by Therese Down
CHAPTER FIVE
Jack had never really been ill, and so, at first, it was hard for him to identify the unusual way he felt on waking one morning in mid- November 1943. For a start, his limbs were heavy and reluctant, as though he had been drugged, and his head remained full of sleep after his eyes opened. But his chest was of most concern. He had a cough which had started out as just dry and irritating but had been growing steadily worse over the last few weeks. He had dismissed it as one of those things – people got coughs and colds in winter; you just got on with it. There was, however, a deviance about the way his chest felt this morning which was outside his experience of illness. There was a tightening and a pain like smouldering coals in his lungs. He sat up and the coughing started, a mighty spasm of his diaphragm he could not control. He concentrated on getting to the next breath, really feared he might not get there. The pain was agonizing. When finally the fit had passed, Jack lay back, trembling. What the hell was this, now?
His father had never been ill a day in his life, had never taken a holiday or missed a day’s work in his sixty-five years. His death was sudden and quick. Sean Flynn had come downstairs one morning as usual. Jack had already left to get the cows for milking. Sean had knelt to mutter a rosary before the open fire in the kitchen, as was his custom, and wasn’t halfway through his second decade when he had been seized by a massive heart attack and had fallen head first into the embers.
As Jack crossed the yard on his way back to the house at the end of the milking, he had noticed black smoke curling under the door and hanging sleepily in the cold air. Running into the kitchen, he coughed and waved his arms to dispel the smoke, and tripped over his father’s boots. Sean Flynn’s head and upper torso smouldered on the fire, his right hand charred as it gripped the rim of the grate in a feeble attempt to avoid the fire; his left hand lay behind him like a hooked fish. Trying not to vomit in fear and revulsion, choking on smoke, Jack pulled him from the fire by his feet. Then he stumbled from the house and vomited profusely. When he had hitched the horse to the cart with trembling hands, he drove at top speed through the narrow lanes to the doctor’s house on the other side of Dunane. The doctor had come and examined the body, sorted out the necessary paperwork, and made arrangements for the corpse to be removed from the house to the nearest hospital. There would be no open coffin wake for Sean Flynn.
As November drew on, Caitlin adopted a policy of passive resistance towards her family. If she could just keep her head down, avoid inciting anyone to anger, then perhaps her father would take pity on her. She would do all Maureen’s chores if need be, she would study through the night if necessary, and she would not complain. Maybe then he would look more kindly on her desire to go to university.
Mick watched Caitlin perform her tasks around the house and farm, and scrutinized her face for a scowl, the curl of a lip, the movement of her mouth in a curse, but could detect none. She remained neutral, even cheerful, and though at first suspicious, he was soon convinced that Caitlin had learned something from her humiliating exchange with Sister Callasanctious. Perhaps now she would accept the yoke of her life with better grace.
Maureen, in the meantime, was growing holier. She seemed to transcend the banality of everyday life and assumed a beatific serenity which made Caitlin uneasy. Was this a game, too? Maureen’s way of trying to convince the world she was happy? Caitlin could not afford to give it much thought, for it disturbed her tactical equanimity.
It was weeks now since Mick had told his wife of the betrothal of Caitlin to Jack Flynn and asked her to tell Caitlin. Mrs Spillane grew increasingly anxious at the duty he had placed upon her and would have dearly liked to ask him to change his mind about the whole thing, but she dared not provoke him. And she knew too well how much he was relying on the money from Flynn to furnish Maureen’s dowry to the convent. The nuns wanted two hundred pounds, and Mrs Spillane was aware that Mick wanted a truck to replace their horse and cart. And there would still be at least two hundred pounds over! Five hundred pounds would transform their lives. But there never seemed a right time to devastate Caitlin with the annunciation of her fate.
As Maureen’s entrance to the convent drew closer, Mrs Spillane occupied herself with the departure of that daughter and tried not to think of the other. However, it was precisely Maureen’s imminent cloistering which provided the opportunity to get preparations underway for Caitlin’s marriage to Jack Flynn. Mrs Spillane came up with the idea that she and Maureen should go and stay with Mrs Spillane’s eldest sister and her husband, in Wexford. It would be a sort of farewell to the outside world for Maureen and a chance for her relatives to wish her well. Maureen would also be able to meditate and reflect more profoundly on the imminence of her vows in the quietness of a town house where she would be free from the chores and hardships of farming life, her mother explained to her.
“But Mammy, we haven’t seen the Hickeys for years!”
“All the more reason, so.” And Mrs Spillane climbed the ladder to the loft and passed down their suitcases to her excited daughters.
Caitlin would go with them, and while they were away, Father Kinnealy would read the necessary wedding banns at three consecutive Sunday masses. Of course, by the time they returned, the village would be abuzz with the prospect of so sensational a wedding, so Caitlin would have to be told as soon as she returned to Dunane. At least, though, there would be fewer weeks in which to watch her suffer.
Mick was less than pleased at the prospect of being left to fend for himself and the farm for over two weeks but he saw the logic. In any case, apart from the milking and feeding of pigs, there was comparatively little to do on the farm at the start of December.
Father Kinnealy nodded and raised an eyebrow occasionally as Mrs Spillane explained her husband’s contract with Jack Flynn and asked him to read the wedding banns from the last Sunday in November. The priest preferred not to get embroiled in the private affairs of his parishioners; it brought him only heartache and a troubled conscience. He knew he should ask about the wisdom of such an alliance, especially given Caitlin’s youth and potential, but he remained tight-lipped. A girl’s duty was to her father, after all, and we all had, in any case, our crosses to bear. It was no picnic being the parish priest for Dunane, that was for sure.
Father Kinnealy, just twenty-eight when he had first been sent to Dunane in 1921, had sat for hours every Saturday since, in a small, dark confessional box, and listened to his parishioners – whose names he knew as soon as he heard their voices – confess their sins. Wife beating, child abuse, drunkenness, fornication, and murder had all been committed by the good people of Dunane, and he absolved them all for the asking. He had, though, spent untold hours discussing with his parishioners through an iron grille that wishing each other dead or envying neighbours to the point you steal from them or kill their livestock; lying, cheating, gossiping, cursing, lusting, and taking the Lord’s name in vain were all mortal, and not venial, if you did them on purpose and kept on doing them. There wasn’t much Father Kinnealy didn’t know about everyone in his parish and a great deal he knew that he wished he did not. Now, what level of wilful sin was it that Mick Spillane and his simple wife were about to commit in the deception of their daughter into the sacred covenant of marriage? Dear God in heaven, was there no end to it?
“Missis,” he had pronounced at last, trying to ignore the tearful eyes of Mrs Spillane, “are you telling me to read out banns for a marriage your daughter knows nothing about?” There was a long pause. Tears spilled onto Mrs Spillane’s face. Her cheeks burned red with shame. She bit her lip and nodded. There was another long pause. “Do you not think you should tell her, now, what the three of ye’re planning?”
Mrs Spillane looked even more desperate. “Sure how can I, Father? She’ll go berserk! She thinks she’s off to university in Dublin next year – sure we’ve no money for that, Father. Caitlin is a dreamer…”
“True enough,” interrupted Father Kinnealy. “There’s precious littl
e cause for dreaming in these parts.”
“Isn’t it the truth, Father?” Mrs Spillane’s tone indicated she had derived some encouragement from the priest’s words. “Sure we do always be telling her!”
Father Kinnealy arose from the leather chair behind his desk. He sighed heavily and closed his eyes, bent backwards with his hands at the base of his spine, and thrust out his belly. Then he moved his shoulders up and down in a piston-like movement, his eyes scrunched up all the time and he was making little gasping noises every now and then, as if in pain. Mrs Spillane watched him, an expression of confused concern on her face. Finally, the priest rotated his head first one way then the other, the bones and sinews in his neck cracking as he stretched them. Then, he opened his eyes and looked at Mrs Spillane as if mildly surprised that she was still there.
“I suffer terribly with my back, Missis,” he explained.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Father,” responded Mrs Spillane. “Have you tried rubbing goose fat on it?”
“No. I have not.” There was another silence. “When are you proposing this… wedding should take place?”
“As soon as possible, Father,” Mrs Spillane rushed to explain, glad to be back on topic. She had almost forgotten if anything had been agreed and couldn’t imagine what she would tell Mick when she got home. “After the banns, that is. You see, Caitlin is a wild young one, and…”
“Just let me know when you want the wedding – give me a week’s notice, anyway,” interrupted Father Kinnealy again, walking to his study door, opening it. He gestured her out and shut the door behind her. He did not want to hear of Caitlin’s demolished dreams. As it was, he would be in for a sleepless night, and an overdose of whiskey would not quell the familiar, awful feeling that he was abetting something unholy. “Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do,” he said aloud and, reaching for his reading glasses, resumed his seat at the desk. But a few moments later he removed his glasses and folded his hands, rested his chin on them, and seemed to contemplate the space in front of him. “Can I plead that one?” he added softly.
Caitlin went obediently to Wexford, although it meant missing two weeks of school. At least she would not have to milk cows and scrub churns, for her aunt was married to a sergeant in the gardai and kept a modest but elegant town house. Caitlin would have ample opportunity to study. Best of all, her father would not be there. And when she came back, it would be Christmas, and then the New Year, 1944 – the one in which she would make her escape.
Twenty-four hours after leaving Dunane, Caitlin sat in her aunt’s parlour, reading. The curtains were blood red and fell in rich folds from the pelmet to the floor. A cheery fire burned in the grate and elegant brass implements for stoking it hung from a stand on the marble hearth. There was a richly patterned wool rug on the floor, and the floral covered settee and leather armchairs were draped in hand-made lace coverlets. Caitlin, feet curled beneath her in a well-worn leather armchair, was comfortable and at ease. Outside, the occasional motor car passed by. This was civilization! No cows, no cold stone floors, and best of all, her aunt put hot water bottles in everyone’s bed each evening before they retired. Such small comforts were luxurious to the country girls, who wore woollen socks and cardigans to bed at home in a bid to keep warm. Here, too, there were quilts stuffed with goose feathers!
“Maureen will be spoilt for the convent, Bridie,” Mrs Spillane had said to her sister, revelling with her daughters in this warmth and these soft furnishings. The thing that caused her to marvel most of all when she visited her sister was that she could wear shoes all day, and never had to sink up to her ankles in manure and mud.
Sergeant Hickey, Bridie’s husband, was a quiet, strong man of few words. He stood six feet four inches tall and his eyebrows were bushy with long hairs the consistency of a wiry dog’s. He had white, beautifully manicured hands, the backs of which were covered in thick black hair, and black hair frothed through the “V” of his open collar in the evenings as he sat smoking his pipe. Caitlin adored his pensive manner and measured temperament. He was gentle with his wife and she was courteous to him. Mrs Spillane’s heart filled with painful longing to see her sister so happy. And Bridie had four fine sons and a daughter. The sons had all done well for themselves; one was a doctor, and the daughter was married to the son of a family friend, also a policeman.
It was hard for Mrs Spillane not to curse the day Mick Spillane had made her blood race at a ceilidh in Dunane, whirling her around and telling her she was the best-looking young one at the dance. Her mother had warned her of the hardship of a farming life – had told her to follow the example of her elder sister and find herself a man whose trade would take her out of the cow dung – but how could she listen, with the headlong jig of desire making her blood dance? When she discovered she was pregnant just eight weeks after the wedding, Mrs Spillane was nonplussed. Marriage was not at all how she had imagined it would be. But after thirty years of it, Bridie touched her husband with a tenderness that spoke of love and consideration. Though she hardly understood it, Mrs Spillane was not sorry to introduce to this marital harmony a note of discord. When she confided in her sister that Caitlin was to be married to a local farmer old enough to be her father and as yet unknown to her, Bridie was appalled. She considered the whole business immoral and primitive.
“How could you make Caitlin marry an auld fella, Mary? Sure she deserves better than that! Is it Mick’s idea?”
“Of course!” exclaimed Mrs Spillane. “You don’t think it’s mine, do you? I want Caitlin to be happy but once Mick has made up his mind… well, it’s his house. And Caitlin is his daughter. That’s the end of it, Bridie. He wants the money.”
“How much?”
Mrs Spillane dropped her voice to a whisper. “Five hundred.” “Pounds?”
A quick nod confirmed the obvious.
“God between us and all harm, Mary, that’s an awful lot of money!” Then she remembered her niece. “But ye’re selling your daughter – ye can’t put a price on her – and to an old man! A young one like Caitlin needs a fine young man – a good-looking man, not an auld fella.” Bridie screwed up her face as if she had been asked to eat something unsavoury, at the thought of an old man ravaging her niece.
Mrs Spillane assumed a resolute expression. “She could do worse, Bridie. ’Tis a small price to pay for food in her belly and he’ll be dead long before she is, sure. Then she’ll have the place to herself and her children.” There was a long pause while each woman considered Caitlin’s fate.
“For goodness’ sake, don’t tell Conor,” said Mrs Hickey, lowering her voice for fear her husband should hear through the parlour wall. “He’d hit the roof! He thinks the world of your girls, especially Caitlin.”
A few days later, Bridie began to help Mrs Spillane adjust her own wedding dress to fit Caitlin, after the girls had gone to bed. Mrs Spillane sewed the slightly yellowed linen and hand-made lace along the seams, to make the bodice smaller, while her sister repaired tiny flaws and holes in the veil, casting a fine net across the bright patterns of her hearth rug while her niece slept soundly upstairs, weaving dreams of freedom.
One morning soon after Caitlin had gone away, Jack returned from repairing a fence in a distant field, to find a brown-suited man wearing a trilby hat and carrying a leather briefcase. The man had obviously knocked on the door and, finding no one home, was re-crossing the yard on his way back to his motor car. He looked up at the sound of Jack’s boots on loose stones.
“Ah. Mr Flynn?” Jack nodded. “Mr Flynn, I’m Daniel Ryan, from Bord na Bainne. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. I left a letter – under the door.” All the time, the man was walking towards Jack, and he extended a soft white hand which nonetheless delivered a firm handshake. Jack stood square, squinted his eyes at the man, put his hands on his hips.
“Oh?” he said.
“Yes. You’re aware the Bord has started to carry out random checks on the milk collected in all the main dairies
– checks for quality?” Increasingly experienced in such encounters, Mr Ryan was unperturbed by Jack’s surliness. He searched the farmer’s eyes for understanding, and the slight impatience in the knit of his brows with the icy calm of his manner impressed Jack, who nodded. “Look, Mr Flynn, I’ll come straight to the point. Recent tests show that milk coming in from your herd is infected with tuberculosis. I’m certain you understand how serious this is. I’m here to serve you with official notice, and to advise you that the dairy can accept no more milk from you until the TB has been eradicated.”
“What?” Jack’s interrogative was spoken as though the man had addressed him in a foreign tongue. Mr Ryan put his briefcase on the ground while he worked his fingers to the extremities of brown leather gloves.
“I’m sorry for you, Mr Flynn,” Ryan said, looking kindly into Jack’s eyes then stooping to pick up his case, producing his car keys from his jacket pocket. “A vet will come from the Bord to test the cows. It’s a routine procedure. I’m afraid the cost will be yours initially, though it may be reclaimable later, under insurance. It must be one of our vets, though – that’s regulation. Excuse me, now.” The man pursed his lips momentarily in a sympathetic grimace, looked briefly once more at Jack, then walked away from him towards his car.
“When will he come?” asked Jack.
“As soon as possible – tomorrow perhaps,” replied the official, not turning. When he got to his car, he added, “Oh, and you’ll have to tip away your milk until you get the all-clear. Good luck, now, Mr Flynn.” Daniel Ryan climbed into his vehicle, turned out of the yard, and started noisily up the lane. Even then, Jack did not make the connection between what he had just learned and the cough which immediately racked his frame until his tongue protruded. He gasped back air at last and crossed to the house, cursing through spittle and the searing pain in his lungs.
