A Son of Aran (26 page)

‘There's Seánín Mhicil Dubh from Gort na hInse,' whispered Seosamh as the second man in line passed by the review platform. ‘Did you see him smiling as he went by? Hold on, there are more coming along after him.'

‘Holy Lord,' said Eileen as number six came into view. ‘Seosamh, hold me, I'm going to faint.' She pointed her finger at the man and called number six.

‘Dad, Dad, it's you,' she cried. He didn't appear to notice.

‘That's enough, warder,' the officer ordered. ‘Take the others back to their cells.'

‘Will you come this way,' he said, addressing himself to Eileen, the man she identified as her father, and Seosamh. He led them to the VIP room where Eileen, throwing her arms around Peadar, hugged him till he almost dropped. He was unmoved.

‘Don't you know me, Dad,' she cried. ‘I am your daughter, Eileen. This is Seosamh who is now my husband, and this is your grandson Carl,' placing the baby carefully in his arms.

‘Forgive me,' he replied, responding to her emotion, ‘I have lost all recollection of people I once knew. You say I am your father; I believe you although I have no memory of you. I am told that I was rescued from the sea and taken to a hospital somewhere in West Africa in a very ill condition. I was unable to understand peoples' language there. When I had sufficiently recovered, I met an English couple with a young boy who were waiting for a ship to Portsmouth— a tall, stately, bearded man of about fifty, and a beautiful young woman very much his junior. Although I had no money and no identification papers, they persuaded the captain to let me travel; they paid my fare, and promised to assist me through immigration. I didn't see them after we arrived; they gave me no name or address through which I could repay them. I thought it strange that they disappeared and didn't try to help me through immigration. Were they for real, or did I imagine them? There are many things that I am not clear about but I am eternally grateful to them for their assistance.'

‘Peadar O'Flaherty, you are with your own family once again. When Máirtín told how you were washed overboard from the hooker in a terrible storm, we thought you were dead. We searched for you everywhere without result. We decided that we would never see you again. Praise the Lord for your return,' Eileen sobbed as she clung to him. ‘Soon we'll have you back in Aran where you belong. Don't you worry, you will get your memory back when you meet your old friends, Máirtín, Sorcha, Seosamh's mother, and his brother Micilín. We'll send word to Tadhg too—won't he be elated when he hears that you are safe? We'll throw a big party to celebrate.'

‘We're back in Galway, Dad. You remember the fair green where you sold cattle many years ago,' Eileen said, as they walked from the railway station towards Foster Street. ‘And the docks where you used to unload the boats for MacDonacha's fertilisers factory—don't you remember? There's Rhona's restaurant where we held the party before we left for Spain. That's the house on Spanish Parade where we lived when I was small—do you remember any of these?'

‘I don't recall ever having been in Galway—it's all very strange to me,' Peadar replied. They walked slowly on their way to the hotel on Eyre Street where they were to stay overnight before catching the ferry to Aran in the morning. Eileen hoped that the sight of some of his former haunts would prod his memory but to no avail. Before they retired for the night, they visited Festy at Wood Quay, and brought him to The Hole in the Wall for a drink.

‘Festy is having a pint of Guinness,' Seosamh said to the barmaid. Peadar, will you have one too?'

‘Begorra, that stuff tastes nice,' he replied, after he had downed the contents of the glass in one gulp. He wiped the froth from his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Did I drink Guinness at one time?' he asked, ‘the taste seems familiar.'

‘Indeed you did,' Festy reminded him, ‘tis many a pint we lowered together when you lived here in Galway.'

‘You tell me I lived here once? Where did I stay?'

‘You stayed in my house when you came first—don't you remember the time your mother, God rest her soul, was dying above in the hospital? That's when we first met—you were very downhearted. In the Franciscan chapel it was— I took you for a cup of tea and you stayed with me that night.'

‘Festy, you were good to do that for me and you not having a notion who I was. If you will allow me I would like to repay you for your hospitality. Barmaid, we'll have another round of Guinness.'

‘Peadar, you may have lost your memory but you haven't lost your generous nature. The best reward you can give me is to come back to what you were when we knew one another. With God's help it will happen. It pains me to see you in this state. Let us drink to that day.'

Father Corley was sympathetic when Eileen took her father to see him. Placing his stole on Peadar's head, he closed his eyes and prayed over him for several minutes. ‘We'll leave him to God,' he said solemnly. ‘Miracles do happen if we have faith.'

‘Do you think, Máirtín, if you took him for a run in the hooker, would it help to refresh his memory?' Eileen asked, after she and her father had spent weeks walking on the beach and through the fields without any sign of recognition on Peadar's part.

‘Seosamh will go with you to help.' she added. Maybe you'll take a trip to Kilkieran and pay a visit to Tadhg who always had a lot of tales about the sea and misadventures that happened to fishermen in his lifetime, and during his father's and grandfather's time before that. He'll be pleased to see Peadar again—maybe he'll come with you to Aran for a spell to visit the grave of his ancestors.'

The sharp tang of seaweed permeated the atmosphere at Kilronan as they approached the hooker where it was moored in the lee of the harbor. Seosamh, three paces ahead, carried a fishing net, some ropes, and a life jacket for each of them. Máirtín perceived a momentary reluctance on Peadar's part before he stepped on board the hooker, and again when it swayed to and fro with the swell of the tide. Taking him gently by the arm, he sat him down and stayed near him while Seosamh loosed the mooring rope and cast off. Moving away from the pier, soon they were in the middle of the channel. Holding the tiller with one hand, Máirtín steered towards the open sea. Peadar's eyes, wide and alert, glanced searchingly to left and right but not a word passed his lips until the island was far behind and the coast of Connemara loomed in the distance.

‘Where are we going?' he asked. ‘What is that place out ahead?'

‘Those are the hills of Connemara,' Máirtín informed him, and we're going to pay a visit to our old friend Tadhg in Kilkieran.'

‘Do I know him?' Peadar asked, with a trace of interest more lively than he had shown to date.

‘Of course, you know him,' Máirtín assured him. On many a night, you and I sat around his hearth fire and drank poitín when the sea was too rough for fishing. Do you remember the songs you used to sing when you had a few shots from the bottle—The Boat Song, the Queen of Connemara and your favourite, Eileen, my, Eileen. Tadhg always said you should have been on the stage where you'd make an easier living than hunting fish. I remember too when, far out at sea, there was a lull in the take of fish, you'd break into song so loud and sweet that I reckon the fish approached close to the boat to listen. Do you think you might be able to give us a bar of a song to pass the time while we are sailing for Kilkieran?'

‘I don't recall any of the songs you mention—can you hum one of them for me?'

‘I was never blessed with a singing voice,' Máirtín replied, ‘but maybe Seosamh will oblige. He has more reason to sing recently than either of us, what with having Eileen and the baby and his new job in Spain. How about it, Seosamh?'

Peadar's body swayed in keeping with the melody as Seosamh gave his rendering of The Spailpín Fánach, the song he knew best.

‘Begorra, that's a grand song,' said Peadar. ‘If I had the words, I'd have a go at it myself.'

‘Seosamh, why don't you try his old favourite, Eileen my Eileen,' Máirtín suggested. ‘I'm sure you have often sung it to your own sweet Eileen. Give it a shot—Peadar might recall singing it himself.' Seosamh obliged:

There on the shore she could hear it so plain

His voice in the wind singing soft this refrain,

Eileen, my Eileen, wait for me, Eileen.'

‘That rings a bell alright,' Peadar said, as he attempted to hum the refrain. ‘You'll have to give me the words of that song—Eileen, my Eileen—it sounds familiar.'

‘Peadar O'Flaherty, you're welcome as the rose in June,' Tadhg greeted him on their arrival in Kilkieran. ‘I never thought to set eyes on you again. You too, Máirtín, and your friend Seosamh—come and have a bite to eat before we start talking. We can't let the occasion pass without celebrating, now that our friend who was lost has been restored to us—
Glór do Dhia a tháinig chun cabhair air
(praise to God who came to his aid).
Beidh taoscán beag agaibh sar a thosamíd ag ithe'
(you'll have a wee drop before we start to eat). They all raised their glasses:

‘
Beannacht Dé orainn uilig is go mbeirmuid beo an tam seo arís'
(God's blessing on us all and may we be alive this time next year).

‘It's a terrible shame that Peadar, poor man, has lost all recollection of the events of his life,' Tadhg confided to Máirtín as they sat and talked, long after Seosamh and Pea-dar had gone to sleep.

‘Is there anything you can recommend that might rock his memory,' asked Máirtín, deeply concerned for the welfare of his former partner and friend.

‘Did you not always hear that, when a person gets a bad shock like falling from a horse, the only remedy is to put him back on that horse,' said Tadhg, ‘otherwise he will never have the courage to ride again. Would you be willing to try the same tactics with Peadar? I know it's a chance; it may not have the desired result, but have we anything to lose? A sudden shock could bring him back to himself. Leave it with me—don't mention a word.'

The onset of a south westerly gale sent every boat in the vicinity scuttling into the shelter of Kilkieran harbour. Owners of craft, already moored there, hurried to make them safe against the storm. Mooring ropes, strewn hastily on the quay wall, were a danger to life and limb. The sky grew dark; with an ominous whine, the wind force increased perceptibly. People abandoned the quay area and headed for their homes, hoping they would find their boats intact when the storm had abated. Máirtín, busy at the prow, was making final adjustments to the mooring ropes and buffers. Tadhg, and Peadar, were leaving the quay when a piercing cry rent the air: ‘Help, help, I'm drowning. Someone save me; is anybody up there?'

They ran back. Peering into the water in the half light, they saw a man struggling against the tide, and being dragged down by the weight of his heavy gear.

‘It's Máirtín,' Tadhg shouted. ‘Peadar, throw him a lifebelt before he goes under. If I were younger, I'd be in there like a flash—I'm no longer able. What'll we do if he can't get hold of the lifebelt? There he is—he's going under again.'

‘Help, help me,' this time a more feeble muffled voice reached them.

Peadar stood transfixed for a moment, uncertain what he should do. Then, with a shout, ‘hold on, I'm coming,' he plunged fully clothed into the water, grabbed the drowning man by the arms and, keeping his head above water, clinging to the lifebelt, he drew him slowly towards the steps. Tadhg and some other men who had been alerted by the man's cries, hauled the two men onto the wharf, laid Máirtín on his stomach, and proceeded to eject the water from his lungs. Following a bout of spluttering and coughing they carried him to Tadhg's house where, beside the hearth fire, they removed his sodden clothes, gave him a sip of poitín, and covered him with a blanket. It was only then their thoughts turned to the man who had rescued him.

‘Where has Peadar gone?' someone asked. ‘He too is in need of a dry outfit and something to warm him.'

Peadar was nowhere to be seen. A search party went to look for him down by the pier—'Where can he have gone?' one said, ‘did he fall back into the tide?'

Seosamh was the first to observe a trail of dripping water that led to the village church. There he found Peadar prostrate before the altar, weeping copiously, and praying aloud:
‘Míle buíochas duit, mo Dhia—tusa a thug slán mé, tusa a threóraigh ar bhealach mo leasa mé, tusa a thug mo mheabhar agus mo ghéar intinn ar ais dom. Moladh go deo dhuit, a Shlánathóir.'
(A thousand thanks to you my God; it is you who brought me safe; it is you who led me along the road to recovery; it is you who has restored my memory and my sharpness of mind. Eternal praise to you, my Saviour).

‘Come, Peadar, you'll get your death from lying here. Come with me and we'll get you some dry clothes. Tadhg is singing your praises for your quick reaction that saved the life of our friend, Máirtín—neighbours have gathered to toast your achievement.'

For many years afterwards, Tadhg related the story of that night's celebration. ‘I had a couple of bottles laid by for an occasion like this but they didn't last very long. Neighbours came bringing more bottles. A man, who prefers to remain anonymous, had his own private distillery. He brought a gallon of the best poitín I ever drank. By the time we had consumed the lot, we stretched on the kitchen floor before a blazing fire. Women, at the upper end of the village, who waited for their husbands to come home, could hear the snores. When we awoke next morning, the storm was over but no work was done in Kilkieran that day, or for a week after. Everybody was glad that Máirtín Ó Neachtan was saved from drowning; what nobody but we ourselves knew, Peadar was relieved of the memory problem that had beset him for years. His spontaneous jump into the water to rescue his friend brought back the trauma of his own predicament on the night he was washed overboard from the hooker. As he said when he was ready to speak about his dilemma, “On that night our situations were reversed— Máirtín was in the boat, doing his best to hold her on course against the storm when I was thrown into the water. On account of the ferocity of the gale, there wasn't a thing either of us could do for the other.
Buíochas le Dia go bhuilmuid araon anseo chun an scéal a insint
(Thank God we're both here to tell the tale).”'