by David Park
‘Never do what is expected of you,’ she says. ‘You should know that about me by now.’
Inside the doors they take a few seconds to compose themselves and wait for their cue. The church is packed and already heads are turning to catch a glimpse of the bride. He feels nervous in a way that is unfamiliar to him and surprises him when he thinks of the rooms he has entered, the hands he has shaken. The light is flecked with dust and in the aisle ahead coloured by the stained glass. This is the walk he has not wanted to make, the one his imagination has enacted too many times, but now everything seeps away except a focus on what he must do and it suddenly feels like a high wire that he must walk without stumbling or looking down. If he is to look down or turn his head to one side or the other then surely he will fall, hurtle into the darkness below. Her arm snuggles in his, they take the first step and he has to shuffle to synchronise with her, then they are in step and the music is playing. Not too quickly, keep it slow – don’t race her is what Marie told him – so he tries to measure their pace to the music.
It feels as if she is leading him, leading him the way she always did when she wanted him to come and admire something she was proud of, and he wonders why it always took that compulsion, the press of her hand in his back or the tug at the cuff of his sleeve. Then the moment comes when he has to give her over and he hesitates for a second and as her arm slips out of his it feels like the untying of a knot and he knows she is gone like some small boat unmooring and setting out to sea. He tries to think of himself as the harbour but cannot hold the momentary comfort the image brings because he knows that he was never the provider of safety but rather the person who put her at risk, the father who always put her needs second to what he saw as the bigger needs of the cause. He punishes himself with the assertion that Justin, even Justin, deserves her more than he does so let him not hesitate now, or be begrudging in his giving, and as he takes his seat in the pew he silently promises himself that he will atone for the past through the love and time he will give to her child.
As Father Hagan begins the ceremony he tells himself that he will do what all the rest have done and buy himself somewhere in the west of Ireland, maybe even in the Gaeltacht, and that Christine and the child will come over every summer and spend a long time with them. So as Father Hagan intones in a voice that sounds even more surly than normal, he lets his mind flood with images of white strands where seas embrace the outstretched arms of the shore and there are castles to be built and kites to be flown. If it comes to it he will even play cricket before the bat gradually gets replaced by a hurley stick. Marie whispers to him that Father Hagan’s nose is out because Christine has devised her own order of service and insisted on having her own ideas. So now after one of her friends finishes reading a passage from the Song of Solomon, Hagan greets it by remarking on its beauty but then informs them that Solomon had seven hundred wives and three hundred concubines. Someone sniggers but in the face of the priest’s stern gaze it quickly fades into silence. Gilroy focuses again on a child playing on a beach, this time slightly at a distance from him, silhouetted against the sea, and then he calls and the child comes running, his feet splashing up little squirms of sand. So while Father Hagan rambles on about the sanctity of marriage and itemises the responsibilities involved as if to put off anyone else who might be thinking about it, there’s a warm smile on his face as if by blowing sparks from the ashes of a fire he’s able to flame the images into life.
The ceremony is over. Now another man walks her down the aisle. Walks her away from them so they have to angle their heads to follow their path and all eyes are on the couple and for the first time no one is looking at him. Marie squeezes his hand and dabs her eyes with a paper tissue and he is a little shocked that she should almost cry when she’s a woman who never lets the world see her without her face on. He pats her twice on the shoulder and then feels the inadequacy of the gesture, thinks that it’s a hopelessly meagre thing to give to a woman who has supported him with everything she possesses and never blamed him, so he touches the nape of her neck but she drops the tissue into her bag and tells him to watch her hat. He lets his hand fall again and then they’re standing up and making their way down the aisle and people at the end of the pews reach out to shake his hand or slap him on the back. He begins to think about his speech but when he pats his pocket there’s only an emptiness and he realises that he’s left it on the kitchen table but the realisation brings no sense of panic. There would be time for Sweeney to call and collect it before he has to deliver it but he decides to leave it where it is. It was no good anyway, it was not what he wanted to say: full of platitudes and cliches, it was someone else’s voice. And on this day he should speak in his own voice and he should speak from the heart so let it be different from all the times he rises to present a speech. Let him speak simply and sincerely, let him speak truly without artifice or guile, let him not have to talk with the purpose only of saying nothing that has not been said before. So no codes and no set phrases, no old familiar refrains that get sung by rote. Today he will make a speech that will touch the hearts of all who hear it and it will be a delicate thing that will rise up on the lightest of wings like that child’s kite on the beach and it will hover over his only daughter wherever she might go in the world and she will always be able to call it to mind. So as he walks into the sudden bright frieze of light that frames the entrance of the church he blinks at first and then puts all thoughts of the speech out of his mind because he knows that when he needs it, it will come as complete and fresh as the sea-salted air.
The confetti fountains sideways in the wind, mostly landing on the throwers. Some of it flutters skywards above everyone’s head before swirling back to land. The couple are caught in a cat’s cradle of outstretched hands that rise up to throw the coloured snow across their path and by the laughter that breaks boldly free of the solemnity of the church. The feathers in Marie’s hat flutter and threaten to take flight until she grounds them with her hand. Then it’s into the cars and on to the reception which is to take place in a hotel on the outskirts of the city and as he sits with Marie she picks flecks of confetti off his jacket, then checks her make-up in a little mirror she carries in her bag.
As they sweep into the grounds of the hotel he’s pleased to see that they have people already there, pleased too that Sweeney has succeeded in getting them to blend in and look discreet. Even on this day nothing is to be taken for granted or left to chance. Marty is stationed at the front door of the hotel and even Micky standing at his shoulder looks suitably sober and alert.
‘Everything OK?’ he asks.
‘No problems,’ Marty says as he opens the door for them. ‘Everything looks good.’
‘Come in to the disco later on,’ Marie says. ‘And there’ll be some supper served so you can grab some of that.’
‘Disco?’ Gilroy asks.
‘Disco,’ she says. ‘After the meal is over all her own-age and casual friends come – it’s what happens. We can pass ourselves for a while then disappear into the night. Though I think we should have booked a room in the hotel – it would have made more sense.’
‘Too many problems with security,’ he says, glad that when it’s all over he will sleep in his own bed.
He endures the endless permutations of photographs which seem to put the meal interminably on hold. When finally they are summoned to the table Father Hagan seems determined to assert his authority and treats them as if they are know-nothings about the necessary processes and rituals. However, he lightens his tone and as he stands up to launch proceedings after the meal even digresses into a joke that involves a cowboy and his new bride and which spins on a series of incidents where the cowboy is let down in various ways and responds each time by saying, ‘I’ve warned you once, I’ve warned you twice,’ and then shooting the offender. It culminates in the wife dropping a series of plates and the same punchline left hanging in the air. Everyone laughs but Gilroy winces and thinks it inappropriate.. He winces again
through the best man’s speech which is delivered in an accent that grates against his ears and which he sees provokes embarrassed smiles in the audience. He pretends to laugh at the tales of his prospective son-in-law’s career disasters and youthful japes and sits rigid in anticipation of potential slights when Justin’s father rises to speak but he’s only on his feet a matter of a few minutes and sounds sincere in what he says. The applause is generous and as it fades away he know this is his moment so he pauses a second before he rises.
He greets everyone in Irish and then reverts to English, trying to strike a physical pose that suggests a relaxed confidence but already his hand is nervously patting the pocket of his suit in a final confirmation of the speech’s absence. He is conscious, too, of the video camera that is pointed at him so he straightens his back and lifts his head high. Trust his own voice, that is what he must do now, but it feels as if he’s standing at the edge of deep water and as he stares at its hidden depths he is uncertain of whether he will sink or swim. But as he looks at the room of upturned faces he knows there can be no further hesitation so he strikes out for the far shore and tries to make bold strokes that will carry him to what he wants to say.
‘I’d like to welcome you all here today. It’s good to see so many old faces and none getting older more quickly than my own. Good, too, to see new friends and I’d particularly like to welcome Justin’s mother and father, Kyle and Elizabeth. I’d like to thank Kyle for his generous welcome into his family of my daughter Christine. I’d also like to thank Justin for finally taking this girl off my hands and I salute his bravery and know that he will take good care of her as they build a new life in London. When Christine first told me that she was going out with someone in advertising my first thought was that she was romantically engaged with someone who posted those giant ads you see all over town. But I’ve got to know Justin a little bit better – he always calls me Franky as if he’s known me all his life and tries to tell me that cricket is the greatest sport in the world. Now, Justin, there are a lot of things you could say about cricket but I don’t think you’re ever going to convert me; in fact I read somewhere that someone once said cricket was invented to give the English, who are essentially an irreligious people, a sense of eternity. It certainly lasts a long time but it’s hardly going to catch on in Ireland if you can’t play it when it rains.’
He pauses and takes a sip of water. Everything seems to be going well. They have laughed politely at his jokes and the vibes from Marie beside him are positive.
‘Now at this point I should say something about Christine, but where to start? As you know Christine is our youngest child. Maybe she got spoilt because of this or maybe we were just too worn out to look after her properly but whatever the reason I can honestly say that Christine turned out to be entirely unique. Whether this was a good thing or a bad thing I will leave it to others to judge. And I’m just going to pause a moment here to ask Father Hagan to convey the family’s apologies for all the heartache she caused the Sisters at school, particularly that unfortunate business about the uniform.’ He waits until the laughter subsides. ‘She always had a bit of a rebel heart – no idea where she got it from. But when all is said and done Christine has been blessed with the very best of hearts because she has survived everything the world has thrown at her, held her head high and never lost sight of what is important in life. She’s always been true to herself and what she believes and she’s always championed fair play, always spoken out against injustice. So today I want to tell you, Christine, that your father and mother are very proud of you and know that whatever you choose to do in life you will make a big success of it. I also want to say a genuine sorry for all the times when it was not possible for me to be there for you. I hope in time that you will be able to understand that this was not by choice but by necessity and come to believe that the sacrifices we all made will finally be fully rewarded.’
He wants to say that she will be a great mother but knows he cannot and the thought of the coming child makes him stumble a little so he disguises it by taking another sip of water.
‘I’m not a man to stand between people and their entertainment so there are only a few more things I want to say, so I know you’ll bear with me just a few moments longer. Marriage has got to be considered an old-fashioned thing in some quarters but I believe it to be the best and most important institution in society and at the very heart of the Irish nation. And if we are to be a great nation in the future we need to find a new respect for the marriage vows. Too many people say their vows and then when the first problems arise they forget that they have taken each other for better or worse. A good marriage has to be worked at and it would be remiss of me now if I was not to pay tribute to Marie who has stood loyal at my side through the good times and the bad, who has never wavered in her support. No man could have a better wife and my hope today for Christine and Justin is that they, too, will find in their marriage some of the same happiness that I have found in mine.’
He glances at Marie who does not return his look but stares at the tablecloth in front of her. At the back of the room waitresses are starting to move about. Light suddenly burnishes in a raised glass.
‘We are building a new future for our children and perhaps this marriage which spans two nations is a symbol of this new understanding. So let us raise our glasses now to the bride and groom and drink a toast to them and the future.’
Glasses blossom up like bouquets of white roses and voices join in the toast. He has almost made it to the shore but still there’s something he wants to say, something that he doesn’t totally understand but which feels that it carries the demands and weight of the profound. It’s something to do with beauty, something to do with what he glimpses inside himself but doesn’t fully grasp. He knows that he cannot let the moment slip away, that he has to try.
‘As you no doubt know I now serve you as Minister for Children and Culture. As, too, you no doubt know, I have been labelled “the Lemonade Man– by local wags.’ This gets a raucous, good-humoured laugh that momentarily threatens to knock him off balance. ‘I don’t know about lemonade but it has meant that I have had the opportunity to read some more books than I’ve previously been able to. And I’ve been reading a bit of poetry recently.’ He pauses to listen suspiciously for more laughter but none comes and he tries to keep going. ‘Now no country has better poets than Ireland but it’s been an English poet called Philip Larkin that I’ve been reading and Larkin wrote a poem called “The Whitsun Weddings” about all these marriages taking place on the same day and by chance they’re all on the same train heading towards London. Now unless they’ve built a tunnel that I don’t know about Christine and Justin won’t be taking a train to London but it’s where they’re heading, so it feels appropriate almost that the poem includes them,’ God, he’s out of his depth, doesn’t know where he’s going, and as he starts to flounder he berates himself for not stopping when he was ahead of the game and just how does he expect to say something to these listening people when he does not fully know what it is himself. ‘Larkin calls it a “travelling coincidence”, the fact that all these newly-wed couples are on the same train and they’re all heading off to start new lives together.’ But he doesn’t know any more where he himself is going or how he’s going to extricate himself and he pauses to sip nervously at the water, the glass shaking in his hand, and then he remembers something from the end of the poem, something about ‘all the power that being changed can give’, and as the first rustle of impatience slips from his audience, he feels a sudden surge of relief as just with a second’s clarity he glimpses what it is he now must say.
James Fenton
James Fenton sits in the car park at the foot of Slieve Donard and waits for his former colleague to arrive. He feels a growing impatience – if he had been doing the climb by himself he would have started by now. Even though this is the North’s highest mountain, climb is hardly the right word because it demands no more than a slightly arduous walk to
the summit. He has come lately to walking – really since his retirement from the force – and he prefers to walk alone, finding a pleasure in the solitude after a lifetime of working closely with others. He likes the mountains for their cleanness of air that fills the lungs and they feel purer than anything he’s ever known after thirty years of sitting in offices and interrogation rooms laced with the sweet stench of sweat and fear; sitting in unmarked cars in clothes worn too long, with the stale taste of those hours when most of the city sleeps. Too long in offices hyped with human electricity and sour with the remnants of snatched food and dreg-filled coffee cups. He thinks, too, there is honesty in the mountains – they have no pretensions to prettiness but only a rugged bleakness and he likes their disdainful indifference to who, or what, he is.
He glances again at his watch and hopes that Alec will arrive soon. He looks up at the sky that’s grey and strewn with wind-blown clouds streaming like shredded shards of last year’s flags. The forecast promised some bright spells and if they’re lucky it might clear long enough for them to be rewarded with a view from the top. There was none on his last visit the previous Boxing Day when the shoulders of Donard wore a shawl of white and the wind’s bite was sharp-toothed on the skin. On the way up he had met only one other person – a young woman who stopped and wished him good morning, both their breaths streaming between them like smoke, her face flushed with the climb and the pure pleasure of the place. But he remembers the morning for another reason – it was the day he fell and was lucky not to injure himself. It was on the way down when, weary of the treacherous ice that had been a constant companion, he had decided to continue his descent by walking on the great granite slabs that funnelled and shaped the fast-flowing river, white-throated where it tumbled over the rocky outcrops. But they wore an invisible veneer of ice and almost as soon as he stepped on one, his feet had shot from under him and he had fallen flat on his back, banging his head against the stone. After the first wave of shock he had lain perfectly still, listening to the roar of the water that seemed now to pour over him until very slowly and tentatively he had moved the various parts of his body, checking for damage, but miraculously, apart from a dull pain at the base of his spine and a slight swelling at the back of his head, he had survived intact. But still he had lain there, curiously calm, and into his mind had come an image that would repeat itself many times in the future. It was of him drifting into unconsciousness and then slowly slipping from the polished slab into the narrow rush of water where he is carried and cribbed by the stone sides of the grey granite until his body is borne to the sea. Then and now, there’s no fear in the image but only a sense of calm, an acceptance of his inability to resist or stop the flow.
