Venetia Kelly's Traveling Show (30 page)

Now this man had a wife and a son, and to them he looked for wisdom, because this man had one great fear in life—that he’d do something crazy one day, and never be able to recover. They, though, looked to him for wisdom, and in the back-and-forth they never stopped to think that he thought them wiser than himself
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One day, a Princess came by. She was an unusual young woman, different from the rest of the world, and she had wonderful gifts—gifts of speech and illusion, gifts of compassion and intrigue, gifts of excitement and praise, and she looked at this man and he looked back at the Princess. With no more than a few words, he put down his farming tools and followed the Princess across the country. When he met her mother, the Queen, and all the court, he stayed with them in their land of gifts
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The man’s wife and son, good people, didn’t know what to do. Eventually, after some days of debate and worry, the wife asked her son to be like the heroes of old—to undertake a quest. He—again like the heroes of old—did so unwillingly, and, as in all good legends, he failed and he failed and he failed
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One day, he met the Queen, and soon after that he met the Princess herself, and he began to understand why his father had so suddenly disappeared into this magic world. These were different people, these royal travelers; they were like the gaudy caravans that rode through the deserts, stopping at each and every oasis to dance and sing and playact
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The young man was disturbed by them, and was especially shaken to find that they had in their midst an old and wicked King, who threatened danger
to everybody, while at the same time offering words sweeter than combs of honey
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On a sunny morning, however, the young man took the first step toward completing his quest. He stopped on a bridge to look down into a river, and he saw there a face, an ancient face, and he called to it. He called, “Tell me what to do, old face in the river.”

A man arose from the water; he floated up from the flowing current and walked up onto the bridge. He wore a long black coat and miraculously it was bone-dry—as was his hair and his skin and his shiny, shiny boots
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“Yes, I’ll tell you what to do,” he said. “Follow your own power.”

“Follow my own power,” said the young man. “What does that mean?”

“Only you can know that,” said the man from the river
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James Clare halted there and laughed in delight—probably at the bemused expression on my face.

“That, as you’ll gather, is the story so far. What do you make of it?” I was embarrassed to say what I felt, and he picked that up. “Go on—say what you feel.”

I said, “It’s—exciting. When you tell it like that.”

“It might make it easier to handle.”

And then I laughed, because I didn’t know what else to do.

Yet I had immediate and very difficult problems. The woman with whom Father had run away would be on our farm this coming Sunday, within a few hundred yards of Mother. I told this to James Clare.

He said, “Do you need advice?”

“Oh, God, I do!”

“See whether you can send your mother somewhere for the day. Go to the gathering. Then use your own power. Your father won’t be there.” I must have looked puzzled.

“Of course he won’t be there. He’s too much of a gentleman to do something like that.”

James Clare and I arranged to meet in Fermoy again on Monday morning.

“By then,” he said, “we’ll know how the country is going.”

S
ymbolically, almost, the days became glorious as the voting results came through. My own story grew more dramatic. As the country changed direction, so did my life, and it too was lit by a sun that seemed to have leapt forward from May or June. That day, I acted upon James Clare’s advice to the letter—as I would do all my life. I went home, and, abominably, but powered by my own feelings for her, told Mother a lie—that my father had gone into the west, and nobody knew where he’d gone, but that he was expected back next week. I also told her that I needed a rest, a break from the incessant pressure—and that so did she.

With good maneuvering I arranged for Billy Moloney to take her to her sister’s house in Kilkenny, where she could stay for the weekend; I would collect her on Sunday night.

Such fortunate timing; almost as soon as they drove out of our yard, Mary Lewis appeared—inviting us on behalf of Mr. Kelly to come to the cottage on Sunday for a victory celebration.

I wanted to ask, “Is he that sure he’s won?” but I kept my powder dry.

Not yet had I revealed to Mother the identity of King Kelly. In the few days since the election, she’d shrunk a great deal, I thought, her spirits
lower than ever. Years later she revealed to me that she had hoped the election and its results would bring my father back home.

“As if all the nonsense had now ended,” was how she put it to me.

I began to debate with myself the kind of equations Mother must have been making in her head.
De Valera in office and my father home: politics as a securer of family stability. The turmoil of an election campaign: a disturber of the marriage bed. A predatory woman as an indicator of Fascism. Therefore I’ve judged accurately not to tell her yet of the King Kelly connection
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Luckily the glorious weather continued on Sunday. I finished all the chores on the farm early (how I loved being back in working clothes!) and I prepared for the luncheon party. From Christmas I had some gifts of shirts not yet worn, and a new necktie; I also had new shoes. I can see now that I was preparing like a bridegroom.

By the time I got to the cottage, about twenty people had already gathered; I’d never seen most of them before. The fine weather had drawn everybody out of doors—and then I saw her. I hung back for a moment, relishing the sight of her in the sunlight.

Tall as a statue, striking as a princess from a James Clare legend, she stood like some wonderful lighthouse, mingling with the others, yet apart, though they swarmed around and about her. Of Sarah I saw no sign, but her father was dominating the occasion; from hundreds of yards away I could hear King Kelly’s voice booming out across the fields.

Professor Fay saw me. He called me over and introduced me to a gentleman called O’Duffy, whose name would become very familiar in the coming year.

“Ben is one of us,” said the professor, and I had no idea at that time what he meant. King Kelly then greeted me with a crushing grip on my shoulder, and told Mr. O’Duffy that I showed “great promise,” and that he was “delighted to have me on board.” Promise of what I could not say; on what or whose board I had no idea.

For many minutes I stood with those men as people came to our group, greeted us, and went off to talk to others. Young enough to be their grandson, I was bewildered, but sufficiently anxious to keep my wits about me. No sign did I see of the man with the gun and the shiny black hair. Nor of Miss Fay, which disappointed me. What struck me
most about the place was the lack of mirth. Were this party at our house, the laughter would have blown across the parish like a gale.

The ingratiating Mary Lewis appeared with food, and once more I saw her in a different light—she had a competent edge to her. Therefore, despite my immaturity, I’d always been right—she had long been deceiving Mother. She saw me looking at her, and it didn’t faze her at all; in fact she came over to where I stood and said, “A new side to me, Ben, right?” and winked.

I especially didn’t want to be winked at by Mary Lewis, so I went at the food—egg sandwiches, mostly, and some ham sandwiches. Mr. Kelly put a drink in my hand and insisted that I taste it; I didn’t like it and said so and ate another egg sandwich.

“See,” Professor Fay almost shouted. “See how forthright he is. Forthright.”

All this time I had only one intention—to meet Venetia. She who came to fetch me; I knew when she was standing behind me—that’s how strong a presence she had. When she joined our group, all fell silent.

“Hello again, Ben,” she said. And to the gentlemen, “Excuse us.”

She took my arm and led me toward the path by the river.

Y
ou’ll have observed that I haven’t speculated on the nature of my father’s relationship with this young actress. Were they lovers? That would have been anybody’s question. Not mine; I knew nothing of such things. However, Sarah’s embraces when greeting me had caused a change in focus—I was now thinking about dark and exciting matters of which I only dimly knew.

Venetia said, “Tell me where to meet you. We can’t talk here.”

I pointed. “Go along the path. Up past the wood, where you’ll see a well in the middle of the field. I’ll be there.”

She said, “Give me half an hour.”

It became the longest time in my life.

I had no experience of girls. None whatsoever. Nil. Zero. I hadn’t even come a little close, no female cousins of my age, no sisters of school friends—that was my sheltered life. So, instead of the more natural wondering what should or might happen between Venetia and me, I thought of her and my father.

Should I ask her? Should I say, “What goes on between you?” Should I ask, “Is my father in love with you?”

Love I knew from the cinema and from books. Kissing I somewhat understood. Of the other things I had no concrete impression as to what took place; animals in the farmyard, the necessary trips to stallions and prize bulls, cats, dogs—I’d seen all of that, and the exciting, spontaneous behavior of my own body, but it gave me nothing by way of insight into human behavior. Thus, as you can understand, I had myself churning in some turmoil by the time I reached the wood.

Life is an ambush, by and large. None of the questions in my head became relevant that day or ever again, because events turned out very differently.

They’re mostly beech, those trees (they’re still there) and some ash, sycamore, and most of all hazel. The summer canopy offers an almost totally closed shade; look up and it feels so green and exotic that you’d expect to see parrots. I’ve tried to get back there every year; it calms me more than anyplace I know.

James Clare used to say, “Everybody should have a sacred place.”

In winter, and noticeably that day, the trees reach up to scratch the sky. Their trunks are cold and a little dank, but they’ve always welcomed my touch.

That afternoon, the well always in my sight, I went from tree to tree, and back again—that side of Wade’s Wood stretches to about a hundred yards or so. Eventually, as I was always going to do, I stayed at my favorite tree—a great beech.

This was the tree of all my childhood; this was the tree I used to climb, and then swing down to the ground on one of the stoutest branches. The branch would naturally snap back up into place with a thrilling
whish!
Now I could reach it anytime I wanted and swing from it. Over the years, as I grew bigger, the branch didn’t snap back quite as fast or as fully.

I was hauling on it when I saw Venetia, picking her way like a gray stork, up through the grasses of the field to the well. A memory of something I didn’t quite grasp flooded into my mind and I started in alarm.

Do you recognize that uncomfortable feeling? Some call it déjà vu—“what you’ve already seen.” Meeting her mother, Sarah, had given me a slighter jab of the same dart; this one, however, jolted me hard.

I went through the trees to meet her. Some clouds had encroached upon the sky, lighting the grasses where she walked, and shining on the river behind her, while casting the trees near me into shadow. She kept her head down as she approached, watching her step. Keeping pace, I aimed to reach the well at the same time as she did.

Venetia looked up, saw me, and waved. I tried to place her in the world—the same age, perhaps, as Mother’s cousin who’d married and had a baby all in the same year? A few years younger than Large Lily (but so, so different)? A good deal older than irksome Mary Lewis? My range could stretch little wider than that; I couldn’t guess the ages of women or girls—I still can’t, and I think it’s mildly indecent to do so.

As she drew closer I had to keep swallowing.