Born & Bred (16 page)

Her coffin was the centerpiece of it all and that made her proud. That and the fact that a disposition had been secured to have the Mass in Latin—the way God intended.

It was a High Mass, too, and Fr. Reilly led the choir; bearded or miniskirted and pitchy. She would have preferred a good choir but it was the best they could do.

Fr. Brennan was in his element and put on a grand show, talking about her like she was the mother of God himself, but deferred to the Bishop on the sermon.

When he spoke, his voice boomed causing everyone to sit up straight. Even the nuns stopped fidgeting with their beads and the men at the back stopped looking at the arses of the young women around them. When the Bishop spoke everyone listened.

Except Danny.

**

His mind was wandering and he couldn’t stop it. His new suit was stiff and a bit big for him. Granny had bought it so he would look fine on the day. His shoes were tight and stiff and pinched above his heels. He would have blisters but he didn’t mind; he needed to feel something. He had known Granny was dying but had gone along with everybody’s wishes and pretended he didn’t.

And now that she had, he didn’t know how to feel.

Of course he felt sad, but he felt relieved, too. Even he noticed how much Granny suffered in the end.

That was the thing that bothered him the most: if this God they all talked about was so good and kind, why did he have to treat Granny the way he did?

But what was the point? If he said it to anybody they would only slather him with words. They had lots and lots of words that meant nothing. He had heard them so often that he had learned to pretend to find comfort in them to end the repetition. Inside, he was angry at them all, but he knew better than to let it show. They would only try to hound it out of him. That, he decided, was all that he had learned at school.

So he went through the motions, rising and kneeling when they did and sitting back when the time came. He liked the Latin Mass—it gave him time to wander through his own thoughts.

**

When they drove to the graveyard in a cavalcade of shiny cars, Danny and his parents rode in a big black Daimler, directly after the hearse, and pulled up right by the gates as everyone else parked where they could and milled around. There were men from the government: a cabinet minister, a few backbenchers, and a man representing the
Taoiseach’s
office, all being cordial enough with the men from Bart’s party, now banished into opposition.

A cluster of older men, who knew Bart and Granny well, came to offer their sympathies and condolences. The Bishop was there, too, amidst a flock of nuns, a couple of monsignors, and a few canons.

When the coffin was hoisted by the selected bearers—that didn’t include Jerry—the crowd organized themselves by rank and privilege and followed it inside.

The delegation from the Boys waited near the gate. They would visit the grave when the others had gone and passed their time smoking cigarettes and whispering among themselves to the great consternation of the Special Branch who stood as close as they dared without seeming too obvious.

The Special Branch followed the Boys everywhere, maintaining constant surveillance—even if it meant spending hours in pubs drinking pints, but always at separate tables so as not to arouse suspicion.

The Boys didn’t mind. They could keep the eyes of the law busy while others, those who were less well known, could carry on with the cause. It was the way things had been done since the movement had split and new allegiances were strained by old friendships.

Jerry and Jacinta stood over the grave, with Danny in between them, as Fr. Brennan reminded God of the faith they all placed in Him. And in the surety of that righteousness, he asked Him to grant Nora Boyle her well-deserved eternal rest.

Danny squirmed a bit as she was lowered into the ground so his father held his shoulder while his mother squeezed his hand, but Danny was just trying to find some relief from the chaffing on his heels. It was all taking so long.

When it was done, Fr. Brennan liberally sprinkled holy water around the grave and the diggers went to work, the first few shovelfuls rattling on the coffin, growing muffled as they filled the hole.

As it filled, the crowd formed a line to shake the hands of the family and to offer kind words:

“My deepest sympathies for your loss. May she rest in peace.”

“She was a great character, God have mercy on us all.”

“We’ll never see the likes of her again.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“God bless you all in this time of sorrow.”

His mother just nodded as she stood back with her arm around Danny but his father shook each hand and muttered his thanks as the line filed past. “It was good of you to come.” And to those that Granny had selected in her written arrangements he added, “You’ll come back to the house?”

They were the faces Jerry had known since childhood, aged now since his father’s death but enlivened by the invitation—the promise of whiskey and a chance to reminisce. “That’s very kind of you. Maybe I will drop in then—just to honour their memories.”

Jerry invited the Boys, too, knowing that the Special Branch would have to follow, to make things more interesting.

“Are you sure?” Jacinta asked as they climbed into the back of the long black car.

“Ah sure why not? Mam and Dad would enjoy this. And besides, maybe if we get them all together in one room they might start getting along.”

“If they don’t kill themselves first.”

“That mightn’t be the worst thing, either.”

**

The Bishop dropped in and brought a few nuns, selected for their discretion, and quickly dispatched them to the kitchen to make the tea and serve sandwiches to the priests and the politicians.

Nora, as was fitting for someone of her station, had provided well for the day with hams and cold chickens, egg and potato salads, and an assortment of pickles and relish, all paid for in advance and delivered to the house. No detail was left to chance.

She even bought a few dozen Waterford tumblers and a case of beer glasses for those who liked a bottle of stout. “But they’re mostly whiskey drinkers and I want everything to be just right,” she had explained to Jerry and Jacinta, even as she labored for her last few breaths. She even arranged for Martin to come by and take Danny to the pictures and for burgers, afterwards. He was, she had decreed, still far too young for wakes.

When the gathering had partaken of the tea and sandwiches, the Bishop called for a toast—the cue to open the whiskey.

“To the dear, departed, Nora Boyle, the likes of which we will never see again.”

“To Nora Boyle,” they all agreed and drank freely from their glasses, except for Fr. Reilly who sipped his.

“She was a great friend to Ireland and to the Church, God rest her soul, and mother to Jeremiah and Jacinta, and grandmother to Danny. May she rest in Heaven tonight.”

“Amen,” the Boys, the priests, and the politicians agreed again in concert and raised their glasses again.

“And a good and faithful wife to our dear departed friend, Bart. May God rest his soul.”

“To Bart,” they concurred with their empty glasses and looked around for Fr. Reilly who was charged with serving drinks.

“That curate has a very delicate hand,” someone muttered.

“Just be thankful it’s him pouring and not the parish priest—he’d charge us money.”

But when their glasses were refreshed they were renewed and broke off into small groups and talked among themselves as they waited while Jerry mingled.

“You’re the spitting image of your father,” the politicians laughed and slapped his back. “Have you ever thought of taking his seat back?” They had lost it in the last election. “With your name, you’d be a shoo-in.”

“What would I know about politics?” Jerry laughed as he basked in their attention. He had always felt that they were disappointed in him—that his past failings were still a blemish on his father’s name.

“What’s to know?” they all laughed. “You just tell the people what they want to hear. Until you get elected, that is, then you tell them nothing. And, when things go wrong, you can always blame the rich—or the poor, depending on who you’re talking to.”

“That might be how things were done under Fianna Fáil,” the local TD interjected. He was from the Labour Party and everyone viewed him with disdain, but Granny had wanted him there, too, because: “it does no harm to know those in the know.”

“Come and join us and be a part of the future.” He reached out to shake Jerry’s hand.

“Do you really think,” Bart’s old friends bantered, “that the son of Bart Boyle would ever dream of changing coats?”

They all laughed as Fr. Reilly poured some more and Jerry took the chance to slip away.

“He’s not a patch on his father,” he heard one of them say before he was out of earshot.

“Can I pour you a little more?” Fr. Reilly asked, his eyes soft and his cheeks a little flushed. “I couldn’t help but hear what they said. Don’t pay them any mind. They’re a dying breed and the world will be better off when they’re all gone.”

Jerry was a little taken aback by the young priest’s conviction and also a little embarrassed that he’d heard. “Thanks, Father, and don’t give it a second thought. I gave up listening to the likes of them a long time ago. But tell me, have you seen Jacinta anywhere?”

“I think she went upstairs. Her kitchen is overrun by nuns and I think she needed a bit of peace.”

Jacinta was sitting on the edge of the bed, smoking and nibbling at her nails. It was all too much for her. Being around the nuns who fussed and treated her like she was incapable brought it all back—the feelings she thought she had left in the hospital.

“Oh Jerry, I’m sorry but I had to come up here to get away from them all. Do you mind?”

Jerry sat on the bed beside her and took one of her hands in his. “Not a bit. Sure I understand. It’s like having the circus come to visit but they’ll all be gone soon and then it will just be the three of us. We’ll have the place to ourselves. It’ll be a fresh start, for you and me, and Danny.”

“We will be able to manage, won’t we, Jerry?”

“Of course we will. We’ll have the house and whatever is left—if Ma hasn’t given it all to the Church, and the Boys. And I’ll get a job, too. Things will be grand from here on. You’ll see.”

Jacinta squeezed his hand and raised it to her mouth. She kissed it gently and forced herself to smile, chasing all of her wrinkles away. “You’d better get down there before they start pilfering the cutlery and the china. Go on now. I’ll be fine.”

**

As the Bishop and his entourage prepared to leave, the rest of the gathering waited to bid him goodnight and start their revelry in earnest. The remaining sandwiches were neatly packed away and the nuns had left the kitchen spick-and-span but there was plenty to drink: whiskey and a few dozen bottles of beer.

“Good night, Your Grace,” all sides of the political spectrum agreed and loosened their ties and edged toward the table in the corner where the drink was arranged in rows. Fr. Reilly had relinquished his role and fallen in line behind his uncle.

“Good night,” the Boys nodded as the Bishop eyed them coldly and departed, down the driveway where his car was waiting, just beyond the unmarked squad car with smoke billowing out the windows.

“Gentlemen,” the Bishop addressed the occupants. “Go around the back to the kitchen and you’ll find sandwiches in the fridge. You can keep a better eye on things from there.”

“That’s awful kind of you, Your Grace. We will do so, if you’re sure the family won’t mind.”

“They won’t mind a bit. Just tell them that I said it was all right. I’m sure Nora and Bart wouldn’t begrudge you a few sandwiches and a cup of tea.”

“Good night, Your Grace.” They almost kissed his ring as they piled out and went off to investigate the sandwiches.

**

“Will you look at what came in out of the cold,” the Boys jeered when the Special Branch emerged from the kitchen, fortified by sandwiches and in search of something stronger than tea.

“C’mon in and have a drink,” Jerry encouraged them. “Sure we’re all friends here. Isn’t that right gentlemen?”

“Come in lads,” the politicos agreed. “Come in and relax. We’re just getting started. We thought the Bishop was never going to leave.”

“Well he’s gone now so what about a song? Does anybody know
Skibbereen
? That was always Bart’s song, God rest his soul.”

“To Bart Boyle,” they all agreed and raised their glasses.

They took turns singing the evening away, singing the songs they had in common and careful not to step on the cracks that separated them; chasms of misunderstanding that had torn comrade from comrade.

A young Special Branch man sang
The Croppy Boy
with such a fine voice that he almost brought tears to their eyes. Not to be outdone, the Boys sang
The Foggy Dew
and the men from Fianna Fáil sang
O’Donnell Abu
. The man from the Labour Party sang
James Connolly
and when it fell to Jerry’s turn, he sang
The Wild Rover
as they all eyed him blearily.

By the time Martin dropped Danny home, they had shed their jackets and rolled up their sleeves, their faces blotched and red but they were comrades-in-arms once again.

“A Nation once again,

“A Nation once again,

“And Ireland long a province be a Nation once again.”

“And who is this young man?” a befuddled Special Branch man asked as he looked up from nosing around the table in the corner but the last bottle was empty. Jacinta had secreted the rest away so that they would all go home before the night—and to have a drink around the house for when she was entertaining.

“That’s Bart’s grandson,” a ruddy-faced man piped up. “I’d know that face anywhere. Come here to me ‘til I tell you.” He put his arm around Danny shoulders, his armpits damp and reeky and his breath pungent. “Your grandfather and I fought the Black and Tans, so we did. We drove them out of this country.”