A Son of Aran (11 page)

‘Why don't you tell me that more often then? I don't remember you saying those words since last night.'

‘I love you to bits, Eileen. You know that without I having to tell you.'

‘Thanks, Seosamh. I like to hear you telling me over and over. Don't ever stop. Here's your reward—she planted a kiss on his cheek.

Peadar and Máirtín didn't go to the race course at Ballybrit. Instead they sampled Guinness in a number of pubs between High Street and Wood Quay where they met with a number of Peadar's former acquaintainces from The Claddagh and New Docks. They visited Festy too and took him to their old drinking hole in Eyre Street where, over several drinks, Peadar brought him up to date on events that had occurred since they last met.

‘I'll never forget your goodness to me the night we first met in the chapel beyond,' Peadar said, ‘and the way you stood by me when my mother, God rest her, passed away.'

‘Ah, sure I'd ha'done the same for anyone who was in trouble.' Festy replied. ‘What's the point of living on this earth if we can't do some good for people less fortunate than ourselves. I'm glad to know that things came right for you in the end although, in between times, you suffered more than you deserved.'

‘I'd like you to come with me to the Long Walk,' Peadar said to Máirtín on their final day in Galway. I want to see if anything that belonged to Saureen was left behind when we moved out of there in the middle of the night. I'd like to visit the house in Sickeen too. She couldn't have taken all her belongings with her when she left to go to Aran. I still have keys to both places—if nobody changed the locks we should have no trouble in gaining admission.'

The signal-red paint on the door at Long Walk had faded since he last saw it. Heads appeared in adjacent doorways when the two stopped in front. Hinges squeaked grudgingly as the big door swung open; the airless passage inside reeked of damp. A rusting wall lamp still contained some oil; the wick, solid from encrusted carbon and infrequent use, responded to Peadar's gentle massage as he applied a match and replaced the dirty globe. The rusted black range bore the remnants of a coal fire that had died of its own accord without being raked. Rats had made inroads into the cupboards and, thankfully, had devoured whatever food remained uneaten at the time of their hasty departure. In the bedroom, sheets, coverlets, and pillows lay covered in a film of grime and dust. Drawers in the dressing table and bedside locker contained an assortment of letters, cards, and writing materials, all of which Peadar thrust into a sack for perusal at some later stage. The two upstairs rooms were unlocked. In the front window facing the estuary, a dust-covered telescope remained focussed through the cobweb-covered window on an imaginary boat entering the harbour. Today no vessel appeared within its compass. The other room, the one Saureen had referred to as her office, was where she kept her confidential papers. Never before having been permitted to enter this room, Peadar was intrigued to find out what sort of records it contained. Subsequent events in their married lives made him suspicious that data recorded by Saureen might not be altogether naval in character. The only items of furniture were a roll top desk and a dust-covered cushioned chair. In the desk an assortment of papers strewn higeldypigedly throughout the main compartment were consigned to the sack for future perusal. When the desk was emptied two small inset drawers came to light. Both were locked.

‘Hold the lamp for me Máirtín,' Peadar said as he located a poker and prised them open. One drawer had a diary; its worn cover suggested frequent use—the other contained foreign currency notes.

‘Begorra, Peadar, this is our lucky day; we're in the money,' Máirtín said, laughingly. ‘I wonder will you be able to change these into Irish money when the bank opens in the morning!'

‘I'll not be looking to have them changed—not yet at any rate,' Peadar, thoughtfully replied. ‘I'll hold onto them for a while,' he added, as he carefully folded them, tied them with a piece of string, and put them in the inside pocket of his jacket. Above the desk was a faded unframed photograph of his late wife. This he placed in the sack with the other material.

‘That's about all we'll find that's of any use to me,' Peadar said as he quenched the lamp and locked the front door. Inquisitive heads ducked back inside the houses as the two men retraced their steps in the direction of the Spanish Arch.

‘We'll go to Sickeen while we are at it,' he said, as he clutched the sack in one hand and indicated direction with the other.

The cottage at Sickeen was small by comparison. Apart from dresses and other wearable items left behind by Saureen, some child's clothes worn by Eileen, and a few of his own working trousers and shirts, there was little by way of personal belongings. The few trinkets, ear rings, bracelets, and chokers, didn't appear to be of any intrinsic value; nevertheless, Peadar took them with him for Eileen's sake.

‘Sometime she might like to have mementoes of her mother,' he said to himself. ‘That's enough, Máirtín. Thanks for coming along with me; I would have found it hard to go through Saureen's things without your company.'

‘Any time, Peadar, that's what friends are for,' Máirtín replied as they made their way to the rooming house where they were staying.

‘Come,' said Peadar, ‘we deserve a good meal and a few pints after our day's work. It'll be back to porridge for both of us when we return to Aran tomorrow.'

Fr Corley pondered long and hard on the mission given him by Carlos: ‘The situation I am faced with is fraught with difficulty,' he thought. ‘It is sensitive and personal, particularly in the light of Eileen being unaware of the trauma that surrounded her birth. Why does Carlos continue to intrude on the lives of Peadar and Eileen now that his former mistress is dead? Could he be persuaded to withdraw from the scene at this stage? What sort of person is he in reality?' the priest wondered. ‘Does he, as he claims, own vast property in Spain? Is he married, separated, or divorced? Has he a history of profligacy? Does he entertain other women back home? I have only his word for the story he related to me. I must endeavour to verify the situation before I approach Peadar.'

An idea came to mind, outlandish perhaps, but worth a try. The address given by Carlos was in the Salamanca region of Spain. Father Delaminco, who taught social studies in the university, would have a wide knowledge of the area, and would have contacts among the native people—what better way to get a run down on our friend than through those sources? The lecturer, if still alive, would be very old. If he has passed on, his successor in social studies may be in a position to supply some background information. Taking pen and paper he addressed a letter to the Irish College, Salamanca, marked: ‘Confidential—Attention Father Delaminco (or successor in Social Studies).'

Outlining his own connection with the college, he requested, in strictest confidence, information on one Carlos de Montmorency, Estat de Tirelle. He awaited a response.

Summer holidays from school were rapidly coming to an end. Eileen made the most of whatever days were left; she helped Peadar with tasks around their home; she cooked his meals, cleaned the house, laundered his clothes and bed linen, and left every thing in apple pie order. Outside the house, she looked after the hens, collected their eggs, milked the cow, fed the young calf and, when Peadar was away fishing she tended the cattle ensuring they had adequate forage and more particularly water. Artesian wells were uncommon in Aran; water for livestock came from rainfall collected in man-made receptacles which in periods of drought often became empty. In between chores she walked the beach, collected shells and, conscious of her earlier misadventure, she confined her swimming to shallow water. She was lonely for Seosamh's company; they hadn't met since their time together in Galway during race week, but he had promised to visit her in Carna on his days off when opportunity permitted. They wrote to each other every week; she made a collection of his letters, tied them with blue ribbon, and kept them under her pillow from where she frequently took them to re-read what he wrote.

‘Seosamh, none other, you are the love of my life', she whispered.

After Eileen had returned to school, in the privacy of his own cottage, Peadar commenced to peruse the accumulation of material that Máirtín and he had brought back from Galway. Sorting through miscellaneous loose papers, he tried to put these into some sort of order—purchase dockets, bills, pawn tickets, private letters, photographs—most of which emanated from sources that he didn't recognise. Letters in many instances bore no sender's name, writers resorting instead to initials—a number of the dockets bore similar identification only. Contents of correspondence almost invariably consisted of declarations of eternal love and devotion, some pleading for the opportunity to profess their feelings personally. Bills and purchase dockets related to costly attire purchased from leading fashion outlets in Galway and tickets issued by one or other of the pawn shops in the city. Items lodged with these establishments were described as rings, bracelets, necklaces, and watches. Saureen's dealings with pawnbrokers and fashion outlets were a revelation to him.

‘How,' he thought to himself, ‘did all those activities go unnoticed by me during our years of our marriage?'

The much-thumbed diary and foreign currency constituted an even greater source of amazement. He couldn't estimate the origin or value of the currency notes but he could see that they were logged against specific entries in the diary.

Initials recorded in the appointments book or log—call it what you will—denoted a litany of contacts with unidentified persons. Data covered several years prior to his marriage to Saureen. He looked for dates and names relating to months prior to April of 1934. He found ST, BL and CP, listed for January/ February. He pursued his search—there was one mention of CM in that period. He locked the papers and diary in a box, and put it away under a loose flagstone in the cow byre where nobody but he himself could lay hands on it.

Fr Corley turned the envelope over several times before slitting it open. It bore the logo of a place where he had once resided—Collegio d'Irelanda, Salamanca. The letter was headed ‘Private and Confidential'. Resurrecting his long forgotten knowledge of Spanish, he awkwardly and slowly translated the contents:

My dear Father Corley,

In reply to your query, Father Delaminco passed away twelve years ago. As his successor in the field of social studies, I am pleased to be of service. I am familiar with the region of Tirelle, and with decades of agrarian strife between the Montmorency family and local peasant landholders. Estat de Tirelle comprises some two thousand hectares surrounded by a high boundary wall beyond which only employees are permitted access. For decades the peasants have sought government intervention to have the estate lands assumed and divided between them to augment their small allotments. Politically the Montmorency family members have been favoured people. Flavio, father of the present incumbent, Carlos, an avid supporter of the Franco regime during Spain's civil war, was killed in a skirmish with the Communists. Although he treated his tenants badly, evicting helpless survivors of the revolution and, in the process, resorting to murder and rape, he appeared to be immune from prosecution. The poor have their own way of exacting retribution; they raided his olive and vine plantations, destroying what they could before escaping; they harassed his workers until they resigned their posts, cut the tails of his horses, and drove his sheep into the hills where most of them were never found. Hatred of the family is wide-spread—a curse is said to have been put on them by a widow who, with her children, was evicted, and left without shelter until rescued by neighbours who were themselves only marginally better off. Carlos, the present owner, and only surviving member of the Montmorency family, gives little attention to managing his estate. He leaves it in the hands of a bailiff while he engages as captain of commercial sea going vessels that ply all around Europe and further afield. Those who know him say he is a philanderer who has a woman in every port. Occasionally he brings strange women home with him and keeps them in his big mansion but they seldom stay very long. Local women will have nothing to do with him. In Palencia, where he drinks to excess, a few hangerson associate with him for the sake of what they can get. Socially he is a parasite that nobody wishes to meet. He is regarded as violent and eccentric, and suffers bouts of depression and schizophrenia. Relations with his smallholder neighbours are fragile; naked hostility results from time to time in open conflict.

I sincerely hope that my testimony will go some way towards answering your query. Should further relevant information come to my notice I will communicate with you again.

(Signed) Dom Benedictus

The Gráinne Mhaol, a steamer of seventy-five feet in length out of Clare Island, was berthed in Kilronan to take on wool, hand-woven tweeds, knitwear, and barrels of cured herring, as part of its cargo destined for Bordeaux in the south west of France. The skipper, Dónal Ó Maille, was well acquainted with the run which he made as frequently as watchful eyes of the customs authorities allowed. On the return trip he brought supplies of brandy and fine wines that graced the dinner tables of Galway socialites. All were aware that the trade was illegal but turned a blind eye. Ó Máille was adept at avoiding the excise men, resorting to the cover of darkness to discharge his wares into smaller craft that plied as fishing vessels offshore. Occasionally he was pursued by the customs authorities, but the Gráinne Mhaol could outrun the more sluggish craft operated by officials who were less skilled in negotiating the open sea.

Peadar and Máirtín regularly shipped barrels of cured herring in the outgoing cargo for sale on the French market, trusting Ó Máille to get the best price on their behalf. On this occasion the boat was shorthanded. Ó Máille, knowing their prowess as seamen, asked if they would sign on with him for the trip which, given reasonable weather, should take about two weeks. There was a temporary lull in fishing—the two considered the offer and agreed to accept. Neither of them had been that far from home before—they saw it as a chance to become acquainted with the continent. An opportunity might be provided also to bring back a supply of brandy and sundry spirits for their own use, thus saving them the cost of buying these on the island or in Galway. Having made arrangements with Peadar's mother and some neighbours to look after things while they were away, they left on the following Monday on board the Gráinne Mhaol.