by Dermot Healy
He’ll be back.
No, he’ll not, he said, Timmy’s gone. The dogs know when things are bad. The dog knows what I don’t want to know.
He thought a while.
It’s that crowd are to blame, he said.
My father took the tongs and stirred the turf. We waited for Joejoe to explain but he said nothing else.
Who, my father asked.
Who is right! You see this tea?
I do.
Well I offered them tea. And did they take it?
Well did they?
They did. Without a word.
And who were they?
Strangers.
And you let them in?
I did, he smiled.
How often have I told you to keep that door closed. Who were they?
I don’t know.
Did they threaten you?
No. They said nothing. They were men who don’t speak.
I see.
Yes indeed. And see where you are sitting now?
Yes, said my father.
Well that’s where they were sitting.
You should not have let them in, he said.
I thought they were neighbours.
Was it them that knocked you down?
I don’t know. But I’ll tell you this. If they’d spoken to me the once I wouldn’t have fallen.
Why did they not speak? I asked.
Because they stayed silent, he said. Two men who would not speak, maybe three. They came knocking at one and I let them in. And in they came. Not a word. Sat down. Not a word. And sat there till three, where you are now, maybe four, just looking at me, and nodding. I tried all kinds of conversation. But nothing.
Jesus, said my father.
That’s the story, said Joejoe. Say hallo to Miss Conan for me.
I will, I said.
And just then the phone rang.
Right, said Da. They’re coming.
No! said Joejoe.
Please, said the ambulance man, Mister Feeney.
No! I want to stop here, he said, and I saw the blue lines form on his cheeks and over his eyes. I saw his eyes wander.
I need a breath of fresh air, he said.
Joejoe, please.
I don’t want to see my name on another man’s lips ever again. Right?
Right.
Give us a break will ye.
OK.
The less said the better. Can I have one last fag?
Yes, you can.
He lit a Major from the turf in the fire, took a few draws, then threw it into the grate.
Once a man, twice a child, said Joejoe as he was hoisted onto a stretcher and lifted into the back of the ambulance.
Da sat opposite him.
Please lie down, Mister Feeney, said the ambulance driver.
Find – my – dogs – Mister – Psyche, said Joejoe in five long breaths, before they closed the doors.
Chapter Forty-Six
The Search
I met a ball of salt as I went down the winkled rocks. I rang Anna but could get no signal. The yellowed bones of a dogfish sat below. The flesh had been torn off his body but the bones of his head and long tail were perfectly intact. The white teeth glinted. The gulls were shaking their shawls as they sat looking out. I called for Timmy. I went under the cliffs to the caves. The echo of my call came back but no barks. Then I crossed the whin beds.
Timmy, I called.
Cnoic! I called.
I rose curlews and a flock of long-billed snipe. I reached Joejoe’s again and walked the flooded fields with no luck. A lone cormorant flew over. Two ESB poles stood in pools of water. The high tide was going out across the beach without a sound. These great purple clouds were pushing in from the sea. When they crossed, the blue sky opened up and the sun shone down with a great sweep of heat. The heron was out on his rock with the tide splashing through his legs. At times I thought I saw the dogs but I was always mistaken. A small bush became Timmy.
A bunch of dry grass was racing towards me. A pair of ears rose in the bog. A hawk jerking from side to side flew up the lane.
I walked back to the beach. It was strewn with shells. The hare raced by and headed out the rocks for a taste of salt. Annie-John, the winkle picker, in men’s boots and a man’s overcoat went by with an empty bucket.
Did you see Timmy? I asked her.
No. Did he get out?
He did.
Hah haw!
She nodded and went on. I continued the search for if I found the dogs then what my granduncle feared would not happen. A couple of hours passed. The tide was now well out. I walked the lava rocks; I went round the blow hole and stood a long time on the battery wall. A group of bird-watchers, with cameras slung round their necks, headed round Shell Corner. The Japanese fisherman drove up the lane, waved and crossed the rocks towards the fish pool.
Timmy, I yelled.
Cnoic! Cnoic! I roared as I crossed the Night Field. I searched Gillen’s; went up Ewing’s; back by Pockawockida. The sun arrived in brave wild spurts. The divers were leaping into the waves. Out the rocks the hare was now sitting by his friend the heron looking out to sea. They never moved, but stayed side-by-side with their eyes fixed on the island. Sea gulls were thrashing next to Joejoe’s, and now the sound of the baler crossed the field as the wandering windrows of clipped grass were fed into the square black bales with a loud, piercing zip.
Every field on all sides was on the move.
In the cut fields the smell of slurry rose.
I went back to the walk I’d taken with Joejoe, up past Ballintra, and the mantra continued as I turned round the corner at Cooley Lane, and there I found them. The two dogs were sitting outside the Bird’s house, flat on their stomachs, with ears raised among the last blues of the scattered periwinkles.
C’mon lads, I said.
They looked at me.
C’mon!
Timmy rose slowly as if the years were telling. Cnoic jumped to attention and smelt my shoes. They stepped out in front, uncertain as to who should take the lead; Cnoic gave a pretend bark at a stranger who was not there, tossed his tail like a lasso, while Timmy stayed perfectly silent with an odd look behind him from a pair of dark questioning eyes. When we reached Joejoe’s cottage at Ballintra they went fast past the open gate and ran on up the lane to our house, looking backwards, then jaunting ahead.
Ma’s car was outside our house behind Da’s. When I went in they were sitting at the kitchen table with Anna. They all stood and looked at me.
Cnoic and Timmy shot in alongside my feet, and lay down.
I found the dogs, I said.
Philip.
Yes Ma.
We have something to tell you.
She looked at Da.
Something bad happened.
What?
I hate having to tell you this – Joejoe died on the way to the hospital.
Jesus Christ, Da.
He had a heart attack.
Ah no.
Son, I’m sorry.
Philip, said Anna and she took my hand and squeezed it. The room swam before my eyes.
Look it, I said, I’ll just step out for a moment.
Followed by the dogs I went through the front door.
I leaned over the new wall.
Outside in the sky the clouds made waves. The sky was reflecting the sea. I saw the shape of the Connemara pony on the hill as he fed on a clump of weeds, and beyond him the ass was looking at nothing, with a great ancient gaze. My head was tormented by words.
I lay against the stones from the old monastery. I started this shivering. A shadow appeared behind me. It was like the old stonewall builder was approaching me. I turned, and there was Da.
He reached out a hand.
I’m sorry son. Come in when you’re ready, and he stepped away.
I never felt as selfish as I did standing at that wall, then I looked down towards Joejoe’s. There was another job to be done. I went back into the house and said O
K, Let’s do it.
I’m with you, said Anna.
Let’s go, Da said.
We headed down to Ballintra and swept out all the rooms, and arranged again another four chairs in the bedroom to take the coffin. The rifle was hung back in its old place above the bedroom door in the living room. To the side of the dresser I found the rat trap in place with a sausage pinned under the spring. I threw it into the dustbin. Fuchsia and a few last threads of ancient yellow montbretia were placed in jars on the mantelpiece.
I put all his books on show on the second level of the dresser.
The same routine continued as before – Da headed off again to the undertakers in town; Ma and Anna spent all evening sorting out food. Eventually I walked Anna home and Mister and Mrs Conan brought us into their living room and we sat a long time together. I headed home. Ma and Da were waiting. We all climbed the stairs to bed. Out of habit I stopped and listened for the phone to ring, then closed the bedroom door. Somewhere during the night as I climbed the family tree I found myself shouting at the ceiling, but no sound came out of my mouth. I was speechless.
I lay there eyes closed.
Then slowly I touched the pillow and the sheets with my finger tips. I moved my toes. The next morning we dug the grave alongside Grandma’s and Grandda’s. The earth was tossed up by the same crew as dug the Bird’s.
Joejoe that afternoon arrived home in a coffin, the lid was taken off and he lay there like a man who had kept his word.
I put Moby Dick in his joined hands. We sat all night with him at the wake in Ballintra.
In came the widows; the Germans; the French, the Belfast crew; the Judge and his wife; Sweet John who arrived with boxes of cans of beer then took off again, Mrs Flynn, J. D. Moffit, Mrs Hart, the Mannions, Joe Foran, Paul Donlon, Don Herrity; the coalman Mister Awesome, Barney Buckley, Jim Simpson, Miss Currid, Terence MacGowan and Joe and Marie Conan and Anna, Aaron, Tommy and Angela. In came Mister and Mrs Tingle, and again for a moment I climbed up the rungs at the pier, reached out for the rope, and the rope gave. Our relations kept coming through the door to stand at the bottom of the coffin staring at Joejoe. I went outside and stood trying to get my bearings.
My mobile rang.
Hallo, I said.
This is Stefan. I hear the news. I am sorry.
I know.
And I never brought him for the drive.
Not to worry.
I will see you soon.
Goodbye, Stefan.
I went back in and more figures out of the past appeared. Through the door came Gary and Desmond, and Gary stood for an age by the coffin, wandering, with his lips moving constantly in some refrain, then he pumped my hand.
And never once, said Da, did he relent from the story about the visitors who did not speak.
And then we became them – the people who did not speak. They had come again to call as we sat around the bedroom for long periods without a word being spoken. Conversations would start and then stop. In came Mick Doyle and Stefan. Frosty was like a man haunted. He kept looking in at Joejoe’s face, and backing off to study his thumbs. Nobody sang. Frosty was tormented.
They were visited, he said –
– They were –
– Well they were not strangers –
– I’m only saying –
– You are –
– I’m only saying –
Anna went out the front door to leave Miss Gillen to her car and when she came in she cupped her hands.
– Lala said Lala –
– I said Doras –
– And she said Fuinneog –
– Frosty said Psyche –
– Look said Anna –
– And he said she’s dark –
– She is –
– I’m only saying –
– What’s going on, asked Aunty Eilish –
Look! said Anna, and she put her hand, palm-up in front of Gary, I found a Man Keeper on the path.
He drew back.
He looks like a lizard, said Gary.
He’s a newt, actually, said Miss Hart. They are local lads.
But he’s still a mystery, the same boy, said Frosty. Get rid of him quick, if that fellow jumps into your mouth, you’ll be sorry.
Lick his belly, and you’ll have the cure for the burn, said the old lady.
Draw him for me, will you Philip, said Anna, please.
I got a pencil and drawing book down off the dresser and drew the Man Keeper who stayed perfectly still as he lay on her palm. Only once did he stir his two back legs. The wee turn of the tail was hard to get because at first it looked easy. First time I drew it the turn and the sweep was too long. Then I followed its dark curved shape along the lines for memory and forgetfulness that crossed the palm of my friend’s hand.
He feels like nothing on earth, she said.
Done, I said.
She brought the newt back outside to place him back on the wet flags and came in, washed her hands.
Can I see that, asked Desmond. He studied the page and said nothing. Then he handed it on to Gary who held his face away back.
He’s like a question mark, he said.
Lala took the copy book and placed it on the window sill.
Thank you, Philip.
Is there any of you fit to sing? asked Mrs McSharry, it would be befitting for you all know Joejoe was a musical man.
No one answered. Da looked at the old violin on the wall, the squeezebox sitting by the armchair, and gave one last glance at the rifle hanging above the door into the bedroom, and closed his eyes.
I wonder is the disc still there, asked Aaron, pointing at the dresser.
What disc is that?
The opera singer.
Christ I forgot all about it, and I went and searched.
Any luck?
And there it was, next the Wayward Lad.
Yes, I have it.
Tommy went out to the van and came back in with his CD player.
Who is going to sing, pray? asked Ma.
Dido, I said; the man whose car you started.
Oh, the chauffeur, she said, giving the sound a French purr in a long memory sound as she lowered her head.
Tommy read the wording on the tape: The Great Theatre, Poznan, he announced, and tapped the play button; and as the chords struck and the voice began St Patrick and the General stepped in and stood by the bedroom door to listen to a man they did not know sing a song that nobody knew the meaning of, then the widows and Mick, Frosty, the cousins and aunts, and Da and Ma all stood with smiles or furrowed brow and questioning looks, that turned to quiet listening as the lone lover again was arguing the rights and the wrongs and then he went away outside, nearly out of earshot as Anna stared through the bedroom door at where Joejoe was laid, and slowly the voice began returning and then stopped somewhere near us and went away again; and when we reached the part where the CD had suddenly stopped that night at the party the voice travelled on by into another series of repetitions, and questions; and sang outside; the football flew again in the air in the Night Field, and then the violin took over and the song went into a harsh whisper, and ended.
There came this long applause that grew louder and louder as the people in the audience came to their feet in the distant hall.
You could hear the tumble of chairs, and the echo of the clapping went to and fro, then silence.
And into my head came the last line I had read from the Psalms to Joejoe: I will open my dark saying upon the harp, and for the first time I suddenly realised that when we buried the Bird we were putting Joejoe in the grave.
Mrs Tingle came to her feet and clapped.
Where were we? asked Frosty.
Poland.
Thank you Tommy, said Anna as he replaced the disc on the dresser.
In a man’s tweed jacket, and her hair tied back like an elderly Indian, Aunty Eilish said: That was breathtaking.
It was beautiful, said Ma.
Well I’m bowled over.
I never – said Frosty, shaking his head – in all my life.
I got the drawing book down off the sill and flicked through the faces till I reached Grandma’s face and Grandda’s hand and there I found my last attempt at Joejoe’s face. I had done his ears, his neck, his mouth but not the eyes.
Now I began another search and tried filling them in, but the wrong man came onto the page. I erased the pupils with a rubber and started again, but the look escaped me, so I went into the bedroom and drew him as he lay in the coffin and somehow I learned that the closed eye told something different from the open eye, the open eyes I’d drawn told a lie; and as the General and St Patrick sat stoically in their chairs against the wall, I tried to pencil in Joejoe as he was, laid out, with the last thoughts still travelling through his head, then he went beyond my reach; so I drew his shoes standing upright staring back at his face and closed the book; and sat on.
A few minutes later Ma led Mister and Mrs Brady quietly into the mourning room, and she went back to the drawing room, followed by the General and St Patrick. They left the three of us alone with Joejoe. Mickey’s parents both gripped my shoulders.
Philip, Mrs Brady said, I’m sorry for you, and she shook her head, then petted Joejoe’s forehead.
Easy son, said Mister Brady.
Thanks for coming.
I suppose this is not the time to mention it, but I heard you did well in the Leaving.
Thanks, I said.
They sat alongside me in silence for a few minutes with their heads down, then got up to go, and Mrs Brady held my hand as I walked them through the now silent house of mourners out to their car.
Good luck with the rest of your life, said Mister Brady and Mrs Brady leaned over and kissed my cheek.
I went back and sat by the coffin. Ma came in and said: We have a request.
Yes Ma.
We’d like you to read at the funeral Mass.
OK.
I sat on. Angela pressed a small envelope into my hand, and she and Tommy and Aaron went. I read a few lines then put it away in my pocket. There was a sudden chatter of voices in the living room, and then Anna led Miss Jilly and Mister Lundy into the bedroom. Holding a wreath of yellow and red marigolds they stood silently by the door while behind them the family and friends watched the lady.
Mister Psyche, she whispered.
