Then, my final baptism, I went to the Forty-Foot. This was no place for novices. It was deep, as its name implied, and it could be dangerous. I was afraid when I went down the rough steps, deliciously afraid, and yet I knew deep inside me that the water was a friend, that I should be all right. It was colder here than on the shore, but I struck out boldly. I had set myself a task that was not too exacting, to swim across the hole and back again. I did it, and came up the steps in triumph. I had cost no one a penny, but done it all by myself.
In a year, I was a fearless swimmer. I have never had too much flesh on me, yet I do not feel the cold, and have always been able to stay in the water for long spells. Perhaps because that was the way I learned, I have always loved to float on my back, for an hour at a time, far out from shore, alone with the element that suits me best. I’m at home in the water. By that, I mean the sea; I never gave a damn for river bathing. I’m at home in the sea. It is my nurse, my mother, my panacea, my fountain of life. My best hours have been spent floating on my back somewhere out between the Forty-Foot and the East Pier, or, even better, in Killiney Bay, that most perfect, most graceful embrace of sea and land this globe can show us. These are the hours that take me back to me, that restore me to my true self, that make nonsense of age and youth and middle age and all time’s delusions: for these hours are continuous and timeless. When I’m on my back in Killiney Bay, feeling the slow heave of the swell, hearing the sigh of the waves upon the sand, and the thunder of a train passing along the hill above me and making its way down the long coast, then I can touch myself, I am myself, at every age since that first summer I learned to swim.
I was always cast down by any disagreement between my two philosophers, the Doctor and Uncle John. Their differences of opinion did not hurt me, as differences between their parents hurt young people, because I saw they were inevitable, and because I never witnessed a quarrel between them—for the simple reason that they had never met. I wanted them to meet. With the simplicity of the young, I wanted the cardinal points of my life reconciled, I felt that those I loved must needs love each other. If the Doctor and Uncle John could only meet, I thought longingly of the feast of goodwill that would follow, the outpouring of wit and wisdom, the flow of soul.
I spoke of my project to each, but, though both professed readiness, even eagerness, to meet, it proved curiously difficult to bring them together. I got Uncle John out to Kingstown once—at least, his business got him, for there was a sale at a big house off Grosthwaite Park, that kept him there three days. But the Doctor had gone into hiding, or was sick: anyway, he could not be found. I think he was in, but had uttered such terrific threats to Mary Kate and the entire household that they dared not breathe a word. With a look in their eyes like scared horses, they said they did not know where he was, nor when he would be back.
Another time, I got the Doctor in a good mood, and persuaded him to offer the hospitality of his room. He became suddenly enthusiastic, and spent the whole morning and afternoon revising and rigging up his wires and gadgets till you could hardly take a step in the room without causing some mechanical convulsion. But Uncle John never turned up, and by nine o’clock the Doctor was sour and insulted, and got so crossly drunk that I went home in dismay.
But we get our wishes in the end, though sometimes the manner blasts them and makes dust of them. Uncle John and the Doctor did meet, in circumstances unforeseen and catastrophic.
It was September. Soon I should be going back to school. I did not dread the departure: I looked on it as a boring necessity, an interruption in my real life. The weather had been bad, and autumn was coming on early. Already fallen leaves were scurrying harshly along the gutters, the harbour was grey and chilly, and Mr. Rogan, with curses for a bad season, was laying up his row boats for the winter a good fortnight before their time. I had been away seeing a school friend in Sally Noggin, and was hurrying back, eager for my tea and the warm firelight leaping on the walls. That was another virtue of Ann Dunn’s cottage. Many a place that is well adapted to the light of summer, to cool serenity and sunlight on the walls, is chill and sulky in winter, and doesn’t take kindly to firelight. But Ann Dunn’s cottage was as good in winter as in summer. The mere passage of the season transformed it to a miracle of cosiness.
I ran down the road, all haste to be indoors, remembered with an effort not to bang the gate, was up the tiny path in two bounds, and seized the knocker to give my patent knock. It was based on the one I had used in Fitzwilliam Street days, but had an added flourish, a bravura suited to my increased years and my happier mode of life. Before I could execute the first rat-tat, however, I saw that the door was ajar. It opened stiffly always, and for that reason could be left unlatched without blowing open. Ann Dunn would leave it for me sometimes, if she was washing clothes, say, or hanging them up in the tiny garden at the back: but it went against her principles and she would only do it if I were out a few minutes, just running up to Byrne’s the grocer or to the pillar box with one of her rare letters. She was afraid that evil characters would get in and walk off with her treasured possessions. Not far from us, on the Fishbank, were people who lived like beasts, but our neighbours were decent, quiet folk, poor but beyond suspicion. Even so, Ann Dunn kept her door shut, and, on those rare occasions when she left it ajar, she was never easy, she could never settle down to her work, till I had come in again.
So to find it ajar when I had been away for hours startled me. I pushed open the door, and went in on tiptoe. The little hall was quite still, but its warmth was full of welcome.
“Ann Dunn?”
Silence, except for Ann Dunn’s busy little clock. Fear leaped at me. I stood, reasoning with myself, arguing against the fear.
“Ann Dunn?” I repeated, more softly this time, because I was afraid.
Still silence. Nerving myself, I went into the parlour. It was dusk in there: the blind had been pulled, and one curtain was half way across.
“Is that you, Luke?”
The voice, very faint, came from the sofa. I turned, and saw Ann Dunn stretched on it. One hand hung by her side. The other was quietly fingering something.
I was down in a flash, kneeling beside her.
“What is it, Ann Dunn darling? Are you ill?”
“It’s nothing.” Her voice had a feeble, bewildered note that belied the words. “I was just going to wet your tea, and I felt queer. It’s nothing. I shall be all right in a minute.”
“Poor Ann Dunn.”
I looked at her in perplexity, feeling helpless. In all the time I had known her, she had never once been ill, never admitted to so much as a headache. We had all depended on her, as one does on a house, or the Town Hall clock, or the tide. That she should be subject to a frailty was unthought of. I had nothing with which to meet it.
I stood up.
“Shall I get you a cup of tea, Ann Dunn darling? Maybe you’ll feel better then.”
“No, no. Leave me just a minute. Then I’ll get yours for you.”
“That you won’t,” I replied. “I’ll get it myself.”
I finished drawing the curtains, lit the lamp rather clumsily, and went out to get the tea with a sinking heart, for I realised I didn’t really know the way. In the very early days, when I couldn’t bear to be out of Ann Dunn’s sight, I had helped a lot, and put some of the things away for her. But of late years, when I was away from the place, she had grown more indulgent, and taken to doing everything for me, so that now I felt lost, and I had to come in twice to ask her where things were.
The second time, she made a weak little struggle to get up. I stopped her, almost crossly.
“Stay still, Ann Dunn. I only want you to tell me where the jam is.”
She sank back. “It’s in the cupboard,” she whispered. “On the top shelf, in the left hand corner.”
I went on making the tea, my anxiety for her turning to a sense of ill-usage. How selfishly the average male reacts to anything which can threaten him or bring him disadvantage. I
adored Ann Dunn, I was no more self-centred than most boys of fifteen. Indeed, thanks to Martin & Co., I think I had less naked egoism than a great many. Yet, at the core of the fear I now felt for the human being I loved best on earth, was the feeling that the safe mechanism of my life was threatening to run down, and I should be lost.
So, in a state between sulks and fear, I made the tea. The kettle took a long time to boil. I looked in at Ann Dunn from time to time, expecting her to rebuke me for being so slow, but she made no sign.
“It’s nearly ready now, Ann Dunn.”
She did not hear me. I stood still, looking at her, and realised that she had begun to make a snoring noise. That neat little, silent little Ann Dunn should be at her body’s mercy, even for an instant, was horrible to me. I went back to the kitchen, as from an indecency, and stood by the fire, praying that the noise should have stopped before I went back. The kettle boiled for a couple of minutes before I came to myself, and automatically took it off.
The thing must be conquered. I must not admit it, must not give in to it. Ann Dunn was just not feeling well. She’d be all right once she had a cup of tea. I began to whistle as if nothing was amiss. I wet the tea, took a long time carefully cutting bread and butter, took the ginger cake out of the tin, set all on a tray, and carried it firmly into the parlour.
“Here we are, Ann Dunn. It’s all ready.”
I spoke loudly, so as not to hear the loud breathing. Ann Dunn did not answer, but she was not breathing so badly. I could still hear her, but the noise was better.
“Will I pour you out a cup, Ann Dunn?”
There was the faintest murmur from the couch. I poured out a cup of good strong tea, and, in the brightest and most matter-of-fact manner I could command, I came round to Ann Dunn.
“Here, Ann Dunn darling. Drink this, and you’ll soon feel better.”
She made a feeble sound of protest. I put a hand beneath her head, raised it, and tilted the cup to her lips. A tremor passed over her face. She took a sip or two, tried to shake her head, and the tea trickled in a pale brown rivulet down her chin.
Shocked beyond measure, I put the cup down, and with my handkerchief mopped her chin and the lace round the big cameo brooch. As I finished, she weakly caught my wrist, and held it.
“How do you feel, Ann Dunn darling?”
She did not answer for a long time. Then she murmured something I could not hear.
“What, Ann Dunn? What did you say?”
There was no answer. If she had not hold of my hand, I should have thought she was sleeping.
“Will I fetch the Doctor? Doctor Geoghegan?”
She heard that, for she shook her head.
“Will I leave you to sleep for a while? Maybe you’ll be better then.”
She gave a little indescribable compression of her face, an assertion of her spirit’s mastery over the failing flesh. Her lips moved, and her voice came, faint and slow, but clear.
“The laundry goes tomorrow. All your things are ready, except the sheets off your bed. Take them off, and give them to the man yourself, and get him to mark them in his book. The clean ones are in the cupboard, on top of the boiler. They’re well aired. Put them on the bed, the bigger one on the top.”
She spoke as if each word had to be summoned from a distance with infinite care.
“Will you remember?” It was a whisper only, the ghost of a whisper.
“Yes, Ann Dunn. Of course. But you’ll be all right tomorrow.”
Her face did not change. The lips moved again.
“Go up to Byrne’s in the morning, and tell them not to send till they get orders. Tell Mooney’s to send the brown loaf as usual.”
“I will, Ann Dunn. But, you know——”
A spasm crossed her face, bidding me keep quiet. Now her voice came from farther still.
“Your warm vests for the winter are at the top of the long drawer. I aired them a couple of days ago. Put them on as soon as—soon as——”
Her face changed. A look came over it as if someone were speaking to her. She made a little movement, and sighed.
I drew my hand from her unresisting fingers, got up, and stood by the table. I put out my hand, took up a piece of bread and butter, and, still standing, began to eat it. My heart beat very fast. There was something strange in the room. I told myself that Ann Dunn would soon be better, that it was a wonder she had reached her age and never been ill, that everybody felt queer sometimes. Then I found that the bread and butter was sticking in my throat, that my mouth was dry, that I could not swallow. I looked over at the spinet, and, in the firelight, it suddenly and unbearably leered at me. Fear ran over me like a spider.
“I’ll go and tell the Doctor,” I said aloud to myself. “She ought to have a doctor, whether she likes it or not. She really ought.”
I put on my cap and, with one glance at the sofa, I went out. It was darker, and overcast. Evening was coming down quickly.
I went to the Doctor’s house, talking to myself, forcing myself to look at all the known sights and landmarks, and to see how normal they were, doing anything and everything to drown the certainty that kicked and struggled in my heart. Rounding a corner, I ran into a habitué of the barber’s.
“More power, Luke,” he said cheerfully: then his eyes opened wide in astonishment. I suppose my face showed something. I brushed past him, and ran up the steps to the Doctor’s.
Mary Kate let me in. The Doctor was in his shirt sleeves, working at one of his contraptions with a pair of pliers. He looked up in surprise.
“Oh, it’s you, Mangan. Come in. Anything wrong?”
“Ann Dunn’s not well. I came in and found her on the sofa. She spoke in a whisper. Now I—I can’t make her hear.”
He looked at me. “I’m not in practice, you know.” Then he got up. “All right. Here—help me on with this coat.”
As we went along, he asked me a few questions, precise and crisp, and made no comment on my replies. Normally the Doctor’s gait was leisurely and dignified almost to the point of absurdity. His legs were short, and they appeared to get in front of the rest of him, so that he walked, as it were, leaning backwards. I don’t know what he looked like now, as I rushed him along. At one place I so far forgot my reverence as to pull him by the sleeve. He shook me off, but hurried.
We reached the cottage. It was quite dark in the hall. The Doctor bumped into the little iron hatstand, and swore. He was still rubbing his elbow as I pushed him into the parlour. He went across to the sofa, and bent over Ann Dunn. I stood in the doorway, afraid to come in.
There was a half minute of silence. Then the Doctor looked up.
“Your aunt’s dead,” he said. He got up, dusting his hands together, and looked at me accusingly. “You knew that. You brought me here for nothing.”
I couldn’t speak. I shook my head, and my mouth moved without sound, in excuse for myself and in protest against his brutality.
He looked at me, and his manner softened.
“Well, well. I mustn’t be too hard on you. It was a shock. These things always are. Well, Mangan. The question is, what are you going to do now?”
I was well accustomed to the Doctor and his downrightness, but this was too much. I tried to say something, but the pain in my throat choked me, and I did the last thing I would have done in front of him. I began to weep.
The Doctor looked about the room.
“She kept it very nice,” he said, “very nice and neat.” Then suddenly he dealt the table a furious bang with his fist. “Stop it!” he shouted. “Understand me, once and for all, I will not have my feelings worked on. Do you hear?”
I stared at him, horrified. The shock stopped my tears. He had flushed a queer purple colour. He was glaring, showing the whites of his eyes.
“To you,” he went on, less loudly, “she was aunt, mother, nurse, parents, best of her sex, and mother of the Gracchi. To me she’s just another old woman who has passed out. And I will not be involved, do you understand, I�
��will—not—be— involved in a pathos I don’t feel and a grief I don’t acknowledge. So don’t come snivelling to me about your aunt. I won’t have it.”
My tears had gone, far far away. I felt small and forlorn and cold. I did not even protest against his calling Ann Dunn my aunt.
The Doctor stood still for a moment. He clapped his pockets, as if he were looking for something, then put his finger inside his soft collar and jerked it open from the stud.
“There’ll be formalities. I suppose you’ll want me to see to them,” he said. “Why didn’t you fetch your aunt’s regular medical attendant? Why pick on me?”
“She hadn’t got one. She was never ill.”
“Hmph. But why me? I don’t practise, I can’t sign her death certificate.”
“You were the only doctor I knew. Except Dr. Murphy. And he’s in Dublin.”
“It’s all very unsatisfactory. She should have had a doctor.”
“Would she have—have got better, if she had?”
His beard jutted out. “No.”
It was all hopeless. We stood silent in the little room, I cold and numb, the Doctor with his short thick legs apart, and his head forward, breathing through his nose, looking like an angry bullock. He clapped his pockets again.
“Well. We can’t stand mooning here. I’ll do what I can. I’ll notify the proper authorities, and have her removed.”
He pushed past me to the door. I caught his sleeve.
“Don’t leave me with her. Let me come with you.”
He turned so sharply that I thought there would be another outburst, and stepped back, wincing.
The Bay Page 14
