The Devil is an Irishman

by Eddie Lenihan

  By the following day, Saturday, he had recovered some of his nerve and already curiosity was beginning to replace fear. He would have to go back, he knew, like it or not, and find out whether his eyes had really been victims of the gloom and rain. Cautiously enough he approached, but in the bustle of Saturday shoppers there was nothing even remotely frightening about the graveyard. It was just one more mouldering oasis of quietness amid the frenzy of city life. And the gate was solidly locked. He walked by the railings to the nearest church, his attention always wandering to the huge beech, to the gravestones round about.

  The church door was open, but he did not enter. For he had noted with horror the nameboard outside. ‘St Athelstan’s Church of England,’ it proclaimed. Head sideways, he looked again and read it slowly. He could not at once take the notion in: an Ó Duinnín in a Protestant graveyard? Like turnip-pie and cream, the two things made no kind of sense together. He re-read it, but the letters were unyielding, let him believe or believe it not. But there was nothing to be done. He could not enter a Protestant church, even to enquire about such an important matter as this. That was a reserved sin. And so he turned away, back to his room, with much to think about.

  Before the weekend was over he had made the decision that had been eluding him for ten years: he would go back. He belonged in the Claddagh, not here in this godforsaken cold land where he would always be alone, no matter what crowds of people surrounded him. And if one Ó Duinnín could end his life so unnaturally why not Seán himself also? It was a warning, clearly, and not to be ignored. He collected together the money he had saved, sold what he could not carry, and within eight days was back in Galway, to the astonishment of all those who had not laid eyes on him for so long.

  But there was no amazement on Seán. It was as if he had never gone away, so quickly did he fall back into the rhythm and routines of his former home-place. All except for one thing: he did not go back to the sea. Yet, every day, at the crack of dawn and again at dusk, he was at the quayside to watch the fishermen come and go, and at other times too, always walking, walking, always silent and alone, as if pondering something deep. He was invited to step aboard the boats of course, and lend a hand if he would, even come and see the places where he and his father had once fished. But always he declined with a little smile or an impatient wave of the hand. Unknown to them all, he had plans of his own, plans which would change each and every one of their lives.

  One Friday evening, after he had been a month at home, he announced to his mother that he was going on a journey and that he would be away for a few days. She was aghast.

  ‘Airiú, is it so you’re off again, an’ you only just home? Where are you going, at all?’

  ‘Only a small bit o’ business I have to do, mother. That’s all. I’ll be back in a week, an’ then you’ll see something that’ll open the eyes o’ the crowd around here.’ And he smiled mysteriously at his two brothers, who stood by, listening.

  He said no more, only took the first train next morning, but to where, no one knew. And true to his word, he strode into the kitchen a week later, a smile on his face almost as wide as the doorway. He sat himself down, beaming, and looked around him, daring them to question him.

  ‘Well? Are you goin’ to tell us anything, Seán?’ they said at last, impatiently.

  ‘What oul’ secret are you makin’ of all this, whatever ’tis?’

  ‘Ah,’ he sighed happily, ‘ye’ll see it all before too long. Now, where’s the tea?’ And he rubbed his hands, full of glee, it seemed, at the prospect of something great about to occur. But a fortnight passed. A month. Nothing happened. Yet Seán seemed to grow more excitable with every passing day, hurrying at daybreak to gaze southward and west along the bay. Neighbours began to look askance at him as though he were unhinged.

  ‘For Ballinasloe he is, the poor lad,’ they nodded know-ingly. They had seen such things before. ‘That’ll tell you what England is like. Any Irishman’d be better off starving at home than to go to a cursed place like it.’ And it brought a kind of happiness to them, the knowledge that in their own confined world of poverty, their dull resignation, lay some sort of virtue after all.

  It came as something of a shock to them, then, to discover that Seán was not so mad as they had supposed. For on January sixth, the feast of the Epiphany, his faith – or oddity – was suddenly vindicated. On that morning his by-now-usual plod along the shore was halted by the sight of a vessel in the bay. But not a local boat. He grinned, and then, as it came closer, leaped for joy. At last! At last! Let them laugh now – if they still had a mind to. He dashed to the quay, a-quiver, as the craft loomed larger and nearer. And when it docked he was waiting, a smile lighting his face.

  A tall man leaped ashore and saluted Seán.

  ‘You wouldn’t be Seán Ó Duinnín, by any chance?’

  ‘That’s myself, indeed. Is this my boat?’

  ‘’Tis. An’ you’re a lucky man. If I had the like of her I wouldn’t be long making my fortune.’

  Seán grinned. ‘I worked many’s the sore day for it. In London. I’m waiting for this hour a long time.’

  He vaulted aboard, began inspecting the huge trawler from stem to stern and hardly even noticed her crew take their leave. He was disturbed at last from his labour of love only by a growl of voices. On the quay a crowd had begun to gather, curious and admiring. Some fingered her woodwork, estimating her dimensions. Others merely scratched their heads in wonder. Certain it was that no such vessel had ever been seen in Galway before. And here she was now, all Seán’s. He smiled to himself, whistled a little tune and went about his business.

  Questions there were, of course; hundreds of them. But his answer to all was the same: ‘I’m here to make a living. I didn’t come back for a holiday. As soon as I can get a crew I’ll be out there on the bay an’ beyond, an’ I won’t leave a fish from here to America.’

  He laughed, and laughed again, at his own outrageous boast. All the things he had always wished for – that everyone in Claddagh had ever wished for – were about to come to pass.

  That same day he announced that he was seeking a crew, and there was no shortage of volunteers, for times were hard and work not easily come by. He picked the best eight of the men who presented themselves, told them to report for service at dawn the following day and went home, content, to his breakfast.

  More questions than ever awaited him, for word of his boat had spread. He answered, or half-answered, but his mind was elsewhere – down at the harbour with his beautiful craft. And it was there he spent the rest of the day, making himself familiar with every nook and cranny, checking nets and tackle, all the time watched by a babbling huddle of onlookers. He ignored them all, intent only on preparation for their first day at sea.

  Just after dawn next morning they pulled away from the Claddagh, sailed out past Mutton Island to the south, past Black Rock and on south-westward towards Ballyvaughan Bay. Directly north of Black Head they settled themselves at last and cast the nets. And such a day’s catch no man there could ever remember having heard about, even from the old people, those who remembered everything.

  They returned home early that day, proud and delighted, with room on board for not a pollock more, startling those on shore, who expected them back at the usual time, dusk.

  There was wonderment and much gossip when the catch was brought ashore, questions and amazed laughter.

  ‘Lord God, but isn’t he the likely man? ’Tis a true saying, “briseann an dúchas tré shúilibh a’ chait”. You can’t beat breeding.’

  ‘Yerra, that’s all fine, but, sure, his father did nothing great, what!?’ grumbled a begrudger.

  ‘Didn’t he let Seán go to England, hah? An’ wasn’t that what made a man o’ him?’ replied another.

  During that day and the weeks that followed, they discussed his pedigree thoroughly and tried to account for this world-changing shift of fortune.

  ‘The hoor is enchanted, surely,’ said one.

>   ‘Not at all,’ chimed in another. ‘Isn’t is a great thing to see a man going up in the world through a bit o’ hard work?’

  ‘Yerra, hard work it is, airiú! Sure, wasn’t the Duinníns only a crowd o’ wasters ever?’ growled an old-timer, in the traditional manner of neighbourly dispraise.

  Whatever disparaging old chat they might console them-selves with, there were few among the young men of Claddagh to listen. They were, one and all, his own brother Cóilín included, queuing for the eight jobs he had promised to whoever pleased him most – for already three of the original recruits had been dismissed – ‘Too lazy’ – and five extra men were needed to tend the nets alone, so heavy was each day’s catch. It was heavy enough, almost, to hide the misgivings that each man felt when Seán told them on that first Thursday evening to be there on the morrow as usual.

  ‘Tomorrow, Seán?’ inquired his brother. ‘But tomorrow is a Friday. We can’t go out on the water on Friday.’ The other men nodded. Seán looked them over, then fixed each in turn with a gimlet eye.

  ‘Can’t we, now? Well, lads, I have news for ye. This boat is sailing out o’ here first thing in the morning. D’ye understand me clear? All I’m saying to ye is be here.’ He made no threat, hardly even raised his voice, but all of them knew exactly what he meant.

  They scattered then, each man to wrestle with his own fears and conscience. Yet, they were all at the harbour at dawn, though more subdued than usual. Jumpy and irritable, they readied the vessel and soon pulled away from the quay-wall. They did not go unnoticed. A straggle of people was collecting to watch this act of impudent impiety, but far from being upset or intimidated by their presence Seán seemed positively pleased at the attention. He waved pleasantly, then blew them a kiss. But no sign of amusement or recognition came back to him. He shrugged: ‘If that’s the way of it, boys, ye can stay there an’ may the báirneachs an’ seaweed do ye a power o’ good.’ He knew well that the nearest they would venture to the sea that day was to pick those delicacies along the foreshore.

  Such details were quickly forgotten about in the business at hand, and that Friday passed off like any other day. If anything, the catch was greater than usual.

  ‘A sure sign that the Man Above – praise an’ honour to Him – has nothing against a person making an honest shilling,’ was Seán’s comment as they sailed home in the gathering gloom.

  The prophets of destruction had been busy all that day during their absence: ‘That’s the last we’ll see of any o’ that crowd.’

  ‘An’ no harm, either. Sure, they mustn’t have an ounce o’ religion between ‘em.’

  ‘True. True! They’ll be drownded – if there’s any justice at all in this misfortunate world of ours.’

  It was with a sense of hurt and disappointment, therefore, that they greeted the laden-down trawler when it docked at ten o’ clock that night.

  ‘How could God let it happen?’ they snarled. ‘Isn’t it a pure mockery o’ religion? Or is there any Heaven or Hell in it, at all? God forgive us for saying it,’ – casting furtive glances towards Claddagh chapel as they voiced these heretic words.

  Their theological musings were interrupted by Seán’s cheery voice: ‘Well, boys, how’d ye like a pollock or two? Or a conger eel?’ There were no takers. They turned away, enraged that Seán had called someone’s bluff – theirs, maybe – and seemed to win.

  ‘But there’ll be another time,’ they opined. ‘If he thinks he’s goin’ to make his fortune out o’ fishing on Friday he’s not a right man, an’ that’s sure. He’ll regret this day’s work yet.’

  If he did, he never seemed to show it, and none of his crew-men could be brought to criticise his actions, either, for unknown to any but themselves they were each a golden sovereign richer at the end of that day’s work and the work of every Friday thereafter, a bonus not to be looked askance at in times so hard.

  Weeks, months, passed; Lent came round, and there was more demand than ever before for the huge catches of fish that they landed each day. The matter of Friday fishing as a topic of conversation, even of casual reference, was by now long a thing of the past: people no more even questioned why they had ever held such a foolish, nonsensical belief. Everyone who had a boat had scrambled to be in the action as well as Seán, though few did as well as he.

  And yet, all the old fears and superstitions came surging back when, on Holy Thursday evening, Seán announced that it would be business as usual in the morning, Good Friday or no Good Friday. Even Cóilín was shaken. He faced his brother, a look of fear in his eyes. It took him a few moments to put words on his thoughts, but when he did he spoke for the whole crew.

  ‘Look Seán, you’re my own brother, an’ I’d follow you anywhere, anytime – I’d go to New Zealand with you in a currach. But don’t ask me to do this. ’Tisn’t right or natural’ – he emphasised the words – ‘an’ I don’t want to have to refuse you, so don’t ask it o’ me.’

  The others nodded in silent agreement. Sean sighed, but said nothing.

  ‘We’re all thankful to you,’ Cóilín continued. ‘Every one of us. But there’s no sense in trying to put our arm around the whole world. Haven’t we enough? Look, the nets could do with a proper going-over, an’ there’s a plank or two below that a rub o’ tar wouldn’t go astray on. Wouldn’t we be better employed at that tomorrow, Good Friday, than out there?’ and his pleading eyes flicked towards the darkening bay.

  Without raising any argument, seeming almost to lose interest in the whole conversation, in fact, Seán merely pointed down at where his boots were planted and spoke flatly: ‘Lads, be here – here! – tomorrow morning. If ye’re not ... ye’ll be lookin’ for jobs.’ There was neither triumph nor regret in his voice, just a quietness that explained full well to them that he meant exactly what he said. He turned away, walked to the boat and saw them no more that night. There was too much to be done in preparation for the morning, and he was the man to do it. Let others talk; his wish, and his only wish, was to do. That was what he was good at, and he knew it.

  When he returned home for his supper later his mother was at the door, and straight away Seán knew that Cóilín had told her everything. She scurried towards him, hands held pleading.

  ‘What’s this they’re telling me about you, Seán, a chroí? Surely be to God you’re not going fishing on Good Friday.’

  He pushed in past her without answering, sick and tired of this constant questioning. ‘Mother, will you gimme my supper, an’ stop talking!’

  She planted herself in front of him and seemed to spit fire.

  ‘You’ll get no supper, or anything else in this house until you answer my question for me. Are you going out tomorrow or not?’

  Her voice was ratty.

  He paused an instant, then smiled.

  ‘Mother, would I do something like that to you? You know me better than that, surely.’

  It was an approach that had worked well for him many times before, this fond son routine. And now it seemed to do its work again. She faltered.

  ‘’Tis hard to know anyone in the times that’s in it,’ she sighed. ‘Sure, the whole world is gone mad.’

  But, then she rounded on him and asked him squarely, ‘But, tell me, are you going or not?’

  ‘Yerra, what? ’Tis fairy-stories you’re listening to, mother. Look’ – and he clapped his paws on her shoulders, smiled his first-communion smile – ‘times is tough an’ many a young lad is going to England. Mother, sure you wouldn’t want to see me going to that cursed place again.’

  Her whole aggressive manner changed, collapsed.

  ‘Oh, Seán, don’t be talking! Stay away from it, will you? Cóilín, talk to him, talk to him! Don’t let him go away again.’

  ‘Will you shut up!’ snarled Cóilín, but he knew that the damage had been done. There would be no help from that quarter now. Seán had made his point.

  Supper was eaten in an uneasy silence, and afterwards Seán smoked no more than half his usual
pipe of tobacco before rising, bidding them a good night. At the loft door he turned. ‘Five o’clock, mother. No later. Call me.’

  The old woman was up at the crack of dawn. She had had a hard night of it, worry and prayer shaking her by turns, trying to think of a way to keep him from the sea on this one day. But all in vain. Here arrived was the fatal morning and she was as far away as ever from any plan.

  Absently she prepared a meal of sorts and Seán wolfed it back, hardly even noticing what was in front of him. All his attention was on his day’s work, not on minor details like food. He rose almost as soon as he had begun, and brushing crumbs from himself, bustled out. He was back again instantly.

  ‘Where’s that bastún, Cóilín?’ he snapped. ‘Is he up yet?’

  No answer.

  ‘Well, by the Lord, I’m not waiting for him. Tell him that if he isn’t below at the pier in ten minutes we’ll go without him, an’ he can stay in the leaba until his toenails grow up his ...’ His voice faded. He was gone. Only then did Cóilín appear.

  ‘By God, mother, if he thinks I’m going with him out there today he’s gone stiff in the mind.’

  The poor woman only shook her head. Such division among her sons she had never expected or wished to see.

  Seán stamped to the harbour, muttering to himself.

  ‘Irish people! Could you beat ’em? Complaining when there’s no work, an’ still they won’t take it when ’tis there for ’em. Agh!’ – and he spat contemptuously.

  But if Cóilín had been a problem, there was worse to greet him when he got to the boat. The crew was not there. Yet the significance of it did not dawn on him immediately. He looked around, here, there. No one.

  Realisation came to him quickly enough then. They were skulking. He knew it. Refusing to come out because of the day that was in it. But, by God, he wasn’t going to take this kind of oul’ nonsense from ’em. To hell with this cursed superstition. A hard lesson was what they needed, and he was the man to provide it.