The Parish (13 page)

“W
ill I ever be ready?” she asked.

“Sure, of course you’ll be ready,” I assured her.

“I’m not so sure,” she said doubtfully.

“What you need is a deadline,” I suggested. “You’ve been talking about this art exhibition for the past few years but you’re getting no nearer to it. When exactly had you in mind?”

“When I’m ready,” she told me.

“But when will that be?” I persisted.

“Well, I’m not sure,” she said vaguely.

“What are you waiting for?”

“I’m waiting for the right time,” she asserted.

“I have a suggestion,” I said hopefully. “Next year, Cork is European Capital of Culture. There’s as much culture in Innishannon as Cork. So next year could be your year.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” she agreed slowly, and I sensed that she was considering it seriously. But then she had second thoughts. “Would I ever be ready?”

“Sure, of course you’ll be ready,” I assured her; “you’ve a whole year and a half and you already have paintings. Not
enough, but once you’re focused you’ll get there.”

“It’s probably a good year to do it,” she said thoughtfully, and I could see that the idea was beginning to take hold. As we drove home, we discussed the entire project, and by the time we reached Innishannon, the decision had been made. She had one whole year to get ready.

“Michelangelo did a big patch of the Sistine Chapel in that much time,” I told her.

“I’m no Michelangelo,” she said with a laugh.

Years previously, Mary and I had both started painting with Lia Walsh, who after the parish history exhibition started an art class in the village hall. When Lia no longer held classes, we joined up with Brother Albert in Cork, who patiently over the years tried to turn us into artists. Mary is the more talented of us, and many local people had come to her to do paintings for them. Now it was time to spread her wings, and an exhibition was the way to go.

The first decision to be made was the venue and, after much discussion, it was decided that the parish hall was the best place. Easily accessible to locals, it had the advantage of being on the side of the main road to West Cork; even though we were always complaining about the through traffic, on this occasion it could serve our purpose.

During that summer, autumn and winter, Mary painted and painted. She loves her own place and that love found expression in beautiful scenes of Innishannon. A great walker of Dromkeen Wood, which lies at her back door, she would have seen it in all seasons and at every hour of the day and night. Now these woodland observations poured on to the canvas in the shapes of pheasants flying over the wood in the early morning and the waterfall glistening in the evening light.
Dromkeen in spring is a bluebell wood and in summer a place of light and shade. Mary’s paintings brought the viewer into her wood in all seasons.

The parish hall needed a bit of an overhaul for an art exhibition. Con Dan, a builder neighbour of Mary’s, came to the rescue and, with Mary’s husband Joe, created the more intimate space of an art gallery. To the left of the door we planned long tables for wine and eats and, to the right, seating where five local teenagers would provide soft classical music on violin and harp. A neighbour who worked with a wine company would take care of the wine. When we discussed the eats, Lena, who was home on holidays from America, surprised me by assuring us that she would take charge of that department. She was then working in the financial world in Boston and told us that she knew exactly what was required for such an occasion. But I was apprehensive about her one-woman catering effort.

Dromkeen Wood on the morning of the exhibition was a carpet of bluebells spreading from under the trees into Mary’s garden. She came into the parish hall with arrangements of primroses and bluebells. They filled the hall with their woodland scent and highlighted the paintings of bluebells and ditches of wild flowers waiting to be hung. All day, Mary, Ellen and I, ably assisted by Joe, hung the paintings. Hanging an exhibition is a challenging and exhilarating exercise; as the paintings went up, the wonderful beauty of Innishannon spread out around us.

Suddenly we realised that we had been so engrossed that we had forgotten to eat and time was running out. But before we left the hall we stood at the door to admire the entire scene. Mary and Joe went home to eat and get ready, while Ellen and I walked down the village looking forward to a cup
of tea and to putting our feet up. We were exhausted! But when we opened the kitchen door we gasped in horror. Lena had every available space covered with dishes, trays, bowls and all kinds of everything.

“Have I the two of you for the rest of the evening?” she gasped in the relieved tones of a drowning woman. Ellen and I looked at each other in mutual dismay. No resting time to be had here!

“Where’s you father?” I asked, seeking temporary relief.

“Evicted to the front room,” she informed us, and there we found Gabriel calmly reading the paper.

“That kitchen is a war zone,” he said with a smile and added, rising to the rescue, “You two look in the need of a cup of tea.”

After tea, Lena issued instructions and the two assistants did as we were told. She had created little bits and pieces that I could not even christen not to mind guess what was in them. But potato skins I did recognise—after all, I had been reared on spuds.

“What the hell are you doing with potato skins?” I demanded.

“They are now a delicacy,” she blithely informed me.

“Well, they might well be in downtown Boston, but some of tonight’s clientele will be West Cork farmers,” I protested. “Here we still regard potato skins as something that you give the dog after the dinner.”

“Mother, you’re caught in a time warp,” she dismissively informed me. That’s America for you!

When all was in readiness, I had to admit that the display looked good, including the potato skins, though I still had my reservations about them.

Mary’s now-retired boss, Dr John Crowley, who had laid the foundation stones for the very successful SWS group where Mary worked, performed the official opening. All her fellow workers and the people of the parish came in strength. She was taken by surprise when Paudie from the local GAA club—for which Mary had done an immensity of secretarial work—presented her with a wonderful bouquet. She had also done major work for Tidy Towns and, when we presented her with a tree, one wit behind me commented, “That’s a great present for someone living in a wood!”

People wandered around expressing “Oohs” and “Aahs” of delight as they recognised familiar scenes and, of course, we had the people who were interested only in the prices and meeting the neighbours. Early in the night, a young man had bought a painting of a local cottage as a surprise for his mother. Later, when she arrived in the hall, she was very disappointed to see the red dot, as she had wanted to buy this picture of her old family home. There were smiles all round when she discovered that he had bought it for her.

The night was an outstanding success and by the end of it the paintings were speckled with red dots. The eats had gone down a treat—even the potato skins; I had underestimated the farmers of West Cork.

I
t was an ordinary day. On that Wednesday morning, after a leisurely breakfast, I went up to the attic to put foxes on canvas, and Gabriel went for his usual walk. He was a six-mile walker; I was only a three-miler and after the second mile I was thinking of all that I could be doing in the garden or up in the attic. Every morning, Gabriel got up before seven o’clock, and usually when I woke around eight he already had the shop open and had taken in the papers; when Mike came on duty, he went to mass and after breakfast usually had some project on hand.

Whatever direction either of us took after breakfast, we were both back in the kitchen by lunchtime, and when I came in the door Gabriel had the kettle on the Aga and was usually making sandwiches. Before he gave me the present of a laptop, I did all my writing up in the attic and, if I forgot to come down for lunch, Gabriel would appear with a tray and we’d eat up there, looking out over Dromkeen Wood. If we were both in the kitchen, Gabriel would always ask, “Are we inside or outside today?”

On that Wednesday, it was the usual question, and as there was a November chill in the air we opted for the front room that Gabriel had christened the curiosity room because from it you could watch the world of the village go by. My sister Ellen, who was staying with us at the time, had gone to Cork.

After lunch, Gabriel decided that he would like to see the plans for Knockavilla Church, the second church in the parish, which was about to be restored. The plans had been put on display in that church the previous Sunday. We drove up to Knockavilla and he viewed the plans with great interest, and because plans to me are a foreign language he pointed out different facets of the development. That night, there was a meeting in Knockavilla concerning the restoration and, because Gabriel was more meeting-friendly than I am, he opted to go and I locked up the shop as Mike was late home. When Gabriel came back from the meeting, he totalled the tills and then we had tea and discussed the meeting, and we went to bed still discussing the meeting.

The following morning, the bedroom door burst open and an ashen-faced Mike gasped: “Something’s happened to Dad!”

I shot out of bed and, dragging on my clothes, tore down the stairs to the shop. Gabriel was on the floor with Dr Máire, who lives down the street, kneeling beside him. He was unconscious and she was setting up oxygen, and I crouched beside him with terror clutching my heart. Our neighbours, Declan and Shelly, were there, and Gerry who lives down the street was advising customers not to come in and explaining what was happening. Very soon, the ambulance was outside and the men brought in the stretcher; it was mind-numbing to watch Gabriel being carried out the door. Ellen and I climbed into the ambulance and, with siren sounding, we were on our
way to the University Hospital. I felt that this could not be happening.

We were whisked into A&E where the medics took over and Gabriel was set up in a cubicle with drips and tubes. It was good to have Ellen because, being a nurse, she understood procedures, and as well as that she was calm and soothing. We sat by the bed as nurses and doctors came and went, but Gabriel remained unconscious. Gearóid came and we discussed what to do and decided that he should contact Diarmuid and ring Lena and Seán and tell them to book flights.

The day dragged on and nothing changed; late that evening, Gabriel was moved upstairs into a ward that had some very sick people. Through the long night, Lena, who had arrived earlier, and I sat with him as he remained in a coma, breathing quietly. The nurses were kind and comforting and brought us tea as the night crawled on. Because Gabriel’s bed was by the window we saw the dawn break over Wilton. The next day dragged by and we sat with Gabriel, who showed no signs of regaining consciousness.

In the early hours of Saturday morning, I went down to the hospital chapel while the nurses attended to him. It was quiet and peaceful in the empty chapel. I tried to meditate and not let my mind run ahead of me but failed. What were we facing? Was it recovery or was Gabriel going to slip away from us? The thought of life without Gabriel’s warm presence was a bleak prospect.

Then Lena tiptoed in, saying that the doctor wanted to talk with us. It could mean only one thing. Fear clutched my heart. The nurse directed us into a little office down the corridor from Gabriel’s ward where the doctor was waiting. He was kind and gentle but his news was otherwise. Gabriel’s
condition was deteriorating and it was only a matter of time, and he emphasised that the time would be short. Lena, who was more alert than I was, asked for a private room.

They moved Gabriel into a little room, so now we could sit around his bed without disturbing anybody, which was not possible in the busy ward. During that long day, we prayed, we talked and we cried. Gabriel lay silent in the midst of us. He had great devotion to the rosary and now the praying of it had a calming effect on us. Time stood still and the world outside ceased to exist. Then, in the early hours of Sunday morning, he slipped away. In the presence of death you are made aware that life is beyond all understanding. It is a time when you switch to auto-pilot because otherwise you could not function.

The undertaker was contacted and I had thought that, as when Con died, he would come into the hospital and do what was necessary and that we could bring Gabriel home with us. But this was a different hospital and procedures had changed. Hughie the undertaker patiently explained all this to me on the phone in great detail, and in the end I had to accept that we would have to go home alone. It was heartbreaking to walk out of that hospital and leave Gabriel behind. It was a bleak journey home.

We sat for a little while by the fire in the
seomra ciúin
and then it was time to go and pick out the coffin. Gabriel would have done this for me and he would have wanted something very simple. At the funeral parlour, Hughie was waiting and with great kindness walked us through rows of coffins. Because I was disorientated from shock and lack of sleep I saw coffins floating in the air around me and even Hughie, a fairly substantial man, seemed to take off into the
air. I had to keep shaking my head to get back in focus, and eventually Gearóid and I picked out a plain coffin.

A few hours later, we were at the viaduct, a landmark with ample parking, waiting for the hearse, and when it drew up beside us it was mind-jerking to think that Gabriel was now inside in that coffin. We followed the hearse home to the village. Because eleven o’clock mass was on in the church there was parking in front of our own door. Gearóid and Diarmuid took in his coffin and placed it in the same spot where our friend Con’s had been four years before. When the lid was removed, Gabriel looked so peaceful. He was dressed in his best suit, wearing his fáinne, his pioneer pin and his GAA tie of which he was so proud. We lit the wax candles in the old brass candlesticks around him. They were Aunty Peg’s candlesticks and had gone around the village in her time to all the different wakes. They had been used at her own wake and at Con’s and the feel of them was strangely comforting. It was so good just to have Gabriel with us.

For a little longer the final parting was put on hold and our minds were getting time to absorb this overwhelming reality. It was good then to be part of a small village community because they put their arms around us and walked with us every step of the way. Friends and neighbours poured into the house and throughout the day the extended family gathered. We cried and talked and comforted each other. All kinds of cakes and eats came in the back door and our friends Eileen, Noreen and Hazel took over in the kitchen; Ann, who lives across the road, brought a big pot of soup. Many times during that day, I thought that I was part of something that could not really be happening. But then I looked in at Gabriel in the coffin and knew that this was real. Late that night, some of us went to bed
for a little while and the neighbours sat with Gabriel. Through the night, they talked, made tea and told stories beside him.

The following day, people came from further afield. His GAA and bridge friends gathered and many games were replayed in corners around the room. It was as if the full story of Gabriel’s life was being woven around him. Bertie Kelleher, who had lived in our village for many years and was an exemplary member of the Garda in nearby Bandon, said something that stayed with me.

“In all the places I have served,” he told me, “I have found in many cases that one solid citizen can hold an entire community together.” It was the creed of the Blasket islanders—
Ar scáth a chéile a mhaireann na daoine
(“We live in the shelter of each other.”) Now, as a family, we were benefiting from that shelter.

During that day we sorted out readings and hymns. Con’s brother, Fr Denis, was in America and we were unable to make contact, but his brother, Fr Pat from Clonard in Belfast, was with us, and our own priest, Fr John, who had been away on holidays, had miraculously appeared. Over the Christmas of Con’s death, Gabriel had given Fr Pat a revised copy of Dinneen’s Irish dictionary and had gone over with him the prayers of an Irish mass. In a strange twist of fate, now Fr Pat was going to say the mass in Irish. Gabriel would have wanted his funeral mass in his native language.

The time of the removal drew near and the house was thronged; among those present were many young people who over the years had done holiday work in the shop. I had never quite realised until then how many young girls had had summer jobs with us, and Gabriel and themselves had often had innocent fun together. Now they laughed and cried as they recalled some of the incidents that are part of running a
local shop. As a teenager, Gabriel had delivered telegrams to remote corners of the parish where he had forged friendships with many families, and in more recent times, through sorting the mail, he was often the first to become aware of newcomers’ addresses and to welcome them to the parish. For the new residents his was a welcoming face gone, and for his old friends he had been a corner-stone of the parish. They were all shocked at the suddenness of his going, saying, “But I saw him earlier this week out the road walking.”

Soon there was no more time for talking and we all knelt and said the final rosary. Over the past few days, we had said the rosary many times and there is something extremely calming about its repetitive mantra. It is a family and community prayer, and in times of trauma, because it is a shared prayer, it encompasses all in a sense of togetherness.

When the rosary ended, the people eased out, and we as a family were left on our own to say our goodbyes. How do you say goodbye to forty-four years of loving and togetherness? Your insides disintegrate and, when the coffin lid goes down, you know that the best of your life is under it. My heart bled for Lena and the lads because Gabriel was the one who had loved them most in life.

Mike and Seán brought the coffin out the door and then the four of them shouldered their father past our home to the corner of the street. There, members of the Valley Rovers hurling and football club lined up and carried Gabriel up the hill. Since childhood he had been involved in the club and over the years had been chairman, secretary, treasurer and trainer; there had been times when I had thought the Valley Rovers were shooting balls through our house. People lined along both sides of the hill and, as the lighted church came
into sight, the bell tolled.

A strange tranquillity descended on me. This was the place where Gabriel had spent so much time changing bulbs, brushing out leaves and blocking draughts. In some way, this was his place and he was coming home. It was the home of his spiritual side, which was a big part of Gabriel’s life. So, up into the beautifully restored church, into which he had put so much love and effort, we brought Gabriel, and after the prayers people filed up to sympathise.

The “sorry for your trouble” procedure is probably a very Irish concept and when it is heartfelt and genuine it brings great comfort, but if it is delivered mechanically, as a matter of routine, with a limp handshake and no feeling, it is meaningless. One young lad of about ten came at the end of the queue and went straight for Mike who was his team trainer. He put his arms wordlessly around Mike’s neck, gave him a hug and went straight out the door. It was an expression of deep sympathy and affection.

Gabriel’s funeral mass brought me comfort. By chance or otherwise, the candelabrum by the altar was full of lighting candles, and light has a indefinably uplifting effect. Fr Pat’s amazing homily opened new doors in my mind, leading me into zones of new thought. He told us that Gabriel’s spirit was now part of something far greater and beyond our understanding, but emphasised that “Gabriel is dead.” In the celebration of the life Gabriel had had and the welcoming of a new beginning we needed always to face the reality of death and the need to mourn. It was comforting to hear some of the prayers in the language that Gabriel loved, and Seán, who had inherited his father’s love of our native tongue, gave the reading in Irish. My niece Treasa’s wonderful voice filled the church. The pathos of
the Pie Jesu gripped me and connected in a powerful way with the last hours of Gabriel’s life. It brought a realisation that the separation of the divine soul from the earthly body is a huge wrenching. It is beyond all human understanding. The piteous agony of the Pie Jesu captures the trauma of that deep suffering. It had been beyond understanding until then.

As the bell tolled, the coffin, escorted by members of his bridge club, was taken down to Uncle Jacky and Aunty Peg’s grave; as Gabriel was lowered into the earth, I thought:
The next coffin in there will be mine
. When the grave was covered, Treasa sang Gabriel’s favorite song, “Carrigdown”. Because the lads had asked me, I said a few words about him. I tried to convey as best I could that, soon after coming to Innishannon, I realised that I had married with this man an entire parish. Gabriel had really believed that we live in the shelter of each other. Then Con Murphy, who had taken Gabriel to the North Mon on his first day there, gave a wonderful tribute in Irish and English.