A Son of Aran (30 page)

‘We did and we didn't. We earned money all right but we squandered a lot of it in the bars and clubs at night and at weekends—we had no other pastime. That was the lot of many of our countrymen that I met in England—they didn't mix outside their own class. When they got tired of one another's company they started to fight among themselves. Of course they all stood together if an outsider tried to take advantage of one of them. Sometimes that gave rise to a brawl; if the cops were called they always blamed the Irish. It's not a very nice life for men who remain single; those who are lucky enough to marry and settle down are all right; it can be lonely for the others.'

‘And did you lose your heart to any woman while you were away?'

‘No, Cáit, I didn't get involved at all in that direction. Footloose and free, I ploughed my own furrow, that's how I can now come back home without any hindrance. What about yourself, Cáit? Thomasheen told me about losing your husband—it must have been a terrible shock, you being far away from family and friends. I was very sorry to hear of it.'

‘The luck of the draw, Seánín—some get life harder than others. My husband was killed sixteen years ago. At this stage I have come to terms with his death. That's why I have come back. America is no place for a woman on her own, especially when she is getting on in years.'

‘Now don't be talking like that; you're a fine fresh woman still. I'll bet if you wanted, you could get the best looking man in County Galway, let alone in Aran.'

‘I don't know if I want to become attached again, Seánín. Of course if I met someone I liked well enough, that could change my mind. Do you remember when we used to frolic down by the beach on a summer evening, splashing one another as we waded knee deep in the tide, and throwing
feamnach
(seaweed) at one another—they were carefree days.'

‘I reckon we could never relive those times, Cáit, but that's not to say we couldn't have a lot of fun still. For old time sake, would you mind if we took a walk around the island some evening? Since I came back I haven't seen very many of the places I used to know; it's lonesome walking on one's own.'

‘I'll be delighted. There isn't much to be done around this house. Thomasheen is out working most of the day; on many a night he doesn't arrive home until long after I have gone to bed—I don't know what keeps him away. How about tomorrow evening for that walk—does that suit you?'

‘Perfect, Cáit, I'll be looking forward to it.'

‘May I say something? Do you mind if I call you Seán? That ‘een' tag suggests something small, diminutive—rather childish, I guess, when applied to a big man like you.'

‘No problem, Cáit. I don't mind what you call me as long as you call me loud and often.'

During the long summer evenings they walked and talked until they had covered every road and boreen on the island; they never appeared to run out of conversation. Local people wondered what brought these two together again after years of separation.

‘Let them wonder away,' Seánín said. ‘It's none of their business.'

‘What will you do when your vacation is over?' Cáit asked one evening as they passed by his old homestead.

‘I have thoughts of starting to restore this place,' he answered. ‘Thomasheen suggested to me that I should do something about the land too—walls should be rebuilt to keep out trespassers, the fields need a dressing of lime and fertiliser to make them green again.'

‘When will you start, then—aren't those jobs for summer time?'

‘I would start in the morning but there is a problem; I haven't enough money to do the work. I suppose I could try to raise a loan in the bank but managers on the mainland aren't very willing to lend money to us islanders. My place would fetch a good penny if it was put in shape but, in the meantime, I'd have to invest a fair few pounds in it. Maybe I'll think of some way of approaching it. As my late mother, God rest her, used to say,
Is goire cabhair Dé ná an doras.
(God's help is nearer than the door ).'

‘Seán, I'd be pleased to help if we could work out an arrangement. I received compensation from the American Government for the death of my husband; I have also been granted a regular pension. As you will see, I am not short of funds. Residing with my brother, Thomasheen, is temporary until I find a place of my own on the island. Aran is my home—I don't care to live out my life in any other place. If you will obtain a valuation for your house and farm as it stands at the moment, I would be prepared to put up an equivalent sum to restore the property. We could become co-owners and reside in the house with no strings attached. What do you say?'

‘It sure is a generous offer, Cáit, but it's very sudden like. I'll have to take time to think it over. What would happen if we didn't get along together? I'm no angel; sometimes I take a drink too many and I have been known to fight with people. To be honest, those are the reasons I didn't bring much with me out of England. It would be a mighty big risk for both of us. What would folk have to say about two unmarried persons living together? That is how people would see it. The priest would have us run out of the parish.'

‘In the States, Seán, people live in close proximity to one another all the time—nobody takes any notice. Men and women share apartments in the same block; there's only a narrow wall between them—nobody gets hot under the collar about their comings and goings—it's their own business. In lots of cases people live together outside of marriage.'

‘Cáit, this is not the great USA—practices such as you mention haven't caught on in Aran yet. There may be a solution to our problem, although it is probably premature to discuss it at this stage. You and I have outgrown the age of romantics. We have both been out and about at home and abroad. We know that adult couples come together for a variety of reasons, mutual support, companionship, admiration, re-kindling of an old flame; do you see the two of us qualifying under any of those heads? If you are willing, Cáit, I would like to marry you. Will you marry me?'

‘If all things were equal, Seán, I would have no problem in answering you in the affirmative. I must however look on your proposal as a business proposition. Pooling our resources to restore the house and land is only the initial stage. We must agree on how day-to-day outlay is to be shared, also the creation of a joint fund from which either of us can draw for unforseen expenditure on events like accidents or illness. Matters such as these would have to take the form of a prenuptial agreement; the time to make such arrangements is before, not after, marriage. There is also the question of your brother, Risteárd. If he should return home, he may want to establish equal claim to your property. Provision would have to be made for such an eventuality.'

‘Begorra, Cáit, you have a great head for business. When we were both in Miss McLoughlin's class at school you were light years ahead of me at mathematics. I cannot fault your wisdom in having everything cast in stone before we tie the knot—it's as much in my interests as yours. Maybe, you'll put your ideas down on paper, and we'll go to Galway and engage a solicitor who will draw up an agreement for us. I am grateful that you didn't turn me down flat when I asked you to marry me.'

‘Tis easy to get a woman who has money if you play your cards right,' Seosamh told Jago, as he related the story of Seánín's love life. The news of his good fortune had reached them in Spain. Eileen and Peadar were absolutely amazed, but delighted, at the outcome.

‘Begorra, he didn't waste any time in getting settled after he went back home,' Peadar commented. ‘I wonder if I tried hard enough, could I find some one like Cáit. Wouldn't it be great, now that I'm not short of a few pounds, and not having to work! Do you think, Eileen, are there any loose women in Aran or in Galway that I could get hold of?'

‘No doubt, Dad, there are plenty of eligible women around,' Eileen responded, ‘but in the light of your previous experience in the matrimonial field, I think you would be better staying with your present situation. Now that we are together as a family for the first time in years, I'd be loath to see you taking off again. Your income from Estat de Tirelle wouldn't last very long if some of the women you talk about got their hands on it. Stay here and count your blessings. I'll let you in on a secret; although I haven't told Seosamh yet, I'm pregnant again. Does that not give you another reason for staying close to us?'

‘I'm joking, Eileen,
a ghrá
(my love), I haven't a notion of doing anything so daft. Sure, who'd take charge of the research offices and the laboratories if I went away? With another baby on the way, I'll have my hands full at babysitting in my off hours.'

Seosamh's expertise was in demand among the smallholders; they relied on him for advice on cultivation of crops they were not familiar with;

‘What kind of seed should we buy, what quantity per hectare, what fertiliser should we apply, what sprays should we use to control diseases and pests?' Their queries were endless. Widely dispersed holdings presented a transport problem. Eileen used the car most days for attendance at her classes in Salamanca. Since she became proficient in driving, she no longer required Seosamh to be her chaufeur. Secondary roads of poor standard did not facilitate motor traffic. As an alternative he resorted to travelling around the commune on horseback. Wasn't that the way the gombeen landowners in Ireland kept a close eye on their tenants! On horseback, Seosamh portrayed himself as a person of importance to whom the populace should look up in admiration. In his role as their advisor he felt elevated.

‘Aren't we fortunate to have this enlightened young man at our elbow?' Jago's mother remarked. ‘However did we manage before he came among us?'

With Eileen absorbed in her studies, and Seosamh absent from home by day, baby Carl was left in the care of Santa Clara for lengthy periods—a situation that caused both his parents a certain amount of anxiety. Peadar's occupation kept him close to the house. While he maintained an overall surveillance, his contribution to looking after the young child was minimal. From the point of view of security, his presence was important.

‘We cannot let this situation continue,' Eileen said to Seosamh. ‘As Carl gets older, he needs to have at least one of his parents with him or he'll grow up speaking Spanish instead of English and Irish. You and I must programme our activities to allow one of us to be here for him at all times.'

‘You are the heiress who doesn't have to work,' Seosamh replied. ‘On the other hand, I have to earn my living and must continue to operate outside of the home.'

‘Seosamh, don't you know that what's mine is yours— as married partners we share everything equally. Although you obviously enjoy what you are doing, you don't need to work to provide yourself with money. In Ireland, those who ride around on horseback are regarded as gentry—they oversee their employees and tenants but they themselves do not work. Your role with the smallholders is similar. Is it not possible for you to curtail your personal involvement? Could the researchers not take on some of your duties? They are, after all, the experts in matters of agriculture, cultivation, cropping, disease, and pest control. Why shouldn't they communicate directly with the landowners? I want you to be with Carl during his waking periods, talking to him, telling him stories, and singing songs to him. That is what is known as bonding. My course in Salamanca will soon be completed; when that happens I will be free to double with you here at home where both of us will be in a position to cuddle him and play with him.'

‘Whatever you say, Eileen—I am glad to know that I can now lay claim to the Montmorency millions—what would Micilín or Treasa say if they knew?'

‘I love you, Seosamh; I want you close to me always. Soon we will have another mouth to feed. I am pregnant again.'

‘How in the world did that happen? Are you sure you haven't a secret lover in Salamanca?' he teased.

‘No, Seosamh, you are the one and only. Kiss me, and tell me you are pleased to have another proof of our love.'

‘But, of course, Eileen love, I am delighted with the news. We'll establish an O'Flaherty O'Loinigh dynasty here in Estat de Tirelle, which will be renowned throughout Valladolid and Castilla y Leon.'

‘Do you think we could do with a bit of social interaction?' Eileen said to Seosamh one night as they cuddled in bed before going to sleep. ‘Our lives have become hum-drum in many ways—both of us deeply involved in our respective roles and limited in our time together. You know the saying: ‘All work and no play …………'

‘Good thinking,' Seosamh repied. ‘Now that we are established, why don't we invite some Irish friends to share our good fortune?'

‘And who had you in mind? I hope Treasa isn't on your list.'

‘No, Eileen, I was thinking more of the Coughlan family who were good to me when I was at agricultural college. Vincent and his sisters would love the opportunity of seeing this part of the world, how people live, and the type of agriculture they pursue. You might like to invite some of your old friends too—Chrissie, perhaps, or some others that you got to know in Galway. Maybe Peadar would add to the list—local people will be astonished to see such an invasion coming from Ireland.'

‘Sounds like a good idea, Seosamh—I'll think about it. The only person missing from your suggested list is Philip. We haven't heard from him since his illness. I wonder if he went back home when he got better. It's strange there's no trace of him since he was discharged from hospital— he seems to have disappeared into thin air. Father Benedictus is as puzzled as we are. Enquiries made to the Guardia Civil on behalf of Philip's community and family, proved inconclusive—they had no solution to offer other than to state that disappearances such as his occur frequently in the Basque country. Poor Philip, if he hasn't returned to Galway, there's no knowing what has become of him in his confused state of mind. Do you think, Seosamh, that those we invite will say we are trying to show off, now that we have come up in the world? I still haven't got used to being either rich or famous. Father Benedictus, when last we met, put a proposal to me in the context of the ending of my studies in Salamanca.