Tag: england

In Turbulent Times

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Caitlin was clutching at straws and she knew it. In her heart of hearts she knew that ten-weeks-old Rowan Hanlon had been left to their care. This conclusion was reinforced within a couple of hours when Michael returned from his walk to the telephone kiosk.
‘The Hanlons’ telephone has been disconnected,’ he announced. ‘It seems that they’ve gone.’
‘And left us with their baby,’ Caitlin added. ‘What are we going to do, Michael?’
‘What can we do? We either adopt and keep him, or put him up for someone else to adopt.’ Michael was feeling nervous and guilty. ‘We always wanted a boy. Maybe we should keep him.’
Caitlin looked at the sleeping baby, and her heart warmed to him in a way it never did to her daughter Nora. ‘I’m fifty-four, Michael. Do I want to start rearing a baby again at my age?’
‘I don’t know, Caitlin. That’s for you to decide.’
A week later Michael came in from the fields for his dinner. The baby was asleep in a large basket in front of the kitchen range, and Caitlin sat in the armchair beside it. Michael crossed the room and kissed her on the cheek.
‘What have you got there?’ he asked. ‘A letter?’
‘This came this morning. It’s addressed to you.’ Caitlin opened all the post that came to the house, no matter to which one of them it was addressed. ‘The envelope is postmarked Baile Átha Cliath, and my first thought was that Flynn Casey had gone back to Dublin. But it’s not a letter; it’s Rowan’s birth certificate.’
‘From Robert and Connie.’
‘But there’s no letter. Just the birth certificate.’ Caitlin looked up at Michael who was standing before her. ‘Michael, you are named as this baby’s father. Look.’ She handed the certificate to her husband. ‘At first I thought, No this can’t be true. Then I remembered that week last May when Connie stayed at the cottage on her own. You were having sex with her then, weren’t you?’
Michael shuffled uneasily, staring at his own name as the father of Rowan Michael.
‘May to February is nine months, Michael.’ Caitlin’s voice was calm and controlled. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’
Michael at last looked at Caitlin. ‘I’m sorry, Caitlin. I’m truly sorry. But ….’
‘But you just couldn’t resist her. Isn’t that it? You just couldn’t resist her.’

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The Unquiet Land

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“And it will come to two sides,” Dr Starkey agreed. “As I was saying, Lloyd George’s Liberals will pass a Bill for the Protestant North and another for the Catholic South. He doesn’t have much choice now.”
“De Valera’s Sinn Fein party in Dublin won’t accept it,” Joe Carney asserted. “They won the last election by a large majority.”
“But maybe they’ll settle for half a loaf rather than no bread,” said Sweeney.
“Never,” cried Flynn Casey. He was a broad-shouldered, muscular young man, with a tousle of uncombed, curly, red hair, and the tanned face and hands of one who worked out of doors. “We want the whole loaf. We’ll fight to the death to preserve Irish unity. We’re not going to let the North fall into the hands of a weedy little bastard like Edward Carson.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Flynn Casey,” Jim Patterson challenged. He was a caustic young cynic who worked with his father as a barber in the village. Of medium height and build, with wispy, thinning dark hair, he was about the same age as Flynn Casey but as fanatically committed to Unionism as the other to Republicanism. “Edward Carson is no weedy little bastard. He’s a great leader. He has united everyone who’s opposed to Home Rule and Sinn Fein and he’s going to lead them to victory.”
“Victory over who?” Flynn Casey asked contemptuously.
“Victory over the Nationalists. Victory over all you romantic riders of the Celtic Twilight.”
“And victory over England?” Flynn glanced around to see how his parry had been appreciated. “For it seems to me,” he went on, observing that some of his audience was impressed, “that the great Sir Edward Carson is prepared to fight even the British for the worthless privilege of remaining British.”
“Should it come to civil disorder,” Dr Starkey began, “the British government will be powerless to cope with it. The officers in the British army have already made it clear that they would choose dismissal rather than obey an order to put down Protestant resistance in Ulster.”
“So we’ll win our fight for freedom from Irish Catholic domination by not having to fight it,” Jim Patterson said awkwardly. “England will back down. Dr Starkey is right. Separate treaties for the North and the South. England won’t throw us like scraps to the mangy dogs that slobber round the table legs of Dublin and Rome. We’re determined.”

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The Unquiet Land

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NINE
Finn MacLir lay in a plain wooden box in the dark, still winter of death. He wore his navy-blue fisherman’s jersey and trousers and his best black boots. Harry and Ted Robinson, the undertakers from Lisnaglass, had laid out the body and, with Michael’s help, had carried the heavy coffin down the stairs. It stood for three days on trestles in the sitting room where the sofas and chairs had been pushed aside to make room for it. Mother Ross and Finn’s twin daughters had held vigil over the corpse, with Finn’s closest friends in attendance. It was a quiet, solemn wake for one renowned—and excoriated—for his regular parties.
Now the coffin lay on two ropes beside the open grave where the two Robinsons and two of their assistants stood silently, heads bowed respectfully, hands clasped in front of them. Around the grave men stood in sombre suits and black ties, hats in their hands, their tanned faces clean and almost shining, like those of boys going to Sunday school. Some spoke to neighbours in hushed, reverent tones. A cool breeze blew in from the sea, shivering the short grass of the old graveyard behind the ruins of Killyshannagh church where sheep grazed unconcerned at a distance from the men assembled around the grave. A polished granite headstone bore the graved inscription, Roisin MacLir, neé Corrigan, 1858-1892. Finn’s name would be added later.
Dressed in a black suit with a knotted black tie, Clifford Hamilton stepped forward. “I have the duty and the honour of saying a few words about the man lying in death before us.” He glanced around at the faces of the forty or fifty men standing in front of him. He felt that the unfortunate Padraig, Finn’s adopted son, should have been here, making this farewell speech to his earthly father. Or Seamus Slattery or Ignatius Sweeney who had known Finn for so many years. Or the more experienced, respected Dr Starkey. “I say ‘honour’,” he continued reluctantly, “without hesitation or qualification. Because Finn MacLir was one of the greatest men it has been my honour to have known. He was a close friend of my father and my father’s family, but he was a friend of rich and poor. Whether a man was a lawyer, a banker, a farmer, or a fisherman made no difference to Finn.

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In Turbulent Times

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‘So there you have it, Michael. A rather sad or maybe a tragic story. I’ve had lovers myself, but nothing serious. And I’ve always insisted on Durex. I was caught once before and I was determined not to get caught again. I thought I was safe with you. I wanted sex with a man without a condom for a change. You don’t mind me saying that, do you?’ She smiled. ‘You let me down, but I forgive you. It wasn’t your fault. I’m actually enjoying being pregnant again.’ She squeezed his hand and reclined again in the armchair.
‘You’ve had a baby then?’
‘When I was sixteen. Much too young to be a mother. So I gave it up for adoption.’
‘So no children with Robert.’
‘No, and none likely. The father of my first baby was an eighteen-year-old boy. He’s a fisherman in Lisnaglass now. Married and has four sons.’ Connie looked at Michael again. ‘Poor Michael. I think you would have liked to have had four sons yourself.’
‘I’d have been happy with one,’ Michael said, then paused in silent reflection of the fickle trickery of nature. He took his first drink, then, returning Connie’s look, he asked, ‘What will Robert say or do when he finds out you’re pregnant?’
‘Probably nothing. I am nothing to Robert now. The sad thing is that I love him. I truly love him.’ Her voice faltered, and she let her head fall back on the chair again, her eyes closed. ‘But I think it’s only a matter of time before there’s talk of divorce.’
‘Did Frank and Kathleen have any children?’
‘A son. Five years old now. Little Bobbie. Robert is very fond of him. Spoils him really.’
‘Will you tell Robert that I am the father of your baby?’ The question secretly thrilled Michael. He was going to be a father. He was not a sterile mule after all. He was a whole man. Able to father children. And Nora. The chances were that Nora really was his daughter. Not Padraig’s. Praise be to God, he thought. What a happy, happy day. He drank with a greater feeling of elation than he had ever experienced. He felt like getting drunk, but his glass was empty and he wasn’t bold enough to ask for a refill.
‘No, I won’t tell Robert that you are the father of my baby,’ Connie was saying. ‘No need to. He thinks you’re sterile, remember. There’s a man I see in Belfast. Robert will think the baby is his, and I won’t tell him otherwise. Least said, soonest mended, Michael. Don’t worry. He won’t be challenging…

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The Unquiet Land

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Caitlin lifted her hand and stroked the back of Michael’s head. “Please don’t cry, my love,” she said. “Please don’t cry.”
Michael raised his head. “I’m sorry, Caitlin. I’m truly, deeply sorry.”
Caitlin smiled. “You big baby. I’ve never seen you in such a state.”
She kissed his cheek and snuggled into his arms.
Michael kissed her hair, her forehead, her cheek. Then he tenderly kissed her swollen mouth. “Are you cold?” he asked. He saw the long rip in the front of her dress and felt guilty.
“Yes,” Caitlin replied. “I’m so cold my blood has frozen.”
Michel gallantly took off his woollen jersey and gave it to Caitlin. “Pull that on,” he said.
She did. “Oh, that feels so much better. Thank you, Michael. Here, let me drape this shawl over your shoulders. It’ll help keep you warm. Or a bit warmer.”
“Why did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Run away up here.”
“I don’t know. It seemed appropriate. I needed to think.”
“Did you see him?”
Caitlin looked at Michael with a puzzled expression. “Did I see who?”
“Jesus. On the cross. Out there over the sea.”
Caitlin lowered her head again and pressed herself more tightly against Michael’s body. She paused thoughtfully. Her face was perturbed. “No,” she said at last. “Not Jesus on the cross.”
“Did you see anything?”
Caitlin’s fingers twisted Michael’s woollen jersey. “Oh Michael. I fell asleep for a while. I was exhausted. I had the most awful dream.”
Michael held her with both arms. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
“I don’t know if I could describe it as it was.”
Caitlin was quiet a while. Then in an agitated voice she said, “I saw the sea, Michael: a stormy sea, with big waves breaking and the spray flying, the way I love to watch it in its winter rage. And then it was calm, as calm as a mill-pond, and dark, almost black, and thick like tar, as it is in that picture in the church. And the sky was dark. And everything, everywhere, was as still as midnight. It’s the way the world will look when it’s ended and we’ve all gone.
“Then I saw something on the water, floating towards me, even though there was no movement of waves, no wind to drive it.

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In Turbulent Times

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‘The Twelfth’ means one thing to the Protestants of Northern Ireland: the annual Protestant celebration on the twelfth of July. This is the Orangemen’s Day, the day on which they turn out in their thousands to commemorate the 1690 Battle of the Boyne, in which the Protestant King William III defeated the forces of the deposed Catholic King James and thereby ensured that the British monarchy would be forever Protestant. The commemoration takes the form of parades throughout Northern Ireland, the largest being in the city of Belfast which takes on a festive atmosphere, at least in the Unionist areas. At the start of July, some of these Unionist areas will proudly fly Union flags, Ulster flags, sometimes even the flag of Scotland, from lamp posts and houses, and stretch lines of red, white and blue bunting over the streets. In especially Loyalist areas householders decorate their homes with defiant displays of bunting and flags, touch up murals depicting historic Protestant themes, attach small banners to lamp posts, and erect arches across residential streets or even main roads, the arches ranging from elaborate wooden, trellised constructions to a couple of ropes hung with the ubiquitous flags and bunting.
Orangemen on parade typically wear a dark suit, an Orange sash, white gloves and a bowler hat. They march in orderly rows behind flute, brass, silver or pipe bands, each lodge bearing aloft its large, elaborate banner. Orange banners are a significant part of the culture of Northern Ireland, particularly for the Protestant community, and one of the most prominent genres of folk art in the province. They depict in luxuriant detail heroes of the Orange Institution or historic or biblical scenes, or Unionist symbols, the most popular subject being King William on his white horse, purportedly crossing the River Boyne. An Orange parade is a noisy, boisterous, colourful demonstration of Protestant supremacy, with its hundreds of bands and banners and sashes, its jubilant throngs of spectators lining the route of the march or supporters walking alongside their favourite band or lodge, singing provocative Orange songs at the top of their voices. The Belfast-born poet, Louis MacNeice, wrote about ‘the voodoo of the Orange bands / Drawing an iron net through darkest Ulster…’
While The Twelfth is a Protestant celebration, not all Protestants celebrate it, whether for personal political or cultural reasons or from bored indifference. One such was Robert Hanlon, a Protestant married to a non-practising Catholic. He always left his native city on The Twelfth, happy to flee to the peace of the countryside. On the weekend before the big day …

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The Unquiet Land

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“Yes. A mile or so outside the village. His farmhand Bill Neely just left, so my father needs someone like you to do the things you’ve just told me you can do. You weren’t lying to me, were you?”
“Oh no. I can find people here to speak for me. Even in Corrymore. My uncle, Seamus Slattery, lives there.”
“Seamus Slattery is your uncle?” the girl cried in surprise.
“My mother’s brother.”
“I can hardly believe it. We lived with the Slatterys until I was six or seven years old. My twin sister, Nora, and I. My father wasn’t the kind of man who could raise two young girls on his own.”
“You had no mother?”
“She died giving birth to us.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. My own mother died six years ago.”
“And your father?”
“He abandoned us.”
“Well, if you’re Seamus Slattery’s nephew, you’re definitely hired.” She smiled at him again, but the frown still rippled his forehead below the yellow curls. She reached into the basket and brought out a light, golden confection. She held it out to him. “Have some yellow-man, yellow man.”
“Thank you,” he said. He tried to pick a lump from the paper, but it was stuck. He had to hold her hand steady and pull the sweet, sticky pieces of confection apart. She looked at him and smiled at his serious face. Michael felt himself blush.
“You have strong hands,” she said.
“I’ve worked with them all my life,” he replied. He felt a quivering inside of him. He wanted to hold her hand again.
“All your life,” she repeated. “You’re not more than twenty years old.”
“Twenty-one,” he said.
“That’s a long time to have worked with your hands.” She was teasing him again. “Twenty-one years of digging and raking and hoeing and ploughing. Twenty-one years of pulling flax and dipping sheep. And look what big, strong hands you have. What will they be like when you are eighty-one?” She had taken one of his hands in hers and was looking at it like a palmist, turning it over and back. “They’re strong hands,” she said. “Are they gentle hands too?”
He did not know what to say. He looked at his boots; cow manure had caked on one of them.

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In Turbulent Times

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‘And Dervla?’
‘Thriving.’ Danny escorted Caitlin into the yard and closed the iron gate behind them. ‘Motherhood suits her. And every day this week she’s had her friend from the cottage visiting.’
Caitlin stopped walking. ‘Her friend from the cottage?’
‘Connie. She and Dervla go way back. They were at school together in Lisnaglass.’
‘Didn’t Connie go home to Belfast with Robert?’
‘No. Robert’s coming back on Monday, so Connie decided to stay in the cottage. Have a short holiday. I would have thought you knew.’
‘Michael must have forgotten to mention it.’ Caitlin turned to the back door of the farmhouse, a frown on her forehead. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Danny. Regards to Dervla.’
‘Thanks, Caitlin. Yes, tomorrow bright and early. Good evening to you.’
Caitlin entered the scullery, placed the eggs on a shelf, and started to make tea for her and Michael. She paused occasionally to look up the hillside, but she could not see the cottage from the scullery window.
Michael came in an hour later, greeted Caitlin with a kiss, and washed and dried his hands at the sink. ‘We’ll finish the shearing tomorrow,’ he said. ‘There’s only a few left in the catching pen.’
‘I don’t know why you don’t hire a professional shearing team,’ Caitlin remarked. ‘There are enough of them around.’
‘I’ve been shearing sheep since I was seventeen,’ said Michael. ‘I can handle it myself. And Danny’s good with the shears too. If we had a bigger operation I might build a shearing shed.’
‘You’ll be glad the shearing’s all done, though, won’t you?’ said Caitlin.
Michael filled a tin mug with water from the tap and leaned his haunches against the sink. ‘Ay, that I will.’ Then he drank thirstily.
‘Danny was tired when I met him on his way home.’
‘He’s worked hard this week.’
‘You didn’t tell me Connie was staying in the cottage on her own since Robert left on Wednesday.’
‘Didn’t I? Didn’t you see her in the loaney? She’s been going down to visit Dervla every day.’
‘I must have missed her,’ said Caitlin. ‘Anyway, let’s eat.’
If Caitlin had had any suspicions about Michael and Connie Hanlon, remembering how Connie had come on to him in the square in Corrymore on Tuesday, she did not show them. She wondered how she would react…

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The Unquiet Land

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“Get out of my sight,” Finn yelled with more passion. “Get out of my sight till Caitlin comes back. And if she doesn’t come back, or if I find out that you’ve harmed her in any way, you’d better stay out of my sight. Otherwise I’ll kill you.”
Michael rose from the table without a word and left the house. He walked like one in a trance as far as the barn, then he leaned against the wall and wept. The tears brought some relief to his tortured mind, but as he climbed the rest of the way to the cottage his fear grew again like a nauseating vision of eternity. Remorse tightened its suffocating lock on his throat. He wished he could die.
Michael opened the door of the cottage and stepped inside. For a heart-lifting second of hope he expected Caitlin to be there, waiting for him by the fireside. But the cottage was empty and cold. In deep despair he was about to flee, about to rush down the hill again and give himself up to the law in Lisnaglass. But fear of the consequences stopped him. Anguished and frightened he lay on the straw-filled tick on his bed and suffered the cruel torture of the demons in his mind.
That which hurt most was Finn’s banishment. To be cast out by such a man was a more atrocious punishment than death. What a strange revenge of fate, Michael thought, remembering the bleak November day when he drove his own father to the railway station and told him not to return. He had used almost the same words as Finn had: “If you come back, I’ll kill you.” His father had not come back. He did not even look back as he walked away from the horse and trap on which his youngest son had driven him to the town. He carried only a canvas bag containing all that his profligate life had left to him. That canvas bag was the last tangible remains of his father that Michael ever saw, for it somehow caught on the door of the train as his father went aboard and fell on to the platform. The stationmaster picked it up and handed it into the compartment.
That memory had returned to Michael frequently during the past ten or eleven years. He often wondered where the bag was and whether his father still owned it. Strange to recall the bag more than the huge, round, florid-faced man who owned it. Stranger yet when the man was as memorable as Thomas Carrick: memorable for his flaming yellow hair and a face that glowed bright red as if burnt by the fiery aureole of his hair; memorable for the mountainous bulk of his body and for the inexhaustible energy with which he drove it to excesses of work, to excesses of drinking, to excesses of lust, to excesses of cruelty.

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In Turbulent Times

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‘Oh I’m in for the long haul, Caitlin. I’ve signed up for twenty-five years. Army life suits me.’
‘You won’t go back to the fishing then?’
‘No,’ Tom replied. ‘The Drumard Maid, your father’s old boat, the one my father bought, she has long since gone. Sold for scrap and probably did her bit for the war effort. No, I’m going to stay in the army.’ Then he turned to his companion. ‘Do you remember Gerard Sweeney, Caitlin? I know you do, Seamus.’
‘I don’t know if I would have recognised you, Gerard,’ Caitlin declared. ‘You’ve been in America a long time.’
‘Not too long,’ said Gerard. ‘Ten years. I was eighteen. Finbar got the farm, and I got sent out to the colonies.’
‘Better not let any Yank hear you say that,’ Seamus warned light-heartedly. ‘You wanted to go to America, if I remember rightly.’
‘Best decision I ever made, Seamus. I love it out there. Married a beautiful woman. I’ve a son aged six and a daughter aged four, a house, a car, a good job when I go back. I’m one lucky guy.’
‘Gerard likes that chick that Michael’s dancing with,’ Tom said. ‘He wants an introduction.’
‘You’re married, Gerard Sweeney,’ Caitlin scolded mockingly. ‘And so is she.’
‘And she’s here with her husband,’ Seamus added.
Tom slapped his friend on the back. ‘Too bad, Gerry, old sod. You’ll have to wait till you’re back in California.’
‘Lots of time, Tommy, my bold soldier laddie,’ Gerard said. ‘As Caitlin has pointed out, this party could go on all night, and what chick can resist a man in uniform?’
‘You’re a reprobate, Gerard Sweeney.’ Tom looked at Caitlin. ‘Don’t listen to him, Caitlin. He’s big-headed like most Yanks. They think they’re God’s gift to humanity.’ Tom paused to pull a swig from his bottle of beer. ‘Well, we just came over to say hello. I’ll call up to the house, Caitlin, before I leave. Have a chat with you and Michael, if he ever let’s go of that girl. And I want to see Nora as well.’
‘She’ll be happy to see you, Tom. And bring Gerard with you.’
‘I don’t know if I should introduce Gerry to Nora. She’s much too pretty.’
‘She’s married too, Tom. Remember.’

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