by Maeve Binchy
They came for David but he wasn’t able to move.
“Ask Dad. Take him in your car,” he stammered out to Brian Dillon who had come with the alarm.
David’s limbs had stopped coordinating, it took him five whole minutes to pick up the phone.
The post office took what seemed like an hour to connect him to Dublin.
James Nolan answered the phone. He made a pretense that David was a long-lost traveler who had just returned to civilization. “We never thought we’d hear your voice again.”
“Cut that out,” David said roughly.
“What?”
“Is Caroline there? Quickly.”
“Well quickly or slowly I can’t tell you. Isn’t she meant to live in your neck of the woods?”
“James please. I beg you.”
“Have you two had a lovers’ tiff?”
“I said I beg you.”
“Very well, since you beg me so nicely, she is here but I’m not to tell you.”
“Are you sure? Have you seen her? Is she in your house?”
“I don’t know where she is this minute but I spoke to her at breakfast and she rang me at the Law Library to arrange something for this evening. But shush. I didn’t tell you.”
“No.”
“David? Are you all right?”
He had hung up.
The burning of the caravan was a mystery. It must have been youngsters playing with petrol, everything had been soaked in it. Poor Caroline Nolan.
The Guard had rung her in the big town but they couldn’t find her. Still wasn’t it a mercy that nobody had been hurt?
Clare drove in to the garage where her brother Ben worked. She got Dick Dillon’s car filled up and also the petrol can he kept at the back. She drove back to the O’Hara house.
“You said only a minute. I was worried,” Angela said.
“Stop sounding like my mother.”
“Are you all right? You look very flushed.” Angela was concerned.
“No. I’m much better now. There was something I had to do.”
Mrs. Corrigan from the other side of the road came in with the news that there had been a big fire over on the Far Cliff Road, and a caravan burned to a shell.
Angela wanted to know was anyone hurt.
“Who would be there in the middle of winter?” Clare had said, her eyes still too bright.
“People are sometimes,” Angela said cautiously.
“Well, they’re up to no good then.”
Angela looked so frightened then, that Clare took pity on her.
“It’s all right, Angela. It’s all right. There was nobody in it. I did check.”
Clare picked up Liffey and held her tight, she was so big now it was quite a weight.
“Well, Liffey, in a day or two you and I are heading off to the great unknown to seek our fortune—well, to seek Mummy’s degree for one thing.”
“I’ll never say. You won’t, either, I hope.”
“No, of course not, but you’re different—you can know everything. The good and the bad.”
“It wasn’t all that very bad, considering,” Angela said with a smile.
“No, it wasn’t, was it?” Clare seemed recovered now.
“Did you know that Clare’s up in Angela Dillon’s house?” Agnes asked Tom O’Brien that night.
“Sure. Hasn’t she been living up there since she was ten years of age? What’s strange about that?” he asked.
“No, that’s just it—she is living up there. She’s been there three days.”
“Nonsense, Agnes, you must have got the wrong end of the stick. Hasn’t she a perfectly good house of her own?”
“I know, but that’s what I heard, so I asked her straight out.”
“And?”
“You never get a straight answer from Clare. She said she was on her way to Dublin to inquire about exams or some such nonsense.”
“Better say nothing, say nothing at all. You’ll get little thanks for what you say.”
Agnes thought that for once he might be right. This could be one occasion when it might pay to take no notice.
People said that Gerry Doyle’s poor mother had to take so many tablets now for her nerves that she would hardly realize what was happening at the funeral. Fiona had tried to get her a black coat and she said no, she always hated black, it reminded her of funerals. Gently Fiona had tried to persuade her that this actually was a funeral, and didn’t know whether to be pleased or upset that her mother hadn’t taken in the fact that Gerry was dead.
Nellie Burke’s family asked her was it true that David Power and Clare were living apart. Nellie, stubborn and loyal, said she knew nothing of the sort. Her brothers’ wives, who were spectacular gossips, were disappointed. They thought she would be the source of all information. So they had to make do with saying that a marriage like that could never work. They had known it from the start. She had been a silly little girl to think that a bit of education made her the equal of the doctor’s son.
“Did David tell you that Caroline Nolan’s packed up her job and gone back to Dublin?” Paddy Power asked Molly.
“I don’t believe you.”
“So Mr. Kenny says, remember he got her the job in the first place—very upset he is about it all. Just told them she wasn’t suited to country life, worked all day and all night to get her work finished and left. Same in her house. Wrote them a check for the rest of the quarter and vanished.”
“I must ring Sheila.”
“Maybe not, Moll. Maybe not. Let it settle down a bit yet.”
“Why do you say that?” She looked anxious.
“We don’t know half of what goes on, we might be making it worse.”
“How could we make things worse, we’re their friends, we haven’t done anything to upset Caroline, to make her run off from here.”
“No Moll, you haven’t and I haven’t,” he said levelly.
She looked at him in alarm and realized he wasn’t going to say any more.
“There’ll be so many there they won’t miss me. I’m not going,” Clare said.
They could hear the bell tolling on the cold, wet morning.
“You shouldn’t hurt the living. Fiona, his mother.”
“I can’t stand there and pray for the repose of his soul. It’s a mockery.”
“It’s what people do. It’s a custom. Think of it like that.”
“You don’t know . . . you don’t know . . .”
“Clare, stop it this minute. Of course I don’t know. You didn’t tell me, and you are not going to tell me now when we have to be in the church in ten minutes’ time. I’ve arranged for us to put Liffey in Mrs. Corrigan’s. She’ll not be going. She’s got five babies in that house already.”
“No. I have to stay here and mind Liffey.”
“Clare, stop being a child. Put your coat on. Now.”
“Would you like to walk up to the church with me, son?”
“Dad, I was half thinking I wouldn’t go. You know, stay here in case anyone needs one of us.”
“If they need us won’t they know where to find us, where would anyone find anyone on the day the bell is ringing for a young man?”
“I know but . . .”
“There’s going to be talk if you don’t go.”
“That’s nonsense. The church will be full. The whole of Castlebay will be there.”
“And you should be there.”
“But there are a lot of things I can’t explain . . .”
“And there’s no need why you should explain, just come up to the church with me now, come on David, it’s a small thing to do, but it’s a big thing if you don’t do it.”
“If you think . . .”
“I do think. Come on now. The bell’s ringing. Your mother’s gone already in the car.”
With cold hands they blessed themselves. Almost all of Castlebay went into the familiar church. The only thing that was unfamiliar was the coffin up near the altar rails. It was covere
d with Mass cards and there were two wreaths, one from his mother arranged by Frank Conway, and one from Fiona and Frank also arranged by Frank Conway. For some odd reason other people hadn’t sent flowers. You didn’t associate Gerry Doyle with flowers for the dead.
The church always seemed colder at a funeral. In the front row Mrs. Mary Doyle knelt in the black coat that had been borrowed for her, her eyes vacant and her hands clasped. Beside her Fiona sat. Face paler than ever, wearing a loose black coat and a mantilla. She looked like a Spanish widow, she had never looked really Irish at all.
David and his father arrived just at the same moment as Angela, Dick and Clare. They exchanged the funeral words people spoke at such times—terrible tragedy, young man, makes you wonder at the sense of anything.
David and Clare let the others go in before them.
“Did you burn the caravan?” he asked.
“Yes. And the pictures. And the negatives.”
“It doesn’t matter I suppose,” he said eventually.
“No.”
As if they were a million miles from each other they walked into the church side by side. Angela and Dr. Power sat beside each other deliberately. David and Clare joined them. So Castlebay was not treated to the sight of the young doctor and his wife having a public coldness right in the middle of a funeral. They genuflected and knelt down, where they had been maneuvered to be. Beside each other.
There had never been a Mass as long as this.
When she was certain it must be the communion it was only the offertory. When she was sure it was the last Gospel it was only the post-communion.
Sitting, and standing, and kneeling, beside David; looking at his cold hands clasped in front of him; noticing that he needed a haircut; seeing that his shoes were well-polished and wondering had Nellie done that for him.
And then every time she lifted her glance seeing that coffin which they said held Gerry Doyle.
Where would she go back to? If she could go back . . . ?
Before she got pregnant? No, that would mean no Liffey, and the only good thing that had come out of all this was Liffey.
After Liffey was born, had she been really terrible then? It was odd, she couldn’t remember much about all that winter and spring. She must have been a poor companion. As drugged and vacant-looking as Gerry’s unfortunate mother looked now.
Was that where she would start again?
David wished that she wasn’t kneeling beside him, but there was nothing else they could do. She had her elbows on the back of the seat in front and her forehead resting on her clenched hands. He noticed how thin her wrist was, with the watch he had given her hanging slightly loosely on it. When he glanced at her he saw her eyes were open and distant. She wasn’t praying, obviously.
There was plenty to think about. He felt a great weariness come over him. He was too tired to make her promises, to beg her to come back to the Lodge, to tell her it would all be all right. It might not be all right, and they had never lied directly to each other, they had lied by omission. He had never denied that he was with Caroline, because she had never asked him what way he was with Caroline. If it hadn’t been for those pictures, they would have had a chance. Those pictures. If he could only go back to before the pictures . . .
Had she really burned them? Is that what she had been doing when she went to burn the caravan? He shivered to think of it. Suppose the wind blew the wrong way and had swept the flames toward her? But why should she have gone up to the caravan park to burn the pictures, for God’s sake? Couldn’t she have burned them anywhere? He turned his head and looked at her, head still leaning on one hand, her dark eyes looking ahead, her shoulders tense and full of hurt. Had he been right when he said that nothing made any difference now? Was it too late?
The priest had walked around the coffin with the thurible and the sickly sweet smell of incense filled the church as Father O’Dwyer made his circle of the box that contained Gerry Doyle. Then four men, men who had been boys with Gerry and who had watched helplessly while he had taken their girlfriends away, picked up the coffin as if it were no weight at all. They walked out of the church followed by the whole congregation.
They walked, heads bent in the wind, the quarter of a mile to the graveyard which stood high on a hill. There the grave had been dug and the two gravediggers removed their caps as the funeral procession arrived.
Visitors often looked at this little graveyard and said it would be a beautiful place to come to rest. Surrounded by a stone wall, filled with the Celtic crosses of years, its own little ruined church covered with ivy in the corner.
Because it was on a hill you could see the whole beach below, the white flecks of the waves coming in ceaselessly. The sand and stones being pulled out in their wake. Hardly anyone could have looked back down at the beach without remembering that this is why they were here.
The only people who didn’t look were Gerry’s mother and sister. Mrs. Mary Doyle looked vaguely around. It was like a bad dream, everyone seemed to be looking at her she thought, but her sister held one of her arms and her daughter held the other. There was no sign of Gerry but he must be away working somewhere, he’d be here soon.
Fiona’s tears were mixed with the salt wind and rain, but she felt much more at peace now, now that she realized Gerry couldn’t have done it on purpose. Whatever those pictures were, Gerry would never have left anything behind him, deliberately . . . not anything that would hurt someone or ruin their life.
She listened to Father O’Dwyer, she didn’t understand the Latin words, but she knew that they were necessary to set Gerry’s soul at peace.
Angela looked at Dick. His face always looked very cross when he was upset, and he was greatly upset by all this. Last night he had whispered to her that there was a lot of violence in Castlebay, a sort of passion that was very destructive.
“It might cease now. Now that poor Gerry Doyle is dead,” Angela had said.
“No, it seems to be starting, what could have possessed that young fellow to do a thing like that. What could have been so bad that made him do it? And look at the caravan being burned out. I know that may not have anything to do with it, but it all seems very violent. All of a sudden.”
Angela said nothing. Someday she would know what it was all about.
Molly Power looked across at the O’Briens as they stood together. Agnes thin and frail always, her two sons beside her, Tom standing a bit back. That’s all she had now, after rearing that huge family, two boys in England, that Chrissie married into the Byrne family. And Clare. Who knew what to make of Clare? Certainly her parents didn’t; and Molly didn’t. She looked over to where the girl was standing stiffly, her long hair blowing in the wind. A good dark coat, not that terrible duffle coat she used to live in at one time. She was a strange girl. No wonder David found it so hard to deal with her.
Father O’Dwyer knew how to bury the dead of his parish. He had been doing it for years. But the dead were never like this. The dead were old men and women who hadn’t been able to survive a winter. Or someone who died tragically young leaving a family of small children. Occasionally the dead might be children—that was very hard, but there was something to say, about God taking innocent little souls to himself.
Paddy Power wondered what would Father O’Dwyer say to a congregation who knew what a life Gerry Doyle had lived, and that he had ended up by taking that life himself.
Dr. Power had reminded himself only that morning that God was merciful: and if God was, then Father O’Dwyer must be also.
The priest looked around at the cold faces all spattered by the sea spray and whipped by the wind. He would not keep them long but he must keep them long enough to do honor to the dead man. Otherwise why have the ceremony at all?
“You all knew Gerry Doyle, and as we stand here around his grave and pray that his soul is in heaven with the angels we will all remember his love of life, and how he was involved in everything that went on in Castlebay . . .
“I think i
t’s true that since this young man personified life, and youth and energy. His sudden death will make us realize once more what a very slight hold we have on our mortal lives, how easily they can be whipped away. While we pray for Gerry this morning, let us think of the briefness of our own lives. This time next year, not all of us who stand here now may be here, and in ten years’ time, many more will have gone to their Maker. But it’s not only the old and those who are ready to go, it’s the young who are totally unprepared to face the kingdom of heaven, and who still have so much to say to each other and to their families and their friends.
“If Gerry Doyle had been given one more day, there might have been many things he would wish to have said, things to put straight, people to reassure. But the Lord doesn’t let us know the time He calls us. Everyone here has a cheerful memory of Gerry. Let us keep those memories in our hearts and pray that his soul is in heaven today, and will rise again on the Last Day.”
There were the last three Hail Marys and the Glory Be to the Father and then Fiona leaned forward to raise the shovel of earth, the first one to fall on the coffin that had been lowered into the ground. She looked down into the big open grave.
“Thank you, Gerry,” she said unexpectedly.
People were almost embarrassed, nobody ever spoke at a time like this, certainly nobody expected the quiet dignified Fiona to say anything so emotional. One by one the men shoveled on earth, filling up the dark hollow space.
This was the bleakest part of a funeral. The finishing touches. People huddled closer together almost unconsciously as if they were looking for some warmth from just being in a crowd.
Clare and David moved together. Partly because they were jostled, partly because they wanted to.
It was David’s turn to take the spade in his hand. He paused and looked at Clare. Her glance was steady. She didn’t turn away.
