The rest of us boys were cowed into a terrified silence. We sat, with our arms folded, and watched the drama unfold instead. Terrified we may have been, but our fear also contained the hard, grateful kernel of our relief. Once the day’s victim had been chosen, the Brother’s rage would have been purged. The rest of us were safe – at least until the next day.
‘If your home was as clean as the toilets here ye’d have nothing to complain about,’ Sticky hissed. Tommy’s cries eventually brought Brother O’Malley in from next door. We all stood, immediately. ‘Dia is Muire dhuit, a Bhráthair,’ we chorused. I think I remember, even at the time, that our Pavlovian response struck me as somewhat absurd. I believe we’d have demonstrated this unquestioning obedience even if the classroom had suddenly burst into flames.
‘I’ll deal with this,’ Brother O’Malley said, sharply, to Sticky. ‘Sit down, boys.’
A howling Tommy was removed from the classroom. He didn’t appear on the following day. When he finally did turn up, the rest of us never mentioned the beating. All I know is, nobody ever complained again.
Ella nudged me. Confused for a moment, I looked up. A group of boys and girls from Daniel’s class had begun to sing, under the direction of their teacher. I watched the way they owned the stage; the whole space bathed in streaming evening sunshine. These youngsters looked joyful, confident, full of innocent optimism. I found the whole performance almost unbearably moving. To my horror, I welled up on several occasions. I think such extremes of feeling were composed partly of a sense of loss on my own behalf – even all those years later – and a sense of profound hope on Daniel’s.
I turned to tell him this, but he was no longer in the chair beside me. I hadn’t noticed him leave. It occurred to me that my obvious emotion might have embarrassed him in front of his friends and I began to look around for him anxiously.
Then Ella nudged me again. ‘Look,’ she whispered.
I just caught the principal’s last words. ‘Very proud,’ she was saying. ‘All their own idea, very little input from us: please welcome the “Sixtus String Sextet”.’
And then Daniel stood before us, his bow raised, his violin resting on his shoulder. The five other young musicians stood to his right and to his left: solemn, expectant. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Daniel said, his voice clear and unwavering, ‘this evening, the Sixtus String Sextet have pleasure in playing Palladio by Karl Jenkins for you, as part of our end-of-year celebration.’
The audience fell silent. Ella’s hand searched out mine. I looked at her, my eyes asking the question: did you know about this? She shook her head. I was glad. I wanted to feel that both of us ranked equal in our son’s affections, particularly this evening.
Daniel nodded to his companions. We watched him count out the beats: one, two, three. And then they began to play, all their young faces filled with concentration. The exquisite notes of Jenkins’s music swelled and filled the room.
When the last notes faded, the reaction was uproarious. Stamping of feet, whistling, cheering. This was not the occasion for audience restraint. What astonished all of us was the sheer quality of the playing: there were some scratchy moments, without doubt, but there was also sureness, passion and technique.
‘Told you,’ Daniel said, suddenly appearing beside us again. ‘Told you I’d surprise you.’
What I remember above all from that evening – and Ella concurs – is the uplifting wave of promise that all of us parents felt. We left, fuelled with hope, with pride, and with no small sense of confidence in the future.
In the days and weeks that followed, Daniel and Edward were a constant presence around the house, the garden, the garage. They had both been haunting me for some time, begging me to take them fishing. Daniel in particular was filled with his typical eagerness, and wanted to get going just as soon as he’d spotted his granddad’s old fishing rod in the garage.
‘What’s that?’ he said, pointing to the ceiling. I’d been putting back the gardening tools late one Monday morning and he’d followed me in. He was at a bit of a loose end that day, as I recall. Normally, Daniel made himself scarce when he saw the mower and the shears and the trowel appear. Gardening was emphatically not among the activities that he enjoyed.
I looked up. ‘That belonged to Granddad. He bought a lake boat with some friends when he was a young man and he used to go off fishing with them whenever the mayfly was up.’ I didn’t tell Daniel that these brief trips away had all suddenly stopped once Ella’s mother died. I saw no reason to cast a shadow over his young day.
‘Where is it?’ he asked, his voice beginning to fill with excitement.
‘Where’s what?’ I was puzzled. Daniel’s eyes were glued to the fishing rod as he spoke.
He looked at me then, that blue, direct gaze full of curiosity. I was struck that day, I remember, by the complete lack of guile in his expression. I don’t know why I was so aware of its absence on that particular day, rather than any other, but it made an impression upon me then.
‘The boat,’ he said patiently, as though explaining something to a rather slow parent, which is, I suppose, how he must often have seen me. ‘Granddad’s boat?’
I laughed. ‘I have no idea. Resting at the bottom of the lake, perhaps. It was all a very long time ago.’
‘Was it at our lake?’ he persisted. ‘What I mean is, where did he go fishing?’
I was surprised that he didn’t know this. But then, I knew only through Ella’s occasional references to how her father’s life had been curtailed by his sudden status as a widower, and by all the duties that befell a single parent, struggling to make some sense of his life. This is not something she would have discussed with Daniel – at least, not with that emphasis.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It was at our lake. But around the other side, where Casey’s boatyard is.’
His eyes were immediately alight. ‘What are we waiting for?’ he asked.
‘Hang on,’ I laughed. ‘I can’t drop everything, just like that, you know.’
He grinned. His expression said: why not? Why can’t you drop everything? What is so important about today that it can’t be postponed? And he was right.
‘When can we go?’ He was already on the move. I could see him poised for flight, eager for anything new.
‘Aren’t you waiting for Edward to come over?’
He shook his head. ‘Not today.’ He avoided my eyes as he spoke.
I made no comment. This was the other side of my youngest child, one that I was beginning to see from time to time: a private, secret side. When it happened, he would offer no explanations, and I had to try hard not to be too curious. I wondered, though, whether there had been some sort of a falling-out between him and his closest friend. Looking at him, as he stood in the middle of the orderly garage, his gaze fixed on the fishing rod, I had a strong sense of how darker moods might be lurking just below the surface.
On an impulse, I said: ‘Okay, you win. Why don’t we go, then, just the two of us?’ To tell the truth, I was delighted at the increasingly rare opportunity to have my son to myself. I was aware, too, of how much I wanted to please him, to see him happy.
Ella used to make the motion of tying some string around her little finger and wiggling it at me whenever she observed exchanges such as this. ‘I know, I know,’ I used to protest. ‘But what the hell? What else am I doing? And next year, once he is at secondary school, he won’t want to bother with me at all. I’m making the most of whatever time we have left.’
Those words haunt me now.
Then Daniel had smiled the slow half-smile that made him look so much younger. ‘Yeah?’ he said, his voice rising. ‘Really? We can go to the lake right now?’
‘Why not?’ I said.
He pointed at the fishing rod. ‘Will we take it with us?’
‘I think not,’ I said. ‘That one will need a lot of TLC before it’ll be of any use to us. Besides, it’s much heavier than the modern carbon ones – too difficult to handle. We’
ll just borrow one, along with a lake boat from Casey’s. Now come on, before I change my mind. Let’s grab some lunch from the fridge.’
Daniel tumbled into the car in his eagerness to get going. He dragged his rucksack after him, stuffed it between his knees. I already knew what it would contain: a variety of sketchbooks, all of different sizes, some pencils, and now, just recently, a palette of watercolours. ‘Will I text Mum?’ he asked.
‘Yeah. Do that. Let her know we’ll be back sometime around six.’
I often felt guilty when Ella had to work and I didn’t. I sometimes felt a sense of embarrassment that I had an inordinate amount of free time. Not to mention a fixed and generous income every month: I was aware of how privileged I was. I had more than enough for both of us – for all three of us. But Ella always waved away my concerns. ‘I don’t want to retire just yet, Patrick,’ she’d say. ‘I love my work, and I’m vain enough to think I can make a difference. Besides, it’s only twenty hours a week: that hardly counts as a coal mine.’
I used to wince at her idealism. I was more than cynical enough by then. In my late sixties, I no longer believed that anyone could ever make any significant difference to anything. But perhaps I used advancing age as an excuse. Truth to tell, I had always been a sceptic, a non-believer, a cynic – whatever the appropriate word is. Sometimes, I’ve even been honest enough to admit that such a suspicious view of the world became an admirable excuse over the several decades of my life for never doing anything at all that was either altruistic or unselfish. But I digress.
We drove to the lake together, Daniel and I – a matter of some ten or fifteen minutes. Old George Casey was sitting in the sun, reading a newspaper. His ever-present pipe was clenched between his gums. I’d never seen that man without his pipe. I’d even learned to understand the guttural tones that emanated from somewhere between the stem and the stumps of what remained of his teeth.
‘Morning, George,’ I said.
He looked at us, his eye lighting on Daniel. He didn’t bother to conceal the frankness of his curiosity. Nobody in this part of the world ever does. It was something I’d had to get used to, once I moved here to live with Ella after we married.
‘Is this the gasúr,’ he said, more statement than question.
‘It is, indeed. This is Daniel. Long time since you’ve seen him.’
Daniel stretched out his right hand, as I had taught him. He and George shook hands, gravely.
‘Lord, but you’ve grown in the past couple of years. I believe you’re a grand young sailor,’ George said. I felt relieved that these words, at least, were clear enough to be understood. I could see Daniel’s face already beginning to colour with embarrassment.
‘I like to sail,’ he said. ‘Dad and I go whenever we can.’
‘But ye prefer the sea to the lakes, I hear.’ George scrutinized him, his air of amusement growing all the time.
‘We like the lakes too. Dad and I go to the bird sanctuary a lot.’ I could see that Daniel was at a bit of a loss. I could see that he felt he had failed in some way, that he had been unable to fulfil George’s expectations of him. I stepped in. ‘It’s time to introduce him to the glories of fishing, George,’ I said, full of cheer. I clapped one hand on Daniel’s shoulder. I knew that George would understand this masculine language. ‘And I couldn’t think of a better man to do it.’
He nodded, accepting the compliment. I could see that he was pleased: we had now covered all the required politenesses. ‘Not too many youngsters doin’ it nowadays,’ he observed.
‘I’d like to learn,’ Daniel said suddenly. ‘My mum told me that my granddad Dan was a great fisherman.’
George’s face lit up. ‘He was indeed, and a thorough gentleman at that. All my family had great time for him.’ He folded his newspaper with something like enthusiasm. He placed it on his wooden chair and anchored it with a mug that hadn’t seen clean water in some time. Clouds of brownish scum clung to its insides. ‘Come with me now and we’ll get you started.’
Less than an hour later, Daniel and I stood on the pier on the southerly tip of the lake, right behind the island. George had been insistent. ‘Try there first,’ he said. ‘More fish bitin’ over yonder these days.’ He’d snapped Daniel’s life jacket closed, giving it a good tug downwards to make sure it was the correct fit. ‘Away with ye, now. Make the best of the day. Clouds comin’ in from the east later.’ He grinned. ‘Had some fellas here from Connecticut last week, day like this.’ He squinted up at the clear sky, bare of cloud. ‘I warned ’em, but they wouldn’t listen. Came back like drowned rats, the three of ’em.’
I laughed. George always loved to tell stories that dwelt upon the foolishness of strangers – in his eyes, an amusing counterpoint to his own native wisdom. In fairness, though, about all things meteorological, George was rarely wrong. ‘We’ll see you around five, then,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘No later.’ He handed Daniel a fishing rod and a small bucket of bait. He’d shown him how to tie on the spinners and I’d watched my son’s delight as he stroked the brightly coloured feathers with his finger. ‘Now, young man,’ George said. ‘Learn to be patient and quiet. And remember, when you feel the tug, yank the rod upwards. Otherwise the fish will get away.’ He glinted at Daniel. ‘Clever little bastards around here,’ he said, with a wicked, toothless grin.
We stepped into the lake boat, its varnish glistening everywhere. I watched with pleasure as Daniel pulled the cord on the outboard and nosed the boat gently and accurately through the jetties. I could see George nod approval, and I was filled with a ridiculous pride.
‘You’ve just passed George Casey’s test,’ I whispered. I am always conscious of how voices travel over water. ‘Well done.’
Daniel nodded, his eyes on the island ahead. But I could tell he was pleased.
Just as I had been on so many occasions at the bird sanctuary, I was surprised all over again at Daniel’s patience. I sat beside him on an upturned bottle crate that some other fisherman had abandoned. There were empty beer cans strewn everywhere in the bushes behind us. Otherwise, the place was deserted. I had learned over the last couple of years that Daniel and I communicated better shoulder to shoulder, as it were, rather than face to face. I was content to sit and watch and wait. I hoped that there was something, anything, that he might want to ask me. Whenever he did, I felt humbled at the trust he seemed to place in me.
It was, perhaps, one of the most perfect afternoons of my life. More and more, I had begun to hold close to moments like it, always aware, sometimes painfully conscious of mortality. It was, of course, my own mortality that exercised its grip on my imagination. Not my son’s. Never my son’s.
Finally, he spoke.
‘Can we bring Edward next time we come?’
‘Of course,’ I said, easily. ‘He’s part of the family. You don’t even need to ask.’
Daniel kept his eye fixed on the surface of the water. He moved the rod slowly from time to time, up and down, up and down, just as George had shown him. He’d had a couple of startled nibbles, but nothing substantial. We’d baited the hook at least three or four times already. I remembered George’s words about the fish around here being ‘clever little bastards’. At the time, I’d taken it as something of a slight. I thought I’d felt a sting in its tail: I didn’t think it was the fish he’d been talking about. People around here often speak, as they say, out of both sides of their mouths. Particularly to runners, or blow-ins or whatever other names they give to people who have not been born and bred within the same few square miles. Now I wondered whether I had done poor George an injustice.
‘Why are Edward’s parents so poor?’ Daniel asked suddenly.
I was surprised. I hadn’t expected this. I felt the need to tread cautiously. I was sure, too, that this was a question of some significance – something Daniel had been mulling over. He rarely asked questions to which he hadn’t already struggled to find the answers himself.
I stopped what I wa
s doing. I left the sandwiches and fruit and cheese in my rucksack and gave him my undivided attention. ‘Why do you think they’re poor?’ I hated myself for kicking to touch, but I needed to find out where this conversation was headed.
He shrugged. ‘Dunno. I see where they live. And Maryam makes all their clothes. Edward says she has to – it’s not ’cos she wants to. And his dad works really hard.’ I could hear the rising indignation in his voice.
‘Well, four children is quite a big family,’ I said. ‘And perhaps they are helping other people at home in India.’ I paused. ‘You know, sending money back. People often do that. People used to do it in this country, too.’
‘Why?’
‘Because family members where you come from might not be as well-off as you are. Maybe Edward’s grandmother needs help, for example.’ I remembered that Edward’s paternal grandfather had died about a year ago. He and Rahul had returned to India for the funeral. ‘Or perhaps some of his aunts and uncles. Family responsibilities can be very important, particularly when people live so far away.’
Daniel moved the fishing rod up and down, up and down.
‘But they’ve been here forever; they came even before Edward was born.’ He sounded astonished: eternity was measured by the span of his own lifetime. Twelve years seemed to him to be the sum total of the known universe.
‘Yes. But sometimes people need ongoing help. The world is badly divided, Daniel. Some people have too much, some have too little. I don’t like it, but that’s how it is.’
And Ireland is booming, I thought. Wealthy beyond what I’d ever dreamed as a child growing up in the grim forties, reaching adulthood in the even grimmer fifties. Some of the new prosperity had also filtered down to our remote haven. Supermarkets springing up around holiday homes; unsightly blocks of apartments all around us; bigger boats on the lake. I never thought I’d see the day. I was glad to be at that stage of my life where I needed to have nothing to do with it all.
The Things We Know Now Page 13
