Wandering in Exile

by Peter Murphy

  “I was angry and glared at him but he just smiled and walked off. He came back the next morning and took me out for a coffee and I went because I had nowhere else to go. And we started doing that every morning.

  “He brought me back to meetings, too, but I just fell into my old habits, acting like everything was just fine because I couldn’t stand the idea of anybody feeling sorry for me. But Albert could see right through me. ‘Simon,’ he said to me one morning, ‘when your people came they took away everything we believed in, our lands, our way of life. Everything.’ He said it in such a soft understanding way. ‘But you could never take away the Great Spirit. It’s still here. It’s in all the good things in the world. It helped me to get sober and it will help you too.’

  “So for a while, when I tried to pray, I kept thinking of God in full head-dress.”

  *

  “What did you think of the speaker?” Frank prodded as they drove home.

  “Yeah. I’m still thinking about it.”

  “Can you imagine being a priest that doesn’t believe in God? That’s fucked, that’s what that is.”

  “Yeah. I wonder how he handled drinking the wine during the mass, ya know? Transubstantiation goes right out the fucking window.”

  “Fair play to him, though. He’s got his shit together now.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did you think of the stuff Albert said to him?”

  “I’m still trying to figure that out.”

  “Stop trying to think it, Boyle, and just feel it.”

  “Easy for you to say—you’re fucked in the head anyway.”

  “Then how come I’m sponsoring you?”

  “Because you’d only fuck it up without me.”

  “Fuck you, Boyle, ya ungrateful bollocks.”

  They laughed for a while but fell silent as they waited for the light to change at Queen and Sherbourne, across from the Canada House, as the former friends of Simon and Albert swayed and tottered back toward the mission before it shut.

  “You know I’m kidding?”

  “I hope you are.”

  “C’mon, Frank. I know what you’re doing for me, and I know I don’t deserve it, but thanks.”

  They were stopped again at Broadview, across from the strip joint, kitty corner to the Jamaican place.

  “I shouldn’t really be telling you this, only she’s pestering me.”

  “Who?”

  “Billie. I met her the other day.”

  “Ah, Billie. How’s she doing?”

  “Not so great. She just got out of rehab. Coke and booze.”

  “Is she going to come to meetings?”

  “Yeah. She said she’d be at the Welcome Group on Sunday night.”

  “We’ll have to go and see her.”

  “Just don’t forget: no sex for a year.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since ever. No emotional involvements for the first year. You heard them.”

  “A year? How the fuck are you supposed to do that?”

  “The three ‘M’s.”

  “What?”

  “Meetings, meetings and masturbation.” Frank smiled. He didn’t tell him that he had been talking with Deirdre too. Grainne was asking to see her father and Deirdre wasn’t sure.

  **

  “I think he’s ready. He’s been sober long enough. Not that I’m taking sides here, but it just might do him some good.”

  “Frank, I would never think that you were taking sides; you’ve been an angel through all of this.”

  “That’s me, Danny-fuck-up-Boyle’s own personal angel.”

  “Is he going to make it?”

  “One day at a time.”

  “It’s too late for me, Frank. I think he should know that.”

  “He does, Deirdre, but it’s not too late to go on being their father.”

  “Okay, Frank, but on one condition. You go with them.”

  “I was going anyway. I miss them more than he does.”

  ***

  As Danny slept as contented as he could be, separated from his wife and children but struggling to make some things right again, Anto sat on his bedside table.

  “You’re good,” Martin repeated. “You can go. Your clearance came through.”

  Anto didn’t look up. He was thinking about all the stuff Danny told him his granny used to say, about Danny being an angel. He didn’t look like one, snoring and slobbering into his pillow, but he looked at peace for the first time in years—almost the way he looked when they were kids. Anto had done his penance but he couldn’t help but feel that he still owed Danny a little more. “I can’t.”

  “Of course you can; you’ve cleaned your slate.”

  “I dunno, Martin. I’ve spent so much time with the stupid bollocks, I have to stick around to see how it all ends.”

  About the Author

  Peter Murphy was raised in Dublin, in a house full of books. After a few years studying life in Grogan’s, he wandered through the cities of Europe before setting out for Canada, for a while, and has been there ever since, raising a family. He is also the author of the novels Lagan Love and Born & Bred.

  Letter from the Author

  Wandering in Exile is the second part of the Life and Times trilogy and is a book I particularly enjoyed working on. It is the continuing story of Danny Boyle, fresh from his adventures in Born & Bred and now making a new life for himself in Canada.

  What made it so enjoyable was that I got to write about that period in life that is probably the most stressful and yet rewarding—starting a family. Those who survive it remember it for when our kids were small and everything filled them with wonder—and everything they did filled us equally. But it was also a time of rush and dash. When my own kids were starting out, I drove them to daycare each morning before commuting across the city. And, at the end of the day, I had to hurry back through rush hour traffic to pick them up again.

  In remembering it all, I have to be honest—sometimes the mornings could be very difficult. Neither of my sons were morning children and the younger one always had to be coaxed. For months, dropping them off was made more difficult by his teary outbursts. Compounding the matter was the fact that he was equally as teary when it was time to leave. But there were good times too. Listening to all that happened during their day often made the drive home seem far too short. I wanted Danny Boyle to have some of those experiences because they are some of the most essential parts of this journey into the unknown that we call life.

  Wandering in Exile spans twenty years and that allowed for the evolution of the characters through the next stages of their lives. That was another thing I liked about writing this book. Sometimes the developments surprised even me and all at times it was exciting. In planning the book, I had a very clear idea where the characters needed to be by the end of it, but I left the paths up to them. That might sound a little strange but I would hesitate to call myself the author of the story. I felt more like a chronicler of the lives and times of a very eclectic group of people. Sure, some of them can be a bit self-absorbed, or like Danny, very troubled, but we all have people like that in our lives.

  At the time of writing this, the last book All Roads . . . is with my editor and assuming he doesn’t request a total rewrite; it should be heading out into the world sometime next year.

  In the meantime, I hope you enjoy Wandering in Exile. Feel free to drop by my Facebook page and share your thoughts with me and others. I sincerely hope that the book, like life itself, will give you reason to stop and savor some of this wonderful journey we’re all on. Enjoy as much of it as you possibly can because, as I have begun to realize, it flies by.

  Peter Murphy

  Toronto, August 2014

  More from the Author - Lagan Love

  Author’s Note: In this scene Janice and Aidan have gone drinking after spending the day walking through the streets of Dublin. Janice, who had come to Dublin to become a painter, and who’s initial attraction to Aidan had been
because of his status as a poet, was beginning to find reasons to let herself fall in love with him. Aidan . . . Well Aidan has his own reasons.

  If you know something about passion, and desire, and giving everything to live your dreams then leave your world behind for a while. Come with Janice to Dublin, in the mid nineteen-eighties when a better future beckoned and the past was restless, whispering in the shadows for the Old Ways. Janice has grown tired of her sheltered existence in Toronto and when Aidan leads her through the veils of the Celtic Twilight, she doesn’t hesitate. In their love, Aidan, Dublin’s rising poet, sees a chance for redemption and Janice sees a chance for recognition. Sinead tells her that it is all nonsense as she keeps her head down and her eyes fixed on her own prize – a place in Ireland’s prospering future. She used to go out with Aidan, before he met Janice, so there is little she can say. And besides, she has enough to do as her parents are torn apart by the rumours of church scandals. But after a few nights in Grogan’s, where Dublin’s bohemians gather, or a day in Clonmacnoise among the ruins of Celtic Crosses, it won’t matter as the ghosts of Aidan’s mythologies take form and prey on the friends until everything is at risk. Lagan Love is a sensuous story of Love, Lust and Loss that will bring into question the cost we pay for our dreams.

  They huddled together as the crowd reeled around them. The night was getting blurred as voices mingled with the dense smoke. She was beginning to believe, as the man she read about in the Times smiled and encouraged her, that she could become an artist.

  “People are sheep an’ they flock an’ follow anything. But artists trust in Fate an’ understand that even their own lives must come second.” He looked pensive for a moment and then smiled at her again. “But we know it’s worth it.”

  “We?” She casually brushed the back of his hand.

  He smiled but didn’t look at her face. “Sure of course. You just need to meet the right people, ya know?”

  “And where would I meet them?” She sat a little straighter, pushing her breasts out between them. He smiled again and looked into her eyes. “Don’t worry about that, I know everybody who’s anybody.”

  They left the bar wrapped in a cocoon that was impervious to doubts and the jealous whispers of the begrudging streets. They were free to follow as Fate beckoned and they were warm together, hips bumping as they walked.

  “So? What’s the story with the guy in Canada?” It might have been impertinent if they weren’t so entwined, if she was still in love with Robert.

  “Robert and I are over. I thought I had mentioned it.” She paused to tilt her head, leaning in front of him for effect so her hair would fall across her face, but the cobblestones were damp and her shoes were hard, and she was a little drunk.

  “No.” He caught her and helped her steady herself. “I think I would’ve remembered that.”

  “But you came to see me anyway?”

  “Ah now, I’s just bein’ friendly.”

  “Is that what you’re being?”

  “Well, it was at first. Only now it’s somethin’ else?”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Listen, Janice, I don’t want to say the wrong thing or anythin’ like that, but I really like you. I get this feelin’ when I’m around you that I’ve never felt before.”

  “Oh and what would that be?”

  “I don’t know an’ I don’t want to fuck it up by doin’ or sayin’ the wrong thing. I have a feelin’ about you. I think that you’re goin’ somewhere big, I can see it, an’ I want to get to know you before you leave.” He was much closer now, waiting on a sign. “Unless you don’t think it would be right.”

  “Wow, Aidan. That almost sounded like you were sharing your feelings.”

  The lights of passing cars flashed in his eyes, and his breathing was more deliberate. “I do have feelin’s an’ I do express them. People like my feelin’s. People even buy an’ read them.”

  He was right; she had been glib so she snuggled in under his arm. “I know, Aidan, and I know the courage it takes to do that, to put everything out there in front of everybody.”

  “Ah sure, it’s not that big a deal. What you do is much harder. You deal with details. I just evoke images, but you actually go to the bother of layin’ them out. I could never do that.”

  “If I didn’t know better . . .” She never got to finish. He leaned in and gently touched his lips to hers. It was barely a flutter, but it caused her to tremble. She wasn’t so subtle and kissed him with the passion of loneliness. “And you? Surely, you are seeing someone?”

  “No, I’m not.” He almost hesitated. “I’m single an’ gettin’ over a broken heart. My last girlfriend walked out on me. I guess I was too common or somethin’.”

  “I find that very hard to believe. Are you telling me there is no mysterious lady somewhere in your life?”

  “Well, here you are then. I suppose I should say goodnight to you now?”

  They lingered in awkward silence, each waiting on a sign from the other as their breath mingled in the cool space between them. His lips were full and trembled and his voice was husky. His breath was warm against her face. He pressed against her and, as his lips parted, hers did, too. A soft moan escaped from her emptiness. She felt betrayed but opened the door and tilted her head to one side, masking shyness. “So? Would you like to come in?”

  He nodded and followed, still holding hands as she closed the door with her heel. In the cold darkness of her room, streetlights fell like mystical pools. He crossed his arms in front of her and wrapped her in warmth that she had missed. She wanted more and nothing more.

  They swayed for a while, tingling at each other’s touch. His lips traced her ear and down her neck to her shoulder that was bared: her sweater had slipped or had been pulled. She arched back as he pushed forward and, without letting go, walked into her bedroom.

  “You’re being very brazen.” Janice said trying to straighten her clothes and her hair.

  “I am,” he agreed, “but I don’t have much choice. You’re after makin’ me fall in love with ya.”

  “That might work on Irish girls but . . .”

  He pinned her arms to her sides, drawing her closer to his face. “Can I take ya to your bed?”

  A thousand words buzzed, words like ‘modesty’ and ‘propriety.’ Words her mother would have used, but they were drowned out by words like ‘passion’ and ‘pleasure.’ She might have hesitated and drawn back. The old Janice would but that was before the night visitor came. She’d been alone too many nights listening to her neighbours making sounds that made her cry. She wanted abandon even for a few hours without question of moral or right. The old Janice would’ve wanted indication that this would be meaningful. She wouldn’t give herself cheaply.

  But that was the old Janice who’d sat alone while life went without her. That Janice would grow cold and withered, shriveled and wrinkled in her dull little room, surrounded by paintings of places and things she never dared to be part of. The new Janice would reach out and take what life offered. The new Janice threw her arms around him.

  Born & Bred

  Author’s note: The following is the scene where Danny goes to visit his mother in the asylum. It was the day of his Confirmation and should have been a happy day but for Danny, the shadows of the past were never far away.

  Danny Boyle was a born angel.

  At least that’s what his granny used to say, and she should know – she raised him after his parents proved incapable. When she becomes ill, Danny is reunited with his parents but they do not get to live happily ever after, as the ghosts of the past haunt their days. And when the old woman dies, all of her secrets come to light and shatter everything Danny believes in.

  In the turmoil of 1970’s Ireland, an alienated Danny gets into drugs and is involved in a gangland killing. Duped by the killers into leaving his prints on the gun, Danny needs all the help his friends and family can muster. Calling in favors from bishops and priests, police and paramilitaries, God
and the devil, the living and the dead, they do all that they can. But even that might not be enough.

  Born & Bred is the first novel in the Life & Times Trilogy, a cycle of three novels that will chart the course of one star-crossed life. It is a work of vibrant imagination from a poetic novelist of the first order.

  “He gave the little wealth he had,” they used to chant in unison as they approached the front door, almost skipping along the path.

  To build a house for fools and mad

  And showed by one satiric touch

  No Nation wanted it so much

  That Kingdom he hath left his debtor

  I wish it soon may have a better.

  Granny had taught him that verse when they first started to visit, when Danny was very young. It made it all a bit more normal and she always said that she loved to hear him laugh and sing. “The great Dean Swift left the money to build it when he died,” she had explained. She had given Danny a copy of Gulliver’s Travels, too. Sometimes he brought it with him and pretended to read while his mother and his granny stared at each in stony silence only broken now and then by banalities.

  “Oh, Danny, pet! I thought you’d get here much earlier.” His mother was agitated and lit another cigarette from the lipstick stained butt of the last. “I was even starting to think that you might have fallen under a bus or something.” She wore a skirt and blouse and had her hair brushed out. And she wore makeup. Usually she just wore her worn out robe with curlers in her hair. “But I’m so glad that you’re finally here. Come here to me,” she beckoned, “so that I can hug the life out of you.”

  Danny waited for his granny’s nod of approval before nestling into his mother’s arms, feeling her cold cheek against his, and the soft warmth of her tears. He wanted to say something that would make her happy but he was unsure. His granny told him he had to be polite to his mother but she didn’t want him to get too close—for his own sake. She told him that his poor mother was not well, God love her, and that she couldn’t be a real mother to him right now.