Winterwood (14 page)

Ten: The Story of Little Red

W
HENEVER CASEY WAS AWAY, I'd buy myself a bottle of wine and sit in the conservatory thinking about things. About how far
we'd come and how somehow I'd triumphed against all the odds. Which were always going to be stacked against you if you happened
to be born in a place like Slievenageeha.

—Home of the inbreds, I laughed as I drank, hillbilly valley!

Reminding myself to say it to Casey as soon as she got home.

—Hillbilly valley! I could hear her laughing as we shared a glass, you sure did well to get outta that place. You did well
to abandon them and all their malice, the ludicrous suspicions and hostility towards that great big world beyond their mountain
— the civilised world, in other words, my darling. Where fathers and brothers don't fuck their sisters and mothers don't die
of brain haemorrhages after being beaten by brutes to within an inch of their poor wretched lives!

—Hillbilly Valley! I'd chuckle when she said it. Even if, somewhere, deep down, it hurt me a little. Because, after all, it
was my home. And, whether I liked it or not, I had grown up there. Once upon a time I had been a little boy, had I not, who
hadn't had any choice in deciding where he was born. Yes I had - had been a little boy with my own father and my own mother,
even if I hadn't lived with them for all that long. The more I thought about it the sadder it began to seem. It was like a
sad story that made you want to weep and bawl.

I was glad that Casey wasn't there to see me, as I worked my way through three bottles of wine and, believe it or not, an
entire box of Kleenex - which is not something, I'm sure, my wife would have been all that keen to see me doing.

But I was fine by the time she got home. I had managed to get it all out of my system. You'd never guess I'd been thinking
long and hard about the story of'Little Red', a sad weepy tale from a forgotten mountain valley.

This is the story. Little Red lived in the mountain valley. He lived in the valley with his dad and his mam. But then one
day it was decided that he wasn't to live with them any more. He was sitting by the fire warming his hands in their cabin
when all of a sudden a large shadow appeared and fell across the floor. The little boy was surprised because he hadn't been
quite expecting that. The shadow turned out to be that of a priest. In those far-off days it was the custom of clergymen to
wear a hat. A great big broad-brimmed special priest's hat. This clergyman was wearing one and carrying a great big leather
missal. Its zip was golden. He paused for a second before saying:

—Little Red.

Everyone called the boy that. Although he was sitting by the fire where it was warm he was still wearing his new overcoat.
The one with the big buttons and the brown velvet collar. The one which his mother had bought him in Burton's of the city.
The priest felt the collar and enquired of him softly:

—Did your mother buy it for you, in Burton's of the city?

Little Red confirmed that yes, indeed she did. She had done that. The priest looked away for a moment and then said:

—Ah.

Before pushing back his big priest's hat. Little Red formed the impression that the clergyman was very tired. He watched him
rubbing his face with his soft, unweath-ered hands. Probably very tired, regularly delivering news of the sort he was about
to hear. To the effect that the boy's mother Mrs Hatch wouldn't be dealing with Burton's of the city any longer or Burton's
of anywhere for she had just been found dead whilst praying in the chapel.

—Praying at the altar rails, he sobbed, we found her prostrate at the feet of Jesus. She's happy where she is now, my son.

That was the story of Mam Hatch's death. Or as Ned used to say:

—Your version of it, Redmond.

It was still on my mind when we set off for the valley the following day to start filming. We arrived at the Slievenageeha
Hotel round about six and and I'd gone to bed early, for it had been a long drive and I had to rise at six. The first thing
I noticed when I awoke around one was the wide-open window. Which I was absolutely certain I'd closed before retiring. I couldn't
for the life of me figure out how that had happened. I went to get a drink but the taps were bone dry. I resolved to mention
it to the manager in the morning.

The following night wasn't any better. I woke at three, ice cold and shaking all over. But at least this time there was water
in the taps. I had made it my business to make sure of that.

—What in the hell sort of a hotel do you call this? I'd snapped at the manager.

There was a force-ten gale blowing outside. You could see the mountains: rearing like horses before the face of the moon.
Flashing their incisors and tossing back their fierce proud heads, ropes of saliva hanging from their pink lips. I did my
best to keep my imagination in check. That was a problem I'd had as a boy. I sat on the edge of the bed, steadying the trembling
glass in my hand, trying hard not to think about Florian. Being back in the valley had started it all again. I jerked when
I thought I had heard his voice. Then I saw his face in the window: winking at me, in that awful way he did, raking his fingers
through his mass of red hair. When I looked again, the face was gone.

Everyone loved him, Uncle Florian. There wasn't a tune he couldn't play. Slip-jigs and hornpipes and high reels and polkas.
You name it, Florian could play it. He had played at hundreds of ceilidhs. Not just in Ireland but all over the world - in
Newfoundland, Cape Breton and Argentina too. There was nowhere him and his fiddle hadn't been. There was also talk of him
having lived in America. But that couldn't be confirmed. And Florian wouldn't help. He'd just sit there grinning as he bared
his teeth. Bared his teeth and tapped his foot.

There were some people in the valley who couldn't abide him, however. Who judiciously went out of their way to avoid him.

—Malice, you'd hear them whispering in the pub, there's a very bad drop in that wicked bastard. I'd just be afraid it'd travel
down the line. That's all I'd be afraid of. Especially now the mother is gone.

Which it most certainly would - if Uncle Florian had anything to do with it.

Well anyhow, the day finally came when the car arrived to take away Little Red, driving him off to the home of Holy Jesus.
The home was run by the Nazareth nuns.

—There's damn all option open to me now, now that herself has been taken up to heaven, but to send the little fellow to the
nuns in the orphanage, his father offered by way of explanation. For me and Florian, sure we don't understand things the way
women does. We're just not fit to look after him any more. Isn't that the truth?

His brother Florian nodded gravely.

—As long as we make sure to visit him regular, he said, then dammit to hell, it mightn't turn out so bad. I'll see that it
won't, for I'm the boy that won't forget that little feller. He's a topper, that's what he is. Why, I'll bring him chocolate
every week. I'll bring him a dang-sweet bar of chocolate!

—You're a good one, the boy's father replied, and produced the clear to reward his brother.

—We all stick together here on the mountain, he said, and we won't let him down, that young feller of mine.

—Now you're talking! Florian cried. We'll go down to that orphanage every week. And, maybe when things has kind of improved,
he'll be fit to come home and live here for ever.

—Back home to the mountain when things has settled!

—Good health! cried Florian, emptying his mug. As a matter of fact I'll visit the boy this very coming Sunday!

So the following Sunday what did the occupants of a certain grey, utilitarian building hear disturbing its tranquillity? What
sound came creeping to the good sisters' ears?

Why, the unmistakable screech of Florian's fiddle, as it mimicked the wind with its deep rushing sound.

Florian's oft-stated preferred dance of choice was the hornpipe. He liked jigs and reels - but by and large always plumped
for the hornpipe.

—Get up out of that, he'd say with a flourish of his bow, and show your uncle the cut of your heels!

As he sawed out the melody in four-four time. Shoving down copious swallows of the clear.

Throughout the dance, you would notice his eyes, especially when approaching the close of the tune.

—I'm The Twinkletoe Kid! they seemed to say. And you'll dance it, damn you. You'll dance that hornpipe till your fucking heels
bleed!

The sisters loved to see him coming. They asked him to play 'The Last Rose of Summer', the Thomas Moore song. And it must
be admitted that he played it quite magnificently. It wasn't like the other tunes. It was softer, more lyrical and gentle
and mellow. With the notes like drops of water falling slowly in the stillness. Which was why they liked it so much. And why
they probably thought that Florian's soul was something similar in texture to its sad drifting heart. They said he was the
nicest man who'd ever visited the orphanage. They knew about the rumours but they didn't believe a word. They loved his chat.
He told them yarns about places he'd been. They lapped them up. Stories about Cape Breton and America and Argentina. Places
they had never been to before in their lives — how would they? They were only ordinary old country girls. Ordinary old country
girls who had never left the slopes of Slievenageeha. Never once in their quiet, exemplary lives. Uncle Florian was like something
from their dreams. Secret dreams about which they never dared to tell anyone. Never a word about the night-time visitors who
would slip from the shadows with dark eyebrows and teeth and something they had which pleasured you - and of which most emphatically
you could never speak. That's what they thought when Florian arrived, lifting up his bow to play the 'bowld' Tom Moore. That's
what they were thinking of when he'd stroke his chin, stroke his chin and give them a wink. Saying he liked hornpipes — especially
with Little Red. They were afraid if they listened to Little Red's stories, especially the ones about being 'scared of the
hornpipe', that Florian would disappear and never come back for as long as they lived. So they said to Little Red:

—Button your lip, you moaning little minnie!

And demanded that in future he look forward to Florian's visits. Those Sundays when Florian would say:

—Right, sisters. Me and me nephew is going off for a ramble. I have a few things to tell him about the goings-on at home.
A few little bits of private business, you understand.

—Very good then, Florian, the good sisters would say, but make sure to come back to say goodbye before you go.

—I will indeed, sisters, have no fear of that, my dears.

Throwing his arm around Little Red's shoulders as off they went down the slopes into the meadow. Where Florian stamped out
his stogie and grimaced. Before grabbing a hold of him and muttering with a grunt:

—Right so, Redmond. In here with us now behind the big tree. This is a good place as any, for you and me to dance our hornpipes.
We can dance in here till our fucking heart's content! Get over there now till I get out my fiddle! Till I
get
out my fiddle, well boys - ah - dear, ha ha!