“Oh, I did, Mr Arthur,” she said. “And villain he is!” She shook her head as she went on past.
“Granda,” said Brigid. “Please. The sow.”
“Samhain. Brigid. The night of Hallowe’en in Gaelic, the old Irish language, is Oíche Shamhna. Can you say that?”
“Sow-an,” said Brigid, slowly. “Ee-ha howna. Where did the sow go?”
“It turned into ‘how’,” said her grandfather, and now they both laughed.
Brigid tried it a few more times, and found it pleased her.
They walked on, past the cemetery, and her grandfather crossed himself. Brigid thought of Mass.
“Is howna a Catholic word, Granda?”
He stopped. He was not laughing any more. “A what?” he said. “Brigid, what do you mean?”
“Francis says we’re Catholic, but other people are other things. Do we have our own words? Catholic words?”
“Brigid,” said her grandfather, and he shook her hand in his when he said it. “Ah, Brigid. What age are you now?”
“Five, Granda. Nearly five and a half.”
“God above,” he said. “Five years old, to be asking that.”
“Nearly five and a half.”
He nodded, shook her hand in his once more, and said nothing.
“Granda?” said Brigid.
“Yes, Brigid,” he replied. “I’m coming to your question,” but he walked on, and still said nothing.
Brigid opened her mouth to ask about howna again but, as she did, he spoke.
“Brigid,” he said. “Listen carefully to what I have to say. The language belongs to us all. It’s not anyone’s property.”
“But what does the howna mean, Granda?”
“As I told you, Oíche Shamhna means ‘The Night of Hallowe’en’, the eve of All Hallows, the night before the feast of all the saints. It’s the night when the souls of the dead are free to visit their old homes.”
Brigid drew breath, sharply. She could see the whiteness of it in the air, like a ghost. She said: “Ghosts, Granda?” and she held his hand more tightly.
“Ah, not ghosts, Brigid. One time, long ago, I heard an old man say: ‘How would I be afraid with the souls of my own dead as thick as bees around me?’ And how would he, or anybody? They’re our own families and friends, who have gone on the journey we’ve all to take some day. We cannot see the spirits of our dead, but on this night they come back to be with us, and they are gentle and good, as they were in life. If we pay attention, we know they’re there.”
They turned to go into the post office. Brigid was not at all sure she liked the idea of the return of the dead, however friendly. Besides, there was a large queue in the post office, and she did not want to stand still in the crowded space. Yet, her grandfather did not seem to mind. He reached deep in his overcoat pocket for his money, standing with Brigid’s hand in his behind the other people, some straight, some bent. Their coats brought in the cold from outside, and some of them shrugged their shoulders and rubbed their hands as they came in. “Skin fairies,” said a man. “Hardy day,” another.
Now her breath was not white, but steamy, and wet. Brigid moved from foot to foot, and wished the queue forward.
“Granda,” she said, when a long time had passed. “Why are we standing?”
“I’ve some money to collect. And, I’m going to post a letter to Laetitia. She didn’t behave very well the day you came to call, but she’s a good girl at heart.”
Brigid felt him sigh. “What is it, Granda?” she said. “Are you sad because she’s a good girl at heart?”
“No, no,” he said. “I’m always glad when I see that, though I don’t see it often enough. No, I was wondering, so close to Samhain, how I lived to be so old, when young people lie across there in the cemetery.”
Brigid followed his eyes. Through the misted window of the small post office, no bigger than a little house, she could make out the jagged stone wall of the cemetery. A long line of crosses faced towards them: they were the priests’ graves. Were they saints? Brigid did not care for that stern, unbending line, staring at her as she stood in the post office. And now, she thought with alarm, all these saints under the crosses might be getting ready to visit tonight.
Just in time, the queue took a large step forward. The window moved behind her, and suddenly there was another window, small, with a grid. She saw a hand, long fingers flittering through a sea of papers and brown books and sets of stamps, then reaching for a big, shining stamper and stamping them with a thumping click, rolling it back and forth, flipping the book shut, then handing rustling papers under the grid. Her grandfather took the papers from the hands – where was the head? – and then, all at once, they were released from the steamy press to the blessed cold outside and turned, at last, away from the graves and the headless hands.
They passed the Glen and Brigid, remembering the judge’s murdered daughter, tried to quicken the pace, but her grandfather was not a man to move quickly. It was a relief to see the smoke spiralling from their own chimney, up into the chilly sky. How warm the house looked! Brigid began to want to be inside. Then, from the corner of her eye, she saw that Francis was in the garage. Her heart leaped. He was not sitting in the house, listless and tired. He was out in the garage! She let go her grandfather’s hand without a word, left him to go up the steps by himself, ran up the hilly passage and straight into Francis, busily rolling a spare tyre from the pile at the back of the garage. He looked up. He did not seem surprised to see her.
“Good,” he said, as if she had been there all along. “You can help me. Take the small ones.”
Brigid clapped her hands, and jumped. “Francis! Are we going to build the tyres?”
They had not done this since the summer.
“Yes, but don’t jump. Roll them. Tyre houses, what do you think? A well, and – will we do a tunnel?”
Brigid, still jumping, nodded her agreement. She knew what to do. They rolled them, heavy and black, smelling of rubber and old petrol, out onto the square between the passageway and the house. Behind the kitchen windows she could hear the sounds of cooking, a clink of saucepans and the running of water, and the slow drifting smells of carrots and onions, sweet and sharp. Brigid stood and sniffed, and Francis, not stopping, said: “Come on, Bisto Kid, roll!”
It had been a long time since they had spent a morning rolling and crawling and calling and climbing. No one told them to be quiet; no one said they were making too much noise. Francis put Brigid in the well, and she followed him through a cavern to safety. A high stack was a tower; toppled, it was an escape tunnel, and Brigid followed Francis – he was now a group captain, she was a princess – scraping and crawling through the tyres, emerging dirty and breathless.
They were about to start a castle for the princess when they were called in for dinner, and Brigid gave her hands the scantest of washes before sitting down to the fragrance of carrots and onions and lamb. Francis took every vegetable he could find out of his food and set it on the side of his plate. No one said anything, no one minded that he did that, not even Brigid, because Francis was almost himself again.
Then the adults started again about the paper and the news, and Brigid grew restless. Once they started, Ireland would be the next thing. She signalled to Francis, nudging him with her knee beneath the table, but he ignored her. He was listening.
Their father said: “There’s to be parole again for Christmas.”
“Really?” said their grandfather.
“Apparently,” and the paper got another slap, in the motion Brigid had come to dislike. “Yes, here it is. ‘The Minister of Home Affairs in the Six Counties, Mr G.B. Newe, is to follow this year again the practice of allowing certain prisoners parole to spend Christmas with their families. Last year more than forty men in Crumlin Road Prison were allowed out on giving their word to return at the time fixed after Christmas.’”
Francis said: “Don’t they get out any other time?”
His father lo
oked at Francis over his glasses. “Well, it seems they do,” he said. “It says here that last Christmas ‘not one man had broken his word’ and ‘since then parole has been extended to include a summer break and liberty for family and business reasons’.” He stopped, looking away from his son to his father, and the two men exchanged glances.
“Well,” said the grandfather, “that’s humane.”
“Yes,” came the reply, “if it’s right that they are there in the first place.”
“Easy,” said his grandfather, swivelling his eyes to the children and back. “No politics before . . .”
Brigid, impatient, tugged at the sleeve of her brother’s jersey. “Francis,” she whispered, “the tyres!” but he shook her off. He did it gently, but he still shook her off. Dicky clucked, and turned his back. You, too, thought Brigid and, affronted, got up without excusing herself and wandered over to the window. She wanted to be outside, playing, and she wanted Francis to hear her think it, and come with her – but Francis was as bad as the rest of them.
“I’ve seen them,” he was saying, “over the wall from the College.”
“Have you, son?” said his grandfather, in some surprise.
Francis nodded. “They always seem cold,” he said.
His grandfather looked at him for a moment, then across at his own son. “Are they as close as that, Maurice?” he said.
“Close enough. The prison’s next door to the College.”
“Yes, but I didn’t realise the boys would be able to see in,” said the grandfather, turning back to Francis. “And they look cold?”
“Yes,” said Francis. “They shiver. I think it’s their exercise time when I see them. They look up at the sky. There’s one man who always looks down at a book. He doesn’t seem to mind as much.” He paused. “I’m glad they’re going to get home.”
Brigid, edging beside him, moved from one foot to the other. “Francis,” she said.
“I am, too,” said the grandfather.
“Francis,” said Brigid.
“Whatever they may have done,” said the grandfather, looking at his son as though he too were a child, “I’m glad they get the chance to see their families at Christmas.”
“Oh, please,” said Brigid, tugging at Francis’ sleeve, unable to wait any longer.
“Francis, please.”
“What is it, Brigid?” said Francis, and he even sounded like an adult. “I’ll be with you in a minute. Hold on.”
“I . . . Nothing, Francis,” said Brigid, and he turned back to the two men.
“I’ve . . . I’ve seen someone else, too,” said Francis, his voice shaking a little, as if he were nervous. “I’ve seen Uncle Conor. With the man who reads. He talks to him, in the yard. Is he, do you think, is he visiting?”
“Cornelius Todd?” said his grandfather, in surprise. He turned to his son: “Maurice? Is young Todd still rebelly? I thought he . . .”
Brigid did not hear what her grandfather thought about Cornelius Todd, or her father’s reply. Bored and impatient, she left the room and walked straight to the kitchen. Her mother was standing at the stove. She wore a loose blouse, long and navy-spotted, which Brigid did not like. It did not suit her. It widened her. She was leaning backward, holding her spine, stretching.
“Mama,” said Brigid.
“What is it, Brigid?” said her mother, turning round. Her face was pale. Shadows showed beneath her eyes.
“I have nothing to do, Mama. Francis won’t play with me. He just wants to sit and talk to Granda and Daddy about prisoners and Uncle Conor.”
Her mother stood up straight. “Prisoners and . . . ? Tell Francis I want him. I’ve better things for both of you to do. Hop, now, go on!”
Brigid hopped. At the table, the long and tiresome conversation was still dragging on. “Nationalist,” she heard, and “good family” and “interned” and “decent people” and “broke his mother’s heart”, before she delivered the message to Francis. She saw his frustration as he excused himself and got up, but he came and, before long, she had what she wanted. Together with Francis, she was standing wrapping threepenny bits in greaseproof paper to put inside apple tarts, and no one talked about prisons or Ireland or Uncle Conor.
“Wrap them up well, Francis,” said his mother. “We don’t want to choke anybody.”
“Some people have rings in theirs,” said Brigid. “Isobel said.”
“We have threepenny bits,” said her mother, “and that’ll do us. You, Miss, get me over that basin.”
Brigid, wondering if she could ask about Isobel, reached under the sink and brought out a white circular basin. She put it on the table and watched as Francis followed his mother’s instructions, half-filling it with water from a jug. Then their mother placed two apples in it and set it on the floor.
“Now, down on your knees, hands behind your backs, take turns, and try to get the apple out with your teeth.”
They splashed and snuffled until the tiles round the floor were awash, and their mother, the blue spotted smock splashed, put her hands on her hips, and laughed out loud as they had not heard her do in a long time.
Quickly, skilfully, she took one of the apples, dried it on a linen cloth, scooped out the core, and knotted a length of twine. Then she hung it from a hook in the ceiling. Still damp, but excited and happy, the children ducked and bobbed round the moving apple, hands firmly behind their backs, until Francis caught it and with the nearest thing to a snarl that they had ever heard from him, took a huge, crunching bite out of the apple.
“Well,” said their mother. “Thank goodness.”
“But me, Mama!” cried Brigid, and dived at the swinging half-eaten apple. She felt Francis steady the string and then the apple was in her mouth, and she was satisfied.
Finally, they sat down, their mother rubbing their heads with a rough towel, the tyres forgotten.
As the evening settled into night, Brigid’s excitement grew. It was Hallowe’en.
Their mother looked out the window. “A lantern,” she said. “We’ll hollow out turnips,” and she placed two turnips, heavy, woody-smelling, in front of them, and handed Francis a knife. She took another knife, started Brigid’s off for her, then handed her a fairly robust and ancient spoon. “Do what you can with that,” she said, “and Francis will help you if you get stuck.”
They began to scrape, Francis much quicker than Brigid. At last the turnips were hollowed and Francis set to work on his, cutting out the face. An eye appeared, two eyes, a grinning mouth, while Brigid had only the beginning of one hideous eye-socket gouged out in hers. She asked her mother to help her, but there was no reply. Her mother was standing at the window. Brigid looked up.
“Francis,” their mother said. “Did you put away the tyres when you finished your game?”
Francis stood up. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I forgot. I’ll do it now.”
Their mother shook her head. “No,” she said. “No need. I’m afraid they’re gone.”
“Gone!” said Brigid and Francis together.
All animation suddenly lost, her face white, their mother said: “Gone, yes. Excuse me, children. I’m going inside to sit down for a little bit,” and though Francis watched her as she walked out the door and passed into the sitting room to join the men, he said nothing. Then he walked, slowly, to the back door, Brigid at his heels.
Outside, together, they stood staring at the empty space where the tyres had been. There was nothing: the wells and tunnels, the tower and the beginnings of the castle had all disappeared.
“They’ve gone, all right,” said Francis, shaking his head in disbelief, “but I don’t know where, or how.”
Behind them, unheard, their father and grandfather had joined them.
“I’ll phone the barracks,” their father began, but their grandfather stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
“There’s no point, Maurice. It’s Hallowe’en. Youngsters will have taken them for bonfires. What puzzles me is how they
did it without us noticing.”
They filed slowly back into the house, their father’s shoulders tense at the loss of his spare tyres, collected over years from forgotten cars, and kept there, just in case. Brigid, who rarely gave the tyres a thought unless Francis suggested a game, felt oddly bereft. She walked back into the kitchen, and sat down to the cold, ugly turnip she had been gouging. Francis was already there. He worked for a few moments in silence, then he reached across to Brigid and took over, cutting into the rough vegetable flesh. Brigid was glad. It was too hard and sore for her hands.
“There!” said Francis, after some minutes, and held up Brigid’s grim turnip, where a large and woody piece had just come away in his hands to reveal a gaping mouth. “That’s it, now.” He looked around. “It’s dark. I’m going to put candles in them.”
“Francis!” said Brigid. “Are we allowed? Shouldn’t we ask? Where did Mama go, anyway?”
Francis’ face closed. “She’s lying down. She’s tired . . . I think. Anyway, what age am I?” he said, quite cross.
“Eleven,” said Brigid, then: “No, nearly twelve.”
“That’s right,” he said. “I’m allowed – you’re not. You sit there.”
Brigid sat. Francis went to the cupboard, found two half-used candles and a box of matches and, with care, placed the candles in the heart of the orange-fleshed heads. Then he struck a match, and Brigid heard its hiss, and smelt its sulphury burning in her nostrils. She was not sure that Francis was allowed, but for a second his face too was fearsome – he was a lurid ghost, and Brigid caught her breath and decided not to question his authority. The kitchen became gloomy, the evening outside a dark blue-black, and the smell of smoke surrounded them. From the sitting room they heard Big Ben strike, and a sonorous voice announced the news.
“I hate the news,” said Brigid. “And I hate the newspaper.”
Francis, putting the match to the white waxen candles in the middle of the turnips, did not reply. The match hissed and sputtered, and suddenly the turnip was a leering, fearsome mask, eyeless sockets staring, toothless lips grinning. Brigid stood up, pushing away from the table.
The Friday Tree Page 14
