From here, Nuala McNamara went to New York to sell nylons at Woolworth’s, John became a teacher in Dublin, Tommy a Jesuit in Rome, Brigid married and went to live in London—but Mary clung doggedly to this hopeless, lonely spot, where every September for four years she has borne a child.
“Come on the twenty-fourth, Doctor, around eleven, and I guarantee you’ll not come in vain.”
In ten days she will be walking with her father’s old knobbed stick along the edge of the steep cliffs, watching out for her sheep and for those articles which for coast-dwellers are a substitute for the sweepstake (in which of course they also have a ticket), with the sharp eye of the coast-dweller she will be looking for jetsam, reaching for the binoculars when her predatory eye detects from the outline and color of an object that it is not a rock. Does she not know every boulder, every chunk of rock, along these six miles of coast—does she not know every cliff at every tide? In October alone of last year, after the great storms, she found three bales of crude rubber; she hid them in the cave above the highwater line where centuries ago her ancestors hid teakwood, copper, brandy kegs, whole ship’s equipment, from the eyes of the coast guards.
The young woman with the silvery nails smiles, she has had her second whisky, a large one, which finally allayed her anxiety; you just have to stop and think after every sip: this firewater affects you not only in depth but also in breadth. Has she not herself borne four children, and has not her husband already returned three times from this drive through the September night?
The young woman goes back into the passage, listens through the open door once again to the quiet breathing of her children, smiles, places her silvery fingernail once more on the old map, moves it forward while she calculates: half an hour along the slippery road to the Sound, three-quarters of an hour to Aedan McNamara’s house, and if the child really does come punctually, if the two women from the next village are already there—perhaps two hours for the birth; another half hour for the cup of tea, which can be anything from a cup of tea to a hearty meal; another three-quarters of an hour and another half hour for the drive back: five hours altogether. John left at nine, so around two she ought to be able to see the headlights of his car where the road comes up over the hill. The young woman looks at her watch: just past twelve-thirty. Once more slowly with the silver finger across the map: bog, village, church, bog, village, a barracks that has been blown up, bog, village, bog.
The young woman returns to the fire, puts on fresh peat, pokes it, stands thinking, reaches for the newspaper. On the front page are the personal announcements: births, deaths, engagements, and a special column called “In Memoriam”: “In memory of dearly beloved Moira McDermott, who died one year ago in Tipperary. Kindly Jesus, have mercy on her soul. May you who think of her this day address a prayer to Jesus.” Two columns, forty times, the young woman with the silvery nails prays “Kindly Jesus, have mercy on him—have mercy on her” for the Joyces and McCarthys, the Molloys and Gallaghers.
Then come the silver weddings, the rings lost, the purses found, official announcements.
Seven nuns going to Australia, six going to North America, smiled at the press photographer. Twenty-seven newly ordained priests smiled at the press photographer. Fifteen bishops advising on the problems of emigration did likewise.
On page 3 the stud bull who carries on a line of prize-winning pedigree bulls; then come Malenkov, Bulganin, and Serov—turn to the next page; a prize-winning sheep, a garland of flowers between his horns; a girl who won first prize in a singing contest showed the press photographer her pretty face and her ugly teeth. Thirty graduates of a boarding school met again after fifteen years: some of them have put on weight, others stand out tall and slim from the group, even in the newspaper picture their make-up is clearly visible: mouths like India ink, eyebrows like delicate forceful brush strokes. The thirty women were assembled at Mass, at tea, at the evening rosary.
The three daily comics: Rip Kirby, Hopalong Cassidy, and The Heart of Juliet Jones. Juliet Jones’ heart is hard.
Casually, while her eyes were already half-occupied with the movie advertisement, the young woman reads an account of West Germany, “How They Make Use of Their Religious Freedom in West Germany.” For the first time in the history of that country—the young woman reads—there is complete freedom of religious observance in West Germany. Poor Germany, the young woman thinks, and adds a “Kindly Jesus, have mercy on them.”
She has long since glanced at the movie advertisement, now her eyes dwell greedily on the column entitled “Wedding Bells”: a long column; so Dermot O’Hara has married Siobhan O’Shaughnessy: occupation and residence of both sets of parents, of the best man, the bridesmaids, and the witnesses are given in detail.
With a sigh, secretly hoping that an hour has gone by, the young woman looks at her watch; but it is only half an hour, and she lowers her face again toward the newspaper. Tours are advertised: to Rome, Lourdes, Lisieux, to the Rue du Barc in Paris, to the grave of Katharina Labouré; and there for a few shillings you can have your name inscribed in the Golden Book of Prayer. A new mission house has been opened: the founders face the camera with beaming smiles. In a tiny place in County Mayo, four hundred and fifty inhabitants, there has been a real festival thanks to the activities of the local festival committee: there were donkey races and sack races, a broad-jump contest and a slow-bicycle race: the boy who won the slow-bicycle race grinned as he faced the press photographer: a frail apprentice in the grocery business was the cleverest at using the brakes.
A storm has arisen outside, you can hear the roar of the surf, and the young woman puts aside the paper, gets up, goes to the window, and looks out into the bay: the rocks are as black as ancient ink, although the coin of the moon floats clear and full above the bay; this clear, cold light does not penetrate the sea: it merely clings to its surface, as water clings to glass, gives the beach a soft rust color, lies on the bog like mildew; the little light down in the harbor wavers, the black boats sway.…
There’s certainly no harm in saying a few “Kindly Jesus, have mercy on her” for Mary McNamara too; now there are beads of sweat on the pale, proud face that in some inexplicable way expresses both hardness and goodness: a shepherd’s face, a fisherman’s face, perhaps Joan of Arc looked like that.…
The young woman turns away from the coldness of the moon, smokes a cigarette, decides against a third whisky, picks up the paper again, runs her eye casually over it while her mind is busy saying “Kindly Jesus, have mercy on her”—while she glances at the sports page, the market report, shipping movements—she is thinking of Mary McNamara: now water has been heated up in the magnificent copper cauldron over the peat fire; in that red-gold pot as big as a child’s bathtub which one of Mary’s ancestors is said to have salvaged from a wreck of the Spanish Armada: perhaps Spanish sailors brewed beer, cooked their soup, in it. Oil lamps and candles are burning now in front of all the saints’ pictures, and Mary’s feet, looking for support, press against the bars of the bed, slip, and now you can see her feet: white, delicate, strong, the most beautiful feet the doctor’s young wife has ever seen—and she has seen many feet: in the orthopedic clinic in Dublin, in one of those places for people with foot ailments where she used to take a job during vacation: the poor ugly feet of those who no longer use their feet; and the young woman had seen naked feet on many beaches: in Dublin, in Kiliney, Rossbeigh, Sandymount, Malahide, Bray, and in the summer here when the vacationers come—never has she seen such beautiful feet as those of Mary McNamara. One ought to be able to compose ballads, she thinks with a sigh, to praise Mary’s feet: feet that climb over rocks, over cliffs, wade through bog, walk for miles along the road—feet that are straining now against the bars of the bed, to press the child out of her body. Feet such as I have never seen even on a film star, surely the most beautiful feet in the world: white, delicate, strong, almost as mobile as hands, feet of Athene, feet of Joan of Arc.
Slowly the young woman submerges once
more into the advertisements: houses for sale—she counts seventy, that means seventy emigrants, seventy reasons for appealing to kindly Jesus. Houses wanted: two—Oh, Kathleen ni Houlihan, what have you done to your children! Farms for sale: nine; wanted: none. Young men who feel a vocation for monastery life—young girls who feel a vocation for convent life … English hospitals looking for nurses. Favorable terms, vacation with pay, and once a year a free trip home.
One more look in the mirror: fresh lipstick carefully applied, eyebrows smoothed, and a dab of silver lacquer on the finger of her right hand where it had come off during the journey across the map. Once again into the passage and with the freshly lacquered fingernail one more journey to that point where the woman with the most beautiful feet in the world lives, the finger resting there for a long time, the place being recalled: six miles of steep cliffs, and on summer days the gaze into the infinity of azure, the islands floating in it as if they were figments of the imagination, islands forever surrounded by the angry white of the sea; islands that cannot be real: green, black: a mirage that hurts because it is not a mirage, because it allows of no deception—and because Aedan McNamara has to work in Birmingham so that his family can live here. Are not all the Irish on the west coast almost like tourists, because the money for their support is earned elsewhere? The azure of the distance is hard, the islands carved out of it like basalt; now and again, very rarely, a tiny black boat: people.
The roar of the surf frightens the young woman: how she sometimes—in fall, in winter, when the storms blow for weeks, the surf roars for weeks, the rain rains—longs for the dark walls of the towns. She glances at her watch again: nearly half-past one; she walks to the window, looks at the naked coin of the moon that has traveled toward the western end of the bay; suddenly the headlight cones of her husband’s car: helpless as arms that find nothing to cling to, they writhe across the gray clouds, dip—the car has almost reached the top—shoot over the hill, landing first on the village roofs, dip toward the road: two more miles of bog, the village, and then the horn, three times, and again: three times, and everyone in the village knows: Mary McNamara has had a boy, punctually in the night of September 24/25; now the postmaster will jump out of bed, send off the telegrams to Birmingham, Rome, New York, and London; again the horn, for those living in the upper village: three times: Mary McNamara has had a boy.
She can hear the sound of the engine now, louder, near, the headlights throw sharp shadows of the palm fronds on the white house walls, are swallowed up in the undergrowth of the oleander, come to a stop, and in the light falling from her window the young woman can see the giant copper cauldron said to come from the Spanish Armada. With a laugh her husband holds it up so that the full light falls upon it.
“A princely fee,” he says softly, and the woman closes the window, throws one more glance into the mirror, and pours two full glasses of whisky: to the most beautiful feet in the world!
11
THE DEAD REDSKIN OF DUKE STREET
Reluctantly the Irish policeman raises his hand to stop the car. He is probably the descendant of a king or the grandson of a poet, the great-nephew of a saint; perhaps, although ostensibly the guardian of the law, he also keeps his other pistol, the illegal pistol of the freedom fighter, at home under his pillow. But never was the function he performs here the theme of one of the countless songs his mother used to sing to him in his cradle: checking the name and address on the license and the number on the registration slip—what a foolish, humiliating occupation for the descendant of a king, the grandson of a poet, the great-nephew of a saint—for the man who is fonder of his illegal pistol than of the legal one dangling on his hip.
Reluctantly, gloomily, therefore, he stops the car, the Irishman inside winds down the window, the policeman smiles, the Irishman smiles, and the official exchange of remarks can begin:
“Nice day today,” said the policeman, “how are you?”
“Oh, not bad, how’s yourself?”
“Could be better, but it’s a nice day, isn’t it?”
“Beautiful—or d’you think it’s going to rain?”
The policeman solemnly looks to the east, to the north, west, and south—and the sensuous solemnity with which he turns his head, sniffing the air, conveys the regret that there are only four points of the compass; how wonderful it must be to be able to gaze sensuously and solemnly toward sixteen points of the compass—then he turns meditatively toward the driver.
“It might still rain. You know, the day my oldest daughter had her youngest child—a dear little boy with brown hair and a pair of eyes—a pair of eyes, I’m telling you!—that day, it was three years ago, about this time of year, we also thought it was a lovely day; but in the afternoon it poured.”
“Yes,” said the driver, “when my daughter-in-law—the wife of my second-oldest son—when she had her first baby—a sweet little girl with fair hair and bright blue eyes, a delightful child, believe me!—that day the weather was pretty much like today.”
“And the day my wife had her tooth out—rain in the morning, sunshine at noon, rain again in the evening—that’s just how it was the day Katie Coughlan stabbed the priest from St. Mary’s.…”
“Did they ever find out why she did it?”
“She stabbed him because he wouldn’t give her absolution. She kept on defending herself in court by saying: ‘D’you expect me to die covered with all my sins?’—and on that very day the third-youngest child of my second-oldest daughter got his first tooth, and we always celebrate teeth; yet I was prowling about Dublin in the pouring rain, looking for Katie.”
“Did you find her?”
“No, she had been sitting for two hours at the police station waiting for us—but there was nobody there, we were all out looking for her.”
“Did she show any remorse?”
“Not the slightest. She said: ‘I assume he’ll go straight to Heaven; what more does he want?’ It was a terrible day too when Tom Duffy took the big chocolate rabbit to the bear in the zoo, the one he pinched from Woolworth’s. Forty pounds of pure chocolate, and all the animals in the zoo got excited because the roaring of the bears drove them crazy. That day the sun was shining beautifully, the whole day—and I wanted to go to the beach with my oldest daughter’s oldest girl, but instead I had to pick up Tom. He was at home in bed, sound asleep, and d’you know what the fellow said when I woke him up? Did you ever hear?”
“I don’t remember.”
“ ‘Damn it all,’ he said, ‘why did that marvelous chocolate rabbit have to belong to Woolworth’s? You don’t even let a chap sleep in peace.’ Oh stupid, foolish world, where the right things always belong to the wrong people—a wonderful day, and I had to arrest silly old Tom.”
“Yes,” said the driver, “the day my youngest boy failed his matric was also a glorious day.…”
If you multiply the number of relations by their age and then multiply this result by 365, you have roughly the number of possible variations on the topic of weather. You can never be sure which is more important: Katie Coughlan’s murder or the weather on that particular day; who is the alibi for what is something you can never find out: whether it was the rain for Katie or Katie for the rain is always a moot point. A stolen chocolate rabbit, an extracted tooth, an exam not passed: these events do not stand alone in the world, they are part and parcel of the history of the weather, they belong to a mysterious, infinitely complicated system of coordinates.
“It was terrible weather too,” said the policeman, “the day a nun found the dead Redskin on Duke Street; there was a storm, and rain was lashing our faces when we took the poor fellow to the police station. The nun walked beside us all the way and prayed for his poor soul—the water was running into her shoes, and the wind was so fierce it lifted her heavy wet habit, and for a moment I could see she had darned her dark-brown underpants with pink wool.…”
“Had he been murdered?”
“The Indian? No—no one ever found out where he c
ame from, who he belonged to, no poison was found in him nor any sign of violence on him: he was clutching his tomahawk, he was in war paint and all his war finery, and since he had to have a name—we never found out what his real name was—we called him ‘Our dear red brother from the air.’ ‘He’s an angel,’ wept the nun—she wouldn’t leave his side—’he must be an angel; just look at his face.…’ ”
The policeman’s eyes began to shine, his face, somewhat bloated from whisky, assumed a solemn expression, and suddenly he looked quite young—“Really, I still believe he was an angel; where else could he have come from?”
“Funny thing,” whispered the driver to me, “I’ve never heard of this Indian.”
And I began to suspect that the policeman was not the grandson of a poet but a poet himself.
“A week went by before we carried him to his grave, because we were looking for someone who might have known him, but nobody knew him. The most remarkable thing of all was that the nun also suddenly disappeared. Remember, I had seen the pink darning wool on her brown underpants when the wind lifted her heavy habit—there was a terrible row, of course, when the police wanted to inspect the underpants of all the nuns in Ireland.”
“Did you get to see them?”
“No,” said the policeman, “we never got to see the underpants; I’m sure the nun was an angel too. You know what I really wondered about: whether they actually wear darned underpants in Heaven?”
Irish Journal Page 7
