Wandering in Exile

by Peter Murphy

  It felt so right, she encouraged her reflection, as she touched up her lips and teased out her hair. And she wanted it to be special. Danny seemed to want that too. He had lowered the lights and opened a bottle of wine. He smiled at her without a trace of his leer—the one he used to wear to hide his real feelings. When she emerged from the bathroom, she walked slowly toward him, silhouetted in the light she had left on. She had seen it in a film and decided, then and there, that’s how she wanted to look.

  He rose and took her in his arms, gently kissing her as his fingers thrilled along her skin. He tasted like wine, warm and soft to her lips, sending little tremors through her. His hands were cool, gliding along her skin, up her arms and across her shoulders, freeing them from her straps as they passed. He touched her throat and ran his fingers through her hair, brushing it back from her ears. His lips fluttered along her cheek and she began to shiver.

  They shivered together underneath the sheets even though the night was warm. His eyes were soft and deep and his lips were bigger than she had ever seen them before. And they were soft. They stroked and petted each other, twisting and writhing. Getting closer and closer until he was inside of her, filling her and straining her but in time, delighting her until it all became too much, for both of them, and they crumpled together. He rolled on his back and eased her head on to his chest where she could hear his heart pound.

  *

  “His past will always be there, hanging over you,” Miriam had said before she went.

  Deirdre respected most things that Miriam said to her but on this issue she was wrong. Deirdre understood why. Miriam was struggling with her own feelings. Her relationship with Karl was in a bind. He was ready to have sex with her but she was still a nun when it came to that. Deirdre wished she could talk with her about it. She had so much to say on it now.

  “And what about love, Miriam?” Deirdre asked as they settled in for coffee and a chat. “People fall in love and become better people . . .”

  “Love?” Miriam answered like she was thinking aloud. “I am beginning to realize how very little I know about love after all. It is ironic, isn’t it?”

  Deirdre wished she could take her in her arms and whisper to her that it would be all right. That if she could just open herself, like she had done with Danny, everything would be fine. It took a lot of trust to believe that you were giving yourself to the right person. But she couldn’t so she just reached over and touched the back of Miriam’s hand.

  Miriam was in the same position as her—only she couldn’t see it. Karl had a past too.

  He seemed very normal and talked about himself in a very assured way but Miriam had told her that there was more to it than that. She admitted that she once peeped at his diary. It was full of strange drawings of the things he had brought back from Vietnam. Things that he never spoke about. There were pages and pages of dark shadowy things that were alien but familiar to her. “I know I shouldn’t have looked but what am I supposed to do now?”

  The question had hung in the air, unanswered since before Deirdre went away.

  “Then you just have to trust in your feelings,” was all that Deirdre could offer.

  *

  Patrick Reilly woke with the bells as Rome started to bustle in the early morning. It was when all that was ancient woke from its memories and smiled down on the never-ending comings and goings.

  At first it had all seemed frenetic but he had become attuned to the Romans and the way they lived in the shadows of faded glory. He found hope in the way that life could continue after the pomp of pride was gone.

  He could learn from that and give up any notion of being the force that would set the world to right. He was but a common priest in the city of cardinals and he was happy to shed the burdens he once carried. He would find himself and his new purpose in the place where it had all happened.

  He had so much more time on his hands with no parish duties to attend to. He did his teaching and had hours alone in the libraries. At first he had felt guilty and wrote to his uncle, who assured him that it would do him the world of good. ‘It’ll give you a chance to savor the place. Get out and enjoy it. You’ve earned every bit of it.’ But Patrick couldn’t help but feel that he had been carefully and diplomatically placed on the sidelines.

  He had found lodgings in Trastevere, just off the Piazza Santa Maria, the ancient place where Christians gathered before taking the city from the pagans. It was a monastic type of place and that suited him fine. His books had arrived and were placed around his room within reach. He had added the reproductions of Giuseppe Vasi’s ten books of etchings showing the monuments of Rome. He handled them with the greatest care and made notes for the tours he began to take, visiting each one of Augustus’s fourteen Rioni. He spent a few days in each to absorb all they had to offer. He visited the churches and the ruins but all the time he kept an eye out for the better places to eat, for when Joe came over, and Miriam.

  He had managed to put it all in perspective.

  He hadn’t really been doing anything wrong with her. She was his friend and all that stood between him and loneliness. He understood how it might have looked to others, especially his uncle, but there was no shadow of sin in his intentions.

  He gave her up for all their sakes. She had enough to get over and he knew that a priest couldn’t afford to indulge in the luxuries that other people enjoyed. He had chosen the life, the lonely walk in Christ’s footsteps. He had chosen it freely and would see it out to the end. But he did think about her. Every time he stopped to marvel at something, he wished he had someone there to share it with and he usually wished it was Miriam.

  He kept up with the happenings from home, too, reading the Irish papers as the hunger strikers died, one by one, the ancient symbolism of their sacrifice lost in the righteous rhetoric of the wrong. He felt a little guilty about that as he sipped his café lattes in the Piazza, as others downed espressos and rushed off into the day.

  He still shivered a bit at the taste of coffee but, as he had so often heard, ‘When in Rome . . .’ He never thought the words would one day apply to him.

  He wrote to Miriam often, on the back of a postcard, and was careful to sound casual, like a friend. He told her how wonderful it was and that he hoped all was well with her.

  *

  “Did ya get it sorted?”

  “I did, ya.”

  Danny had signed the papers and sent them back. Jerry had taken out a mortgage and would have the money in a few days. He talked it over with Jacinta again and she had assured him she was fine with it. She and Gina were already planning how they were going to live when they were rich.

  “So, do you have the money?”

  “I do, but it’ll just take a few more days.”

  “A few more days, Jerry? I’m not sure we can wait a few more days.”

  “I told you,” Jerry repeated carefully so as not to give any offense. “I’ll have it for you in a few days.”

  Donal shook his head slowly. “That’s not good enough, Jerry.”

  “It’s the best I can do.”

  “Well, maybe your best won’t be enough. Ya know I got people lining up to get in on this deal?

  “Maybe,” he said as he eyed Jerry over the rim of his glass, suspended before his face for effect, “you’re not cut out for this kind of thing. I’m doing you a favor, ya know, because we’re brothers-in-law but I’m beginning to wonder. I don’t need a partner who’s not sure.”

  “But we’re not really partners if you’re not putting any money in. I’m more of an investor.”

  “That’s right, Jerry. You’re investing in my savvy. I know all about buying and selling property. All you’re doing is throwing in the seed money and there are lots of places where I can get that.”

  “Ya, but how many investors can supply the men and material too?”

  Donal looked at him for a moment and smiled. “Right enough, Jerry. Maybe we’re both getting a bit edgy. Bring the money when you get it and
we’ll say no more about it.”

  6

  1982

  As I was going over the far famed Kerry Mountains,

  I met with Captain Farrell and his money he was counting.

  Frank sang and the whole bar clapped along. He played guitar, too, laying down big fat chords while Jimmy slapped and tickled along on the bass. Danny went around the melody, plucking the banjo and trilling where the beats allowed.

  I first drew out my pistols and then produced my rapier

  Sayin’: Stand and deliver, for I am a bold deceiver!

  Mush-a-ring da-ba-do da-ba-da. Whack for the daddy-o,

  Whack for the daddy-o. There’s whiskey in the jar.

  Jimmy and Danny joined in on the chorus, filling the whole bar like a choir.

  I counted out his money and it made a pretty penny,

  I put it in my pocket and I took it home to Jenny.

  She sighed and she swore that she never would deceive me,

  But the Devil take the women for they never can be easy.

  Mush-a-ring da-ba-do da-ba-da. Whack for the daddy-o,

  Whack for the daddy-o. There’s whiskey in the jar.

  They had played this song a thousand times and even though it was threadbare, they played it with perfected polish, even making mistakes look impromptu.

  I went unto my chamber all for to take a slumber,

  I dreamt of gold and jewels and for sure it was no wonder,

  But Jenny drew me charges and she filled them up with water,

  And sent for Captain Farrell to be ready for the slaughter.

  Mush-a-ring da-ba-do da-ba-da. Whack for the daddy-o,

  Whack for the daddy-o. There’s whiskey in the jar.

  The crowd joined in on the chorus, singing along and beating their tables like bongos.

  “They love this shite,” Frank loudly whispered over his shoulder, his voice carrying across the room but nobody cared. The crowds loved Frank, with his Luke Kelly hair and his accent that never faded.

  T’was early in the morning just before I rose to travel,

  Up comes a band of footmen, and likewise Captain Farrell,

  I first produced me pistol, for she’d stolen away me rapier,

  But I couldn’t shoot the water so a prisoner I was taken.

  Mush-a-ring da-ba-do da-ba-da. Whack for the daddy-o,

  Whack for the daddy-o. There’s whiskey in the jar.

  “Banjo solo,” Jimmy shouted, catching Danny off guard, but he had been practicing, listening to hours of Barney McKenna. He didn’t really like the banjo but the crowds loved it and its penetrating twang. He played off the melody, doubling and trebling as he could, and bringing it around again for Frank to take. But Frank was lighting a cigarette and missed. “Bass solo,” he announced and grinned at Jimmy.

  “Ya bollocks,” Jimmy laughed and changed rhythm, doing the next verse as Thin Lizzy had done, with Danny taking the guitar licks on the banjo.

  Now there’s some take delight in the carriages a rolling

  And others take delight in the hurling and the bowling.

  But I take delight in the juice of the barley

  And courting pretty fair maids in the morning bright and early.

  Mush-a-ring da-ba-do da-ba-da. Whack for the daddy-o,

  Whack for the daddy-o. There’s whiskey in the jar.

  Jimmy and Danny stopped and started, playing a musical game of hide-and-seek before handing it back to Frank who sang on without missing a beat.

  If anyone can aid me, ’tis my brother in the army,

  If I can find his station in Cork or in Killarney.

  And if he’ll go with me, we’ll go roaming in Kilkenny,

  And I’m sure he’ll treat me better than me own sweet, sporting Jenny.

  Mush-a-ring da-ba-do da-ba-da. Whack for the daddy-o,

  Whack for the daddy-o. There’s whiskey in the jar.

  “Now we’re going to take a break for a few minutes,” Frank announced when the crowd settled down again, “so we can get a few beers into us.”

  “And maybe some of that funny tobacco,” Jimmy added leaning across to share the same mic.

  “Don’t be talking like that in front of the people,” Frank reacted in fake shock. “Y’er not in one of your rock bands now. Irish musicians get drunk—not like the rest of them. It’s lucky for you that they banned corporal punishment in the schools.”

  “Where?”

  “In Ireland, ya dope.”

  The crowd loved the banter but Danny needed to relieve himself. “Fuck the pair of you’se; I’m goin’ for a piss.”

  “Well there you go, folks. The bass player is goin’ to get stoned, the wanker on the banjo is goin’ for a piss and we’ll all be back so don’t go anywhere.”

  *

  When Danny came out of the washroom, Billie was standing by the bar and acted like she was surprised to see him. He was unsure for a moment but walked over and stood beside her and ordered a beer.

  “Enjoying the show?”

  “I just walked in. I didn’t know you guys were here tonight.”

  “Do you come here often?”

  “Oh, Danny, that’s so corny, even for you.”

  “No, I meant it’s all the way out past High Park and you live in the east end.”

  “I moved. I’m not living with my parents anymore.”

  “That’s nice. And are you finished with school?” He wasn’t sure what else to say.

  He wasn’t even sure if he should be talking to her. Since Deirdre had moved over he often wondered about that. Frank and Jimmy were still pulling birds but not him; he and Deirdre were living together—almost married—and he had to behave himself.

  “Yeah, I got a job at the museum.”

  “That’s great.”

  “And you, how have you been?”

  “Are sure ya know yourself. Not much ever changes in my life.”

  “I heard your girlfriend moved over.”

  “She did, ya.”

  “And that’s not news?”

  “I just didn’t think it was the type of news you’d want to hear.”

  “You do think highly of yourself.”

  Danny might have blushed but there was something in the corner of Billie’s eye, something that contradicted her tone.

  “C’mon ya bollocks,” Frank nudged him as he headed back to the stage.

  “I gotta go . . . but it was nice seeing you again.”

  “Yes, Danny boy. It was.”

  *

  “We’re goin’ to start with a slow song,” Frank said as he quieted the crowd down again. “For all the poor Newfies that died on the Ocean Ranger. It’s a song called The Springhill Mining Disaster.”

  “Springhill is in Nova Scotia,” a drunk heckled from the back.

  “It doesn’t matter. They all died trying to earn a living, ya feckin’ eejit. Now shut up and listen to the song.”

  Jimmy began on the bass, sonorously, as Danny picked through the chords on the guitar and Frank added the whistle, high and ethereal, fluttering like the candles in the darkness of the caved-in mines. They played the song beautifully, even calming the drunken heckler and causing a few eyes to well up with tears. Even Billie was moved.

  “And now,” Frank roused them again when it was over, “we’re goin’ to play a song for the bollocks at the back because he had the decency to shut up.”

  Danny went back on banjo as Frank put on his guitar and found the chords, leading them into Farewell to Nova Scotia. They played it with wild abandon until everyone was up and clapping again.

  “It’s like they’re his puppets,” Jimmy muttered to Danny as Frank went on charming the asses off everyone all night.

  *

  “So how was the gig?” Deirdre had let him sleep late and had gone for the Saturday papers and coffee. She seemed to have settled in very quickly and liked the neighborhood because it was so central. She had managed to find a job in St. Mike’s, on the other side of Bay Street,
and often walked to and from work. She had come over at the end of the winter and had no idea how bad it could get.

  “It was all right. Frank and Jimmy said to say hello.”

  “That’s nice.” She smiled at him and picked up the paper and sorted it in the piles that she would read first and a pile she would leave on the coffee table to read during the week. She had made friends at the university and they liked to talk about books and stuff like that. She even went to the art gallery with a few of them. She had invited Danny but he couldn’t—the band was rehearsing that night.

  They would sit in Frank’s basement with a two-four and have a few hits. Then they would try to learn new stuff but, too often, they just got far too wasted. “We should do something by Moving Hearts,” Jimmy often enthused but they never got around to it. They were doing a bit of Planxty but it took Frank forever to learn the whistle parts. “It’s because it takes skill and precision,” Frank would explain. “It’s not like slapping on the bass and hoping that some fuckin’ sound comes out. And what the fuck are you laughin’ at?” he’d ask Danny. “Your banjo sounds like a hyena fartin’.”

  *

  “Listen,” Deirdre leaned toward him and put her hands on the table. “How would you feel about me going back to school over here?”

  Because he felt guilty about talking to Billie, Danny agreed without thinking, even though it meant he wouldn’t be able to quit his day job and go on tour with the band. They didn’t really have definite plans but it was something they were going to do, one of these days, when they got their shit together.