Wandering in Exile

by Peter Murphy

  It was like the guardian angels his granny used to tell him about; good people didn’t stay in his life. He spent a lot of the day thinking about all that his granny used to tell him. He didn’t feel so bad about most of it anymore but he wished she had talked to him about what happened to his mother—rather than finding out the way he did. He was still a little pissed at his father over that, but who was he to hold a grudge?

  He had, he decided as he leaned on the bar of the Duke of Gloucester, survived the worst of it.

  He liked to spend Saturday afternoons there. He liked the neighborhood and each evening, as he walked from Yonge, across Isabella, everyone he met asked if he’d like some company.

  He was embarrassed the first few times but he knew them all by now; young girls running from frying pans to fires and young men, showing their real selves only at night, offering every sexual possibility for nothing more than money.

  Some nights Danny was so lonely he was tempted. But he couldn’t—they were even sadder and lonelier than he was. And he always had the Windsor. He spent his Saturday nights there and one of these nights he’d chat someone up and take her home with him. He hadn’t before because of Deirdre, but she wasn’t going to be a part of his life anymore.

  *

  It was one of those nights—a blur of bearded bands belting out The Wild Rover and Whiskey in the Jar. Crowds of young women, second and third generation mostly, danced and gyrated with abandon as young men, recent immigrants mostly, hovered by the bar until their courage grew.

  She slipped through the crowd and popped up like a daffodil in the space between Danny and the bar and waved her empty glass at the barman, like it was his fault.

  “I’ll get that,” Danny drawled as he lit a cigarette, “and gimme one too.”

  He was trying to look her up-and-down, casually, but his own smoke was drifting into his face, causing it to twitch and causing his eyes to water.

  “FOB?” she asked as she turned toward him and struggled to contain her smile. He was trying to read her face so she batted her eyelids and dazzled him a little more.

  “Is that some kind of French thing for WOP?” He was wearing polyester pants that were low on his hips and were tight around the crotch, leaving little to the imagination.

  “Just over?” She smiled at him like she was a little concerned—like he might be a bit slow.

  “Me? No. I’ve been here for a few years now. Just got back from a business trip to Europe, ya know.”

  “What type of business are you in?”

  She was probably giving him a little more rope but he had to go for it. “International business, ya know?”

  “Where were you?”

  “Do you know Ireland?”

  “I read about it once—something about a war or something.” She tilted her head and let her blonde hair tumble down her shoulder to where her sweater swelled.

  “Yeah! We’ve had a few of them. I was in the North, ya know, where we’re still trying to get the Brits out, ya know?” He checked from side-to-side before he leaned closer to her face. “That’s what I was on business about, ya know?”

  Her skin was almost perfect and her lips were big and warm. Her eyes were a deep sea green, deepening as he got closer.

  “Really, are you one of the Freedom Fighters? What do call yourselves, I.R.B. or something?”

  “Ah now, I’ve said enough ya know.” He leaned back against the bar and tried to jam his thumb into his waistband but his pants were far too tight. He was getting erect, too, and turned to one side and drained half of his beer as he rearranged himself.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Billie. What’s yours?”

  “Danny. Danny Boyle.”

  “Isn’t that a song?”

  “Not with the ‘le.’ So what do you do with yourself then, Billie?”

  “Guess.”

  “I bet you’re an art student, or a model or something like that.”

  “Close, Danny boy.” She took the cigarette he offered and let her hair trail along the back of his hand as she leaned forward toward the match. “I’m doing my Masters in Celtic Studies. Right now I’m doing a paper on Irish caricatures and clichés.”

  She watched him as his smile wrinkled at the edges. His bulging withered, too, and for a moment he felt like a total fool. But he had to shake it off and looked her straight in the eye. “I really just came over a few months ago. I’m sorry about all that. I was just trying to make an impression, ya know?”

  “Okay, I suppose I can let that one pass but do me a favor, Danny boy? Don’t be such an asshole.”

  He was unsure and hunched over his drink so she couldn’t see the side of his eyes where little tears were gathering. He should never have tried to be smooth. He should have just been himself. She was probably one of those libbers that always felt she had to put men in their place.

  “Danny? I was just teasing you.”

  “Well then, I’ll forgive you. Just this once.”

  She leaned closer and smiled. “So what do you think of the band?”

  “They’re all right. I’m a musician myself, ya know?”

  “Really? Maybe I’ll come and hear you play sometime.”

  “So am I going to get a second chance then?”

  “Just until someone better comes along.” She nudged him with her elbow and pressed closer as the crowd at the bar grew tighter and tighter. The bearded bands became more boisterous, enlivened now as the close of night approached. When they could stand solemnly, with the total reverence of the crowd, and proclaim to the entire city of Toronto, and the cobweb morality the old Orangemen had imposed, that: “Ireland long a province be a Nation once again.”

  A Nation once again

  A Nation once again

  And Ireland long a province be a Nation once again.

  After the cheering died and the lights were raised, intruding on soft intimacies and pools of boozy passion, the crowd thinned out, leaving only those still in negotiation. Mostly young lads trying to pull birds as well as a few pockets of older men, still trying to solve the problems of the world.

  When Billie and Danny stepped outside, Richmond Street was empty. Cold winds had scoured it clean and white-stained by salt, but he wasn’t ready to say goodnight. “You could come to my place. It’s just up on Jarvis Street and we could stop at Harvey’s and I can buy you a burger.”

  “Why? Don’t you have any food in your place?”

  “I have bacon, Canadian bacon, but it’s in the freezer.”

  “Keeping it for a big occasion?”

  “At least until I buy some knives and forks.”

  “As tempting as that sounds, Danny boy, I’m going to go home.”

  “Well, I’ll come with you then.”

  “No you can’t. I live with my parents and my father has a shotgun. A really big one.”

  They laughed all the way to the subway and he didn’t stop there. He went with her, all the way out to Victoria Park and then on the streetcar where he placed his arm around the seat rest behind them.

  “You still can’t stay, Danny.”

  “I know that. I just want to see you safely home—that’s all.”

  “That’s very gentlemanly of you.”

  “Good, because I would love to go out with you again.”

  “Are you sure you have room in your business schedule?”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  “Well, as a matter of fact I do have one night open next week. Next Saturday, same time, same place?”

  She insisted that he stay on the streetcar. “My house is just around the corner and I don’t want the neighbors to see you walk me home. They’d tell on me and I might get grounded.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Of course not! Listen! I don’t know you so I don’t want you knowing where I live. You might try to sneak back and climb in my bedroom window.”

  “And what makes you think I might do something like that, unl
ess you’d like me to?”

  “Good night, Danny boy. See you next Saturday.”

  *

  As the autumn settled in, Patrick Reilly jumped at the chance to see her again but convinced himself that it was for the cause. “We can’t just let them destroy it.” Miriam’s voice had sounded strained. He had called to see how she was; she’d been away for the summer. “We’re all going down. You have to join us.” They were all going down to Wood Quay to try to save the recently uncovered Viking ruins from being covered up by progress. “You will come won’t you, Patrick? I know it’s your evening off so you can have no excuse.”

  He had never done anything like this in his life. He was more inclined to shake his head and say it was a shame—or a holy shame if the situation was bad enough to warrant it. But Miriam had a very contagious fire inside of her. She took issue with the things she thought were wrong and always spoke out against them. He wanted to ask her if she wasn’t afraid of getting into trouble again. But that was just stupid of him. What more could they do to her now? Excommunication?

  Besides, it was just Dublin Corporation. The Church didn’t concern itself too much with them. It would be different if they were going to build the cathedral there and not an office block. No! There was no reason why he shouldn’t go down and lend his support to a good cause. This was the bones of the city they were going to pave over. He kept telling himself that but he still felt a little guilty, like he was sneaking off to do something he shouldn’t be doing.

  “I’m off now,” he had called up to Fr. Dolan. “I won’t be too late.”

  He didn’t like his new parish priest, God forgive him. There was something shifty about him. But he had to give the man a chance. It was a big change for both of them.

  He wasn’t the only priest that went. There were even a few monsignors with their flashings of red, strutting among the crowd like robins among starlings. He hadn’t worn his collar and he regretted it. It wasn’t your everyday class of protest. There were people from archeological societies from all over, standing shoulder to shoulder with union members and assorted activists and young lads just hanging out and, of course, the university crowds.

  Miriam waved him over. They had torches and were just getting ready to light them as the sky darkened above Christchurch, standing out on the crest of the hill like Mary Shelley’s castle.

  He didn’t dare carry a torch but walked along beside Miriam as she marched with hers held out in front of her. The glow sparkled in her eyes and her cheeks blushed and flickered. Her hair shone, red and yellow and black. He almost wanted to reach out and run his fingers through it.

  Everyone around them was outraged.

  They were there to try to save Wood Quay, the heart and soul of Dublin, from the talons of those that had been elected to serve them.

  “It could be so much more,” they encouraged each other with visions of urban spaces where people could gather, not for profit but for the sheer pleasure of it. “It could be the center of a living, breathing city. It would let the people reach out and touch the past that made them.”

  But Patrick could see the doubt in their eyes. They would march and make speeches, but in the end, everybody knew—those in power did as they pleased and had the gall to say it was for the public good.

  Miriam chatted with everyone around them, growing more and more indignant with every step she took, heels hard on the old cobblestone. She opened her coat as she grew warm and he tried to look somewhere else. He wasn’t afraid of her; he was afraid of himself.

  He shouldn’t have come. It was only leading himself into temptation but he couldn’t help it. She made him feel like no one else ever had. She made him feel like he shouldn’t have to go through life alone anymore, despite everything he had been taught.

  He stopped himself as they walked up Winetavern Street. He had no right to think of her like that. She had enough to do in rebuilding her life without the likes of him mooning over her like some lovesick schoolboy. But still, there were times when even just the thought of her made his days seem a lot less empty. Who could a priest take his loneliness to? But he could never allow himself to think about anything else. It was bad enough that she had fallen from grace but to take him with her? That could never be forgiven. But they were doing nothing wrong. They were taking part in a public protest, in public. What harm was there in that?

  She looked over at him and he smiled back to let her know he was happy to be out walking with her at night, in torchlight, even if it was for a lost cause.

  3

  1979

  The year of the three popes had been very hard on the bishop. Rumors were rife of intrigue in sacred places, echoes of the times when popes murdered each other like kings. It was all they needed now with the Church being attacked from all sides.

  Not that he wasn’t up for one more fight; what bothered him the most was something far more fundamental. How could they sell the idea of being anointed—rather than appointed—when the Holy Spirit couldn’t pick a winner to save His life? The ruddy-faced man had raised the same question the last time they met at Moss Twomey’s funeral. The bishop had thought long and hard about going. The Boys were out of favor but he had known Moss since they were young and starting down the paths they were given.

  He went, but wore his hat and scarf in the hope that prying eyes would pass over him. And, as they filed out to their cars, he and John Joe had the chance for a quick chat. They still enjoyed each other’s company but they were both buckling under the weight the years were piling on them. They had lost their places of prominence in Irish life. Decisions that had been made behind closed doors could now be openly challenged in foreign, less friendly courts. Some of the darkest secrets from before were beginning to surface and, although both their hands were clean, they would still be called out for betraying the people’s trust.

  The bishop more than the other. John Joe could still claim lineage to the ‘Men of 16,’ and those that had kept the flame burning. All the bishop would have to cling on to was the love of God—to evoke forgiveness for all the sins of Rome.

  And on top of that he had Fr. Dolan to deal with, an ambitious sort who disdained anonymity, claiming instead that the people should know what their Church did on their behalf. The bishop didn’t approve of all of that even though he had to agree that Fr. Dolan had really perked things up since he took over. Dan Brennan had let the parish go so Fr. Dolan brought in a lot of new-fangled ideas with him. He harangued the married couples into Marriage Encounter and had galvanized the whole parish around the killing of Anthony Flanagan. He even had Jerry Boyle and that Fallon blowhard out talking to parents about the danger of drugs. And he’d set up a new youth club where he could get to know the local lads and lassies and give them somewhere to go—other than getting into trouble. But the bishop could see that the new broom would end up sweeping Patrick Reilly out too.

  He could have given him the parish but he didn’t. Not because of the nepotism of it all, but rather because he couldn’t put that cross on his nephew’s shoulders. Patrick was at one of those crossroads that people have to face at some point in their lives. He’d been a priest long enough to know what it was really like and not the way his mammy had told him. By now, he’d have learned what it meant to be really alone and apart.

  Patrick was going to have to decide and his uncle didn’t want him deciding until he had a chance to sit back and contemplate his life from the Holy See. That was where the bishop had made his decision in the years leading up to the war, when the Church and the rest of the world had sat back while the black crows spread their cloaks. They were beholden to Franco and all that flocked to his side, even the Austrian, but later when the smoke cleared, they had backed the wrong horse and the Communists were still spreading their godless creed.

  He came back to Dublin and became a monsignor after that. There was more than enough going on in Ireland to keep him busy and not be second-guessing himself. And in time they made him a bishop, to guide his pri
ests with only God’s silence to rely on.

  His nephew had phoned to say that Fr. Dolan was making it difficult for him to connect with the young people, instead sending him to tend to the sick and the aged. The bishop advised patience and reminded Patrick that he could still go to Rome. All he had to do was to say the word and the bishop would make it happen. But Patrick still hadn’t made up his mind and the bishop didn’t want to have to order him.

  He knew he wouldn’t have to. Fr. Dolan would drive his nephew out with all the new and wonderful ideas he brought back with him from America. He could fascinate for hours with his stories of Boston. The way he made it sound it was a wonder that he should ever have chosen to come back to Ireland, but the bishop had to take priests wherever he could find them. There was talk that the new pope might drop in and he wanted every parish running like clockwork.

  So he called Patrick in for a friendly chat—to feel the velvet around his iron fist.

  *

  Patrick was shown in on the hour, looking as sheepish as ever. Mrs. Mawhinney announced him and frowned. She had told the bishop to go easy on him and the frown was to remind him. The bishop wasn’t offended; she’d been around long enough to have her say.

  “Patrick, are you well?”

  “I am, thank God, and yourself?”

  “Still living when all around me are dying.” He reached for his desk drawer and poured two nips. He offered one to his nephew and stared at him for a moment. “Well? Have you given anymore thought to Rome?”

  “I have, but I can’t leave now. Isn’t the pope supposed to be coming over later in the year?”

  “Ah, that’s still just talk you know. Our people and his people are still trying to figure it out. I don’t think anything has been decided yet.”