Wandering in Exile

by Peter Murphy

  “Of course she’s all right. She just got off the plane and she’s worn out. She’ll be fine as soon as we get home. Maybe you should overtake them and we can get on home before them.”

  “You’re right there, missus.” He accelerated and swung around the Boyle’s car, waving at his grandson as he passed.

  “So have you set your scheme in motion?” Deirdre’s mother seemed a little indignant.

  “Don’t be calling it that. We’re family now and I’m just going to ask him for a favor. He can say ‘no’ if he likes.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll find a way of making that very hard for him.”

  “You don’t think very highly of me, anymore?”

  And in the silence that followed, Deirdre began to feel a little sorry for him, despite everything.

  *

  “Will you look at Sterling Moss—it would kill him to have to follow us.”

  “They’re probably just going ahead to get things ready, Ma.”

  “And you know,” Jerry winked over his shoulder. “We could have a quick stop along the way and give them a bit more time.”

  Danny was about to disagree. Deirdre had warned him—there were to be no stops along the way. Her mother had timed the dinner and she wouldn’t want it spoiled. But before he could, Jacinta agreed. “I need a drink before I have to spend the evening with that man. He has a face like a bad-tempered horse.”

  “Ma.” Danny nodded furiously towards Martin, who was busy making long faces with Jerry.

  “Well, it’s settled then.” He patted his grandson on the shoulder. “And you’re going to have the greatest crisps in the world.”

  “What are crisps?”

  “Don’t you have those over there?”

  “We call them potato chips.” Danny tried to lean forward between them.

  “Well here, we call them Tatyos.” Jerry rested his arm on the back of his grandson’s seat. “God’s only effort to recompense the Irish. That and the best pints of porter.”

  “Da?” Danny groaned.

  “What?”

  “Deirdre doesn’t want him hearing stuff like that.”

  “What? The Tatyos or the pints of porter?”

  “Pints of porter,” Martin repeated into the silence that followed.

  “He takes after his grandfather, all right,” Jacinta sniffed. “A great man for the pints and not much else.”

  “Ah, Jass. Don’t be talking like that. You’re beginning to sound like Old Horseface.”

  “Horse face. Horse face.”

  “Jazus. Deirdre’s going to kill me.”

  “Well you may as well have a pint before she does.”

  “Pints of porter,” little Martin laughed as his grandfather carried him inside.

  *

  “I hope they are not going to be much longer. The dinner will be ruined.” Anne Fallon was agitated but didn’t want to let it show.

  “Well it serves them right.” Deirdre had no such reservations. “If they have gone drinking . . .”

  “Sure they wouldn’t? Not with the child?”

  “And why wouldn’t they,” Dermot Fallon asked as he stood in the doorway. “Didn’t Danny get raised in a pub?”

  “Stop that now, you. You know that’s not true.”

  “I was only joking.”

  “Well it didn’t sound like it.”

  Deirdre checked her watch again. It was three quarters past—five hours later than it said. She had forgotten to reset it on the plane. They had told the Boyles the dinner would be ready at half-past and Danny had promised to make sure they would be there on time. But she wasn’t surprised. Nor did she really care that much anymore. She was just far too tired. She’d deal with it all after she just got to sleep for a while. Even if only for a few hours.

  *

  “They’re coming now,” Dermot Fallon called from his position by the curtains.

  He had slipped Jerry a few quid for the carry-out. They had wine in for the dinner, but he wanted to have some whiskey for later—when he and Jerry might want to have their little chat. He wanted to intercept it, too, in case his wife got to it first and put it away. “I’m sure they only stopped to pick up some flowers or something.”

  “You’re being very understanding.”

  “Ah sure, we may as well all try getting along—for the children’s sake if nothing else.”

  *

  “Ah, now Mrs. Fallon. You shouldn’t have gone to all this bother.”

  “It’s no bother at all, Mrs. Boyle. It’s the least I could do for our Canadians.”

  “Here,” Dermot nudged Jerry. “Try this wine. I hear it’s very good.” He poured a couple of full glasses and waited for Jerry to sample his.

  “Jazus, that’s not bad at all.” Jerry sipped and sipped some more before Jacinta poked at him with her elbow.

  “And yourself, Mrs. Boyle. Would you like a glass?”

  “Well, I’m not a great one for drinking but . . . go on then. It’s not every day we have our children home with us.”

  Deirdre and Danny exchanged glances but said nothing. They had packed the kids off to bed and were anxious to follow them, but it was too early. They both wanted to make it as late as they could—to get over the jet lag.

  “Here’s,” Dermot raised his glass, “to Deirdre and Danny. You’re very welcome home.”

  “And to little Martin,” Jerry added, and drank some more.

  “And little Grainne, too,” Dermot agreed, and topped them up again.

  “Jesus,” Jacinta whispered to Danny. “Your father would drink with Judas.”

  “Is everything all right, Mrs. Boyle?” Mrs. Fallon asked from across the table.

  “Grand, thanks for asking. I was just saying to Danny that this is the nicest meal I’ve had in ages.”

  “Oh, that’s so nice of you. I was just saying to Deirdre how nice it was to have the two families together again. We should make plans to spend time together while Deirdre and little Grainne are here. Just us girls.”

  “Well in that case, Jerry and me will have to plan something for the boys. When we’ve finished the dinner, we’ll go out and have a smoke and talk about it.”

  “Right enough,” Jerry agreed as Dermot drained his glass and poured some more. And when they were done eating and had tidied things away, Jerry and Dermot exchanged glances. “C’mon. Let’s have an old smoke for ourselves.”

  They sidled out in their conspiracy, but Danny stayed. “I’m getting very tired,” he nodded at Deirdre. “Maybe we should go to bed.”

  He timed it perfectly. Dermot was heading out with Jerry and couldn’t object about his daughter sleeping with him without being married—even if he was the father of her children. And Jacinta couldn’t complain about him staying with the Fallons now that Jerry and Dermot were about to make a night of it.

  “Yes,” Deirdre agreed, and stretched out a yawn. “Please excuse us but we are worn out.”

  “Of course you are, dears,” Anne Fallon said to smooth any ruffled feathers. “Go on and get some sleep and don’t worry. If the children wake up early, I’ll be happy to mind them for you.”

  “Good night, Mam, and thanks for everything. Good night, Mrs. Boyle.”

  “Good night,” Danny added and followed Deirdre upstairs. They checked in on the kids before tumbling into bed.

  “What do you think our fathers are talking about?”

  “Fucked if I know. Maybe they’re trying to figure out the dowry.”

  “Danny. You have become very coarse since we got here. I hope you are not going to be like that in front of Martin.”

  “He wouldn’t even notice with my father around, buying him everything.”

  “You’re not jealous, are you?”

  “Fuck, no. I’m just tired.”

  *

  By the end of the second week, they had done it all. They had been to the zoo twice and to the beach three times—Dollymount, Donabate and Sandycove. It rained a little each time but they h
ad fun and little Martin got to bury his grandfathers in sand. They went up into the mountains, too, to Glendalough, where they all posed for pictures in among the ruins. They stopped at the Hell Fire Club on the way back and Jerry told Martin about how the devil himself used to show up.

  “Don’t be filling his little head with all that nonsense,” Jacinta chided but Dermot went along with Jerry. “He should know a bit about his own people, and who better to tell him than his two grandfathers.”

  “Those two have become very chummy,” Anne offered in commiseration when she and Jacinta were left alone.

  “Should we be worried?”

  “Ah, no. If your Jerry is anything like my Dermot, it’s nothing but blather.” The two women linked arms and headed back down toward the car while Danny stood on the hill overlooking the city and tried to avoid looking over at Cruagh Wood.

  *

  “Do you ever think we’ll get like that?” Deirdre asked as she gently stroked his arm. Despite everything, she had begun to enjoy herself, particularly when her mother and Jacinta took Grainne for hours at a time. Between them all, they had managed to wean her and get her to sleep through the night. Deirdre hadn’t felt better in years.

  “Like what?” Danny asked like he hadn’t heard.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Me? I’m fine. I was just thinking, that’s all.”

  “Did you ever find out what the old men were plotting the other night?”

  “No. I haven’t really given it another thought, to be honest with you.”

  “Well, my mother says that my father is thinking of running for the council, but he wants your father to back him.”

  “That makes sense; they always say that politics makes strange bedfellows.”

  “But why would your father go along with it? It’s not like they really like each other.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe having a councilor around could come in very handy for my father’s business.”

  “You don’t think . . .?”

  “Sure why not. Everybody in this country is on the fiddle. They may as well get in on the act.”

  “Danny,” she looked up into his eyes. “You are a lot more cynical over here. Did you know that?”

  “It must be the air up here,” he sighed and shook his head. “It never agreed with me.”

  *

  “Will it be hard for you when they go back?” Anne asked Jacinta as they strolled arm in arm.

  “Ah, sure you know yourself, but it’s a mother’s job to grieve.”

  Anne Fallon didn’t look at her. Jacinta was always a bit dark—having been away in the hospital all those years. “But it will be nice for them to get on with their lives too. Dermot and I were thinking of going over for a visit one of these years.”

  “Do you think they’ll still be there—in a few years? Maybe coming home and seeing how good things are here might change their minds.”

  Anne Fallon didn’t correct her. Things might be going well for her and Jerry, but the rest of the country was suffering. Deirdre and Danny were well out of it. “I think they are settled now. It would be a shame to uproot the children. Not that I wouldn’t like to have them closer, but it’s a much smaller world than it used to be.”

  “Well that’s fine for you, but not a day goes by but I don’t miss my Danny.”

  *

  On the night before they left, they all gathered in the Yellow House, except Anne, who was more than happy to stay home with the children. They promised they wouldn’t make it a late night and she was going to serve some sandwiches and pastries when they got home, to make their last night special.

  Danny and Deirdre were holidayed-out and ready to go back. They had done all of their shopping, too, buying Guinness golf shirts for Danny and Martin, Irish linen tea towels for around the house, a few kilted outfits for Grainne and a gold Claddagh ring for Deirdre. Danny had surprised her with it—to make up for reverting back into the coarse bollocks he used to be.

  Deirdre was happy. Spending time with her mother had brought everything into focus again and Grainne was so much easier to get along with. “She just gets upset when she feels you get tense,” her mother had patiently explained. “It’s one of the things you have to learn.”

  She didn’t mind when her mother spoke to her like that. She knew she only meant well.

  She was looking forward to spending more time with Martin too. She had hardly gotten to hold him since they came over—his two grandfathers were always tugging him one way or the other. Her own father seemed to have warmed to him and even took him on his knee to tell him stories and didn’t even get upset when little Martin told him that Granddad Jerry had already told him that one.

  “So Deirdre,” Jacinta asked as they sat alone while the men drank at the bar. Deirdre didn’t mind, her father and Danny were getting along so well. “What would you think about moving back?”

  Deirdre didn’t even mind her asking but was careful to step around it. “Well, we’d have to wait a bit. Grainne is still a bit young for flying. Maybe Danny and I will talk about it and consider it in a few years.”

  She had no intention of ever considering it but she wasn’t going to say that.

  “Don’t leave it too long. You don’t want them to grow up Canadian, do you?”

  Deirdre did but she just smiled. “We’ll talk about it once we get settled again, and we’ll let you know.”

  “That’ll be grand. That gives me something to look forward to.”

  *

  By the end of the night, the men were singing and insisted on getting a carry-out to keep the night going. Dermot insisted on paying for it too. Jerry didn’t argue, as he was getting drunk and was a bit maudlin. “I got to tell you, son,” he said, putting his arm around Danny’s neck, “I’m so proud of you.”

  “And why wouldn’t you be.” Dermot draped himself on the other side. “Hasn’t he turned out to be a better man than either of us?”

  Danny was about to laugh along with them when he noticed Mrs. Flanagan sitting in the corner. She nodded to him and raised her glass. Danny nodded back and turned away, coming face to face with his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

  12

  1988

  Patrick Reilly had been more than happy to get back to Rome. He hadn’t realized how much it had changed him until he went back to Ireland for his father’s funeral. He had missed the sun and the warmth as he led the funeral to the cold windy place where his father would once again lie with his mother.

  The old man had died without warning, so Patrick never got to say goodbye to him. But he wasn’t too troubled by that; he and his father had long been at peace with each other.

  After the funeral, Patrick went through the last of the old man’s belongings. His father had never been the nostalgic type and had rid himself of most of his worldly possessions long before death came for him. He had, however, kept two photographs: his wedding picture, in which he stood with Patrick’s mother, who looked like a young girl, and one of Patrick the day he had been ordained. Patrick had taken them and packed them carefully between his travelling clothes along with his father’s pipe—an old polished briarwood that smelled of fond memories. And, as he turned around one last time in his mother’s kitchen, he saw his father’s cap hanging on the back of the door. He folded it and pushed it into the pocket of his raincoat and stepped outside. The meadows, that had long been his family’s, were fresh and green as the rain billowed down from the hills. Other men’s cattle grazed in total indifference as the last Reilly left the valley forever.

  When he got back to Trastevere, Patrick placed the photographs on his dresser and put the cap and pipe on the little side table where he kept whichever book he was reading. It suited his room, giving it a more studious feel, and he had to smile at that. His father’s death was not really a sad thing. His father had always been a good man and could be assured his place in the better world, but it did mean that Patrick’s last real connection with home was
gone. He didn’t feel sad about that either. A good priest was used to standing alone and apart from life. And it made him feel more like one of the fishermen who had left the trappings of the world behind to walk in the footsteps of the Lord.

  In Rome he was free to be alone and apart, unencumbered by human ties, answerable only to himself. He taught at the college with academic dispassion and was becoming celebrated for the clarity he offered his students. Colleagues, too, had begun to seek him out for advice and reassurance.

  Patrick gave freely from the growing depth of his own wisdom. He was becoming the priest he had always wanted to be, and when he looked back at what he had once been, the fumbling curate, it was as if he was looking at the life of another man.

  He still kept in touch with Joe, writing once a month or so, but that too had changed. He was now advising Joe, whose life seemed to have become impossibly confused. Only Joe didn’t seem to notice and still addressed Patrick like a younger brother. Patrick didn’t mind. He understood. The more Joe’s life grew hectic, the more he needed to think he was in control.

  The morning after he got back from Ireland, Patrick made his pilgrimage to the Pantheon. He liked to pray there, imagining his prayers went through the hole in the roof and straight to God’s ear. He didn’t pray for himself—he prayed for everyone else that they too might find peaceful purpose in times that were growing more and more conflicted.

  He also liked to take some time to think about his uncle when he was there. He still hadn’t opened the un-posted letters to Benedetta that Mrs. Mawhinney had given him, but the package also contained the musings and diaries of a far-more complicated man than Patrick had ever known. A man who had loved the Pantheon, too, and his writings made so many references to the place, and that he had often spent time there contemplating the absurdity of just one God.