do so. It is appropriate. And so the long, slow procession trails its way through the town in which today, for this cortège, every shop has closed. Had it been a state funeral it could not have been more evocative of a dignified expression of grief. At last, perhaps after forty minutes, we arrive at the graveyard, one of mankind’s most underrated symbols of civilisation. A small graveyard is a most particular resting place. It is a place in which the dead may nestle but do not mingle. Here, in this Irish cemetery, the mass grave is unknown. A certain propriety maintains.
As the coffin of the boy is lowered there is a dangerous moment. The boy’s sister seems to sway forwards toward the open grave. In a second she is caught. A priest places his hands, with some force, on her shoulders and steadies her. Separation of the dead from the living often requires strength. Another continues with the prayers.
A handful of earth is thrown over the coffin and the process of filling in a grave commences. After some time mourners begin to drift away. I look around awkwardly, aware that Dr. Carter is in conversation with Father Dwyer and that Bishop Fullerton is speaking quietly to Mr. O’Hara. I am an observer and a stranger, the one I feel almost essential to the other. The elective outsider, the truthful observer of the scene requires an anatomical eye, which I have endeavoured over the years to develop.
My eye now meets that of another, it is caught and trapped for a moment by that of Mrs. O’Hara. There is no escape from it. Her eye is a cold eye, unblinking, frozen per haps in a memory of what it has witnessed. I take a step toward her but she turns away. I am released into freef
all.
Then the vision comes unbidden. Why does the mind allow intrusion against our will? I saw her falling. I saw my mother falling. She did not fall in parts. She fell in her entirety through a powder of the dove-grey dust of shattered masonry. The white-grey stone leg of the statue of a tall young man fell with her. The subtle difference in the shades of white and grey that day delineated contours as sharply as crimson on a black background. The stone boy had stood sentinel in the long colonnade that connected the drawing room to the conservatory. He had been a reliable companion in the childhood games I had played with my brother. He had been just. He had never taken sides. The conservatory, I remember, did not disintegrate that day. Such anomalies are more common in the aftermath of bombing than one might imagine. My mother had just left the drawing room and was, in her last minutes, close to her stone companion who, heroically, fell with her, his leg the first dismembering, then the second, his arm. It broke off in an arc and for a moment it seemed as though he threw it towards her—as if to say, “Take it, take it! Cling to this, this part of me that I offer to you.” Then the falling, fast. The vision dies. And I am here, again, in this place. At an Irish funeral, my first Irish funeral.
The Truth About Love Page 2
