“What was I supposed to have done?”
“I don’t know, and I guess now we’ll never find out, but the good news is that we have someone who’s prepared to take your case.”
“Take my case?”
“Yes – the more people we can persuade to stand up and let people know what’s happening, the better chance we have of forcing them to stop.”
“And is that why you’re here? To help me take a case against them for what they did to me?”
“Of course. You don’t think you’re alone, do you? But it’s impossible to get any kind of coverage in the media. We’re hoping you might have some idea of where you were held so we can –”
“I’ve no idea where they took me.”
“But if someone such as yourself is prepared to go public about what was done to you –"
“I’m not interested in taking a case.”
“Maybe not now, but when you’re well and stronger.”
“I’m not interested in taking a case. And I never will be.”
“I understand how you –”
“You don’t understand shit! I don’t want anything to do with them, or with you or your case, or with anybody – don’t you get it? What did you think – that I’d be grateful for some silly little rich girl asking her daddy to set me free? When it was probably her fault in the first place that I was taken in?”
“You can’t mean that.”
“Do you think they’d have given me a second thought if I hadn’t decided to stay on at that poxy little meeting with your revolutionary comrades? You stupid bitch! This isn’t a game, you know?”
I pick up my glasses, my wallet and my passport.
“So what – you’re just going to let them get away with it?”
“Of course I’m going to let them get away with it, you fool. They can get away with whatever they want – it’s their country, after all.”
“And what – this is yours, is that it? Neutral Ireland, where U.S. warplanes drop in to refuel at Shannon before flying off to drop their bombs on Iraq?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I say and stand up. “Don’t you see? Britain, Ireland – it just doesn’t matter. This is how it is: it’s their world – they can do whatever they want.”
“And nothing we can do will ever stop them? I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“Don’t be,” I say, and walk away to my room.
So this is a prison, after all, I think.
I half-expect Juliette to follow me to my room, but she doesn’t. Nobody bothers me until gone seven in the evening and it’s not Juliette but Jack.
“It’s time for dinner,” he calls through the door.
I know it’s time for dinner because I’m hungry, but the thought of going out to the dining room and seeing Juliette is what’s keeping me in my room.
“I’m not well, Jack,” I shout.
“May I come in?”
I open the door and sit back down on my bed.
“I’m not well.”
“I still have to insist you come through for dinner.”
“Could I not have something here?” I know how feeble this sounds, like a child.
“No, that’s not possible.”
I look at Jack and I know I have no choice.
“Juliette’s gone,” he says, “if that helps?”
I look away and shake my head.
“Do I have to leave the house?”
“On account of what went on between you and Juliette this afternoon? No, I don’t think so, but if you’re not prepared to follow the rules of the house you’ll be gone by the morning. And one of those rules is that you join the rest of us for dinner at seven.”
Jack leaves me alone. I sit on my bed for a while and then follow him down to the kitchen. Nothing else is said of the matter.
We have a few days of rain but I still go out on my walks. I borrow some rain gear from Jack and once I’m out in it, I enjoy the weather. The one thing I’m not so good at is the wind; if it’s particularly strong, I get too tired too quickly to cover any distance. I have a long shower when I return and it never fails to do the trick. I have the water pressure on high all the time now and I love the pummelling it gives my body.
If I can’t sit outside after lunch, I set up camp in the drawing room. I read properly now: I’ve found a copy of Brighton Rock and I’m amazed at how much I don’t remember. I’m not sure I like it – the language seems to be from a different time, from an England I don’t recognise – but I stick with it.
There are the occasional bursts of sunshine and I take a quick walk around the house whenever I see the clouds part for any length of time. I stand with my back to the west-facing wall and close my eyes; the garden furniture is too wet to sit down. But then the clouds are blown across the sun and I go back in to the drawing room. Another resident might sometimes wander in, but it’s like I’ve staked out my place and they leave me alone.
There are some artists’ studios out the back of the house and I’ve taken to calling in. It’s impossible not to strike up conversations at dinner with people about their work and, if they get nothing out of me, it’s only right that I should show an interest in them. I like the painters the best – their work is more immediate and accessible – and they’re keen for me to call over to see their work. I visit just before dinner because they’ll be finishing up for seven o’clock anyway. I like the ambition in their work, and the variety of all the different artists; they’re all so technically accomplished, what matters is what they do with their ability. It’s harder for me to talk to the writers, naturally, and more or less impossible to relate to what they do. Some evenings a writer might give an impromptu reading, but the best nights are when there’s a crowd of musicians staying – the music is the great bringer-together for the residents of the house. I think one or two residents know who I am but nobody bothers me about my work.
The weather changes again – the sunshine wins out and I can return to my afternoons on the terrace. I travel to Manorhamilton with Jack one day and call into the optician’s to tell them how happy I am with my glasses. I see Dr. Wilson and he tells me again how lucky I am; he writes me out another prescription to keep building up my resistance.
“Take care,” he says. “You’re doing well, but recovering physically is only a half of it. You’re going to be hit by a wave of depression, so make sure you come see me when you do.”
I don’t think I’m depressed. Certainly, my enjoyment and awareness of my surroundings has never been greater – probably as a reaction to having lived in the dark for over a month. If I can’t appreciate the contrast, I might as well be dead.
I sit on my terrace and listen to the wind in the trees. There’s so much noise in the silence. I watch the wind catching the lake; I see where it’s rippled and calm and then rippled again. I wonder if the ripples feel like waves once you’re out on the lake. I can hear birds but I can’t always see them. I look out across the lawn, down to the meadow and across the lake to the far shore. My glasses help me pick out the colours, the shapes and the tones of the trees. I can make out the physical depth of the landscape and I know from my walks what it’s like to step into that landscape – to become a part of that perfection. I take off my glasses and let the sun work its magic on my face. I realise I’m happy.
I ask Jack about the possibility of going out in the boat.
“Are you able?” he asks. “It can get pretty windy out there, you know.”
He shows me where the oars are kept and the life jackets, and where the boat is moored out of sight amongst the trees. It just a small rowing-dinghy and I have to bail out the rainwater before I can go anywhere.
“Take care,” Jack says, echoing the advice of Dr. Wilson, and he gives me a push away from the shore. The water’s calm close in by the trees and I let myself float free for a while. I test my grip on the oars and I’m not as strong as I might be. I dip the oars into the water, pull back and try again. Perhaps this was a mistake? The wind
catches the boat and turns me around, so I’m sideways on and I try to adjust my position. The lake is about a mile long and I don’t want the embarrassment of being blown to the end, unable to get back. I pull on the oars and row back towards the shore. As soon as I feel the wind disappear, I let up the oars and float in the calm water.
My little adventure is about the only excitement on the lake. There are a few fishermen along the far shore and I wonder if they’ve watched my feeble attempts at rowing. But in the silence now, I become aware of the fish leaping repeatedly out of the water to create ripples of their own. A cormorant – or is it a shag? – surfaces, looks around and then dives. I see my friend the heron amongst the reeds and adjust the boat slightly to get the evening sun on my face. When I feel the wind turn the boat again, I row back to the shore. Landing the boat and pulling it in is hard enough and by the time I’m walking back to the house for dinner, I’m exhausted. But I think I shall give it another go tomorrow.
Jack calls me in to the office one Saturday morning. I think I know what’s coming: my being at the Institute is okay up to a point, but only up to a point. I’ve adopted a little routine of walking and reading, and sitting in the sun whenever I have the opportunity. Jack’s hands-off attitude works in my favour, and there’s no pressure to actually produce any work. I’m probably not the first resident to use the place in this way, though I guess the understanding is that one day soon I might have something to show for it. I have a hunch that Jack suspects I’ve no intention of writing again.
“You’re going to receive another visitor today,” he says.
I look at him. There’s nobody I might want to see. I don’t even like the idea of anybody knowing that I’m in Ireland.
“Actually, it’s the same visitor as last time,” Jack says.
“Juliette?”
“Yes. And I’d like you to at least be civil to her – is that possible?”
“It is.”
“You might also thank her for getting you out of . . . whatever mess it was you were in.”
“Yes.”
“She’s gone to a lot of trouble on your account.”
“Yes,” I say again. I’m prepared to take on board whatever it is the normally taciturn Jack has to say, but this is it, it seems. “Does she often come over to Ireland – to the Institute, I mean?”
“Rarely. She doesn’t consider it her privilege, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
“But she’ll have been twice in as many weeks now?”
“To see you.”
“And she has no other reason for being here? She has no involvement in the running of the place?”
“None other than the courtesy we show her as the daughter of Lord Fitzgerald. You might consider extending her that same courtesy.”
“Yes,” I say for a third time.
Jack looks back down at his work; the lesson’s over.
I stay close to the house all morning, but lunchtime comes and goes. I’m sitting in the afternoon sunshine before I see a car that might be Juliette arriving. Another half hour passes before she finds me out on the terrace.
“Do you mind if I join you?” she asks, the same well-spoken accent as before. She carries an apple and yoghurt, a teaspoon and a knife.
“I was expecting you earlier,” I say.
“It’s not the easiest place to get to from Brighton. Which is part of the attraction, I guess – escaping from the world for a while. Jack said I’d find you out here.”
“This is my siesta spot. Where an old man can enjoy a snooze after lunch.”
“Not so old.”
“Thank you for that, but it’s how I feel. I’ve been told to be civil to you today.”
Juliette laughs and sits down.
“Is that going to be so hard, do you think?”
She puts down the yoghurt and spoon on the table and cuts into the apple with the knife. She slices off a piece and offers it to me.
“No thanks,” I say to the offered apple. “I was out of order the last time you were here, and I’m sorry.”
“Understandable, in the circumstances.”
“But not acceptable.”
“Oh, I don’t know, I’ve had worse. You had to take it out on someone after all.”
“But I think I chose the wrong person.”
“It’s okay,” she says and makes the sign of the cross in the air with the knife. “I absolve you – there, all your sins are forgiven.”
“That’s a lot of sins.”
“But that’s the beauty of Catholicism, isn’t it?”
“You’re a Catholic?”
“No, I told you – I’m a revolutionary socialist.”
“Ah, that again?”
“Yes,” she says and smiles. “That again.”
“And what do you do when you’re not busy saving the world?”
“Isn’t that enough? You mean how do I support myself?”
“Yes, I guess.”
“Do I live off my father, is that it?”
“No,” I say, but I’ve been rumbled.
“I work for the Arts Office in Brighton. I’m a civil servant.”
“And what do you do?”
“A lot of boring clerical work, but at least it’s to do with the arts. Grant applications, things like that – nothing too exciting.”
“And do you write at all, or paint, or anything?”
“I told you, I’m a political activist; that’s who I am – it’s what defines me.”
“A political activist with a huge dog.”
“A political activist with a huge dog.”
“Well, your activism saved me.”
“Hardly saved. It’s not often I’m in a position to actually make a difference.”
“So you hounded your dad until he agreed to get me out of Britain?”
“More or less, yes.”
“And what about all the other sad saps that are still locked up? Can he not get them out too?”
“Unfortunately not. It was only because of who you are that I was able to persuade him to do anything.”
“You mean that I was a published writer?”
“Yes. There’s nothing quite like the threat of embarrassment to get the Establishment worried.”
“But isn’t everybody going to have a potentially embarrassing story? How does your father feel about them?”
“I think I’ve got as much out of my father as I’m ever likely to get. He took a lot of convincing and he wasn’t too happy about sticking his neck out for you.”
“Or for you, his daughter?”
“Or for me. I think I’ve used up any credit I might ever have had – which wasn’t much to begin with.”
“I’d have thought they’d be more ashamed than embarrassed,” I say. “Or, at least, that they should be.”
“This is why it’s important that we do whatever we can to get the others free.”
“Which is why you came to see me the other week – to ask if I would take a case to highlight what they’re doing?”
“Yes.”
“But everybody knows what they’re doing; it’s just that nobody cares.”
“That’s not true – we got you out, didn’t we?”
“You did, yes, but I don’t think I ever convinced them I’m not a threat to national security.”
“No, you didn’t exactly help yourself in that respect, did you?”
“It’s not so easy when you’re being held by morons.”
“I suppose so.”
Juliette sticks the tip of the knife into the apple core and places it on the table. She picks up the yoghurt, peels off the top and licks it clean, and makes a guilty face as though caught out in some act of illicit pleasure.
“I don’t think I’m that important,” I say.
“Of course you are. Why wouldn’t you be?”
“Not that important. Not important enough for your father to care.”
“It was because I’d met you in Brighton. I felt respon
sible.”
“But still – there must be hundreds, maybe thousands of people locked up. They don’t give a shit, Juliette, so why did they give a shit about me?”
“You know why.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“Because of your relationship with Siobhan McGovern. They thought that if Siobhan heard about it, she might create a God Almighty fuss and draw attention to what was going on.”
“I thought so,” I say and sit quietly for a while. Juliette finishes off the yoghurt and puts the carton back on the table. “They needn’t have bothered,” I say. “Siobhan wouldn’t give a fuck about me.”
“Does it matter? Does it matter why they let you out? Or that I used that connection to plead for you as a special case?”
“Not really.”
“I only recognised who you were in Brighton because you once lived with Siobhan.”
“That figures.”
“Does it matter?” she asks again.
“No, it doesn’t. None of it matters – you’re right.”
“What happened to you and Siobhan?”
“Plenty happened.”
“But you don’t want to talk about it?”
“Don’t want to think about it more like.”
“That bad, huh?”
“That bad.”
Everything with Juliette so far has been political rather than personal – what happened to me, why it happened, what I’m supposed to do about it having happened. She’s a political animal; she thinks politically and acts politically. She fights a political fight and wants to use me to stop the same thing happening again, whereas I’d just like to sit in the October sunshine and for this to be the autumn of my days. I’m not looking for a fresh challenge or a new lease of life; I just want to sit here like Michael Corleone at the end of The Godfather.
“I’m sorry,” Juliette says, “that’s your business.”
“No, it’s okay to ask.” I owe Juliette something; it might as well be this.
“You just seemed so right for each other – from afar, I mean.”
“From what you read in the papers?”
Dancing to the End of Love Page 13
