The Family on Paradise Pier

by Dermot Bolger

  All that remained in Ireland for him to do was liberate the Manor House from its past. Having sold Father’s final two bequests he would need to be frugal in his personal needs and do all the physical labour himself. But by Easter the house would be packed with Dublin slum families. This would also be good for Dunkineely, with outsiders spending money and spreading ideas.

  Eventually he reached the main street of Dunkineely. There was no street lighting, but here and there lights shone in windows. Some bicycles were parked outside MacShane’s pub. A man emerged from the doorway and stared at Art, then ducked back inside. Art walked on, guessing that a small knot of drinkers would come to the door to stare after him. Passing the Methodist Hall he reached his old home. But he could not look up because he was convinced that figures stood in the darkness at every unlit window, staring down.

  Art was freezing. For a moment he panicked, thinking that he had misplaced the key. He did not know if Father had left any furniture behind or if the house had been looted during the years when it stood empty. The sense of being watched was overwhelming. Slowly he inserted the key and slowly it turned.

  Pushing open the door he stared into the dark hall before he entered. It smelt of damp and stale air. He needed to brush aside cobwebs. A boy in a comic hat was watching from the top of the stairs. Art knew that he was there, although he could not see him. The door to Father’s study was open. Art walked in and stared at the accusatorial eyes of Martin Luther. For ten minutes he remained frozen, forced to appraise every deed in his life since he last stood there. Then finally, breaking the spell, he crossed the room and removed that portrait from the wall.

  THIRTY-SIX

  The Former People

  Easter 1945

  The three Dublin families – chosen by Art for having never previously known a holiday, beyond day trips to Skerries – would share her slow journey up to Donegal. The route through Northern Ireland was simpler, but Eva knew that – with one husband wanted there for Republican activities – the families were reluctant to cross the border. Standing in Dublin’s Broadstone Station Eva enjoyed watching the excited children clamber in and out of the carriages. Curiosity made her wish to travel alongside them. The three mothers anxiously glanced back along the platform for any sight of their husbands. The guard had appeared with his flag before three men emerged from the public bar to vault the barrier and join their families, joking that they would feel homesick by the time the train passed the Cabra siding.

  Climbing into her carriage, Eva leaned out to watch the last man board the train as it slowly began to move. She was right not to introduce herself. They might plague her with questions about the Manor House that she couldn’t answer. The size of the families concerned her, but Art knew what he was doing, having told Eva about his study of Soviet sanatoria. It would be intrusive for her to tell the travelling children how some of them would sleep tonight in the room where she once slept as a child. Their mothers might misunderstand and think that she resented their arrival. But Eva felt no regrets and was simply pleased that Art had found a role for himself. Unexpectedly writing to her some months ago, he had radiated a crusading enthusiasm when outlining his plans to renovate the Manor House as a rest home where slum families might experience the sort of holiday enjoyed as a right by Soviet citizens.

  Eva was not sure what intrigued Francis and Hazel about Art’s letter but they had persuaded her to let them spend their Easter holidays working with him in Donegal before the Manor House received its first guests. Now she would join them for the opening, returning to her village after eighteen years.

  During this time she often longed to revisit Dunkineely and see the faces that populated her dreams. But she could not have borne to see the Manor House lying empty, with nobody to repair the roof tiles or stop rain splashing through the broken windows. It would have felt like a fairy tale gone wrong. The bewitched castle, not hidden by an enchanted forest but simply abandoned by the prince with the only key who refused to return. Sometimes she still dreamt that her younger self was trapped in those rooms, with neighbours unable to see her banging on the windows as they passed.

  Now at last the house would come alive, with laughter again on the stairwell. Francis’s postcard had mentioned rigging up a tent beside the tennis court where Maud and Eva had often slept out in summer in long cotton nightgowns. Tonight she would sleep out there with her daughter and son and tomorrow they would bathe at Paradise Pier. The old pet name for the pier excited her, with memories flooding in as the train slowly journeyed across Ireland.

  When they eventually reached Boyle there was a long delay as more fuel was sought before the train crawled past Ballymote and Collooney to terminate at Sligo where Eva was glad to step onto the platform. She could smell the sea and her heart thrilled at being in the west. The Dublin mothers looked apprehensive, surveying this foreign world but their children were ecstatic to be liberated from the cramped carriages. As they raced around the crowded platform, one small girl bumped into Eva. She stepped back and Eva smiled, bending slightly down to the child’s eye level.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Theresa. What’s yours?’

  ‘Eva.’

  ‘You’re very small, missus. Why did you stop growing?’

  ‘I just did. Are you excited?’

  ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘I’m sure there’ll be lovely food in Dunkineely.’

  The child ran back to whisper something to her mother who glanced sharply at Eva. The husbands were unloading suitcases tied with twine, though one family’s possessions were in flour sacks. Art had supplied tickets for the unreliable bus service to Donegal town, which, Eva knew, might not depart for hours. The way the families clustered together for protection filled her with foreboding. She should not have mentioned Dunkineely because all the adults were staring at her now. Eva smiled at Theresa who glanced up at her mother for permission before waving back shyly. Walking out through the station forecourt, Eva claimed a window seat on the bus so as to be able to look out at Donegal Bay.

  Finally the vehicle chugged into life, with the children crushed into the back seats, complaining of feeling sick. The vehicle was slow and the road badly-surfaced, but every bend drew her closer to home. Rosses Point was visible before they turned inland. Then, after a long wait, came the first view across Donegal Bay, with Slieve League rising up from the vast expanse of sea. There was Kilcar and Killybegs where the fishing fleet would be out and – at the base of the jutting finger of St John’s Point – stood Dunkineely. From here it was only a speck, but she could picture it clearly in her mind.

  The bus reached Bundoran, where a sign outside the Atlantic Hotel boasted of every modern convenience, including hot and cold water in the bedrooms. The Corner Teashop retained its handpainted slogan for Dainty teas at moderate prices.

  The Dublin children stared excitedly at the holidaymakers along the promenade. The sands stretched for miles, packed with bathers. Cordoned-off sections were equipped with changing huts for women and children, with mixed bathing allowed in some areas. A deputation from the back of the bus asked the driver if this was Dunkineely. The man laughed.

  ‘You see the priests’ bathing pool out among the rocks? You could drown all of Dunkineely in that puddle without a soul noticing. You need to get another train from Donegal town.’

  The two women began to walk back to their disappointed children. Theresa’s mother stopped as they passed Eva.

  ‘Are you following us, missus? My daughter says you knew where we’re going. Are you from the church?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Me and me sister were snatched off a boat by priests when a Liverpool family offered to feed us during the 1913 Lock-Out. It was the sight of us starving that drove my father back to work. But I’ll not see my chislers denied a holiday because it doesn’t have your blessing.’

  ‘I’m not Roman Catholic. Art Goold is my brother.’ Eva reached into her bag for two nut roasts she had br
ought to eat herself. ‘Share these among the children, they must be hungry.’

  Both women suspiciously examined the offering.

  ‘What are these yokes?’ the other mother asked.

  ‘There’s no meat in it. I don’t eat meat.’

  ‘No more than ourselves. Sure, who can afford it, missus? But I’ve two pigs’ heads wrapped up in a cloth and we won’t see you stuck tonight.’

  The women returned to their seats to share out the food among the children who were too hungry to grumble at the unusual taste. At Ballyshannon, Theresa was sent up with an older girl to say thanks. Eva quoted for them lines written by the town’s poet, William Allingham, about Donegal.

  ‘Up the airy mountain,

  Down the rushy glen,

  We daren’t go a-hunting

  For fear of little men:

  Wee folk, good folk,

  Trooping all together;

  Green jacket, red cap,

  And white owl’s feather!’

  The older girl was inhibited and keen to retreat, but Theresa laughed at the poem, with her open face reminding Eva about the paints and brushes in her bag. In recent years Eva had only ever painted walls and ceilings, often working all night, caught up in the hypnotic rhythm with a meditative quality in the strokes letting her open her soul to prayer. It always felt like brushing away the past, making every surface new. Eva knew by now that she would never be an artist, but lately she had started to wonder if she might possibly have a vocation to teach. This evening she planned to erect an easel in the garden in Dunkineely. If children gathered around with their natural fascination, she would pin up a clean sheet and let each child paint whatever possessed their imaginations. She would encourage the others to leave the working child alone, with neither jeers nor comments allowed to interrupt the joy of creation.

  ‘Give us more of them words.’ Theresa resisted the older girl’s efforts to drag her away.

  ‘High on the hill-top

  The old King sits;

  He is now so old and grey

  He’s nigh lost his wits.

  With a bridge of white mist

  Columbkill he crosses,

  On his stately journeys

  From Slieve League to Rosses.’

  ‘Are there really fairies in Donegal?’ Theresa asked.

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ The older girl finally managed to drag her away. ‘There’s only cow shite and bogmen.’

  Eva smiled and stared out as the bus neared Donegal town. Francis and Hazel had promised to collect her by pony and trap, but Art would be unable to transport the Dublin families except by the irregular CDRJC train that meandered towards Killybegs. Exhausted babies cried from the back seat as faces peered out desperate for this journey to end. The bus chugged into the Diamond and everyone clambered off. Hazel and Francis were waiting, bronzed after their week in the sun. Her heart thrilled to see them. Francis could have been Brendan at the same age, good-looking and good-natured, brimming with zest. He kissed her and bowed, pointing to a pony and trap outside Flood’s Garage.

  ‘Your chariot awaits,’ he said, ‘and darn difficult it was to get.’

  Hazel laughed as she kissed Eva. ‘Hello, Mummy. We would never have managed to steal it except that Francis unveiled his Goold Verschoyle cloven hoof and the owner ran off blessing himself.’

  Francis gave Eva a gentle squeeze. ‘It’s not that bad. When Mr Floyd in the shop heard you were coming he was thrilled. He harnessed his pony up for you himself.’

  Hazel gazed across at the Dublin families. ‘Don’t tell me all those are Uncle Art’s brood. Uncle Art has no faith in Christ, but I hope that Marx is as dab a hand at the loaves and fishes miracle.’

  ‘Is the house that bad?’ Eva asked anxiously.

  ‘On the contrary,’ Francis said. ‘It’s so shipshape that a People’s Commissar could eat off the floorboards.’

  ‘Or even eat the floorboards,’ Hazel added. This physical work had suited them, their eyes tired but happy. Being in Donegal made Eva feel like a girl again, but the plight of the Dublin families troubled her. The Killybegs train was not due for an hour and a stand-off was developing between the children and local youths who taunted them. Eva climbed into the trap and they headed out the road with every bend familiar. Hazel held the reins, though the pony knew his own way. Francis presented Eva with a bar of dark chocolate and two packs of her favourite cigarettes. She scolded him for spending what little money he had.

  ‘We’re loaded,’ he told her. ‘Uncle Art insisted upon paying us. At the same trudoden as himself.’

  ‘The same what?’ Eva asked.

  ‘It’s a labour Day Unit,’ Hazel explained with an edge of good-humoured exasperation. ‘What a peasant on a kolkhoz earns. But collective farms being thin on the ground in Donegal, he based it on the rate that a farm labourer gets. Not that we qualify as peasants, of course.’

  ‘Or, worse still, kulaks,’ Francis said.

  ‘Heaven forbid.’ Hazel rolled her eyes. Eva knew that she was dying to regale schoolfriends with stories about her uncle, though in certain circles Hazel was careful not to betray any connection to Art Goold. ‘We’re Byvshie Liudi.’

  ‘We’ve had long chats on this subject,’ Francis explained, ‘seeing as we had every evening to debate the issue. At first the locals didn’t make us over welcome.’

  ‘Some villagers hurry their children into their cottages and bless themselves if they see Art coming,’ Hazel said.

  ‘Not the old men though,’ Francis added. ‘Some still touch their cap to him, out of respect for Grandfather, but their servitude infuriates Art more than the others sprinkling holy water after him.’

  ‘A brick came through the window the first night we stayed there,’ Hazel said. ‘Glass everywhere. People thought we were two more of his Dublin aficionados. But when they discovered that we were your children their attitude changed. Yesterday people told us about your wedding day.’

  That was the last time Eva had travelled along this road, gazing back from the huge car as the crowd ran to the bend of the road to wave her off. She took Francis’s hand as the miles passed. Every bush and stone wall was sacred, every gap where honeysuckle or wild roses grew. This was her dream landscape. Walking with Father past green banks while he recited Walt Whitman poems. Running behind Brendan to hold his bicycle steady as he pedalled furiously before telling her to let go, thrilled to travel thirty yards on his own before tumbling into the ditch. Those were her good dreams. In the bad ones she ran through the dark here in search of Brendan, knowing that a terrifying creature was loose on this road and only she could save him.

  ‘What was that Russian expression Art had for you?’ Eva asked.

  ‘Byvshie Liudi.’ Francis pronounced the words carefully. ‘The remnants of the despised tsarist class who refused to play their part in the revolution.’

  ‘What it means literally is former people,’ Hazel explained. ‘We are former people. Or formerly we were people.’

  ‘What are we now?’

  Francis watched two men working on the bog and laughed. ‘Whatever we are, we’re earning those fellows’ wages and are in dire need of a bath.’

  Hazel laughed and spoke of her plans to spend hours soaping in the tub when they got back home to the small house that Eva currently rented during term time in Dublin. But neither that nor Glanmire House or indeed any other address lived in had ever truly felt like home to Eva. For her there had only ever been one true home and she was finally returning there. A childish song entered her mind, composed by her and Maud as girls. Eva could still see herself banging out the notes on Father’s piano while Maud chewed a pencil and strove to find the words.

  ‘Dunkineely, Dunkineely, Dunkineely wondrous fair,

  Many visitors this summer your many joys did share.

  First came the Hawkins family, brother, sisters, Ma and Pa,

  Then Eric, Percy and Cecil from the Royal School, Armagh…’

  Dunkineely, w
ondrously fair. They were getting close now. First she would spy the slated roofs that never knew thatch and then, climbing the hill, the shaky village pump where children constantly queued during her childhood. Would ducks still splash in rain-filled potholes along the street? Had anyone bothered to tend the wealth of sweet peas beneath Father’s window – the smell of which, after rain, always made his heart swell with life’s ever-budding freshness? They were finally here now, mounting the hill with everything the same and everything different. Mr Floyd must have been watching out because he rushed from his shop to halt the pony and present Eva with a white twist of paper brimming with sweets.

  ‘Welcome home, Miss Eva.’ She had not been called that in decades. Other faces congregated around before she could finish thanking him. Mr MacShane and his son from the pub, Lizzie Cunningham and Kathleen Lynch whom Eva had held on the day she was born. Hazel and Francis stayed back, letting her savour the euphoria of homecoming. She was momentarily too preoccupied with embracing childhood friends to turn around and see the Manor House. A slight silence occurred when she did so, with people letting the sight speak for itself. The knot of neighbours drifted away as Art appeared in the doorway. The garden had obviously become a wilderness, which he had mown with a scythe. Broken panes were replaced and the windowframes painted, but the walls seemed scarred and desolate. Still it radiated the aura of home as she ran towards it.

  ‘Welcome back.’ Art stepped aside to let her enter the hall. The carpets were gone, the bare floorboards unvarnished. The walls were freshly painted, but the paint was the colour of amnesia. The drawing room door was open. Father’s piano was there, discoloured, with the keys yellow. It seemed small. The only other recognisable features were the fireplace and the window.

  Art had assembled an assortment of furniture, with chairs crammed into every space and a long table piled with leaflets and magazines about the Soviet Union. He had also acquired a wind-up gramophone. Eva flicked through a selection of symphonies by unfamiliar composers like Tikhon Khrennikov. She imagined the Dublin families here, men sweeping these books aside to play cards, children still dreaming of Bundoran. Art watched her.