The Ikon Maker

by Desmond Hogan

A mortal wound had happened.

  Something irreparable had happened.

  Susan’s imagination didn’t hold itself back. It was something to do with sex. Wasn’t everything? and in the same moment she realized – undauntedly – that Derek O’Mahony had finally killed himself because Diarmaid wouldn’t have sex with him.

  She was convinced now. No proof was needed.

  Like herself Diarmaid was pure.

  Derek O’Mahony had wanted to consummate their outcast state. Diarmaid wouldn’t go along with him.

  It might have been pure conjecture.

  But like a fortune-teller she knew the truth of her conjecture. Likewise Diarmaid didn’t know how to handle sex with this olive-haired girl from Loughrea.

  So bitterly it had ended. She could almost see the scene. They were probably playing a gross number somewhere. ‘It’s a lesson too late for the learning.’

  In it all was indeed a lesson too late for the learning. That love always loses. No matter how real it is.

  People have no time for love. It’s a fool’s game.

  In his room a mirror reflected his image.

  She felt like crying out. Like smashing the image, smashing the mirror.

  With forty pounds he went back to England.

  Curlews cried in the bog next to Ballinasloe station.

  A taxi-man looked harassed – no work maybe.

  They kissed – slenderly.

  The train left.

  She walked away.

  26

  The nineteenth of April, Wednesday, passed; no birthday cake. The image she’d entertained, Diarmaid blowing out eighteen candles, failed to realize itself.

  A birthday card to an address in London where he might be staying – his aunt’s – that was all. A present of ten pounds. She went to see her mother that day, went to see Alice, looked out the kitchen window towards a cow.

  And felt suddenly the hunger of the land she lived in. The need – chosen by many people – to be loved.

  A need gone unrequited into the nights when televisions troubled bars now and when in humbler homes Count John McCormack sounded in a programme of old music on a ricocheted radio.

  TWO

  1

  May was always a strange month; one that either happened or didn’t happen. This year it didn’t happen, weather-wise, at the beginning.

  It rained.

  She looked through blurred windows.

  She worked.

  A Protestant minister’s wife came to have a pink dress made for her daughter’s wedding. Susan made it delightfully.

  With floral embroidery. And afterwards the whole Protestant population of east Galway came to have their dresses made.

  Dresses for weddings; summer frocks.

  For the weather had lifted and now in the gardens of parsonages ministers’ wives were young girls again among the apple blossom.

  Diarmaid – though he had not written – was far from her mind. It was as though she associated the events surrounding his home-coming and his not having written with bombs in England during the war. Something finally to be ignored.

  As sunshine flowed she walked a lot alone and in the evenings – the martinets glowing – she did something she used never do before.

  Watch television in the pub. Drink Guinness and listen to the troubled stories of passers-by.

  But that wasn’t all. She talked a lot to customers.

  ‘Hello Mrs O’Hallrahan.’

  The parson called one day looking for a dress for his daughter.

  She was attending a garden party in the Archbishop of Dublin’s house.

  ‘I’ll bring her tomorrow so you can take measurements.’

  ‘Grand.’

  ‘How’s your son?’

  ‘He’s in England.’

  ‘Ah.’ The man was kind. He questioned no further.

  ‘You’re looking lovely this weather, Mrs O’Hallrahan.’

  ‘Ah. It’s the sun.’

  But she was. Darkened, softened by sun and bog breeze, her hair blown and darkened.

  Smiling she returned the compliment.

  ‘You’re looking well yourself.’

  Nimble as wishbones he accepted the compliment.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t make me feel too good.’

  The man left.

  She went on with her sewing.

  In the afternoon she visited her mother, having bought blackened bananas for her.

  2

  Mrs Conlon bought a car and together they toured the countryside.

  It was quite crazy. She could go anywhere now, Mrs Conlon could, and she did.

  One day she travelled to Galway. Together they walked the pier at Salthill. It was a lovely, dazed blue sort of day.

  And there was no one about.

  ‘It’s lovely having a car,’ Mrs Conlon said.

  Susan agreed. ‘It’s good.’ And she thought it particularly good that Mrs Conlon should invite her about so much.

  Afterwards they had herring.

  Travel is good for you, Mrs O’Hallrahan thought. Even if it’s only to Galway.

  Another day they visited Thoor Ballylee where the Irish poet, Yeats, lived.

  It was a clear day and tinkers passed.

  Red-haired tinkers.

  They walked about.

  Finding a swallow’s nest in the ramparts.

  Neither knew much about Yeats, but in this place Susan thought of her son. God bless him wherever he is, she thought.

  Whatever he’s doing.

  3

  She began having a little affair with the milkman.

  She went out at night with him.

  He drove her to Athlone.

  There they saw Ryan’s Daughter.

  The milkman – Mr Carey – wept at the end of it and to soothe him they entered a café.

  The Genoa café.

  There they had coffee and chips while the jukebox played moody young singers.

  Around them Susan felt the eyes of young people. How funny they must seem to the young, Susan thought. Her dress was check. Blue and white.

  A row commenced at another table. A girl hit a boy.

  Tomato ketchup spilt.

  It was like murder.

  The girl wandered off.

  And she wondered, Susan did, what she was doing here with the milkman.

  The voice on the jukebox sang, ‘Bye, bye, Miss American Pie.’

  She found the voice sweet and listened.

  Singing ‘This will be the day that I die’ the voice ended.

  Afterwards by the Shannon she walked with Matt Carey and felt deeply uncomfortable. She was a person, private.

  She couldn’t be going on dates with milkmen.

  Before leaving her that night he asked for a further opportunity to see her.

  ‘I’m not up to it,’ she said. ‘I’m not up to it.’

  4

  He sent a postcard.

  The Tower of London on it.

  It said, ‘Hi. I’m fine. How are you? Got a job. Gave it up.

  Auditioned for a part in a film. Didn’t get it.

  Goodbye. Diarmaid.’

  He’s mad, she thought. No address on it.

  Where was he staying? What was he doing? Her mind racked for an answer.

  Didn’t find it.

  She was worried.

  In a red check shirt she went to Mass the following Sunday.

  A Mrs Hanratty approached her.

  ‘We’re forming a local women’s organization. Would you like to join?’

  At first, startled, Susan asked, ‘What kind of organization?’

  ‘We’ll grow flowers. Show old films. You know, the ones you don’t see now with Jeanette McDonald. And go on hikes.’

  It seemed improbable.

  But she went to the first meeting. There an old lady spoke about venial sin.

  ‘It’s all about venial sin today. No mortal sin left. Life is gone crazy; it’s not lived any more. Let’s be decisive. Let�
�s be mortal. Up with the women of the parish. Down with men. We’ll safeguard our own destiny. We’ll lead on.’

  She wanted to cry, Susan did. With laughter. It was so funny. The lady – in black stockings – sounded as though she’d never seen a man.

  But all the same she went on one of the excursions, Mrs O’Hallrahan did. To Limerick.

  They visited the Treaty Stone, St John’s Castle, had lemon cake at the local ICA headquarters – demesne of a national women’s organization – and then left.

  Up by Clare individual members of the party sang songs. Numbers, rather crazy numbers. Like ‘There’s No Business Like Show Business.’

  When it came to Mrs O’Hallrahan’s turn she sang ‘Danny Boy’.

  Light was leaving the sky. Castles stood out, Norman castles against the sea.

  Stone walls collapsed, broken patterns. Some were bleached white. And here and there horses fused with the sunset, white tails.

  And as she sang ‘O Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling’, a Spanish castle, perfect, spun by; a Spanish town, water bearing up ducks, swans, and a few boats.

  As she finished she realized she’d made a big mistake. There was a huge silence in the bus.

  Everybody, just about everybody, knew she was unknowingly singing about her son.

  It was a song that pleased them, that pleased sentimental people.

  It was a song that Susan had always considered perfect; a song of loveliness, of loss.

  One she’d always associate with her husband and his singing of it in a ramshackle pub in Camden Town before he left for the war.

  Now its truth horrified the occupants of the bus.

  The love song of a mother for her child.

  Silence enveloped one Mrs Kileeney’s blue hair. Across the hills of south Galway now a red sun shot through a huge broken fire.

  5

  June was a lovely month. Early in the month the sun shone a lot; images froze.

  Tinkers going by, the children’s golden hair.

  And one day with Mrs Conlon she went to Galway.

  The sea was lovely. Both swam. Mrs Conlon looked like a turkey. Her backside was protruding, her legs a mesh of purple and blue.

  Mrs O’Hallrahan looked almost elegant beside her.

  Together they walked to the sea. Mrs O’Hallrahan felt the blue engulf her.

  Come over her. Such blue it was. Blue over blue. She submerged herself; her body aimed against the waves.

  And dipping her head she felt Diarmaid. Felt his presence today on this day that signified summer.

  Her boy; a dream-boy. Like someone gone to war.

  The June day was full of him. As she dried herself a blond boy ran past the sun.

  Golden water-drops seeming to run off him.

  As she gazed she was reminded of corn.

  But then again it wasn’t time for corn yet.

  Later it would bleach the fields.

  She walked away, towel in hand.

  Life was so funny.

  It was as though he were aching and nagging her.

  Diarmaid.

  She felt like a woman in love.

  But more. Someone tempted by the world.

  She looked around. It was so beautiful. Near to Galway was a lighthouse.

  There she’d been first courted, Galway city before the war.

  There her life had happened.

  George, her husband, had brought her down alleys to meet shadows of Spanish lattices. Now it was happening again.

  Her urge for living had returned.

  She wanted to be near Diarmaid so much but felt his distance and the hours by train.

  Should she go and see him? She played with the idea.

  Visiting him now that it was summer.

  But she let it go. Mrs Conlon was calling.

  ‘Susie, I sprained my toe.’

  6

  Young hitchhikers passed; the coming of summer at hand for them.

  All shapes of rucksacks. Green. Orange. All shapes of faces and all colours of eyes.

  Susan brooded on them. They all seemed so free, so fresh. So glad to be alive and on the road.

  Some were obviously American; some French, others German. All trekking towards the beaches of Connemara and Clare.

  All privileged. Yet something in her rejected their voyages. All were going on the one path. Carelessly. Would they spend the rest of their lives travelling? Would the spirit of participation and conquest always be present in them? Or would they just give up?

  George, her husband, never gave up. In a way she hadn’t either. But this generation trekked on with a lot of money to a destination they weren’t sure of. Then she thought of Diarmaid and tenderness filled her.

  They were in need of a goal.

  She placed plates on the table for a solitary lunch. Bread and butter. She was alone. Still a girl in a sense. Always watching out and eager.

  Still hopeful.

  Beside the school, hidden under glass, was a statue of the Blessed Virgin. White and blue. She looked out at it. Young people passed it, anoraks.

  A very beautiful blond boy went by. His hair was long.

  He walked with grace; his jeans were the colour of ink when faded on blotting paper in the school she once went to. His face was shaped almost like a ewe’s.

  Pale, too, like a ewe’s. And his eyes were keen and blue. Markedly blue.

  To the point of mad and unnecessary beauty.

  She wished him well on his journey. Quietly her mouth paused on the tea.

  And her thoughts travelled past images of flying German bombers to an image of she and her husband before the war, sitting on steps leading down to the Claddagh in Galway, feet dipping in water. Her dress had been pink. Her feet pale.

  He’d looked sideways at her, George had.

  Took her foot, kissed it, his hair blond.

  ‘You’ve lovely feet,’ he told her.

  And she realized, even at her desperately young age, how few people in Ireland would ever have said something like that.

  They’d been convicted by history, neutralized by the Church.

  Watching a blond Swedish boy now – her mind told her he was Swedish – she thought of this moment.

  Because – because – within a flash inside her – she felt desire. She rose, stroked her hair.

  A phrase of Diarmaid’s returned. ‘Too much.’

  Yes it was all too much. She could hear again the music of crossroad balls, when she was young.

  Feel the shadows on the roadway.

  Dresses funnily twirling and lights shining like a gospel of madness in this generally unlively Irish environment.

  In the afternoon she cycled to deliver a dress.

  People passed, said hello. She gazed at a cloud.

  And her legs freshened towards an old damnation hymn. She was young, fresh, in need of love.

  Hope, companionship.

  7

  John stayed one night only. He was Canadian; from Montreal. It had been raining; she’d taken him in.

  Over Weetabix he’d spoken of French Canada, comparing it to Ireland. He spoke of a Jewish confectioner who’d run off with his mother.

  She fried sausages, ham, cooked chicken. He ate. She watched, mad with caution. Going to bed that night she glimpsed his nakedness through an open door and went to sleep with that image.

  8

  ‘Diarmaid, why don’t you write?’ she wrote, care of his aunt. No reply. She wrote to his aunt. Yes, he’d collected the letter. He was living with hippies the aunt declared. He must be rescued.

  But she was making a garment for a French lady who’d come to live in Ballinasloe. She couldn’t for the moment care less.

  Delicately she threaded it together. Then one night – it was Midsummer – she realized how she missed Diarmaid.

  Entering his room she found an ikon of a boy, his mouth spilling blood. She’d never noticed it with such intensity before. ‘Diarmaid.’ It was as though she were appealing to
a ghost.

  ‘Diarmaid.’ A shadow crossed the room.

  And at the same time a shadow crossed her mind. She wanted to see her son.

  THREE

  1

  She crossed in the ship Hibernia. Her dress had pink patterns. She sat, arms folded, grimly listening to pop music until a man shook her arm and said, ‘Mam, don’t look so gloomy.’

  Apparently he was doing it to many women because already he seemed to have done it to an old lady, sitting up smiling, awaiting his attentions.

  ‘Come and join us.’ She did. He took out a fiddle and began playing. A lady and gentleman got up and danced. A reel. Over the ship’s cafeteria. And the man shouted with glee.

  Then another man joined him. ‘How are you, Pat?’ he greeted the other man.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Give us an old song.’ The ship quietened. A woman who looked as though she’d been vomiting became quite silent. A bruised damaged look about her eyes. She listened, even as the waves seemed to have to.

  The man sang ‘She is Far from the Land.’

  A song every Irishman knew was about Robert Emmet’s love, Sarah Curran. The story of her life after his death. ‘She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps.’

  Quietly a man puffed a cigar.

  Softly a lady’s face lighted up.

  The man continued:

  ‘He had lived for his love, for his country he died.

  They were all that to life had entwined him.

  Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,

  Nor long will his love stay behind him.’

  They could almost hear the leftover, disgorged sounds of Ireland.

  A curlew’s cry; a train’s bleat. The flashing of Guinness across a crowded pub – these the sights – a wet rainy tricolour flapping in the wind. They could feel these things, hear them, see them.

  The boat was slightly out of date. It was 1972.

  Time passed the island by but still somewhere the voice of these things landed on a pavement in Camden Town.

  Ireland was still unfree, still unwound.

  Still hopelessly, narcissistically in love with itself, like a virgin who’d never let up and knew now her last lover, her last chance of a lover, had just cycled up the laneway. The voice over, the song quelled, someone was ignorant enough to put on a Stevie Wonder on the jukebox, and the pop singer’s voice became the voice of ignorance, of farawayness, of young men in Belfast shooting the faces of old men and young men for the cause of matchsticks. For the cause of what was in effect almost nothing any more.