The Dancers Dancing

by Eilis Ni Dhuibhne

  She sits with Alasdair near the fire. The big girls and boys are smoking, the Coke bottles and the cider bottle are opened, waiting to be drunk. The girl called Maureen is playing the guitar now. Hey Mr Tambourine man play a song for me. Let me take you by the hand and lead you through the streets of London I will show you something that’ll make you change your mind. Parsley sage rosemary and thyme. Tell her to weave me a camb-er-ic shirt parsley sage rosemary and thyme without no seams or needlework then she’ll be a true love of mine.

  The couples sing along, dissolve along, melt into the emotion, sentimentality, sleepy dreaminess of it all. Scarborough Fair. Out across the lough twinkle the lamps of the big town against the summer night sky, in the heavens flash the blue stars, glow eyes around the fire, intertwine arms ... beat hearts.

  Alasdair puts his short fat arm around Orla.

  She lets her head loll on his comfortable maroon shoulder.

  Cold water cold water canyon, sings Maureen, shaking wildly, getting wilder by the minute. I know I never would know you. Cold water deep in the canyon. I just wanted to show ow ow ye.

  Alasdair tries to kiss her. It’s what everyone else is doing, except Maureen, bent over her guitar, hair falling blonde and wild onto its strings, in love with the instrument perhaps, in love with the music, in love with the night, with the fire, with the Coca-Cola. Mad as a hatter mad as singers have to be. Cold water cold water canyon ...

  Orla pulls away.

  He makes no protest. In fact he looks deeply relieved. From his pocket he pulls a packet of fags and lights one for her. Orla drags. Her first cigarette.

  Splutter splutter goes Orla.

  Splush splush splush go the waves against the sandy shore.

  Caught

  The tide is low, leaving a wide swathe of hard sand between the stones and the edge of the waves. Rain falls on it, the first rain they have had in more than two weeks. It is falling very softly but persistently, peppering the papery surface of the sand with thousands of dark spots. There are no stars tonight. The sky is a murky cup of black clouds over the dark muddy world of beach, rock, sea.

  ‘Stay in here!’ Gerry calls Pauline to the boathouse. They’ve been coming to the beach every night since last week, sometimes with companions, sometimes on their own. Tonight they’re alone. Who but Pauline would venture out in such terrible weather?

  ‘No!’ says Pauline. ‘It’s the last night we can come here. I don’t want to spend it in that hellhole.’

  ‘Hellhole hellhole,’ echoes back from the cliff.

  ‘You’ll get all wet.’ he continues. ‘Please.’

  ‘I’m all wet anyway,’ Pauline shouts back. Wet anyway wet anyway. ‘I’m going for a swim.’ She’s out of her clothes and in the water before he can stop her, splashing around in the blacky grey waves, the rain pinging down on top of her.

  ‘Come on in,’ she yells to him. Gerry surveys the scene. Pauline’s white arms thrashing up and down in the water. The rain getting heavier all the time. The nothingness around them – he can see no hills, no rocks, no cliffs. Everything is subsumed in the cold miserable mist. He shivers, tired and weary of it all suddenly. But he pulls off his clothes and jumps from the slip without enthusiasm. The water is as cold and unpleasant as it looks. So much for the Gulf Stream.

  He swims towards Pauline, who is giddy now, racing ahead of him, out to sea.

  ‘Come back!’ he yells. ‘You can’t go out there.’

  ‘Scaredy cat!’ She turns and looks at him. ‘Cowardy cowardy custard stick your head in mustard.’

  It feels like mustard the water, as nasty as mustard. The rain gets heavier and heavier, it curtains her – he can hardly see her although she continues to shout from time to time.

  ‘Come back, Pauline.’ His voice is weak, he can hardly be bothered shouting any more. ‘Come back come back.’

  That’s when he hears the engine, its chugging muffled in the rain. It is approaching the shore. Pauline hears it too, and swims towards the slip.

  They are clambering up to the boathouse when the torch is turned on.

  ‘Caidé mar atá sibh?’ Killer Jack says, in his most sarcastic tones. ‘Bhfuil sibh go maith?’

  The céilí mór

  It is the cause of my sorrow that I cannot visit you in the lonely valley where my love is, there is honey on the rushes there and butter on the cream there and the trees are in flower until the autumn begins. And I am the boy from Lough Erne who would not betray the nice young girl I don’t need a dowry from her I have riches enough of my own. I own County Cork and the Glens and half of Tyrone and if I don’t change my ways I’m the heir to the County Mayo. Dada da da da da da da dadadadadd. There was a big buck from down beside Bandon and a ship had he little song síodraimín sizzorseen so.

  Orla prepares, wishing she could have a bath; her period is very light but it makes her feel messy and smelly, inside and out. She washes her whole body with a facecloth, rubbing her skin all over with soap and rinsing in tepid water. Aisling has lent her a little cologne. She dabs it behind her ears, on her wrists, on her tummy. After that she feels cleaner.

  She has a new dress for this occasion, a dress she made herself on Elizabeth’s old Singer sewing machine. It’s a plain dark blue, with a white collar. She wears it with her sandals and no socks at all, since she has none that are not grey.

  She and Aisling walk the mile to the village together, aware that it is almost the last time they will do this. The valley is laid out before them, looking calm now, its colours dark lilac, dark August green. The bay is shadowy, black and purple, the sky lowering. The last time the last time.

  When they come into the schoolhouse, their sadness lifts: the big room has been transformed. Who would have suspected that Headmaster Joe had such creative talents? (Bean Uí Luing in fact is responsible for the decorations, but the girls give her credit for nothing.) Balloons and streamers dangle from the ceiling. There are candles lit on the high windowsills, and Chinese paper lanterns cover the bare bulbs. A table stacked with delicious little bottles of Football Specials and plates of crisps is placed in one corner.

  Headmaster Joe has a new suit; it’s not black but green, a greenish tweed suit. Bean Uí Luing is wearing her mother-of-the-bride outfit, minus the hat. Every girl and boy has made some sort of effort to look better than usual. Those who have not kept back a dress or shirt have washed their hair. A few boys wear ties. One or two have polished their shoes, encouraged to do so by the banatees. Everyone looks fresh, excited. They have left their everyday personalities behind them, and risen to a new occasion.

  Pauline and Gerry are in attendance, looking a bit weary but otherwise not worse for wear. Last night, Killer Jack drove them home to their houses. But first thing this morning he collected them – arrested them – and carried them off to Headmaster Joe. Expel them, he said, Expel them.

  Headmaster Joe had decided against it. There is only one day left, he reasoned.

  ‘What won’t they do in a day?’ screamed Killer Jack. ‘It’s the principle of the thing.’

  ‘Leave us,’ ordered Headmaster Joe, his eyes flashing.

  Having dismissed Killer Jack, he launched into a lecture that lasted for over an hour and left him considerably more exhausted than its recipients. His voice rose and fell and so did his blood pressure, expressing its vagaries in his face, now red, now white, now ashen, now fiery.

  ‘I trusted you and you failed me!’ he screamed at Gerry. He had little to say to Pauline whom he had always considered a hopeless case. ‘You put this girl’s life in danger. I don’t know what else you did and I don’t like to think. You could end up in jail for this you know, if I reported you to the guards.’

  Gerry felt his self-esteem diminish, inch by inch, until at the end of the hour there was nothing left of him but a miserable little speck of self-loathing and fear.

  But at least he was not to be expelled.

  Killer Jack was furious. He wanted to punish Gerry in particular in some
appropriately terrible way. ‘What do you want me to do? Hang him?’ asked Headmaster Joe. ‘Hanging’s too good for him,’ snarled Killer Jack. ‘What he needs is a good kick in the arse.’ Headmaster Joe raised his beetle brows. ‘I hope you didn’t take it upon yourself ... ?’ Killer shook his head, sadly. The restrictions life placed on teachers in Irish colleges were very hard to bear. ‘Well,’ said Headmaster Joe. ‘I’ve a clean record, so far. And they go home tomorrow anyway.’ ‘What if she’s …?’ ‘What can I do about that now, a thaisce?’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘If she is, good luck to her. But all you found them at was swimming.’ ‘Skinny dipping,’ corrected Killer. ‘And they’ve been up to more than that. I’ve had them under observation for a week.’ ‘So why didn’t you do something about it until she nearly went and got drowned on us?’ Headmaster Joe’s face reddened, and his eyes began to spark. He clutched his heart. ‘I’ve a clean record,’ he said. ‘And I’m never going to do this again. It’s more than my life is worth.’

  ‘Please yourself, and pay the consequences,’ said Killer Jack.

  So Pauline and Gerry are at the céilí mór, just like everyone else. Gerry has a cold in the head but Pauline is as right as rain. They both avoid Killer Jack, who makes no effort to return the gesture. Much of the night he spends in an orgy of winking meanly at Pauline and scowling ferociously at Gerry, trying to kill him with looks. Gerry’s career as a star is, of course, ruined. But he feels he has got off lightly.

  Headmaster Joe takes his place by the record-player from force of habit. But tonight there will be no records: there is a band in a corner, a small céilí band, invited in from a neighbouring parish. Its members sit and wait, accordions and fiddles on their knees, while he opens the proceedings.

  With thanks, with regrets, with congratulations, with hopes that they enjoy themselves. He keeps his speech as short as he can – twenty minutes.

  Then it’s The Walls of Limerick.

  The music breaks out, the room is filled with ripe, mellow sounds. The boys move en masse to the girls: Alasdair, still in the wine sweater but with his hair slicked back, asks Orla, and Seamas asks Aisling. The couples, trained now like the Kirov Ballet, take up their positions. The fiddler lifts his bow and the room is filled with ripe, merry music.

  In and out the dancers move, in and out and round about. The hands clasp, the feet bounce, the lips smile. Over to the right side, over to the left side. Take your partner and on you go. The barrier of arms drops, the stream of dancers passes through. Along the schoolhouse they flow sedately to the music. The Siege of Ennis. The Little Cape of Clonard. The Fairy Reel. The Couple’s Jig. The night moves on: Alasdair and Maurice, Paul and Alasdair. The patterns form and unravel, the bodies swing.

  ‘And now, Baint an Fhéir!’

  It’s everyone’s favourite, the best of all the dances, the fastest footwork, the wildest swings. Alasdair and fifty boys move across the floor to the waiting girls.

  Micheál walks into the schoolhouse.

  Orla sees him, everyone sees him. He is dressed in his white shirt and blue jeans. His hair springs from his head in a dark red crest. He walks straight over to Orla.

  ‘An ndéanfaidh tú an damhsa seo liom?’

  ‘Déanfaidh agus fáilte.’

  Alasdair asks the next girl, Aisling. Seamas asks the next girl, Monica, her mousy hair bouncing in a ponytail, a big red bow surmounting her lively head.

  The partners line up, five opposite five. Micheál smiles across at Orla and she smiles back. The music strikes up. The dance begins.

  In and out and in and out. Over and back and swing your partner. Swing swing swing.

  The couples swing. Whirlpools, storms, propellers spinning. The schoolhouse is hot with human electricity. The feet thump, the ponytails fly, the blood races. The music accelerates, faster and faster fiddles the fiddler, faster and faster pleats the melodeon. Feet are tapping and ears are reddening and hearts are thumping.

  Headmaster Joe surveys the scene from his perch by the creaky record-player. The Irish college dances before his eyes, every step in time to the music, every movement perfect. It’s Carrickmacross lace, it’s the river running, it’s the salmon leaping, it’s the ploughman ploughing, it’s the spinner spinning, the boatman sailing, the fellow fishing, the fire flaming. It’s the dancers dancing.

  It’s the céilí mór. He wipes his forehead with a white handkerchief. From his slim black briefcase he removes a cigar. He lights it and the blue wisps of smoke snake across the schoolhouse, over the heads of the dancing scholars.

  Tomorrow they all go home.

  Home again home again jiggedy jig

  In Oldchurch Crescent, all the mothers are waiting. Their eyes shine, their hearts beat, their tongues wag.

  ‘They’d a great time!’ Elizabeth says. ‘Orla had me killed with letters, I didn’t have time to read the half of them. I don’t know where she got the time. Or the stamps.’

  ‘They’re late,’ says Sandra’s mother, twisting her hands together and looking anxious. Many things make her anxious – especially other mothers in the school, and especially Elizabeth.

  ‘Ah how could they be in time? How could they know exactly when they’d come?’

  How would Sandra’s mother understand the complexities of a long journey, a bus, traffic? She hasn’t a clue. Some haven’t a clue.

  ‘It’ll be along in a minute.’ Nuala smiles kindly at Sandra’s mother, whom she likes and for whom she feels sorry. ‘Don’t be getting worried now. They’ll be home before you know it and soon we’ll be wishing they were back again.’

  ‘Oh indeed.’ Elizabeth nods as if a great profundity had been uttered and was now being confirmed. ‘True for ye.’

  Aisling’s mother tells them, not for the first time, that their daughters looked brown as berries when she saw them at the weekend, and that she didn’t think they’d want to come home at all at all.

  ‘Here they come!’ someone cries.

  Eighty eyes swivel towards the corner of Oldchurch Crescent.

  Forty mouths smile in delight.

  Forty youthful voices waft from the windows of the bus. ‘Singing ay ay yaddie ay ay yaddie singing ay ay yaddie yaddie ay!’

  The bus stops and its door slides open. Sean O’Brien, in green tweed suit, tweed tie, his glasses like two television sets on the bridge of a nose, steps out.

  Forty mothers rush to the door. He stands aside. He lets them on, knowing there is no stopping the tide of maternal love when it is in full spate.

  ‘Did yez get a good tan, let me have a look at yez? Did yez have a great time? Did yez learn a lot of Irish? Sure yezell talk nothing but Irish now!’

  ‘Wus all right,’ say forty voices, give or take.

  Now

  There is a heritage centre, vast as a cathedral, in the middle of the valley where I spend my holidays. Outside it stands a statue, touchingly rough-hewn, of the most famous of the local writers. Videos, photographs, wall hangings, snatches of music, commemorate the others within. Every day, visitors in their hundreds pour through the marble halls of the centre, learning a little about the community, admiring its resilience and genius: this is an area where Irish has survived and where it sometimes seems to prosper. There is a radio station, and people have started to agitate for an Irish television channel. You can hear Irish spoken in the schoolyard, in the pub, even in some of the shops. You can hear it on the crowded beaches. It’s the Gaeltacht triumphant – not a bit like Tubber.

  I am sitting on the beach as usual, in the heat of the afternoon. The islands loom black and mysterious on the horizon, and the sea is a clear calm jade. The beach is busy, but not as packed as it is at the weekends. It’s the middle of August. The holiday season peaked a week ago, and already is ebbing away. Although the beach is more comfortable than it was, the comfort and space come accompanied by a faint, familiar feeling of dread. The summer, the holidays, are drawing to an end.

  I have been in for a swim and am now lying on a tow
el, reading. Every so often I glance over my shoulder and examine the bathers in the water, checking that my children have not drowned.

  I see Micheál.

  He is standing about knee-deep in the waves, holding a small girl by the hand. She has on a blue bathing suit. Her hair is long and curly and red.

  Micheál’s hair.

  My heart pounds and all the stiff components of my body lose their starch, flop limp inside me. I return to the page of my novel in an effort to collect myself, although of course there is no question of reading. When I feel a bit calmer I steal a look at the water’s edge again. Maybe it is not him? It is easy to make a mistake in these matters.

  But not with Micheál, whose looks are distinctive. And anyway every curl on his head and every line on his body are as well-known to me as my own, as my children’s. I have not looked at him for years. But he is in my head, he is in my dreams, he is in my body, forever, along with Elizabeth, who died three years ago, and my father, who is in a home in Dalkey. Micheál is more active in my dreams than either of them, or than anyone else, perhaps because he featured in my reality for such a short time.

  What is he doing here?

  The summer after the Irish college I went to Tubber, with Tom and Elizabeth, to visit Auntie Annie. That second summer I was fourteen, taller, thinner. I’d had my periods for one year. Micheál was sixteen and still fishing in the burn when he could. But when we met it was not in the burn, but in the Fairyland Ballroom. We fell in love. Rather, we acknowledged that we were in love and had been since last summer. For the whole summer, it seemed – it was three weeks, actually – we loved each other idyllically. At night we plunged headlong into the traditions of the place: dancing in the Fairyland, the Carrowdonnell, the Railtown Inn, the Strand Hotel. I felt superior to everyone I encountered in these places. I was slumming it. But I loved the beat of the country-and-western drum. I loved the hot sticky halls full of pulsing bodies. I was one with the crazy venality of it all, the loud throbbing fertility dances.