Future Popes of Ireland

by Darragh Martin

  2

  Hospital Bracelet: ‘Bridget Doyle’ (2010)

  A year before, John Paul held Sophie by the window and pointed towards the blank sky.

  Ash hovered above, supposedly.

  ‘That’s Eyjafjallajökull,’ he said, bouncing the word like a ball. Sophie gabbled something back and he could have sworn it bore a correspondence; she was a genius.

  ‘And that’s your great-grandmother,’ he said, bringing her back over to the bed and holding her up, a shield or an offering, it wasn’t clear which.

  It wouldn’t be long, the nurses said. The second stroke had taken it out of her. They could read death like a bird could read the clouds, the nurses. Granny Doyle looked at Sophie, who looked back at her, two dumb creatures. Sophie gabbled, and swatted her little hand through the air, the way she did, indiscriminately, but John Paul took it as a sign that she wanted to hold her great-grandmother, so he moved her closer.

  ‘Yeah, that’s your great-grandmother,’ he said, talking to Sophie because it was easier, placing emphasis on the ‘great’, meaning it.

  Sophie made a sound so John Paul said ‘yeah’ again, because it was nice to think of them in perpetual assent.

  Granny Doyle looked at him. He felt everything inside him tighten. You were supposed to talk to her, the nurses said; she could probably hear. But you wouldn’t know for sure. He saw some saps at it in other rooms: reading out the newspaper, story by story, or launching into a long account of their day. It was hard to keep such a monologue up, especially with people coming and going, and John Paul didn’t have banter in him at the moment. Another thing that had gone. No harm, Granny Doyle might have said, in the days when she teased him gently, but that was gone from her too, and instead she made a sound that came from deep in the back of her throat and moved her fingers agitatedly. John Paul wanted to sing her a lullaby, one of the old country tunes that she’d sung to them as babies; that seemed the type of thing to do in this situation, but he couldn’t remember the air of it and he couldn’t be sure that it wouldn’t upset her further so he looked at her and said again to Sophie, ‘That’s your great-grandmother.’

  Later. He would talk to her later. John Paul reached out and held on to her hand, the good one. The bracelet was tight on her wrist and he tried to loosen it a little, failed. Another thing to atone for. He would find some way of making it right for her. There would be a tune to mend the broken string between them; he would find it.

  She was a stubborn one, the nurses said. Oh yes, a former nurse, that explained it, they’d say, laughing. But she didn’t have long; they could read it in the minutes now. She had a tear in one of her eyes and he wondered what this meant, if it was for him. Impossible to know where her mind was, how much of it she was taking in. His own eyes were full and he blinked, tried to clear his throat, but the words wouldn’t come; there were too many things he had to say to her.

  He looked into her eyes and rubbed her hand and hoped that she knew.

  3

  Climate Change and Energy Bill (2011)

  Damien took an experimental sip of coffee – terrible, he was spoiled by Brussels – and looked at Enda Bloody Kenny on the television in the bar.

  He might have been there, although it was unlikely that an assistant to the Minister of the Environment would have much to do with Obama’s visit. He would, at least, have been around Leinster House for the bustle; it would have been a welcome break from the other visitors, IMF men and their briefcases replaced by the man with the Hope. Ah well. Plenty of bustle in Brussels. Besides, Damien had been to the Climate Change Conference in Copenhagen: he had seen where Obama’s hope could lead.

  ‘They’re saying he might not be able to stay the night in Dublin,’ the bartender said. ‘Another ash cloud, can you believe that? Ryanair will have to sue.’

  Damien nodded along as the bartender talked, thinking instead about the time in Copenhagen when he’d seen Obama for a moment, striding through the conference centre, photographers and delegates swirling around, before Obama abandoned the whole affair, leaving Damien with his lanyard in the empty conference building, Obama ducking into a car and onto a plane, hope trailing after.

  Damien decided to move on to a glass of the house red – horrible, why did he bother? – crinkling his nose as Obama quoted Yeats. Damien knew all about responsibility beginning in dreams. He could picture it in front of him, the climate change bill that would have been the Greens’ legacy, the document to justify the compromises. Was there a word for bills that never got passed into law? Was this one lying in some vault in Leinster House, collecting dust as new governments chased new agendas?

  Damien sighed. It was too soon to be visiting Dublin; his wounds felt less raw in Brussels, where, at least, there was more than one type of red wine to be found in a bar. And work, that too. He was lucky to have a job, European climate policy a thing to keep him going. On he went; on one went.

  The bartender was enraptured with Obama’s talk of dreams, so Damien let his mind wander, imagining what Mark might say.

  Oh, not this American dream shite, Mark would say.

  What the fuck use is a dream to pensioners without heat, or people sleeping on the streets, Mark would say.

  And where does he get off, patting Ireland on the head and telling us we’ll be grand, as if following the American fecking dream didn’t lead us here in the first place, Mark would say.

  And why is he going on about the bond between Ireland and America, not that strong a bond, when half the Yank companies fecked off without paying the taxes, Mark would say.

  Give us some solutions, Mark would say; what are you going to do about the IMF, Mark would heckle.

  Damien would smooth the edges of Mark’s gruffness and say that Obama’s hands were tied – they always had been – and that there wasn’t much he could do to intervene in IMF policy. Damien would raise a hand to counter Mark’s scoff and he would go on to defend Obama, arguing that policy was the place to balance the rhetoric of hope and the indignation of protest; Obama would find ways for his policies to catch up with his words, action on climate to be taken once he had secured a second term, Damien was sure. Defending Obama to Mark, Damien would find the qualities that he had admired in Obama in the first place; between the two of them they’d find the right balance, make space for the kind of hope that wouldn’t give you a headache the next morning.

  It wasn’t Mark bounding in the door though, but Maxime.

  A thing to love about Maxime: he wasn’t like Mark, he always apologized when he was late.

  ‘Sorry, babe, they’ve closed some of the streets and I couldn’t find any WiFi; I don’t know how anybody finds their way around this city.’

  ‘You’re grand,’ Damien said, the truth, for who wouldn’t find Maxime grand? Plenty of things to love about him, from his assurance at knowing the best bars in Brussels to his stellar vegetarian cooking, to the sight of his chest in a tank top.

  ‘You okay, babe?’

  A thing about Maxime: he wasn’t Mark.

  Damien gulped the last of his wine.

  ‘I’m grand.’

  4

  Hospital Bracelet: ‘Bridget Doyle’ (2010)

  A year before, Mark handed Damien a cup of coffee from the machine.

  ‘Thanks,’ Damien said.

  Mark sat down on one of the plastic chairs behind him and took a gulp of his tea.

  Damien sat down and sipped his coffee.

  ‘She’s doing well,’ Mark said.

  ‘She is,’ Damien said.

  It’s great to see you, Damien didn’t say

  You too, Mark didn’t say.

  I hear you got a job at Focus, Damien didn’t say.

  Yeah, Mark didn’t say.

  And you’re seeing someone, Damien didn’t say.

  Right, Mark didn’t say.

  And you got your ears pierced finally, Damien didn’t say.

  The earlobes of Mark Rafferty were once an area in which I could claim grea
t expertise, Damien didn’t say.

  I never thought that would change, Damien didn’t say.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ Damien said.

  ‘Of course,’ Mark said.

  They looked at their cups.

  ‘She’s a great old broad,’ Mark said.

  ‘She is,’ Damien said.

  They drank their drinks.

  ‘You’re doing all right?’ Mark asked.

  ‘You know,’ Damien said.

  You can’t blame people after the bailout, Mark didn’t say.

  Let’s not talk about the government, Damien didn’t say.

  ‘You?’ Damien said.

  ‘Ah, yeah,’ Mark said. ‘You know.’

  Mark drank the rest of his tea in one go.

  ‘I’ll say goodbye,’ Mark said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Damien said.

  Mark and Damien stood. Mark threw his cup in the bin. Damien did the same, although he hadn’t finished his coffee. They walked to the end of the corridor and took the lift up together. They walked down another corridor into the room where Granny Doyle was. She was sleeping, so they didn’t disturb her. They stood, watching her sleep.

  I love you, Damien didn’t say.

  I miss you, Mark didn’t say.

  I’m sorry, Damien didn’t say.

  Me too, Mark didn’t say.

  I thought I’d be by your side when you died, Damien didn’t say.

  You sick bastard, Mark didn’t say.

  I meant, Damien didn’t say.

  I know, Mark didn’t say.

  I always know what you mean, Mark didn’t say.

  I miss this, Damien didn’t say.

  I love you, Mark didn’t say.

  A nurse came in the door: ‘Just checking in’. Mark unbundled his coat and put it on.

  Mark moved to Granny Doyle’s good side and squeezed her hand.

  ‘Right,’ Mark said.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ Damien said.

  ‘Of course,’ Mark said.

  The nurse wrote on the chart.

  ‘Bye so,’ Mark said.

  ‘Bye,’ Damien said.

  Mark put his arms around Damien, patted his back three times.

  Mark pulled away, touched Damien’s cheek quickly with his thumb.

  ‘Bye,’ Mark said.

  ‘Bye,’ Damien said.

  5

  ‘Yes We Can Put People Before Profit’ Sign (2011)

  Rosie held up her sign, pleased. She had managed to mimic some of the famous poster design and she’d found the right shade of red and blue for the words. Fionnuala had added a blob in the corner, an inadvertent result of her crawl through the kitchen, though Ciarán claimed she’d be a budding artist. She can do whatever she wants, Rosie said, smitten with the creature whose every gargle said I love you!

  What Fionnuala wanted to do now was sleep, so Ciarán went on a walk with the baby sling, off to get photographed for Hot Dad of the Year, he joked.

  Better not let them see the bald patch, Rosie said, for his fringe had gone; still, she loved him.

  It was nice to have a babyless moment, Rosie thought, a chance to rediscover who she was. More or less the same person, it turned out. Certainly not somebody who would swoon in College Green at Obama’s speech. She’d heard the reports of his earlier anecdote, shared as he supped a pint in Moneygall. The first time he’d had Irish Guinness had been in Shannon airport, en route to Afghanistan. A revelation, he said: the pints really were better in Ireland! Rosie had not thought it so cute, a story that blithely mentioned warplanes as vehicles for the stout education of a president.

  So, it was good to have the protest to go to. A tiny thing, really, but Rosie felt the warmth of community, comrades from the Glen of the Downs there, including Conor, whose hair was brown and thinning too (they shared smiles and a smoke) and people she recognized from marches and new people too, students who wouldn’t be lulled to sleep by some fine words. All the signs were home-made, her favourite kind. ‘Close Guantanamo’ they said and ‘No War in Afghanistan!’ and ‘Free Private Manning!’ Others shouted local concerns: ‘No Bailout!’; ‘No IMF Package!’; ‘No to Austerity!’ Rosie held her sign proudly; if people rather than profits could be considered, a lot of problems in Ireland and America might disappear, the pipe included.

  Nice to have a pipeless moment too, that was the truth. They kept going, the coalition against the pipe, picking over small victories, proof that it had not been in vain. There was the fact that the gas wouldn’t run at 345 bar, that was a solid achievement, Ciarán said, and Rosie said yes. There was the change in the pipe route, only a few metres, but significant, Ciarán said, and Rosie wanted to say yes but her mouth couldn’t quite manage the shape. It was dispiriting – to see the refinery being constructed in Ballinaboy, to feel the wind pulled out of the campaign as Rosie had Fionnuala Brigid Doyle to look after and a life that had little space for the slog of a campaign. Shell’s new tunnel-boring machine was to be named Fionnuala, a transformation unimagined by the Children of Lir, a detail that Rosie found particularly hard to take.

  Still, on she went; there was a lot that one person could do with a square of cardboard. And she wasn’t alone. There were her friends and comrades, her family! There were others, all around the world, occupying squares from Cairo to Madrid, thousands of people standing up for a better world. There were the ghosts, Rosie felt their aura, brushing through the streets, Aunty Mary among them, and Granny Doyle too – why not? – for plenty of people had shouted at stone buildings and died before the world had changed. They were here now, ghosts filling the streets, looking on at the world, which would change one day; it had to.

  6

  Hospital Bracelet: ‘Bridget Doyle’ (2010)

  A year before, ash hovered in the air, falling like snow outside the hospital window; that was how Rosie imagined it, anyway. Rosie rubbed her eyes and wondered if she could take another cup of hospital coffee. It wouldn’t be long, the nurses said. If there was anybody to call. Now was the time.

  Rosie had rescued Granny Doyle’s address book from a shoebox. It was a sad thing, half full, most of the names also present in the two boxes full of memorial cards that Rosie hadn’t been able to throw away. Rosie had called everybody she thought she should and some she shouldn’t. She imagined a string stretching across an ocean, two tin cans rattling on either side, come home vibrating across the waters. There was no tin can outside the window, of course, only ash falling, which she couldn’t even see.

  Rosie paced the room. Damien and John Paul avoided her gaze, because neither of them knew what to do. Ciarán appeared, conjuring up some chamomile tea and setting up a laptop in the room, so that some of the Clougheally crowd could Skype in for a moment.

  There was a stream of visitors, then. Mrs McGinty came and said the rosary in a steady voice, giving a curt nod as she left. Sister Angela stopped by, and Mrs Fay’s daughter, and some priest, and people totally out of the blue, like Mrs Nugent’s granddaughter, who had stopped that years ago and was a pilot with three kids. They broke the rules about visiting hours but the nurses didn’t say anything. It wouldn’t be long, they said.

  And then it was just the three of them, Ciarán taking a kip outside. The night dragged on and they rotated chairs, positions, trips to the coffee machine. Granny Doyle opened and closed her eyes and moved her hand and they took turns rubbing it.

  The morning sun streaked in. Ash hovered outside the window. She would open the window a crack, later. She would light a stick of incense. She would close her eyelids. She would make the bed, tucking in the corners right, the way she would have wanted.

  Granny Doyle made a sound. It might have been ‘Danny’ or ‘John Paul’ or ‘Mary’ or ‘Peg’. It might have been nothing.

  ‘I’m here,’ Rosie said, putting her hand around Granny Doyle’s good one and squeezing.

  7

  Ash (2010–2011)

  Where was Peg Doyle in April 2010?

  Peg packed a b
ag and took a taxi to JFK. But then there were no flights from JFK to anywhere in Europe, whatever the price.

  Peg could understand a rational argument. She collected her suitcase, allowed herself the luxury of another cab back to Manhattan, watched the ash cloud on her television, pondered what she might do that evening, thinking she might read an Icelandic saga and meet up with the man who said his name was Luke and not answer the phone as it rang.

  *

  Or, ash hung over Europe and no planes were allowed in the sky, except one, which made its way through the fog of ash and unwanted things, flying over the Atlantic, over the West Coast of Ireland, crossing the country, sunlight illuminating all the dust in the air, which hovered over Ruadhan Kennedy-Carthy buying a pain au chocolat on his way to work, and over Clodagh Reynolds doing yoga in the morning sun, and over Denise Donnelly pushing her fist against a horn on a motorway, and over Jason Donnelly checking out his chest in the mirror of a gym, and over Irene Hunter squeezing a third use out of a teabag, and over Mrs Okorocho counting her blessings, and over Mr Okorocho counting his change, and over Mrs Fay running down the strand in her head as she sat in an armchair and talked to a window, and over Mrs McGinty walking to the morning Mass, and over Olly Edwards going down on Rory O’Donoghue, and over Carl Brennan throwing a stone at a church window and crying, and over Father O’Shaughnessy taking a second helping of eggs, and over Kay Gallagher reviewing a brief, and over Mrs Donnelly bringing in the bins, and over Mr Geoghan heading out the door, so many lives like lint, that the cloud hung over, as the plane cycled round and round, unsure if it could ever land, for the ash cloud was getting thicker, wreathing its tentacles around all the other waste products in the air, all the gas and smoke from pipes and refineries, the snores and sighs, dreams and dandruff, until it was a giant cloud of all the unwanted things in the world and, wrapped in layers of metal, in the middle of it all, was Peg.