A Son of Aran (4 page)

‘I'm sure she'll explain the occurrence in due course,' he thought. ‘He might be the customs man friend she talked about. What transpired between them would be confidential.'

Three months into their marriage Saureen confided she had something to tell him.

‘I think, Peadar, love, I am going to have a baby,' she said.

‘That's wonderful news,' Peadar exclaimed, as he embraced her and held her close. ‘I love you Saureen,' he said. ‘You know I always wanted a child of our own. I only wish my poor mother was alive to hear the good news.'

‘When is it due to arrive?' he asked.

‘Around the end of January if all goes well,' she replied.

‘That's wonderful, Saureen; I'll be a father by Saint Bridget's Day. Wouldn't my mother be proud! Do you think it is wise for us to continue living on the Long Walk with the sea coming right up to the door? Accommodation in the house won't be suitable for a child on account of the stairs. Will we go back to Aran as soon as the baby is born?'

‘It's a bit soon to talk about that,' she replied, ‘can we leave it until after the event?'

Peadar was content to wait—there would be lots of time to work things out. He decided to go to Aran for a few weeks to fix up the house and to attend to some urgent work around the fields. He told Máirtín how happy he was with the good news. There was a run of herring at the same time. Together they hauled several nets, and salted their catch in barrels to provide food for the table during the winter. They joined with other islanders in drawing supplies of turf from the mainland. It was heaven to be back among his own people; he savoured the fresh sea air and the sunshine—it was so different from life in Galway. He couldn't wait to return to his native homestead.

When Peadar returned to Galway he found his wife had changed. Her normal breezy mood had become more sombre. She appeared much quieter in herself. He couldn't help noticing that her step had become heavy and that she didn't show a desire to go out at night as often as was her wont. Although he showered devotion on her and tended her every need, he received little approbation for his efforts. Her response to entreaties about her welfare and comfort was often curt; her patience with him appeared to be wearing thin. Hurt at her reactions, he put it down to temperamental change brought on by her pregnancy. Festy, who had never married, was in no position to advise him. Work mates to whom he confided his problem, expressed their sympathy, and told him not to worry.

‘We men don't understand women,' they said. ‘Don't take too much notice. Things will sort themselves out in due course.'

As summer merged into autumn there was no appreciable change. Sunday outings to Spiddal and Oughterard for afternoon tea, or occasional nights at their favourite hostelries, did little to reverse Saureen's sullen mood. Sleepless nights and long periods of silence replaced moments of tender interaction. Peadar wondered to himself if, despite his best efforts, their marriage was falling apart. As they lay in bed one night in early October, Saureen turned to him and said, ‘Peadar, you mustn't think that I love you any the less because of my recent behaviour. I can't help how I am feeling, I can only put it down to the baby I am carrying. I hope when it arrives my mood will return to normal. I'm asking you to bear with me until then.'

A month later Peadar got a message at work: ‘Go home at once, your wife needs you.'

It wasn't very far; he ran all the way, to find Saureen in extreme pain and two neighbouring women tending to her.

‘Peadar,' she shouted, ‘get the midwife—the baby is coming.'

The women directed him where to go; he raced like a madman to her door shouting,

‘Come quickly, my wife is having a baby. I think she's dying.'

Pacing the corridor outside their bedroom he cried and prayed: ‘Please God, don't let Saureen die.'

Before long, he heard the cries of a newly born infant. His knees crumbled; he had to hold fast to the handrail to prevent himself from falling.

‘You may go in for a brief moment only,' the midwife said. ‘You are the father of a beautiful little girl, but your wife requires hospital treatment due to excessive bleeding. I will call a doctor and have her transferred.'

‘Míle buíochos le Dia
(a thousand thanks to God),' he exclaimed as he dashed to Saureen's side and kissed her pallid cheek. Tenderly, she gave him the little wrapped bundle to hold. Peadar's elation was sober; his concern for Saureen's welfare was uppermost in his mind. He followed the ambulance to the Central Hospital where for several hours he anxiously awaited news of her condition. The gynaecologist, when he appeared, was reassuring.

‘A close call, Mr O'Flaherty,' he announced, ‘but everything is fine now. Your wife and baby will remain in hospital care for a week or two after which I will review her progress.'

‘What name will we call her?' Saureen asked as, with the baby on her knee, they sat in the visitors' reception room some days later. ‘Would you like if she was called Eileen after your mother?'

‘I'd like that very much,' replied Peadar. ‘Eileen, my Eileen— won't that be a lovely name—the same as my favourite song?'

When his initial elation had subsided, Peadar began to realise that the premature arrival of Saureen's baby was, to say the least, strange. He was uninitiated in human fertility but he was well acquainted with gestations in the animal kingdom.

‘Seven months pregnancy—a well developed baby—was something amiss here?' His work mates congratulated him on the baby's birth but, in discussion, they agreed that it didn't add up. When he went to the local pub with some of them for a celebratory drink he could see that he was a focus of attention by other customers. He was conscious of knowing nods between patrons and raucous guffaws following a witticism from one or other in the company. He felt decidedly uncomfortable. Saureen was no help to him.

‘Premature births are quite common,' she told him. ‘I have known several instances here in Galway.'

Peadar would have liked to accept her explanation, but a nagging doubt remained in his mind.

‘Could it be possible that Saureen was pregnant before we married? Am I the real father of baby Eileen? How am I going to find out?'

Memories of strange men he had seen loitering on the Long Walk, came to mind. Tormented by a raft of unexplained circumstances, he decided to accost Saureen. She was defensive.

‘Do you not believe me?' she demanded. ‘Am I not your wife? How can we sustain a proper married relationship if you won't accept my word?'

‘I want to believe you,' replied Peadar. ‘I hope you are telling me the truth. I love you dearly and I will defend your virtue to the death. I have heard stories circulating which cast a doubt in my mind. If there's any substance in these, I would rather hear about it from yourself. I love baby Eileen; I hope I am her father. If this is not so, please tell me now. I promise I will look after her in any event. A child shouldn't have to suffer because of the circumstances into which it is born. I want us to be happy as a family. I hope nothing arises to prevent that.'

Saureen didn't counter his statement. He interpreted her silence as acceptance of what he had said. Baby Eileen's cooing and gurgling was music to his ears. He grew to love her dearly and looked forward to the time when they would all return to the lifestyle that he knew in Aran from his childhood. He continued to work in MacDonacha's factory by day. At night he helped Saureen with her added domestic chores. He enjoyed their renewed conjugal relationship and he was happy to baby-sit whenever Saureen took a night out with her friends. He wondered how she managed for money on those outings. She didn't work outside home anymore, yet she never asked him for money.

‘Babies can be expensive to rear,' he said to her. ‘It's as much as I can do to save the price of an odd pint in the local with my friends. The people you meet must be very generous.' Saureen didn't comment.

The Sansander plied its regular trips into the harbour with supplies of fertilisers, at which times MacDonacha's workers were delegated to help with unloading. The captain took advantage of shore leave to do things around town where by now he had become a familiar figure in bars and restaurants. Dressed in a long flowing coat which bore the insignia of his rank, a silk scarf and a tall hat, he twirled a silver-knobbed walking cane as he sauntered down the gangway and, with lengthening steps, took off in the direction of the city centre. Peadar watched him as he went.

‘I must keep an eye on that fellow,' he said to himself.

His fellow workers, seeing him pause to watch, joked with him saying: ‘Are you thinking of going to sea, Peadar? You'd look good in an outfit like that one. Wouldn't it be a better life than shovelling fertilisers down below in the factory?'

Peadar didn't reply—he resumed his work.

Three years went by. In the balmy air of a sunny afternoon, Saureen took Eileen for a walk along the seafront at White Strand. It was quiet and peaceful there. There was none of the noisy clatter of carts and sidecars that plied along the main route to Salthill. With a child in tow, walking was leisurely; it provided ample opportunity to stop for a chat, and to sit on one of the fixed wooden benches for a rest. A tall, foreign-looking gentleman stopped in front of them. Lifting his hat in salutation, he greeted Saureen and stooped to pat Eileen's cheek.

‘What a beautiful young girl,' he exclaimed. ‘She'll be a stunner in another few years. Where would she leave it, having a beauty queen for her mother?' Saureen stirred uneasily and rose as if to continue her walk. Glancing to left and right she said, ‘Thank you, sir, for your kind compliments. It's good to see you. We can't talk here. Come and see me at Long Walk when next you are in port.'

‘What if Peadar were to witness their encounter?' she thought to herself.

But then, Peadar was far away down by the docks; there was no way he could have seen them.

The following year, Peadar suggested that they should take a trip to Aran at the end of April when days were getting longer and weather was more favourable.

‘Aran is beautiful at this time of year,' he told Saureen. ‘I haven't been there for several months. I'd like to talk with Máirtín, find out how the fishing is going, and check on the house and its surrounds. It's our wedding anniversary around that time too,' he added, when Saureen murmured something by way of objection.

‘We could celebrate that here in Galway,' she countered, ‘it isn't as if we were still honeymooners.'

‘If you don't want to come with us,' Peadar replied, ‘I'll go in any event, and I'll take Eileen with me. I want to show her where I grew up.'

Saureen relented, although her response showed she didn't favour the idea. They left on a Friday aboard the Dun Aengus, planning to return the following week. Eileen was enraptured—she had never before been on a boat. The sea was smooth as glass. On deck she raced up and down chasing gulls that followed the ferry, dipping their wings in flight to pick remnants of food thrown overboard to them by the passengers. She waved to trippers in small crafts, and shouted excitedly to fishermen as they passed by.

‘I think, Eileen, you're going to like the sea,' Peadar remarked with pride.

The other travellers made much of her, praising her raven dark curls, and plying her with sweets and money. Overcome with shyness, she clung to Peadar's knee. When he lifted her up she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. Saureen remained aloof. Standing at the ship's rail she looked back as the ferry moved out through Galway Bay past Black Head and the Cliffs of Moher on one hand and the rocky headlands of Connemara on the other. Soon the outline of the city grew dim in the distance. A soft mist was falling as they reached Kilronan pier.

Saureen didn't attempt to hide her distaste. Despite the cottage having been prepared and the hearth fire already lighting, courtesy of Máirtín, she complained that the rooms were cold, the beds were damp, and the lamplight dim. With bad grace she boiled a kettle and made them a meal from the foodstuffs they had taken along.

‘Wouldn't it be nice,' she said, ‘if there was a public house near at hand where we could socialise and meet some people?'

Peadar was content to be back in his old home. He walked through the fields admiring every blade of grass, cattle grazing among the rocks, sea birds that piped and chirped as they darted hither and thither to the sound of waves on the adjacent shore. This was the haven of peace and tranquillity he had longed for every day since he went away. Eileen was filled with wonder and delight as he showed her around. She chased hens that gathered at the door, searched among the fuchsia bushes, and came back with two brown eggs in her hand.

‘Look, Mammy, we can have an omelette for tea. Daddy is going to catch us fish for tomorrow's dinner and I'm going to help him.' Saureen wasn't impressed.

‘I hope he knows how to gut them,' she said. ‘I can only cook fish that have been filleted.'

The weekend passed quickly. They had a picnic in glorious sunshine at Fort Dun Aengus where, lying prostrate, they gazed over the steep cliff face at miniature fishermen hauling lobster pots far below. They walked the shoreline at low tide where Eileen filled her arms with shells and rounded stones. Peadar showed them where to gather dilisk and carrigeen moss which they dried and brought back with them to Galway. Eileen learned the names of sea birds—terns, gulls, and herons. She watched the seals bob their heads above water as they feasted on smaller marine species. She was delighted at all the things she could see and do in Aran.

‘Can we stay here always, Daddy? Why do we have to go back?' she wailed.

Two years elapsed. Eileen, now six and at school, grew taller all the time.

‘We're moving house,' Saureen announced as Peadar returned from work one evening. ‘We must leave here tonight.'