The Fabulists :: Chapter 2

A few days later, it dawned a fine morning. Mungo got the children out to school and, whistling softly, he walked up Stoneybatter to cash his disability cheque. Nothing put him in good humour like a fine morning. He had even brought Connie breakfast in bed and, although she had tried to conceal it, she was surprised and pleased. Maybe he should do it more often. He was bursting with life since giving up drink, and felt smug as he passed Moran’s pub. With his exercises and then his long walk in the mornings, he was fit for anything, and his mind was coming alive again. Sometimes his walks took him well into the Phoenix Park, or as far as Stephen’s Green. In the park, which he preferred, he could find a quiet stretch and burst into a jog when he was sure no one was watching, and he made trebly sure, because the idea of anyone seeing him jog in his boots, jeans and heavy overcoat was excruciating. Not to mention his arm, whose limpness, he knew, made him look odd, especially when running. His arm was all that bothered him. It ached badly. At first he had excluded it from his exercises, but then it became more difficult to do so, and now it felt like fresh, rearing blood was trying to push through veins grown accustomed to a sluggish flow. His left hand tingled, and he flexed it. That was another thing about walking: he could gently, unobtrusively, exercise his hand – flex, open, shut, flex, open, shut. He still couldn’t raise the arm very well, but that would come soon, he felt sure.

In a few weeks time it would be two years since the fire. That would be a bad time for Connie. Aidan seemed to have forgotten about it and got on with his life as children do, especially as the burns had healed so well, thanks to the people in James’s. Sure, the poor guy still had the dreams, but they were less frequent. Mungo was trying to be as kind as he could to all three of them. Connie still hadn’t forgiven him, he knew, so he couldn’t just hand her a bunch of roses, for instance. She wouldn’t wear it, so he’d have to sneak in and put them in the kitchen, maybe in that white delft vase she liked.

Six red roses. Romance on the welfare she’d say, if she said anything. She hadn’t spoken to him, not a word, for nearly a year after the fire, but nobody could keep that up all the time, so now she only spoke to him when necessary. Maybe she was softening. The response when he brought her breakfast in bed this morning had given him hope. He had been trying to work up the courage to do it for weeks. Perhaps there was no going back, but he just wanted to be part of the human race again.

He cashed his cheque in the hushed bank, and back home, he left the money on the table for Connie, keeping only the loose change. He sat and looked at it, that which only barely carried them through the week, though he didn’t smoke or drink any more. Connie still smoked, but not a lot. He heard the bedsprings as she turned.

“Is that you?” she called.

“It’s me,” he called back.

“Well get some meat if you’re going out.”

At least the children were fed and clothed. Nothing fancy, but enough. The curse of Christmas was still to come, but if children couldn’t have Christmas, what could they have? He took some money and left the house.

He went down Grangegorman, crossed North Brunswick Street and turned left at North King Street, flexing his fingers as he walked, and sweating a little at the effort. It took concentration. His New Year’s resolution would be to get the strength back in his hand and arm. If he couldn’t get a regular job then he could do nixers until the building trade took up again, and someone had told him that that wasn’t far off. He had intended continuing along North King Street, but when he came to Smithfield, he set out across the cobbles which stretch almost to the river. On one side were warehouses, some of them derelict, covered in colourful, garish murals. He passed the weigh house. There were young trees planted in rows of three all the way down. On the other side was new Corporation housing and, farther down, the new Children’s Court. In between were three travelers’ caravans, smoke rising from the aluminium chimneys.

“Mungo! Hey, head-the-ball!”

This was as he passed the Children’s Court. An old drinking crony was lounging on the steps.

“Hey Frankie! I thought you graduated from that place a while back.”

“Been rejuvenated. Mungo, you’re a rich bleedin’ culchie – any ciggies?”

“Sorry, pal. Don’t smoke any more.”

“Ah, keep goin’, so. You’re no use to me.”

He walked on. That was about the size of it. Once you were one of the lads, knocking it back a couple of nights a week, money no object, you were a great fella, but hit bad times and you might as well never have existed. When he thought about it, he hadn’t one real friend. It was a useful piece of knowledge.

His journey brought him past the derelict distillery on to the fruit and vegetable markets, and as the pavements were blocked by crates of produce, he followed a dray cart through the chaos of vans and lorries and whining forklifts. He realized he was thirsty, so instead of taking the more direct route along Little Mary Street, he checked the change which he kept for himself, and went down to Abbey Stores on the corner of Arran Street and Mary’s Abbey. He saw the butcher talking to a customer outside his shop farther along Mary’s Abbey, and thought of the meat. If he didn’t get it now he’d forget it, as sure as daylight. So he went down to McNally’s. The butcher, who he presumed was J. McNally himself, stayed outside, finishing his conversation in the sunshine.

“I’ll be with you in a minute,” the butcher called into the bright but old-fashioned interior.

That was fine. Mungo was in no hurry. He had all the time in the world.
“Now, what can I get you, sir,” Mr McNally asked as he came back in.
“Can you give me a couple of pounds of stewing stuff?”
“Sure. Why not?”

The meat was good and it was cheap. This was the way to do things – combine a little business with a pleasant walk. Pleased with himself, Mungo doubled back to Abbey Stores. It was a tiny shop but they had nice oranges and they didn”t mind if you only bought one.
“Magic,” the young shopkeeper said when Mungo handed him the exact amount.

A juggernaut from Holland was parked in the lower, resi-dential part of Arran Street, being unloaded by a forklift. Tons of apples. Mungo happily sucked on his orange. He turned into Little Strand Street to avoid the quays. At the junction with Capel Street he paused, then gravitated to a shop window and a multiband radio which caught his eye. It cost what his family now lived on for a week, but it would give him access to any station in the world, almost; to languages he could never hope to understand, unless Spanish, perhaps. It was first year college Spanish, brushed up a little on the Costa Brava, but it would be something to build on. It was vaguely painful to know that he would never be able to buy the radio, unless he was able to work again. He tried to lift his arm, thinking it would never recover.

He turned and crossed over to Great Strand Street, away from shops and dreams. There were Corporation offices, a pub and one single shop, which sold guitars and amplifiers, but apart from a school, it was a street of light industry and dereliction in equal proportion. A granite-faced warehouse, refurbished and converted into small units, pleased him. It had been a while since he had been along here.

Just as he turned into Liffey Street, joining the streams of people walking between Abbey Street and the Ha”penny Bridge, he saw her. She gave a little start of recognition, just as he did, but he continued around the corner. Not knowing what to do, he stepped onto the road to let her pass, or what-ever she might choose. She passed, but he could see that she was hesitant too. They walked almost together for a few moments, she slightly ahead; then he crossed over to one of the Pound Shops and pretended to browse, his heart pound-ing. She had paused too, and he knew that, like him, she was pretending to be interested in a shop window. This was his cue, but he was transfixed. She”s beautiful, he thought, and this was all his mind would allow. No strategy, no opening line, only the all-consuming fact of her physicality.

Baffled, he perversely entered the shop, when all he wanted to do was catch up with her and tell her his name. That was it: My name is Mungo, what”s yours? It”s so simple when you can think straight, he thought, and rushed out of the shop. She was gone. It was impossible, but she was gone.

He hurried, trying not to run, to Abbey Street, and looked up and down. Nothing. Over to Upper Liffey Street. No sign. She had disappeared. Agitated, he checked again in four directions. She had to be in a shop somewhere. Perhaps at that very moment she was watching him, highly amused. This sobered him, and he reassumed his dignity.

In the shopping-centre he walked through the crowds in a daze. All the shoppers could think about was Christmas; all he could think of was how beautiful she was, and that he would never see her again because of his stupidity.

He took the library lift for a few moments privacy. Her red hair dropped a little below her shoulders. She seemed about the same height as himself, five foot seven, but with raised heels on her boots, it was hard to know exactly. What else? Her eyes he wasn”t sure of – blue or green, but they were generous. She seemed … plump, although again it was hard to know with her heavy winter clothing. He couldn’t picture her legs, but remembered with pleasure that she walked gracefully. To him, grace was important.

He went straight to the travel books by force of habit, taking down the largest volume on Spain, His paper mark was undisturbed and he opened the book at page ninety, but though he read two pages without pause, not one word registered. He felt sure her carriage would be matched by her manner and voice. Her voice would immediately decide if … Her voice would decide what? he wondered. He was a married man, after all, which was not altogether beside the point.
He hoped he hadn’t spoken aloud, and moved to another reading table in case he had. His attraction to this woman had amounted to a surge of hormones, yet his imagination had leapt ahead, making assumptions and laying down conditions. The attraction disturbed him. Even if they met again, which was unlikely, it would have the same inconsequential end. A similar experience in his youth reminded him how juvenile his reactions were. It was just an attack of juvenile projection. He could read his book in peace.

He read about a traveller journeying through Castile by train. It had been snowing, but as dawn broke the sky was a steely blue and the snow was compact and silent across the plateau. Later, as the sun rose, the traveller saw a herd of black bulls, and then the eleventh-century walls of Avila.

Mungo closed the book and dreamed himself onto that train approaching Avila, the city of Saint Teresa. At first he tried to remember the details, but abandoned this and let his imagination provide. Apart from the two weeks with Connie and the children in a tourist hotel on the Costa Brava, he had never been outside Ireland, unless he counted the months on housing sites in the English Midlands, a failed student. So it was Spain that nourished his fantasies about a new life, the discovery of which would change him, as if stepping out of the skin that was his past. It would even change his past, give it a context which would lend it meaning. Then, one day he would go to Spain and not return.

The idea was still crude, but little by little it was forming.He opened the book again and went back to the beginning of the chapter. The traveller, an Irishman, had relatives in Galicia – the Celtic part of the peninsula. Mungo envied him such a background. At the same time, it would be better if he, Mungo, were completely alone to make a fresh start.
It didn’t have to be Spain, but it was the country he knew most about for now, more than England – more than Ireland, perhaps. A fresh start. In reality it was impossible, he knew; but he could rehearse it in his imagination. Maybe he could disguise it as a story for the children. He returned to where he had left off, and finished the chapter.

It had been snowing, but as dawn broke the sky was cloudless and the snow was compact and silent across the plateau. Mungo repeated the lines to himself while descending the library stairs to the shopping centre.

As he turned from the stairs he almost collided with her. She smiled faintly as if in recognition, but flustered, he wasn’t quite sure if it was the same woman, and side-stepped to let her pass. Could it be her? Surely not. Was it a smile of derision? He backtracked, and she had paused by the sweet shop. Staring, as if in shock, he decided it wasn’t her. This woman didn’t fit his luminous image. True, she had light red hair, and similar clothing, but she seemed defeated somehow, whether by age or constant misfortune he could not say. And he had remembered her as having flaming red hair, hadn’t he? If only he could see her face again, he would know then. If he could see her eyes, then certainly he would know. It would give him a chance to smile, and she could smile back and they could laugh at his foolishness and say hello. She didn’t turn, but as soon as she walked along the passage to Parnell Street, he knew. He stood at the sweet shop and watched her retreating figure. Yes, it was her all right, and yes, despite her graceful carriage, she seemed defeated. Suddenly, he felt the weight of defeat too, and turned to leave by the Henry Street exit, when Parnell Street would have brought him more quickly home.
“Ripe bananas, five for fifty!” “Cigarette lighters, four for a pound!”

The sing-song cries of the street-sellers greeted him on Henry Street. He lounged about for a while, browsing amongst the cheap shoes, and then in the music shop across the road. He hated wasting time like this, when he could afford neither shoes nor music, but he did it all the same, knowing he was trying to avoid thinking about the woman.

He found himself walking back along Liffey Street, half believing he might meet her again, and paused at the junction with Strand Street, where he felt something magical had brought them together for those shocking moments. At the Ha”penny Bridge, he looked down Ormond Quay and recalled that his journey home after the Parade of Innocence had left him in her wake. How she had hurried away! Of course it had been dark, and maybe without realizing it he had scared her, and he felt pity and then affection and a desire to make amends.

On the hump of the footbridge, he stopped and looked around him, as so many passed by. Then he peered up-river. He knew he was attracting curious glances, and he longed at that moment for a camera. With a camera he would have a legitimate reason – a composition, perhaps, of the copper-green domes of the Four Courts and Adam and Eve’s, with the Guinness steam house in the distance, slightly left of centre, completing the picture. Without a camera he felt naked. If he was a passer-by, he too would wonder why some-one was staring into the distance from a bridge over a river at high tide. The obvious reason was furthest from the truth. He did it because he wanted to, and that was reason enough. There was no other reason. He had no purpose here, nor did he want or need one. He felt a thrill of happiness at his brief freedom, and gratitude to an anonymous woman.

The Fabulists :: Chapter 3

It was where she shopped anyway, so for a week she found an excuse to go to the shopping centre every other day at about the same time. The coincidence of meeting him twice in an hour was one thing, but the moment had passed and was lost. She shrugged. Such things happened all the time in the likes of Henry Street – didn’t they? Apart from his stiff arm, what intrigued her was that he had frightened her half to death on the night of the parade, but in daylight he seemed deferential and almost timid. Anyway he looked pleasant enough. She was very lonely, but she didn’t want another arsehole messing her around. She”d be in control with this one, that was certain, and for a few days she felt a surge of exhilarating hope. It was nice to fantasize about him – what he might be like, what he did, if he was married. Yes, he was married, but then so was she. Thoughts of an affair made her smile and even laugh, but the tread of her life reasserted itself and she forgot about him. Finding a decent present for Arthur on her few bob took up most of her time. She spent weeks, hesitating, counting her pennies, hoping to come across a better bargain. As a truce offering, she bought Brian a video tape.

Christmas passed more peacefully than she could have hoped. Arthur was happy with his football and boots, and his video games from Brian. Annie had spilled the beans about Santy, but despite Tess’s annoyance it had turned out to her advantage in the present arrangement, and his manic spirits kept their minds off reality. Alcohol and television and the visits to Arthur’s grandparents did the rest.

They drank so much on Christmas night that they ended up fucking on the living-room floor, she not caring who he was, and she even came. It wasn’t great, but it was better than fighting. The next day, appalling hangovers allowed them to pretend nothing had happened. She left that evening, relieved that Christmas and its obligations were over. She put the idea of pregnancy out of her mind. On New Year”s Eve she went to Christchurch, and rang in the New Year and New Decade, dancing with strangers with as much abandon as if she believed they held a promise of happiness. She went to a party off the South Circular Road, where there were so few men that several women danced with each other. They were several drinks ahead of her and she felt awkward, so she walked home around three, ignoring the boisterous calling from passing cars. At least she hadn’t been alone for the first few hours of the year. That was symbolically important. She took down the redundant calendar and burned it, hoping all her bad luck would go up in smoke.

Arthur settled back into school, and the routine was established again. On her way back from Fairview, she felt the first drops of rain as she hurried across O’Connell Street. Already the windscreen wipers were zipping on passing cars. She crossed into Abbey Street while the lights were still red, but within moments she was caught in a downpour. Her head was bare so she cursed fluently while running to a bus shelter, where she huddled with a dozen others, but then realized the rain had soaked through her coat and she walked slowly and miserably home.
Once inside the flat, she made no attempt to change her clothes but looked around the cold room, so bleak and lifeless in the naked light: the old armchair with its torn covering and collapsed springs; the red Formica table with the accumulated dirt in its steel rim impossible to dislodge; the tattered nylon carpet which made her skin creep; the discoloured chipwood wallpaper; the thin grey curtains … A tear trickled down her face. Even her posters seemed dispirited.

Water dripped rapidly into the bath. She pushed open the bathroom door and watched a separate leak stream down the wall, nourishing the fungus. It didn’t matter that it would saturate the floor below, no one lived there any more. There was a lesser breach in the kitchen over the cooker. She moved a pot until it was directly underneath, the thick drops striking hard.
Her body tensed and her teeth began to chatter. She went back into the living-room with a towel, lit the gas fire and undressed, drying her body vigorously, oblivious to the spluttering flames. She tilted her head to one side to dry her hair and stared at the fire as it died. Cursing, she rummaged through her bag, but there was no fifty pence piece.

Tess felt the breadth of her squalor, but she steadied herself and weighed up her options. To go into the rain again, begging for a coin would be ridiculous, so all she could do was go to bed once her hair was dry. Taking a few blankets, she sat on her heels in the armchair and wrapped them around her. Clutching them to her with one hand, she furiously towelled her hair with the other. Both friction and action combined made her tolerably warm and also breathless, so she rested a while.

The blankets fell open, exposing part of her left breast. She examined it, not for lumps, but for its substance and texture as a sexual object. She laughed, without feeling. This was the piece of protruding flesh that turned men”s heads, that they loved to handle and kiss and admire, and, not for the first time, she wondered about its fascination. Her breasts were small, with thick nipples which she considered ugly, and she was convinced they had lost their firmness. No fear of her tits fascinating men! Not that she cared. They seemed to retreat from the cold and were suddenly covered in goose pimples. She looked at her belly which was still slim but its skin was somehow slack, and blemished, as she thought of it, with the wrinkles of an ancient.

She looked farther down at her bush, and closed the blankets about her and towelled her hair again. She felt only an emptiness and bitterly knew that in such a state, far from wanting pleasure, she only wanted to hurt herself. Perhaps that’s what puritans meant when they called it self-abuse. Not that she was against giving herself pleasure and she thought about some of her more memorable explorations, which made her feel good and she stopped rubbing her hair and silently laughed. She had done it first while still at school, where the precocious Marian had alerted her to its possibilities, but it wasn’t until she had come to live here, at the age of thirty-two, that she deliberately sat down one evening in this same armchair in her open dressing-gown before a warm fire, and began to explore her body, inch by inch, in a way no man had done and perhaps no man could know how.

That was very beautiful and not just because of the pleasure, but because it gave her back hope. It was so difficult to recapture a moment like that, and why it should be so she didn’t know. She would try again, yes, but not now, the mood wasn’t right, even if the thought had cheered her. Yes, it had, and she hugged herself in gratitude.

In bed she threshed her body and legs about until the friction warmed the sheets, but she still wasn’t warm. A chill breeze, blocked on one side of the bed, made its way in some-where else. Too lazy to get up again, she tried to stick it out, but in the end she jumped out of bed and found the oversize tee-shirts she was fond of and donned three before jumping back in, threshing about again.

It was no use, she would have to make the bed properly. So, getting out once more, she did a little dance as she carefully tucked in the sheets and blankets. Back in, she wriggled about for a while, then paused to gauge the effect. Not bad. She pulled the tee-shirts down her thighs. Better still. Content, she turned on a Schubert tape and played it until she could no longer hold off sleep.

* * *

Mungo lay awake beside Connie, who was snoring. She had most of the bed but that didn’t matter. His arm ached badly and his hand tingled and this worried him, as he had heard someone in a pub saying that it was the sign of a heart attack. Or was it a stroke? The side of his head tingled as well, so maybe it was a stroke. That was queer because he had never felt better physically and his arm, he felt sure, was coming on well. The irony – to get yourself to the peak of fitness, and then die of a heart attack! Or a stroke. American suburbia was famous for it.
Then again, maybe the tingling in his scalp was due to the hard pillow and maybe he had lain on his arm. He had slept deeply before waking. Now he longed to know the time, but the luminous figures on the clock had faded long ago, It was probably two or three. The wind had risen and it was still raining, and the leak from a gutter was blown onto a roadworks drum in a tattoo.

He rubbed the side of his head briskly and the tingling faded. Then he put his left arm across his body and caressed it, slowly, from the shoulder to his fingertips. Lately he had dis-covered that as well as making his arm feel better, there was sensual pleasure in it too. He looked over at the shadowy figure of his wife. They had not had sex since before he gave up drinking. She was steamed up that night too, singing all the way home with a few of her girlfriends, their men a few paces behind shouting friendly abuse, but excluded all the same. The defences were down and the baby-sitter from next door was paid off quickly, and the singing continued sotto voce up the stairs as their clothes came off, and into bed until it was silenced by famished lips and tongues.

Shag it, he had an erection. Weary, he sighed and thought of welfare bureaucracy and it subsided. This never failed and as there was no point in tormenting himself, he used it every time. The kettle boils over if it’s left too long on the flame but it couldn’t be helped, and if Connie noticed when the sheets were washed she never protested. She turned and her arm fell haphazardly on his chest.

He was about to gently remove it when she moaned. Her arm twitched a few times, and he left it there, sorry for her now. It couldn’t be easy for her either, with no one that he knew of to touch her, to convince her that she wasn’t a fleshless soul wandering around the city of the lost. He thought he knew how she must feel. As suddenly as before, she turned and moaned again. He hoped she was having a nice time.

A scream came from the children”s bedroom and without thinking Mungo was on his feet. As he knelt by his bed, Aidan was fighting off some danger, and Mungo knew what it was. Ethna was sleeping peacefully so he switched on Aidan”s torch, still unsure if he should wake him or let the nightmare take its course, in which case it might leave him be for a while. He watched his son struggle and sweat and suffered with him as he pulled him from the flames which he, Mungo, had set alight. One night of drunkenness, his cigarette had made his son”s bed an inferno and had almost killed him and Ethna, too, if it hadn’t been for Connie. They might all have died.
Aidan sat up suddenly, gasping, his arms flailing.

“Da, Da!” he shouted.

“I”m here, son, I”m here,” Mungo whispered urgently, holding him. “I have you out. You’re safe. As safe as could be.” Ethna was still asleep, and he rocked Aidan until he calmed.
“Was it the same dream?” Aidan nodded. “Gawd – it’s a tough one, isn’t it?” The boy nodded again. “You haven’t had it for a while, though, have you?” Aidan shook his head. “I”d say you”ll have it less and less, until you won’t have it at all. Maybe this is the last one,” he added optimistically.

Aidan was silent for a while. “I was in a church.”

“A church?”

He nodded, this time vigorously.

“You never had a church in your dream before, had you. Was it a big church?”

Aidan reflected.

“No. It was small. And there was no altar.”

No altar? How could he know it was a church if it had no altar, Mungo wondered, but didn’t ask as he knew there was more to be told. But Aidan said nothing and there was silence, apart from a bluster of rain against the window. Mungo gently laid him back and tucked in the bedclothes.
“Will I leave the torch on?” There was no reply, but Mungo stayed, on his knees beside the bed. Then Aidan mumbled, and alert again, Mungo leaned over to listen.

“A bush …” Aidan”s heavy eyelids opened and he looked at his father.

“Yes? A bush?”

“There”s a bush in the middle of the church.”

“Is it a nice bush?”

“Very nice.” Aidan seemed to drift back to sleep again, and Mungo let him be, but he rallied, as if he had a need to tell his father. “A bush …”

“The bush … the bush is important, isn’t it?

“I take a leaf off the bush, and then …” Aidan whimpered and sat up in bed again, rubbing his eyes. Mungo sat up quickly beside him and held him close, almost weeping.

“What happens then, my precious boy?” Aidan buried his face in Mungo”s belly.

“The bush goes up in a big fire,” he said in a rush. Mungo stroked his head and rocked him.

“And do you run?”

“Oh Da, Da …” Aidan was crying now. “Oh yes Da, I’m runnin’, an” the bush is runnin’ after me.”
That was it. That was enough, it was too much for one small boy to endure. It was too much for a man. Does the bush catch and consume him? The question tormented Mun-go, but he didn’t dare ask.

“You save me, Da.”

“Do I?” Mungo choked.

“You’re very strong and brave.”

Aidan had calmed. Mungo was adrift, but by some intuition, he realized what was happening and accepted a healing peace. They were being men together, or that mythic, heroic part of man which slays the dragon that the boy dreams of and to which the man has long bade his wistful farewell.

Aidan was asleep. Mungo laid him back and tucked in the covers again. He gazed at the peaceful face turned on its side, wondering if he had been the same when he was nine years old. That was all of twenty-six years ago and he had only the vaguest image of himself at that age. He must have been happy, being useful about the small farm, trudging to school, playing hurling in the long summer evenings. His childhood was a pleasant journey until hormones ambushed his brain at eleven or twelve; and then his father died, steering his motor-bike into a telegraph pole. What age was he then? Sixteen.

He went over to Ethna – the happy, impish, stubborn, lovely, bad-tempered, charming, whining, tell-tale beat of his heart. Her fist was closed at her mouth, curling open her upper lip, making her snore lightly. He had nearly killed her, too. He had nearly killed them all, including himself. Connie was right.

The bed lamp was on when he returned to bed and Connie was awake, looking at him. Suddenly he felt the cold on his back and shivered.

“Well?”

“Well what?” He got into bed. “Aidan had another nightmare.”

“Yes. But he”s fine now.”

“The same one?”

“No. Well, yes, but a different version. He was able to tell it to me in detail. It was that clear. Maybe they’re ending.”

She asked him to describe it for her, and he did. He would have done so anyway but was pleased at the soft, unguarded tone of her voice. It was as if there had never been a rift. They talked for some time. Then she said: “He needs you a lot at the minute,” and she turned over, put out the light and went back to sleep.

At the minute … The northern phrases of her childhood came back sometimes. He couldn’t sleep until he realized she had spoken to him for Aidan’s sake. He admired her for that, and he pulled the blankets over his shoulder to settle down, content. He had a place after all. But sleep would not come.

Connie took a deep breath, and her body relaxed. He felt her heat. It was doubtful if his own body gave off such warmth for her, though maybe it did. That they were still together, warm-ing each other in the same bed was a kind of love, he supposed; one which had no spontaneity and no expression except the care of their children, which was no small thing. Then again, maybe he was clutching at straws, and maybe it was better to admit there would never be any love between them again.

He needed an interest. Something frivolous. Jogging was all very well, but he did it to make him fit. He needed some-thing without purpose. As every day passed, their children were becoming individuals, separate from their parents and would soon be away in the world. There would be nothing left then for him and Connie but to ignore each other in the silence of their marriage bed.

The Fabulists :: Chapter 6

Ethna went down with chicken-pox, and Mungo stayed by her bedside and told her stories until she slept. They revived forgotten memories. Some detail always surfaced in the telling, though in truth there were few adventures to recount. One day had blended imperceptibly into the next, for the most part, but Ethna didn’t mind hearing a story over and again and spotted a new detail every time, which was perhaps why he resisted invention. He was afraid he would have been found out. So it was: the comic personalities of the cows; the dog’s genius with the sheep; the silken bainbh born to the huge sow under the warm lamp; the stream alive with flitting trout; all which once seemed eternal and now seemed on an island of the past, a realm of wonder for his children. To bring them to see it now was like showing them a shadow. Only through memory did it take on flesh, and he realized that memory was only so enriched by the profound familiarity of seeing and experiencing the same animals and people and things day after day, in their own places, according to the season. It was, he thought, high time he brought the children to see their grand-mother again.

He resumed his jogging. It was spring and he could lay off his heavy coat, but whenever he came across a jogger in the accepted apparel, he remembered his boots and jeans and heavy jumper, and slowed to a walk until the real jogger was well past. He preferred the empty acres of the Phoenix Park, away from the roads and where only the deer would stare at him, running like a countryman over a bog as he had done so often as a boy. His arm was strong again, weaker than the other but strong enough to pump it in a matching rhythm as he ran. He would soon have to face a medical referee to deter-mine if he was still entitled to his disability benefit, but he put that out of his mind, enjoying the clean air and the fresh smells of spring. The phallic monument to Wellington provided a line for him to run towards and, judging from experience how much puff he had in hand, he sprinted towards it, running up the steps of the plinth two at a time until he reached it, and he gasped, hands on knees.

He sat down, uncomfortably sweaty, and calmed. It had been a month now since he’d seen her, perhaps more, and he had thought of her every day, sometimes only fleetingly, before he fell into sleep, or for a few moments when he woke, but sometimes, when he was alone, he would think of no one and nothing else for as long as he was left in peace. It was funny, how she was in the city, there along the quays below him, no more than a few minutes bus-ride away, and yet he hadn’t seen her in a month. He hadn’t gone into town for a while after the fiasco, but still, in a city where you met people you knew at every corner, she may as well have been on the far side of the earth.

He wondered if it had been a womanly ploy to make him lust for her, but dismissed the thought. There had been real hurt in her eyes, and it haunted him. He longed to heal that hurt, as if only by doing so would he gain his own peace. And it was obvious that she too was embarrassed by what had happened. This cheered him, as it brought them back on equal terms. Them. Us. We. Why did he think of them as a couple, two people who interacted in an intimate way? His momentary happiness drained away as he realized he had been harbouring a fantasy for a long time. He looked about him, trying to forget it, to maintain some dignity; but the more he tried to rid himself of her image, the more his involuntary being rebelled. That this should happen to him at his age was the worst humiliation, as if he were a youth again, ignorant of women.

He ran blindly down the steps and around the monument until he was wheezing, and he staggered to a halt. Here he was, literally running away from her. The green expanse of park land reminded him of Wexford and he was conscious again of the strong pull of the countryside. Connie wouldn’t go, of course, but the children would love it and maybe Connie would like a few days to herself. Strange woman, Connie. She liked her own company, but she could sing her song, a glass in her hand. Those few hours of revelry, of forgetting everything, were further apart as the money grew tighter, and the only thing that bound them was putting the children before everything. How long was it now – months? With her barricades down she liked her sex, and he recalled that deep grunt of pleasure when he slid into her, if he was fortunate enough not to be too drunk himself, or unsure, or too tired, when she would turn away from him as if to say, it’s always the same, the same old story.

She was washing out the fridge when he got home. The sunlight reflected off the back wall which he had painted white a few years before, and the back door was open so that a
cheerful freshness enlivened the kitchen.

`Have a nice walk?’ she asked without turning around.

`Yeah. I was up in the Park, as far as the Wellington Monument.’

She sniffed.

`You stink of sweat.’

He sniffed under his arms. It was true.

`Sure sweat’s a natural thing.’

‘So’s shit.’

She got off her knees, and cast him an ironic glance as she squeezed the cloth into the plastic basin.

`Right,’ he said. `I’ll wash in a minute.’ He was stalling and she knew it.

`You want something, don’t you?’

She had got fresh water and was down on her knees again, rinsing out the fridge.

`How’s the cash-flow these days?’

`Ah. Tight as usual. Why?’

`I was thinking it was time we went down to Wexford.’

`You know I can’t stand that mother of yours, and she can’t stand me.’
`I know, I know. But she’s the children’s grandmother.’

`They’ve two grandparents in Donegal. When was the last time they went to see them?’

`They’ve been down twice in the last year, haven’t they?’

`Oh yes, they have to come down, don’t they? Otherwise they’d never see their grandchildren, never mind their daughter.’

`They have the free travel.’

`So has your mother. As well as a car.’

It was true, but this was getting nowhere.

`Why don’t I bring the children to Wexford, seeing as ye women don’t get on, and you can slip up to Letterkenny for a few days?’

She paused, and he knew he’d said the right thing. Even if she had been in Dublin for fifteen years, he had always noticed that a break amongst her own people charged her batteries, and in truth she hadn’t been north for over a year.

`We don’t have the money for both,’ she said, and continued her work. He deemed it wise to withdraw, to let the thought settle, and he went to the bathroom to wash his stinking body.

Two weeks later, he handed her his disability money as usual. She sat at the kitchen table and counted it carefully, then produced money from a tin box.

`I suppose you want to go by train.’

He did.

`There’s enough here for my bus and a phone call to Letterkenny, a phonecall to Wexford, our bus fares in and out of town, train fares to and from Gorey and a few bob for comics and sweets for the children.’

`Great.’

`It’s not great, but we can scrape it if we can count what we save by scrounging off our families for the weekend. And I need to get out of these four walls.’

`Me too.’

`Right. It’s settled then.’

There were tears as Connie hugged her children at Busaras, but as they walked up the steep approach to Connolly Station, Aidan and Ethna bickered and had soon forgotten their mother. They were early, and Mungo settled them on the seaboard side of a non-smoking carriage, bribing them with crisps and a supply of comics which they would happily read a second or third time, or so he hoped.

He was looking forward to this trip. On the phone his mother had been cool at first, which he knew was her way of making her point at his prolonged neglect, but before his money ran out she had agreed to meet them in Gorey, having subtly ascertained that Connie would not be with them.

He glanced up-river as they passed over Butt Bridge, and he wondered what Tess was doing or thinking at that moment. How many weeks was it now? Almost six. He bridled at their separation, which seemed unnatural somehow. He looked about him, wondering if his face had betrayed his thoughts. He would have to shut her out, at least until he was alone in the big field at the back of the house, when he could risk shouting out her name and have it echo over several hills.

`What are you smiling for, Daddy?’

`Eh? Was I smiling?’

‘Yeh.’

`Yeah Dad, you looked like you’d won the bleedin’ Lottery,’ Aidan joined in.

`That’ll be the day. Lotteries don’t bleed by the way.’ They thought that was hilarious. `Go on back now to your comics.’

`But why were you smiling, Daddy?’ Ethna persisted. Trust Ethna.

‘What, did you never see me smile before? Look, we’re on holiday, aren’t we? And you’re happy when you go on holidays, aren’t you? And it’s a lovely day, and it will be even nicer in Knockmore. That’s a good reason to smile, isn’t it?’

Content, they went back to their comics, but he thought how sad it was that he couldn’t tell his children, or anyone, not even the woman in question, that he was in love. At least and at last he had said it to himself. He would have to tell lies to hide it, even to Tess, and he knew how much it cost him to lie, or even to avoid the truth; how it made him say foolish things, make foolish gestures, act foolishly.

He dozed for a while, until they came to Killiney Bay, a curve of sea and land culminating in Wicklow Head, the glory of which he never tired.

`Look,’ he said, `isn’t that lovely?’ They looked.

`We saw it before, Dad,’ Aidan said.

`What? Well you didn’t see it today. Something really beautiful is beautiful in different ways every time you see it.’

`Really?’ Aidan was impressed by this and they both checked it out again.

`It’s nice,’ Ethna said.

`Even if it didn’t change everytime,’ he said in an effort to be truthful, `it’s good to look at something nice more than once – many times!’

`Why?’ Aidan asked.

‘Why? Because … it makes you feel good, that’s why.’

They looked out again, and this time they watched the sea until it was blocked from view near Bray, and Mungo wondered if they had learned what beauty could be to them, and if they would remember this afternoon.

Below Greystones there was another favourite stretch, with the sea close to the tracks, the mountains in the middle distance to the west, with marshland and fresh water between. Today he was luckier than usual.

`Look!’ he said, pointing. There were swans on the water, basking in the sun. The children were entranced, and now he was sure they were touched, and he felt wonderful and more at peace than he had been in a long time. His happiness lasted while they passed through the spring foliage which flanked the track below Wicklow, over the black, pure river beneath the bridge below Rathdrum, past the Arklow golf-course where the stones and banks of the river were discoloured by the copper sediment from the defunct mines at Avoca – even past the fertilizer factory, spewing out its sulphurous smoke, his happiness held.

Only when they passed Inch Creamery, a few miles from Gorey, was it displaced by a need to be prepared, in case his mother could read it on his face, or worse, read into it. He wasn’t supposed to be happy with Connie, that was a guiding principle, so it would follow that something or someone other than Connie was making him happy.

Despite what had happened, despite their separation, despite his despair, he was happy. Or to be more precise, Tess had given him a depth of feeling he hadn’t believed possible, and it was the knowledge of his capacity to feel so profoundly that made him happy. He wallowed in the warmth which flooded him, as if the pain of the last six weeks had never hap-pened. The children had been miraculously quiet, reading, telling jokes and even talking to each other as companions, which was rare and to be noted. As the approach of Gorey was announced, Mungo pulled himself together, organizing the children and preparing their paltry luggage.

`Where’s Granny?’ Ethna demanded, looking worried. Mrs Kavanagh was not on the platform to greet them.

`She’s probably in the car outside,’ Aidan reassured her. Ethna would have forgotten, but that was where she usually waited. Mungo spotted the blue Ford and sent his children ahead. They ran to the car, but when they reached it and Mrs Kavanagh opened the door to greet them, he saw that as always they suddenly became shy, and Ethna looked back to him for reassurance. Mrs Kavanagh drew Aidan into the car to kiss him and he acquiesced, though he squirmed a little.

`Give Granny a kiss,’ Mungo told Ethna, but Granny was still caressing Aidan’s face, telling him what a lovely boy he was, and for a few awkward moments, Ethna was stranded. Then, to Aidan’s relief, Mrs Kavanagh shifted her attention to Ethna.

`Oh aren’t you lovely?’ She exclaimed, drawing Ethna into the car as Aidan escaped into the back seat. Ethna was more comfortable with the attention, and pointedly looked down to her new dress, which wasn’t new, but had been given to her by her maternal grandmother, was only worn on special occasions and was now almost too small for her.

`What a lovely dress!’ she declared, thus gaining Ethna’s favour. She glanced at Mungo by way of acknowledging his presence, but continued her caressing and praise of Ethna. Mungo wondered how long it had been since she had touched a human being.

`You’ve grown up into the sky,’ she said in wonder, guiding Ethna into the back seat where Aidan was slumped, his hands in his pockets. Mungo sat in and kissed his mother lightly on her weakly proffered cheek.

`Well,’ she said. `You’re welcome.’

`Do you want me to drive?’ he asked as usual, knowing the answer.

`You can’t drive with that arm of yours,’ she said, starting, and chugging onto the junction with the Avenue.

`It’s much better,’ he said. `I’ve been exercising it a lot.’

`Well you can give me a hand at home, so. There’s enough for you to do, God knows.’

Being Friday, Gorey was heavily congested with traffic, and the conversation was for the moment dominated by Mrs Kavanagh’s nervous difficulty in negotiating it. As they crossed the main street to head out the Hollyfort Road, Mungo recalled how he had begun to drink in Gorey during the long, hot summers of his teens after a hard day on the farm. Then the forays to Courtown Harbour with his mates from Monaseed and Carnew to dance with Dublin girls who knew more than he did, such as the layout of the locally notorious courting ground.
Mrs Kavanagh was by now giving a running commentary on the families who lived along the route: births, deaths and marriages; jobs, redundancies and emigration; exams, harvests and financial standing; affairs, solitudes and diseases, whether alcoholic or cancerous. To Mrs Kavanagh it was a drama, the stuff of life. To her adult son it seemed like a chronicle of local history, of a time not far removed, perhaps, but removed nonetheless, the personae like dimming photographs in his memory.

As they approached Hollyfort his interest quickened. He had known some of the people there as he grew up, and as they turned uphill towards Monaseed, past the Protestant church and graveyard where some old friends of the family were buried, it seemed as if he was slowly being restored to the fabric of the area.

Mrs Kavanagh changed gear to climb the steep hill to Knockmore. Her commentary had hardly stopped for breath. To the left was the village of Monaseed, where Mungo had gone to school and Mass, and he interrupted his mother to remind the children of this. They sat forward in interest.

‘Monaseed,’ he said, relishing his fatherly role of explication. `The name comes from the Irish Moin na Saighead – Meadow of the Swords.’

`There’s one now for you, Aidan,’ Mrs Kavanagh said. `Meadow of the Swords.’

`Me too!’ Ethna protested.

`You too, Ethna,’ Mungo laughed. `There was a battle there in 1798.’

`A battle!’ Aidan exclaimed.

`A battle!’ Ethna copied.

`Yes, a battle. Well, a small one. Hollyfort – that comes from the Irish Rath an Chuilinn. And then Kilanerin, that’s another village farther back, that means Coill an Iarainn – The Wood of Iron.’

`What does Knockmore mean?’ Aidan asked.

`Do you know something, Aidan, I never thought of that. Do you know, Mother?’

`Well now, I don’t,’ she said, concentrating on getting the car up the hill.

`Let me see. Knock – that comes from cnoc, which means?’

`Hill,’ Aidan said.

`And more – that comes from mór, which means?’

`Big. So it means Big Hill,’ Aidan smiled.

`Big Hill,’ Ethna repeated.

In a few minutes they turned off the road and down a rough laneway to a farmhouse partially hidden by trees. An old dog struggled out to greet them. A sow, rooting in the grass near the edge of the yard, ignored them but a pet sheep, trotting in from a field, stopped dead, regarded the visitors with confidence, then came up to receive attention from the delighted children.

`You should bring them down more often,’ Mrs Kavanagh observed with satisfaction. `Young children need freedom, and pets, and all those things you took for granted when you were growing up.’

They prefer computer games nowadays, Mother.’

`Nonsense. Children will always love the same, simple things. Come on,’ she said. `Let’s get the kettle on. Ye must be starving.’

The farm, he saw, was vivid with life: the animals, always so unpredictable, the birdsong, the trees, the hens clucking in the yard. It was like being in a timewarp in the farmhouse, a strong two-storey building where the only change in a generation was the phone and colour television. All the old furniture remained, the same lino on the kitchen, the Aga cooker which had seldom been out, the heavy kettle seemingly always on the boil. And the oleograph of the Sacred Heart, the red electric lamp burning beneath it like a coronary pulse. He had to swallow to get a grip on himself. Every detail conspired to drag him back to childhood, to being a child, even.

`Your old clothes and boots are under the stairs. There’s enough for you to be doing,’ his mother called.

`Right,’ he called back. He needed to do something which would physically tax him, to do the things a child hadn’t the strength to do. As he changed, he heard the children laughing outside. They were making fun of the sheep.

After a tea of fresh scones and butter, and some home-made apple tart, he cleared a drain the pigs had trampled and used two flagging stones, which were exactly where he had remembered them to be, to shore it up. He cleaned out the pig house and spread fresh straw. Once, his mother crossed the yard with an air of satisfaction. The children were somewhere down the fields, with the dog and pet sheep. His arm hurt, but he didn’t care. The more he worked, the more he could avoid thinking or daydreaming or remembering. It was almost a pure state, a technique for being in the present and free of guilt or yearning.

They sat down to dinner at six thirty and Mrs Kavanagh switched on the radio news out of habit, but it was low and in the background, her real interest being in the children. Her absorption in them made her look as if she was in her prime again as she ruled her seven children, but happier, more relaxed, delighting in Aidan and Ethna’s rapturous account of their afternoon. Mungo smiled. It was as if they were living out the stories he had told them, which had been replaced in their imaginations by experience, an experience enriched by the stories. Once or twice Mrs Kavanagh glanced at Mungo as she laughed. Were they casual glances, he wondered, a shared indulgence of the innocence of children by two knowing adults? Somehow he doubted it.

After dinner the television was switched on to see a favourite programme, a long-running soap which bored Mungo. The children watched it with apparent interest, but then they loved television. When it was over she rummaged in a drawer for a pack of cards and called them over to the table. `You too,’ she commanded Mungo.

Oh God, he hated cards, and he suddenly longed to be with Tess, to ask her to finish her Berlin story. A bland TV pro-gramme remained on as the games of 25 or Snap progressed to the obvious delight of the grandmother and her grandchildren. The son and father survived, feigning an occasional laugh, consoling himself that Tess existed, and had given him a glimpse of a risky but interesting vitality. It was good to know he was capable of feeling alive.

The card games lasted until Aidan suppressed a yawn and Ethna wilted, the fresh air and excitement combining with the hour to tire them. Mrs Kavanagh put them to bed and Mungo settled to watch a show which had been running for as long as he could remember. It could be very interesting or very boring, within the same hour and a half.

Mrs Kavanagh returned with the air of someone who had done a job she was mistress of, rubbing her hands and suppressing a smile.

`Well well, those children have grown into the sky – who’s on `The Late Late’ ?’ she asked in one breath.

`An American writer.’

`Ah, we’ll make a cup of tea at the break,’ and she instantly tuned in to the American who had spent much of his early life addicted to drugs and petty crime. At the break Mungo offered to make the tea but she refused, and returned with tea, scones, apple tart and a tumbler of whiskey for Mungo, having missed an excellent ensemble of unaccompanied women singers.

‘Aidan has healed up well,’ she said at the next break.

`Yes.’
`You’d never have believed it after the fire.’

`No. No you wouldn’t.’

`They love it here, you know.’

`Yes, I know. And it’s good for them.’

`That’s right. It’s good for them. And I can’t carry on for much longer on my own.’

`Mother, what are you trying to say?’ He remembered now that they’d had this conversation before.

`Well now, it’s obvious isn’t it? You’ve no job in Dublin, you’re living hand to mouth there with two young children roaming the streets, who love being with their granny, and I’m not able for the farm any more. I was never able for it on my own, you know that well, and yourself and the children could have a wonderful time here, and we could all be happy.’ She had worked herself into a state and was almost in tears.

‘Connie doesn’t like the country,’ he said, though he was thinking of Tess.

`I could never see what you saw in her. You were never suited, you know, and I’ve a fair idea you know that now.’

`What makes you think that?’

`Ah now, I know. I’m not a fool. I know you think I am, but I’m not.’

`Are you saying … ? ‘The Late Late Show’ resumed, and they left the question hanging. I’m going to die, he thought, knowing I’ve lived an awful life, and he drank half the whiskey back. His heart pounded from the shock of the alcohol, but he didn’t care.

`Will you have a drink?’ he asked after a while.

`No no,’ she said, keeping her eyes on the screen. `But you help yourself.’

He didn’t move, except to sip the whiskey, which he was now enjoying. The one thing I really went after in my life, he thought, was marriage to Connie. And I was right. She was the only happiness I’ve ever had, but now it’s all gone wrong, it’s over, and I’ve probably half my life to live. He clutched his glass tighter, and this time drank back a mouthful. There was another commercial break, and Mrs Kavanagh prepared herself for another speech.

`Well, as you well know, there were seven children reared in this house, though the Lord knows, I sometimes ask myself what I reared ye for.’

`For emigration, of course,’ Mungo laughed.

`Oh you’re very funny.’

`Well it’s true. That’s what happened. And,’ he added cruelly, `I’m thinking of going myself.’ She paled for a moment, but then, deciding he was baiting her, recovered.

`There were seven children reared in this house, and there’s room to spare. I could have a little flat and Connie could have the run of the rest of the house.’ There, it was said, the die was cast. Then, to push home her point, `I’m leaving the place to you anyway, so what’s the point in wasting away above in Dublin when you could be leading a healthy life down here?’

`I thought the place was Tom’s – he’s the eldest, isn’t he?’

`He’s in Australia.’

`Have you heard from him?’

`Oh he never writes. Too much trouble. Sheila is the only one who writes. She’s coming home with the children in the summer – she hopes.’

`Ah. Good.’

`It’s funny how no one comes in the winter, when you need them most.’

`I do,’ he said, aggrieved that he didn’t count, as usual.

The programme returned with an Irish singer in a cowboy outfit, singing a sentimental song about a love far away.

`Wasn’t that lovely,’ Mrs Kavanagh said.

`I’ve heard worse,’ Mango said truthfully.

The next day proved as sunny and fresh, and they were out early feeding the pigs and hens, checking the sheep and the small herd of bullocks. Mango was anxious to clear any work that his mother had been unable to do, but as a neighbour helped her out once a week there wasn’t that much left over at this time of year. She hadn’t kept cows since her husband had died, and the milk in her fridge was bought at the local shop. So were the vegetables, even the potatoes. That seemed to be common nowadays. At least Mrs Kavanagh still kept hens.

The sheep were all present and correct; the bullocks were content. He continued into a broad empty field leading down to the valley. On the far hill he could make out the spire of the Hillwell church; beyond that, the Wicklow mountains. Nearer, to his right were Annagh Hill and Croghan. Cruachan: stack or small mountain. Its full name: Croghan Kinsella. Just at this moment, as the clouds scudded across the sun, he stopped. If he stayed quite still and didn’t think, perhaps he could hold onto it for a moment, this easiness where he and his surroundings were in harmony. It passed. He could still appreciate it, but that elusive relationship was gone.

After such an experience it seemed foolish not to live here, but it only required a brief reflection to remember its bleakness in winter, and the isolation of the farm. His mother would continue to rule, of course. She was too set in her ways to change. He felt guilty because it was in his hands to transform her loneliness into a sense of continuity and fulfilment, but he knew the price was the destruction of what little autonomy he had. His siblings had removed themselves from such guilt, and could justify their long absences by distance and the responsibilities to families supported by good incomes. Except, perhaps, Tom. Sheila and Jimmy were married in England, with families. Ned, Lizzie and Matt were married in the States, with families. But Tom had been married twice, and divorced twice. Tom could never come home. He had a son by his first marriage, and two daughters by his second, but they were grown up now. Tom was the outcast, the one who was never mentioned if possible, the one who had let the family down, who had thrown away his inheritance and all that he had been brought up to believe. His mother claimed that Tom had put his father in an early grave, although his marriage problems had surfaced after the accident. Having done that, he had not come home to the funeral. In fact he hadn’t been home since his first divorce.

Mungo looked across the wide field, the biggest on a farm of fifty-two Irish acres. If he did in fact inherit it, it would cause him endless trouble as his siblings looked for their inheritance. The best thing would be to sell it, if he outlived his mother – which was not a foregone conclusion – and divide what was left after debts. And if for a moment he could fantasize that there would be no debts, no inheritance claims – what could he do? He would live in Dublin during the week, bring his family here at the weekends, or perhaps in winter come on his own, and little by little cover the farm with trees: oak, mostly, ash, beech, copper beech, birch, silver birch, and near the house, if it would grow here, a strawberry tree. He laughed out loud. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? The colours in autumn would be fabulous. That would be his dream.

That evening, the children watched cartoons as Mrs Kavanagh made dinner, and Mungo retired to his room. He had shared it with two brothers, and now it was crammed with old drawers, their polish long faded. He lay down, staring at the ceiling, drifting through his thoughts of the afternoon. The Angelus struck on the television below, and his children called their grandmother. He closed his eyes, then rolled off the bed to go downstairs. At the door he hesitated before going over to the first drawer.

It was full of loose photos, pamphlets, cuttings from the local paper which had lost their relevance many years before, and a collection of almanacs. The drawer beneath was stuck, and it took him a while to open, but he was patient. If he had one thing in abundance it was time, and he was rewarded. There were several old photo albums, mostly in black and white, and some of the earlier photos were tiny, their subjects, mostly gone to their rewards, barely recognizable. He was in some of them, mostly among the coloured ones, and there were some of his father, usually with his mother. Mungo looked very closely at one he didn’t remember, a photo obviously taken in the mid-forties, possibly before they were married. They would have been much younger than Mungo was now. It was strange to think of them like that.

And then, in another album which seemed even older, he found a photo he had never seen before. It was of a soldier, dressed in khaki. Puzzled, Mungo looked at it closely. It was hard to say, but when he compared it with the forties photo of his parents it was obvious that the soldier was his father. Perhaps it was one of his father’s brothers, who had also been in England during the war, but as Mungo stared at the photo he knew in his heart who it was, and that he had uncovered this secret after a silence of almost fifty years.

`Mother,’ he asked quietly as she laid the table for dinner, `Was Father in the British Army?’

‘Shh!’ Her eyes darted in fear in case the children had heard. She was very pale, and clutched a dinner plate on the table, unable to look at Mungo. Then she took a deep breath, and continued as if nothing had happened. The veil had been drawn over again.

He drank more whiskey and woke on Sunday with a hangover. After Mass, through which he dozed, Mrs Kavanagh brought them though south Wicklow, stopping off in a hotel in Avoca for lunch, which emphasized yet again Mungo’s lack of money. On the way back they stopped at Hillwell church, where Mrs Kavanagh lit candles. Mungo did not have to guess the fervent wish which one of them represented.

`Make a wish to God,’ she whispered to the children. `I’ve lit a candle each for you.’

They closed their eyes and wished, the candlelight reflected on their faces. There was a tenpenny piece in Mungo’s trouser pocket, and he dropped the coin into the donation box and lit a candle. He had one burning desire, and that was to see Tess.

`What did you wish, Daddy?’ Ethna whispered.

`I wished that we’ll all be happy.’

`That’s what I wished too.’

`I asked God that we’ll all see each other again soon,’ Mrs Kavanagh said, looking directly at Mungo.

`What did you wish, Aidan?’ This time Ethna’s voice resounded around the church.

`Like Granny,’ he said, but without conviction, Mungo thought. Like his father, he had a secret wish.

`Good boy,’ Mrs Kavanagh said. `We will see each other again soon, so.’

Outside, the children played an impromptu game of tig in the neat grounds.

`You’ll see that Aidan’s wish is met, won’t you?’ Mrs Kavanagh said quietly.

`As soon as we can afford it,’ Mungo said.

`I have a few shillings set aside, I can send you the money.’

`No. No there’s no need for that.’

`Humph. You and your empty pride. The very same as your father.’ They sat into the car, but before she started, an idea occurred to her. `Children, would you like to come down to Granny for your holidays?’

‘Yeeaass!’ they shouted in unison.

`They’re big enough now, you know,’ she said, looking over to Mungo.

`You mean on their own?’

`Please, Dad,’ Aidan said. `It’d be mega.’

`Please, Daddy,’ Ethna imitated. `It’d be mega.’

Mrs Kavanagh beamed.

`I’ll have to ask your mother,’ he said to the children.

The evening train was a beautiful sight. He was glad they had come. It had been necessary and the children had loved it and adored their grandmother. But Mungo had had to confront a problem which in Dublin he could put to the back of his mind. It was a cruel fate that had left his mother to cope alone, but there was nothing he could do about it. It was as if she had some lingering, incurable disease.

Crestfallen at their loss of freedom, the children were quiet, and succumbing to the soporific after-effects of the mountain air, they were asleep by Rathdrum. They had been lucky to get a seat. Most of the passengers were young people, returning, Mungo supposed, to college or work after a weekend at the family hearth. This was how it began, for those who were lucky enough not to have to go directly, still wet behind the ears, to another country, usually England. How many of them, he wondered, had their future planned; how many took it for granted they would go? Mungo had been lucky, or relatively so, coming to maturity at a time when such pressures were waning, and if he hadn’t made the most of the freedom he hadn’t realized was his, then the fault lay with himself. Mungo looked around him, wondering what it was like for them now, embarking on their lives. His head dropped. The weekend was catching up with him, too. His children slept peacefully. In a few years they would be on a train, travelling though a strange countryside, leaving himself and Connie behind. As he dozed, he wished them safe journey.

`Daddy, you’re snoring!’ Ethna was pulling his hair, which both Ethna and Aidan found amusing.

Even more amusing was his bloodshot eyes, looking at them with vague recognition. He took a deep breath and smiled at them. They were passing Sandymount Strand, and so within a few minutes of arrival. The tide was out, and two horses were being exercised by the waterline. Nearer the railway, a man was digging for bait, or maybe shellfish, leaving a haphazard trail of upturned sand.

The children, it seemed, had forgotten the country already, but as they walked up the platform at Connolly Station they were more good-humoured and tolerant of each other than they had been for some time. And then, at the exit they spotted their mother and ran to her. She was the last person Mungo had expected to see. The children were excited, trying to tell her everything at once, and she was laughing. When was the last time he had seen her laughing, except in a pub with her girlfriends? She looked up at Mungo and smiled, and, warily, he smiled back.

‘Ye had a good time, then?’ She left the children and came to Mungo, taking him by surprise by kissing him on the mouth.

`Aye,’ he said, seeing that Ethna, in particular, approved. `These two had a ball.’

Connie put the children to bed that evening. Mungo heard them laughing and joking with her. Outside it was dark and cool. He went to the window and stared, idly aware of the flickering yellow street lamp. He realized it was raining softly. Connie had been nice to him – obviously her break had done her a lot of good; but having wanted a return of their closeness for so long, he felt deadened by its imminence. It was as though there should be a neutral interval, a mending, almost day by day, back to the time when they were easy with one another. To begin again as if nothing had been amiss was to begin without trust, and so it was false, but he knew he wouldn’t say this, he knew he would go through the motions, and he wasn’t sure whether this was because he wanted whatever comfort he could snatch, or if he was too cowardly to face unpleasantness, or whether in fact he didn’t care.

Connie was standing behind him and he tensed slightly in case she should touch him.

`I’ll make a cup of tea,’ she said.

He stayed at the window as she busied herself making the tea, but he caught the aroma of fresh country bread as she sliced it, and when he heard the tea pour he finally gave in to the inevitable and sat at the table.

`You’re very quiet,’ she remarked. `Is something bothering you?’

`Yeah,’ he said, grateful for a plausible excuse. `My mother wants us to move in with her. She said she’s leaving the farm to me. She says she’ll take a flat in the house and leave the rest to us. It’s a big house, as you’ll remember.’

Connie was silent for a while, sipping her tea. Then she asked him what he thought of the idea.

`I don’t know. What do you think?’

`If your mother has a flat to herself and stays out of the way, maybe it’s a good idea. The children obviously love it, it’s your inheritance, and we’re not getting anywhere here, are we?’

He shouldn’t have mentioned the flat. He had walked himself into life imprisonment, and, yet again, he thought of Tess. Connie put her hand on his.

`Don’t look so worried. We’ll talk about it another time. There’s a lot to consider after all. All right?’ He nodded. `Come to bed,’ she whispered, and the implication of her tone was unmistakable.

In bed Connie did not notice that his caresses were automatic, and it seemed that no matter where or how he touched her her pleasure increased, and she began to caress him feverishly in turn. He prayed that he wasn’t about to make her pregnant, because despite himself he was fully erect. As he entered her she grunted and her face contorted, but a deep resentment welled up in Mungo as he thrust. He couldn’t name its source, but it drove him to push deeper and harder in ever-increasing brutality, beyond when Connie climaxed in uncontrollable sobs, until he shouted out his own climax and they fell into the darkness together.

The Fabulists :: Chapter 10

The weather remained broken and Mungo stayed indoors, haunted by the memory reflected in the rain as it trickled down the window. To have lived to find himself in that furnace of passion and abandon was a revelation of what life could after all hold. It would never happen quite like that again, if only because he now knew it existed. Perhaps it could happen in another way, shock him to the core, change him all over again; but he refused to hope for that; it was asking too much.

If it would happen with anyone it would be with Tess. Yet if he had known her ten or fifteen or even five years before, it would not have happened. They each had to go through their seemingly barren lives to reach the point where they could be like that. And, he consoled himself, even if he could have waited unattached and free it still would not have happened: they both had to go through marriage, children, the death of love.

How alive, he wondered, had their loves been, even in the beginning? He had perhaps not been very much alive himself. He was twenty-four when he met Connie, she a year younger. He had spotted her as she danced with a big countryman twice her age in the Irish Club in Parnell Square. It was quite possible that she had cast her eye on him first. In any event, it was soon clear that they fancied each other, and after two weeks, having overcome a token resistance, she convinced him he had seduced her. After a night of energetic tussle, there was no turning back. It was still like that: energetic, blind, craving for oblivion, and what came between was accidental and a means to an end. And then, long spells when they were strangers to each other. He had noticed it first after Aidan was born. The pattern had begun to establish itself then, he realized, and not after Aidan’s accident. Perhaps if things had not gone so smoothly in the beginning, it might have been different. They might have been able to gauge their real need of one another, got to know each other, or parted. It was his fault. He had drifted on the ebb tide. He had felt it was time for marriage, and Connie was there. No doubt her reasoning had been the same. He liked her body, he still did. It was the main reason he still had sex with her, however rarely; and now he liked the comfort of his home, the backdrop of security for his children. And when the children were gone, he would settle for his own comfort. Was that it?

He longed for a cigarette or a drink. All this reflection was too painful to take neat. And yet he welcomed it; what had been blurred for years was now as clear as a formula. He wondered if Connie had seen this a long time ago, but had just given in and retreated to her bed, television and the Sunday night drink with the girls. Maybe she kept going for the sake of the children. She was a good woman, and he felt a sympathy with her. He couldn’t be easy to live with, but something beyond being tied to him had died in her. Perhaps it was only the flush of youth which had given the impression that it had ever lived. He wished for things to be different, to roll back the years and build a bridge between them with what he was aware of now. But he knew it was too late, and it was impossible to change someone anyway. And yet … and yet … He was different with Tess, a different man to the one he had always known himself to be. The question was: did he want to take the leap into that way of being himself? Would Tess have him, once she became stronger, as he believed was happening, even if this was because of him? Could he give up being a father to his children, which had given his life any meaning it might have had until now? Perhaps on this point he could come to an arrangement, like Tess had with her son, but Connie was a proud woman in spite of everything and he felt sure she would use the children as a stick to punish him.

And yet, what did he know of Tess? Only what he knew through the tall tales she had told, and the tall tales he had told her. How strange.

The rain had cleared without him noticing, and now a band of blue sky lay between the rooftops and the lightened cloud. Connie came, laden with shopping, and proceeded to put it away. Somehow, she had avoided getting wet, though she had no umbrella.

`You realize the children get their holidays tomorrow,’ she said.

`Thanks for reminding me.’

`Have you spoken with your mother about them going down?’

`No, not yet.’ His heart sank. He would be expected to go too, along with Connie, to be a family, as a dry run before settling there.

`Tell her I’ll go down later in the month,’ Connie said, as if she had steeled herself.

`Alright.’

`I got a letter from Mammy this morning. Daddy isn’t well, so I thought maybe I’d go up for a few weeks.’ `What happened him?’

`Took a weak turn. I don’t suppose it’s serious but you never know.’

`No. I’ll ring Mother today, then.’

Connie went into the kitchen. So the die was cast and he was trapped. The possibility of an alternative life was falling away. Was he relieved? Yes, a part of him was, that lead in his bones and blood; but mostly he felt defeat, as if the events of his life had conspired against him for so long that he needed an anger and energy he could not find to throw them off. Yet, he found that it hurt him, and in that were the seeds of an anger that might one day liberate him. It was now very clammy and he needed to get out in the open.

`I’m going to take a walk as far as the GPO to ring, alright?’ he called.

`The GPO?’ Connie called back.

`Well, it looks like clearing. Anyway, I need some air.’

He walked by way of the cobblestones of Smithfield Market. Peace at last. Dressed in tee-shirt, jeans and runners, he exulted in his freedom in the hot sunshine that had broken through, so that for a time he found it easy to keep his predicament at bay. Halfway down, he saw that a broken mains near Queen Street had become a fountain, unnoticed, it seemed, by anyone except himself. He walked up to it, enchanted by the sparkling drops of water caught by the sun, as if each drop was a teeming world intensely alive for a moment before falling back into the gushing universe. Enjoying the cool air and the boyish novelty, he was tempted to walk through it; but no, he thought, let it be what it is. He walked away, but then he heard a Volkswagen van slowing, and he turned to see the driver and his woman companion grinning as they rolled up the windows and drove very slowly over the fountain. Now it was something else, but no matter, and Mungo grinned too. The van circled and this time a side of the van was simultaneously washed and cooled. They came a third time, laughing and conscious of Mungo observing them, and washed the other side of their van. They circled again, but this time they stopped, looking at Mungo and laughing. The driver nodded towards Mungo and then to the fountain, and Mungo looked from the couple to the fountain again, and on impulse he leaped to their suggestion and ran through the fountain, which almost knocked him out of his stride, and despite his run, drenched him. He turned to face the other two, grinning and breathless, and noticed that the young woman had stopped laughing, though her mouth was open, as if she was impressed or moved by what he had done. Then she decided to do the same and without hesitation got out of the van and flung herself through the fountain, stumbling as she passed through it but at the last moment staying upright. She turned in triumph to face her companion, and taken by surprise, it was a few moments before he took up her unspoken challenge and imitated her with a whoop. He jumped through it with such vigour that he ran on, and in those few seconds the woman turned and looked straight into Mungo’s eyes.

He saw at a glance that her breasts showed through her drenched shirt, and that she in her turn looked frankly at how his clothes clung to his body. But then the moment was gone and in the instant her companion turned, she turned to him. His lips twisted into a leer, and then he advanced towards her, and though her back was turned to Mungo he could see her shoulders rising and falling, and she spread her feet slightly, as if to brace herself- her jeans, Mungo noticed, clinging to her; and when her companion reached her, they kissed passionately.

Mungo turned away and hurried, walking as fast as he could, until he reached the fruit and vegetable markets where, although it was mid-afternoon, the fork lifts were still busy. Along Mary’s Lane, past the aroma of The Pastry Bakery, it suddenly came to him: there were obligations he had to fulfill; there was a space to be cleared, and then in turn, and then, he would be free. That’s what he wanted to say to Tess. That was her position too, with her son. They were both in the same boat, and he hurried along Capel Street to the quays, bursting to tell her.
Even as he pressed her bell, he knew she was gone to collect Arthur. His clothes were almost dry, though his runners still squelched, and he realized that he had attracted glances, but he didn’t care any more what people might think, and took off his runners and went barefoot, airing them as he walked.

In the GPO, the phone rang for a minute or so before his mother replied. He persisted because he knew she’d be about the yard somewhere, and also because the GPO was a long way to walk to without an answer. He felt neutral, somehow beyond what was inevitably unfolding.

`Well.’

`The children are off school now. We were thinking of going down at the weekend.’

`You could have told me.’

`Well …’

`And what about you?’

`I’ll put them on the train-‘

`What? and leave me-‘

`I’m rising you. I’ll be with them.’

`You never grew up, Mungo, you know that.’ He knew it well, she’d been telling him for twenty years.

`And what about Connie?’

‘Connie’s father’s not well. She’ll be down in a few weeks – we’re staying a few weeks, if that’s all right.’ There was a brief silence. Mungo knew that it was a moment of something more than satisfaction for her, which now that the die was cast he felt generous enough to concede.

`What do you mean – a few weeks? You’ll stay for the children’s holidays at least.’ It was both plea and command.

`We’ll see.’

`Tell Connie she’ll have the run of the house.’

It had cost her a lot to say that, but she was nothing if not a realist.

`Fine, I’ll tell her that.’

`Friday afternoon?’

`Friday evening. There’s a few things to be seen to.’

Like, he thought, his eyes closed – like seeing Tess for maybe the last time.

Somehow he got through the rest of the day, caught up in the children’s excitement and the practical details of organizing the holiday. It took him a long time to sleep. There was so much to do, according to Connie’s schedule, that he would have no chance to see Tess. He would have to write to her, and he only vaguely knew her address. In fact there was no getting around it: he knew where she lived, but he had no idea of her house number. He didn’t care about himself any more, only for Tess, who he had no choice but to abandon, when, he remembered with longing, her story was only half told. His too, but he would have to find a way for her to tell hers; he owed her that. And his story? It was stalled somewhere on the rail tracks between Zaragoza and Barcelona. Soon he would see the Mediterranean again and they would arrive in – what was the name of the station? Perhaps he could find it in the library in Gorey, but the name was only a detail, and he wouldn’t know what it was, never mind being able to tell it, without her in front of him, listening to every detail, making sure it was true. His lips opened to tenderly kiss her ghost.

`You look wrecked,’ Connie said at the breakfast table, after the children had bounced away. Already they were arguing in the yard.

`Didn’t sleep very well.’ He looked at her directly. `I’m not looking forward to this.’

`To Wexford? Well,’ she said rising to clear the dishes, `neither am L’ She paused for effect. `But your mother has made the effort and so should we.’

He smiled. `You’ve really got your sights on the farm, haven’t you?’

`Haven’t you?’ She hadn’t taken offence. They were very matter-of-fact.

`No. I don’t want it at all. If my mother died in the morning – and she’ll live for the next forty years, by the way – or if she signed it over to us, my family would have their hand out for their share, and who would blame them? And the value of land on paper is always more than it’s likely to produce in a lifetime.’

`We can sell this house, you know. We don’t lack capital.’

`Capital?’ He stared at her as she cleared the table, realizing that she was a business woman who would come to life if she got half a chance. Whereas he was a dreamer who would never do anything, his only value to her being as a means to an end, and an indulgent if wayward father to her children. He could see she was animated by her long-term scheme. No doubt she was seething with ideas. No doubt she could make the farm pay its way, and debts would be cleared, treated as a challenge. Of course he knew the basics, even if he had tried to forget.
She would use his knowledge until she was proficient herself. The children and their inheritance: that was the justification. He could only admire her.

`Here,’ she said. `Check this list and make sure I’ve thought of everything.’

`Wellingtons,’ he said, glancing through it.

`What?’

`Wellingtons. I’m okay, there’s boots down there for me, but the children need wellingtons.’

`Well now, aren’t you great?’ she said, seeing how pleased he was.

`There’s been a lot of rain of late. They’ll be up to their shins in muck.’ He was grinning now.

`How would I cope without you,’ she said, taking money from her purse and handing it to him. `Sure you’re great altogether.’

`It’s what marriage is all about.’

`Don’t start me.’ She scribbled a note. `Here, you can never remember what size they take. And don’t be all day. I need some help.’

With one bound he was free. The phrase came back to him as he closed the door behind him. From some comic he had read as a child, no doubt, like Dash it, old chap! and Achtung! and Schweinhund! and Himmel! and For he’s a jolly good fellow! and Tallyho! He could have used them all at various moments over the last twenty-four hours.

The fountain in Smithfield had been stemmed. He avoided the markets by opting for Chancery Street and cutting down by Ormond Square onto the quays. Small children were play-ing on the swings and slides in Ormond Square, their play-ground bordered by cherry trees whose blossoms had long since blown over the surrounding houses in the spring winds. The children’s voices filled the square. Mothers sat with babies in prams, chatting, sunning themselves.

For once, Mungo welcomed the heavy traffic on the quays. By the following day he would miss it, but for now his only prayer was that Tess would be in. It was still early, she might not even be up. He rang the bell. Forty-two. That was her number. Forty-two, forty-two. He rang again. Forty-two.

She opened the door in a tee-shirt and skirt, obviously just out of bed, but she smiled and gave him her cheek to kiss.

`You’re lucky,’ she said. `I wasn’t going to answer but I looked out the window and saw you.’

`Thanks,’ he said quietly.

`You look very subdued. Are you okay?’

`Let’s go up.’

She looked at him but said nothing and led him upstairs. He could see she was preparing herself for the worst, and he wondered what in fact he would tell her. For the first time he noticed hair on her legs, and once more, maybe for the last time, he drank in the curves of her body through her light clothing. She seemed so vulnerable, balanced between youth and the attrition of age, and he wanted to say something stupid like, `I’ll love you anyway, even if you lose your figure.’

`Tea?’

`Please.’ He closed the door behind him as she disappeared into the kitchen, grateful, he supposed, for the respite in which she could steel herself and save her dignity, if nothing else.

They drank in silence, each looking at the other, desire hemmed in by caution.

`You don’t want to see me any more, do you?’

The question hung in the air.

`I won’t be able to see you for a few weeks. That’s why I came yesterday, and this morning, to tell you. And even then, if you still want to see me, there will be intervals of weeks.’

That was it. He had said what he had to say, in more or less the way he wanted to say it. By some magic her presence lent him a fluency, he who in other company rarely spoke more than a few words at a time.

`May I ask why?’ There was no recrimination or drama, only a hint of loss. His estimation of her went up another notch; but now that he had to answer her inevitable question, he feared that he would descend in hers.

`I’ve let myself … be persuaded by two women, my mother and my wife, that as I’m not gainfully employed here, I should help out on the farm in Wexford, which I am led to expect will be passed on to me. My children love it there … and their grandmother adores them … and so I tell myself I’m doing it for them.’

`You don’t love it there.’

`No.’

Their eyes met and he reached out and lightly touched her cheek. She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek against his hand, and it seemed to him that she was taking the last deli-cate ounce of their time together, when she could have done otherwise without blame.

`The things we do for our children,’ she whispered. `Our one constant love.’

His hand moved across her face, and she dragged her lips against his fingers, then pushed back her head, exposing her neck to his kisses. He was powerless to hurry, even if he had wanted to, but he didn’t care about the clock. This was their time together, which lapsed under its own rules.

After they had made love, they lay together for some time. Then she sniffed.

`We stink. You better wash if you’re going back to your wife, not to mention your mother.’

He laughed, but it was a pained laugh.

`What time is it?’

She leaned across him to check the clock.

`Twenty past one. I’ll have to go soon. I’ve to collect Arthur from Brian’s parents. Shunt him over to my parents. They all want a piece of him. Then he’ll be with me for the summer.’

She grinned.

`Maybe we could go down to Wexford!’ He lifted himself onto his elbow, suddenly alert.

`Silly! I can’t afford a holiday in Wexford or anywhere else.’

`Oh. What a pity.’

`Come on, get up.’

`Yeah. Suppose we better.’

She didn’t move and he felt her watch him as he dressed and wondered if she took pleasure from it, or if she merely saw that he too had lost his youthful sleekness. It embarrassed him a little to be observed like this, but he wasn’t slow to do the same to her. Fair enough. He had his trousers on, and he pulled his shirt over his head. There was nothing further to see, or so he thought.

`I can’t say whether I’ll be here when you come back, Mungo.’ He turned. `There’s no knowing what might happen between now and then.’

`I know.’

She turned away to dress, and certain this was the last time he would see her like this, he stared at her, trying to burn the details of her body into his memory.

`You’ve given me back my appetite for sex,’ she said, still turned away. `I don’t think I’d be able to last without it now.’

He didn’t reply. How could she say a thing like that, when she was still hot from his body? She was still dressing, slowly, her back turned to him, tense and silent. He was shaking, unable to handle this. Then the anger came and he made to leave, not caring if he ever saw her again. Furious, he turned at the door to say what he thought of her – but her back was still turned to him. So be it. He left, leaving the doors open behind him, slamming the front door closed.

He bought the wellingtons in Henry Street without any hesitation and strode home, throwing them on the table.

`Oh you’re back!’ Connie called from upstairs, her voice laden with sarcasm.

`Look,’ he shouted up the stairs. `I’ve got the wellingtons and I’m going to fucking Wexford. Is there anything else I can do for you, like drowning myself or something like that?’

He fumed, waiting for the retort which didn’t come. Ethna came in from the street and he glared at her, but she was oblivious and danced up to him.

`Hallo Daddy,’ she sang, and he relented.

`Hello pet,’ he said, holding her. Content, she danced away again.

`There’s still some hot water for a shower if you want one,’ Connie called. He caught her conciliatory tone and assented, remembering, as that bitch had put it, that he stank. Connie was standing at the door of the children’s bedroom, a bundle of Ethna’s pants in her hand.

`What’s got into you?’ she asked quietly.

`I’m going to Wexford,’ he said with perfect truth, `but I don’t have to like it, do I?’ and he closed the bathroom door for a respite. As he washed his hair, the water ran cold.

On the train, the children had settled by Bray. Once again, he had made sure they looked up from their comics to see the curve of Killiney Bay as the train slowed on the single track beneath the overhanging rock at the edge of the cliff. Below, there were families dotted about the beach, a few swimmers by the shore, a few small boats easing their way through the tranquil water. Again, Aidan and Ethna were silent while the view lasted, then returned to their comics without comment. Mungo wondered if it affected them at all.

It affected him. It calmed him, and he saw that he had been foolish. If he was deserting her, which he was, then she had every right to feel like that, to say it, to wound him with it, even. He’d write to her from Gorey. That was all he could do now. That the loss was not inevitable, that it was his choice in the end, made it very painful.

`Did we bring paper and envelopes to write to Mammy?’ he asked Aidan.

`I have them in my bag.’

`Did we remember stamps?’

Aidan made a face.

`Never mind, we’ll stop off in Gorey and get some.’

Mungo, he thought, necessity is making you devious.

Thinking back over the day, he realized that his anger had surprised Connie. It was the first time he had shown anger since Aidan’s accident and it had stopped her in her tracks. She had even kissed him good-bye at the station, for Christ’s sake – to the amused approval of the children – and had deferred to him all afternoon. Could it be that she approved? He thought about that for a moment and dismissed it. She was humouring him, afraid he might upset the apple-cart.

They were now below Greystones, travelling at speed between the long stretch of narrow beach to the east, and the moorland and mountains to the west. The anger, the assertion had felt good, had given him back a feeling of his strength, of his right to say what he needed and what was detrimental to those needs. He would say it – he would make it plain, and if Connie really wanted that Godforsaken land, she would have to meet him halfway or lose everything. By Arklow, he was looking forward to the summer. Perhaps it would be a season of discovery.
In Gorey, he took the wheel.

`But I’m not insured,’ his mother protested.

`Well, we’ll have to get insured.’ And he drove to the post office.

‘Why are we stopping?’ she demanded.

`Because we need stamps to write to Mammy, don’t we children?’

`Yes,’ they chorused.

`But I have stamps at home!’

`Oh we can’t sponge off Granny! We have to get our own, don’t we?’ This time only Ethna agreed. Aidan was looking at his grandmother, who was looking at Mungo as if she sensed he was crazy.

`Can I come? I want to come!’ Ethna shouted.

`No no, stay there with Granny. I won’t be a minute.’

He bought a dozen stamps and a mail letter in the post office.

`Dear Tess, I acted like a small boy, as you will have noticed. Naturally you’ve a right to look somewhere else – why wouldn’t you. If you’re still around, I would be very glad to see you the next time I’m in Dublin. I want to hear the rest of your story and I’d like you to hear mine – we can’t finish until that happens can we? I miss you. Mungo.’

`There you are,’ he said, turning to the children as he sat into the car. `Three stamps for you, Ethna, and three for you, Aidan – that should be enough, shouldn’t it?’

Mrs Kavanagh fretted about the insurance and his bad driving until they reached home. Bowing to the inevitable, she arranged the insurance the following day.

They settled into a routine, and Mungo revelled in clearing the backlog of work. In the evenings he walked to neighbours’ houses to renew old acquaintances. Some of them called during the day. He ventured farther afield in the car, bringing his mother if she let herself be persuaded, but always taking the children so they would know the haunts of his own child-hood and youth. To his gratification, they loved this. At night he was so tired he fell asleep immediately, knowing he was leaving no space to think.

His mother checked everything he did, but it didn’t bother him. He knew she wasn’t going to change now. How Connie would take it was another matter. Yet as he watched her, unknown to her, checking on him, he saw her vitality was ebbing, and for a stomach-turning instant he imagined a shadow walking beside her; that her energy was flowing, little by little, into this shadow. It was the first time he realized she was mortal, yet she was still vigorous enough to drive herself to Mass every morning.

The postman came with letters for the children from Connie. In Aidan’s there was a note for Mungo. Her father was recovering well, and she would be down soon, would ring from Dublin. Love, Connie.

She came few days later, and to his surprise and admiration, she settled well. His mother too, seemed to have thought matters out, and their relationship worked from the beginning, despite the antagonism which had not always been disguised since Mungo had introduced them. Both women had been wary even before that, he remembered.

Now, it seemed, they were in league against him. He was amused, until he overheard them talking about him one morning, when his mother thought he had gone to check the sheep. They were washing and drying the dishes.

`You like it here, don’t you Connie?’

`Aye, it’s great, Granny. The children adore it.’

`Well, the city is no place to rear children.’

`No, it isn’t really …

‘You know I’ve left the place to Mungo in my will.’

`No … no, I didn’t know that …’

`Well I have. And if ye were to come, to live – not just a holiday – to live, then I’d sign it over, on the spot.’

`God … that’s very good of you.’

`Well Connie, I’m getting old. Maybe I am old. Anyhow, I can’t really manage any more, and it’s lovely around here. You’d have the run of the place, Connie, there’s no question about that. The house is big enough, God knows, and I could have a little flat to myself. So what do you think?’

`It sounds wonderful. It really does.’

`Well would you talk to that son of mine. Sometimes I think he’s away in the clouds. Anyhow, he doesn’t listen to his mother.’

‘Ach, he loves it here as much as the rest of us, Granny. He just likes to be coaxed into doing what he wants. Sure all men are the same.’

`You’ll see to it then?’

`Don’t worry. I’ll talk to him.’

`It’d be a great weight off my mind, I can tell you.’

Mungo left to count the sheep, bringing the dog who, without a word from him, rounded them up into a corner. He couldn’t remember if it was easier to count them like this, bunched together, or scattered, but he counted them three times and came to the same tally. The air was heavy and it hurt his eyes to look at the clouds, so laden with rain that they almost glowed. Halfway up the hill it came, and he took shelter under the big oak in the middle of the field. Within seconds the rain covered the hills and valleys in great squalls which fascinated him. The stream would flood; a good time for fishing.

So all men were the same? Somehow he didn’t think so. There was a time when he had thought all women were the same. Now he knew it wasn’t true. Tess was very different to Connie, and although they shared traits, Connie was different to his mother. He could say with a degree of certainty that he was different from the man he had been, and that neither Connie nor his mother had noticed, or if they had, they had put it down to male pride. Pride had nothing to do with it. For one thing, the man they thought he was did not follow strange women. He laughed out loud, relishing the freedom to do so, surrounded by rain and the large field.

The rain lasted several days, and while the children played in the outhouses and the hay barn, they were about the house a lot and there was tension between the women, which Ethna finally broke by cutting her hand. Aidan looked on guiltily while Connie tried to stem the blood and Ethna screamed, but Mungo said nothing. The cut required two stitches and Ethna settled into being the focus of attention, her mother and grandmother outdoing each other to spoil her. When the weather cleared, Mungo brought Aidan to see the stream at the bottom of the big grass field, telling him on the way that the big oak, alone on a mound in the centre, was a fairy tree. All such trees were fairy trees, he said. Aidan was cynical, laughing at his father. He was too old to believe in fairy tales. Mungo tried to tell him that this was a different matter; this was a part of the land he was standing on, and which, perhaps, he would one day own. But Aidan wasn’t fooled, leaving Mungo unaccountably sad. He cheered again when Aidan responded to stories about how Mungo and his brothers and sisters had played in and fished the clear stream; and they crossed the footstick, though the stream was only a few inches deep now that the flood had subsided, and explored the scrub where Mungo had set snares. This fascinated his son: the tracks, the burrows, the droppings, they were all still there, as Mungo remembered them.

Later, they rolled over the heavy bales of hay to air them. Mungo explained that when he was a boy, hay was cut with a mower in rows, its scent filling the air like perfume; then as it browned in the sun it was turned with either a hay fork or machine, before being gathered into cocks. Now most farmers seemed to favour silage; at least here, the hay was still made, in whatever way. There was much he had to tell the children. There was even more he had to remember and learn.

In Gorey, he bought a card which showed scenes from the town.

`Dear Tess, my train has broken down outside Barcelona, stuck there until I see you, which I hope will be soon. I miss you. Mungo.’

He had to go to Dublin soon. There was at least one excuse: to check the house. Maybe Connie would want to hand it over to an estate agent. He didn’t want that to happen. Despite the disasters and unhappiness, he loved that house. It was his base and springboard. His children were conceived there, and there had been happy times, which seemed now to outweigh the unhappy ones. He supposed that for Connie, Aidan’s accident was synonymous with it.

But the days passed, and neither broached the subject.

The following Saturday morning he was checking the sheep when he heard Aidan shouting, panic-stricken, and running towards him as fast as he could. Granny had fainted, he was shouting, Mammy said he was to come quick! Mungo ran up the hill, and Aidan turned and ran ahead.

His mother was dead. She had collapsed at the foot of the stairs and Connie had done all she knew to revive her, a doctor and a priest were on their way; but she was dead. Mungo stared at her, unable to believe it. The children were crying, afraid, knowing something beyond their ken had happened.

`Here, help me get her up to the bed.’ Connie said.

Then she remembered the children.

`Hush,’ she whispered, hugging them to her. `Hush, hush, it’s alright.’ They quietened. `Go on outside for a wee while.’ They obeyed, unsure, looking over their shoulders, and with difficulty the two adults carried the body upstairs and laid it on the bed. As Mungo looked on, Connie got some towels from the hotpress and placed them underneath.

`Close her mouth,’ she whispered. He pressed the pale chin upwards, and, almost as an afterthought, closed her eyes.

`Is she really dead?’

`Yes.’

He stood back to look at her in a way he had never looked at her in life, and now that she was gone, and although he could not articulate a single word, his head flooded with what he had always wanted to say, but could not. So few meaningful words had ever passed between them, and now it was too late.

`She looks very dignified, doesn’t she?’

`As she always did,’ Connie said, and to his astonishment, he saw that she was silently crying.

The priest came first, and anointed her. Then the doctor, who officially pronounced her dead. So it was real after all. Mungo was dazed, and yet somehow he got through the motions, being polite, getting what was necessary done, not least a list, beginning with the undertaker, of who to contact.

When the doctor had gone, they called the children in again. There were smudges around their eyes, and Connie told them that their granny had gone to heaven.

After a pause, Aidan said: `You mean she’s dead.’

We mean both,’ Connie said. `Whichever way you understand.’

`She’s dead,’ Aidan said to Ethna, who nodded, wide-eyed, in agreement.

There were so many things to do. Somehow, over the next few days, they were all seen to, and arrangements fell into place. He marvelled at how efficient Connie was, and wondered how he would have coped without her.

His siblings were like strangers, uncomfortable in their childhood home. Connie ran everything, falling into the role of woman of the house. Mungo saw at once that it was noticed and resented, though nothing was said.
It was a big funeral. The family stood in the pews at the front and waited while the congregation filed up to shake their hands, and murmur `I’m sorry for your trouble’ like a healing mantra. It gave Mungo strength. People knew that he was the son who had come home to help out his mother, and there was a silent assumption that he would take over the farm and be their neighbour; so they paused that fraction longer with him, pressed his hand tighter. That mute language of the mul-titude had singled him out, and after a short time there was no mistaking it. As he realized what was happening, Mungo became acutely embarrassed. The neighbours had taken for granted what his family did not know for certain, and neither did he, if it came to it.

After the burial the house was full of family, and neighbours, and faces that Mungo barely knew. Connie, with the help of neighbours and Mungo’s sisters and sisters-in-law, saw that everyone was fed. The men of the family looked after the drinks. Division of labour. There was a great deal of laughter. It was as if nothing had happened, apart from a gathering of old friends, swapping familiar phrases. Something a Yankee brother said stuck in his mind: he knew a guy who blew his nose in one hundred dollar bills.

Knowing what lay ahead, Mungo was nervous as the last neighbours left. He had been too busy to drink more than a cup of tea all day, but now he poured himself a large whiskey and drank half it back, neat. The family sat into a long table and devoured ham and chicken sandwiches and tea. It was Jim who broached the subject on everyone’s mind.

`It looks like you’re getting the place, Mungo.’ Everyone stopped talking and looked at Mungo.

`I don’t know, Jim. No one’ll know till we see the will.’

From the corner of his eye he saw Connie stare at him.

`And that won’t be read for a while. In the meantime, Mother has only been in her grave a few hours.’ He said this on an unexpected wave of grief, and everyone fell silent for a while, eyes lowered. Ethna came around the table, crying.

`I want my Granny,’ she implored Mungo, who held her close. Aidan, Mungo saw, was pale and quiet.

`Poor Mammy,’ Cathleen sobbed. There was silence again, until Mary spoke.

`You’re the one who lives here, Mungo, so it’s only right that you get the place. But we all have families too,’ she added. The implication was not lost on anyone.

`Any idea how much the place is worth?’ Jim asked.

`I haven’t a clue, Jim. But I’ll let ye all know as soon as I know myself.’

What had to be said was now said, and everyone relaxed, breaking into small groups of conversation.
They were staying in bed-and-breakfasts around the area and there was a prolonged series of good-byes the next day. Mungo sat into his evening meal with relief. Both of them had fallen into an exhausted sleep the night before, but now that they had the house to themselves Connie brought up her preoccupation.

`We will get the place, won’t we?’

`Ah … yeah.’

`We have to know soon,’ she said, her voice rising, `the children’ll be going back to school.’

`Relax, relax, who else would she leave it to? She schemed for years to get us down here. And we were here,’ he said, as another wave of grief surprised him. `She died at peace. What more could any of us ask?’

`You’re right,’ she said, assured.

`Listen, I should go to Dublin soon, to check on the house.’

`Oh yes.’ She paused. `You know, I’d almost forgotten the house. It seems like years since we were there.’

`Yeah. A lot has happened.’

`You should put it up for sale while you’re there.’

`For sale?’ His heart went cold.

`Ah, no.’

`Why not? We can’t eat bricks and mortar.’

`Not till after the will is read, anyway,’ he countered, kicking to touch. `I’m going to count the sheep – I didn’t get a chance this morning.’

He counted the sheep which were down by the river, then made his way back up the hill and sat under the oak. It was good there was some grit of uncertainty surrounding the will. He grinned, enjoying his malice. When you want something badly, you shouldn’t get it too easily – otherwise you get arrogant. Slowly, slowly. Then he was serious again, remembering his own uncertainties about what he wanted so badly. At least he was going to Dublin. If he could send her a note the following morning from Gorey, it would arrive the day after, and she would have two days’ notice. He’d ask to meet her in the evening, that way there was a possibility he could stay with her overnight … if she would have him. The evening light took on a warm, amber glow. Sunset, he thought idly, without turning.

He would be in debt for many years, something Connie didn’t seem to appreciate. If he had any sense he would sell the place and divide the proceeds amongst his family, and for a moment it was the solution; but the real solution, he knew, was to stick it out until Aidan and Ethna had grown, and then leave and strike out on his own to whatever destiny, even if, as he supposed, there would be no Tess any more.

Tess. Dear Tess. She would never fit in here like Connie did, so naturally. She was alien to all he was supposed to be, to all he had been brought up to be; but in a way that was marvellous, through her he had discovered that he was someone else, that something hitherto unknown to him which he couldn’t describe which resonated with something in her. The only word he could think of to describe it was abandon: the desire to be lost, cut off. And it came to him again, this time more clearly: he would fulfill his obligations, and then set out on that adventure in which he would lose himself, cut free from the language and baggage of the past. And then? Who could tell, and he felt a joy that he could not bear without jumping to his feet and laughing. He strode back up the hill, vaguely aware of the strangeness of the light and then on impulse he turned, his mouth falling open.

The oak was ablaze with light. If he blinked, he could imagine it in flames, as he had once seen, he knew not where, a lone tree on fire. Now he could see it without blinking. He dared not blink; until, all too soon, the sun had gone down.