A Son of Aran (15 page)

‘I'm truly sorry for you, Seosamh,' Eileen said, with a look of deep concern on her face. ‘Isn't it ironic,' she added, ‘you champing at the bit to get away from Aran while there's no place on earth I'd rather live. I would gladly pass up all educational opportunities and city attractions if I could be sure of making a living here. My ambition would be to qualify as a teacher and come back to teach school here whenever a vacancy arises.'

‘It's fine for you to talk like that,' Seosamh sullenly replied. ‘You have a career in front of you—I'm qualified only to dig, sow, reap and mow, and be a farmer boy as the saying goes.'

‘Don't be despondent, Seosamh, there are worse situations in life. Near to the earth is near to God. Think of our ancestors who lived on this island all their lives; they hadn't much of the world's goods but they trusted in God and, by and large, they were content. Think of your own parents; they never went hungry; they worked together on the land; they reared you and your brothers and they were happy. Your poor mother is heartbroken at the prospects of your father's passing. Happiness is a state of mind; contentment with our lot is the greatest blessing we can obtain. For what it's worth, Seosamh, you have my sympathy and support.'

Seosamh was silent as they walked. While they ascended the rugged path to Fort Dun Aengus, she felt his hand slip quietly into hers. ‘Thanks, Eileen,' he whispered.

As they sat by the hearth fire on the night before Eileen was due to return to Galway, Peadar introduced the subject that had weighed heavily on his mind for many months. He couldn't attempt to broach the topic while she was at school in Carna. Now that her secondary education had ended and they were together again in Aran, the timing seemed appropriate.

‘Eileen,' he commenced, ‘I'll be lonely when you leave but I don't wish to stand in your way. You are a grown woman and you have your own life to live. There are a few things I should say to you however before you go to work in Galway. It was there your mother and I first met a few years before you were born. I worked for a time in MacDonacha's fertiliser factory; we met regularly every week right up to the time we married. I loved your mother very dearly; I believe she loved me too. We were happy together. Before we met, your mother socialised a lot and she had many friends and acquaintances most of whom I never got to know. One close associate was a Spanish captain whose ship arrived in Galway every month with cargo for MacDonacha's factory. I never met this man face to face, but I frequently saw him coming and going on board while the ship was in dock. He was tall, swarthy and good looking, well dressed, sported a tall hat, and carried a silver mounted walking stick. He continued to call on your mother after our marriage—purely he proclaims for reasons of mutual friendship. It appears he knew that Saureen had pregnancy problems and, without any reference to me, he took it on himself to arrange medical care for her. In its own way this was provident; your birth was premature; she had to receive urgent hospital treatment afterwards. I'm afraid I wasn't very conversant with female ailments at that stage of my life. I had no sister of my own, my mother was dead, and I had no close contact with other women. With regard to Carlos (that was the captain's name), inquiries made for me in his native place in Spain reveal that the man is eccentric; he owns a vast estate, lives alone in a stately mansion, and incurs the hatred of smallholders who want to acquire some of his lands in order to create better living conditions for themselves and their families. He has firmly resisted their pleas in this regard. Because of his friendship with your mother and his role in assisting her at the time of your birth, he recklessly plotted to take both of you away on his ship to live with him in Spain. Fortunately I got to know of the plan; I was able to upstage them and take you with me to Aran. In his rage at being thwarted he dismissed your mother. By virtue of his action and the resultant break up of our marriage, although until now he was unaware of it, he was indirectly responsible for her death. Last year he came to Aran in the hope of renewing their relationship. It was only then he learned the details of her tragic death. Torn with regret, he now says he wants to make amends for his misdeeds. He wishes to be forgiven and to initiate close ties of friendship with us. He proposes to distribute some of his wealth for our benefit. He wrote a letter to me in this regard—to date I have not responded. How I should react to this gentleman is a matter of mutual concern to you and me. I have related the background details to you briefly. When you have time to come to terms with these revelations, we'll talk more about the whole affair. I'm sure you'll have questions to ask; I'm sorry to drop all this on your lap tonight; I felt you should be aware of it before you encounter the gossip world of Galway, and all that goes with it, next week. I love you dearly, Eileen; you are all that I have; together we'll work this through whatever the outcome.'

‘Packed already? You're up very early,' Peadar remarked to Eileen on the following morning—'the ferry doesn't leave until three o'clock.'

‘I didn't sleep very well, Dad. I tossed and turned, thinking, firstly about a break that has arisen in my relationship with Seosamh, and secondly what you told me last night about my mother and that Spanish fellow. Coming at one and the same time, those events have left me shattered. Will you tell me, Dad, what kind of person was my mother? It would appear from what you said that she was very much a woman about town. Did she have an affair with this Spaniard? Is he by any chance my father? It is important that I should know the full story.'

‘Eileen, I have no desire to withhold from you any information that I am party to. When I first came to Galway, I had no knowledge of the sort of lives people lived there. Apart from accompanying your mother to the public house for an occasional drink or to a dance in Salthill, I didn't get to know many people and I didn't hear much gossip. My friends were the people I worked with in MacDonacha's, and some Claddagh fishermen that I got to know when we lived on the Long Walk, as it was then called. I led a very simple life—any comments or information that I acquired came to me through your mother. She had a wide circle of friends; she visited them frequently, especially at night. She had men friends but she was guarded about her relationship with them. She told me she had a commission from the customs authorities to monitor shipping coming into the bay, and to report any suspicious activities taking place with smaller craft—something to do with smuggling or evasion of customs duties. I assumed that some of the men who accompanied her home at night were part of that service.'

‘What about the Spaniard—did you know him?' asked Eileen.

‘He was captain of a ship that came into Galway regularly. I never met him personally but, when I worked on the docks unloading cargo for MacDonacha's, I often saw him leaving the ship, dressed to the knocker in a long coat and tall hat, a gold chain across his breast, and a silver mounted walking stick in his hand. I had no evidence that he was seeing your mother but, in his recent letter to me, he admits that they were lovers before we married. After that, he says, they had a platonic association. He was aware of her pregnancy and your birth. It was fortuitous that when I called unexpectedly to the house on Long Walk, I overheard him making arrangements to spirit yourself and your mother away to Spain. That was when I took you with me to Aran to get you out of their way. In his letter which I will show you, the Spaniard states emphatically that he is not your father. I have checked with the doctor who cared for your mother during pregnancy and who tended her after your birth. He confirmed that you arrived prematurely in the seventh month of pregnancy. This verdict places the time of your conception in the first month of our marriage which is a source of much consolation to me. You need have no doubts about your origin; you are my daughter and I love you dearly.'

‘And what will you say to the Spaniard in reply to this letter? Will you accept his offer of money by way of compensation for the terrible havoc he caused in your life? Does he think that money can make amends for the trauma and tribulation that he brought on our family?'

‘If I had only myself to think about, I would tell him what to do with his money. I have no need of his charity. I am happy to be back in Aran mingling with my people and going about the tasks that I grew up with—rearing a few cattle, saving hay to feed them over the winter, and fishing with Máirtín in the hooker. Having come to terms with your mother's death and the trauma I suffered because of it, I am content. I would like to be left alone to get on with the rest of my life. Peace of mind is worth more to me than wealth. However, you are part of the equation—your decision is central to the problem. Having regard to what I have told you, how do you feel about the situation?'

‘Seosamh, I am truly sorry for the predicament caused by your father's death,' Eileen tendered sympathy as she threw her arms around him. ‘I know you loved him dearly; you are going to miss him very much. I will do anything I can to soften the blow, and to assist your mother, your brother, and yourself, in the anguish of your bereavement. All you have to do is call on me. I will take time off from my job in the Warwick and stay over if you wish.'

‘Thanks, Eileen, for your concern; your offer is more welcome than you know. I have never before experienced the death of a loved one; I can appreciate how you must have felt when you lost your own mother.
Go ndéana Dia trócaire ortha araon
(May God have mercy on them both). Will you come around to our house tonight just to be with us; our conversation will break the monotonous dirge of grief that goes on there non-stop. I don't identify with their kind of
ologón
(wailing); real grief is within the heart, not displayed by outward show. I prefer to turn my mind to the time I had a father who took me by the hand, showed me the birds and the wild flowers, told me every thing he knew about them, taught me how to dig and sow, reap and mow, gather feamnach, slataí mara, and corrigeen moss. You know, Eileen, he had a wonderful appreciation of the things that matter most in life; he had in-built wisdom and a capacity to dismiss out of hand matters of little significance that others spend their time nattering about. Though he was modest in his demeanour, he was a titan when strength of mind or body was called for. He gave us children all he had; it didn't amount to much in worldly goods but he was a treasure house of wisdom and advice; I don't know how I'll manage without him if I have to stay in Aran and try to follow his footsteps in farming and fishing.'

‘Seosamh, I don't wish to compromise you in any way but, to take your mind off your own troubles for a while, I'd like to walk with you along the shore at low tide and relive the days when, footloose and free, we chased sea birds, gathered shells, and swam in the warm sea. At that stage we were just good friends but I always felt safe in your company. Let's start there again and see where it takes us. We are both mature enough to realise that, as we meet and mingle freely with other people in our respective situations, we are liable to be swept off course from time to time like boats in a storm. Let us not allow those attractions and distractions to undo the firm friendship we formed during our early days. Whatever happens, I hope we'll always remain close friends and be there for one another if our needs demand.'

As they walked together in the moonlight, Eileen broached the subject that troubled her since the discussion with her father.

‘Seosamh, can I ask your advice on a problem that has arisen for me recently? I would like to discuss it with you in confidence to help me to form my mind on what course of action I should take. I would appreciate if you keep to yourself what I am about to tell you: A Spanish sailor who was close to my late mother before she married, kept up a platonic friendship with her afterwards. From what I can gather, he had a crush on her and would probably have married her if circumstances had permitted. When I was born, he fantasised that I was his daughter. When I was seven he tried to inveigle my mother to join him abroad and take me with her. She must have had a shine for him too—she went along with his suggestion and decided to go away with him. Dad got to know about their plan; he was very disillusioned that his wife would desert him like that and try to deprive him of me. Quietly, he took me away to keep me safe from them. Disappointed at the outcome, the Spaniard rejected my mother; she followed us to Aran in the hope that my father would forgive her and take her back. She didn't find us but, in her frantic searching, she accidentally drowned. The man in question came to Aran last summer with the intention of seeking out my mother and renewing their relationship. It was only then he learned from an islander the story of her death. He now blames himself for being the cause of her marriage break up and subsequent death; he has written to my father to tender profound sympathy and he says he wants to make amends to dad and myself. He is evidently quite wealthy, he has no family of his own and he has offered to share his worldly goods with us. Neither of us has ever met him; my dad feels we should tell him to back off and leave us alone but, first of all, he wants to know my feelings on the matter. What do you think I should do, Seosamh?'

‘Joseph's father has died,' Miss Folan told Treasa, when she called once again to inquire about his return. ‘He has written to say that he won't be returning to Galway. It appears he must stay in Aran to look after the farm and fishing that his dad used to work at.'

‘Strange that he didn't write to tell me,' Treasa replied. ‘I reckon that, in his book, out of sight is out of mind,' she added sarcastically. ‘Not to worry—there are better fish about,' she muttered as she left the shop.

‘It looks like Treasa's hectic relationship with Joseph was not very profound,' Miss Folan remarked to her sister. ‘I suppose we should start to look for a replacement. I thought a lot of Joseph; it's too bad he couldn't have remained with us.'