An End and a Beginning (17 page)

“Are you all right?” he said. The hoe went to the ground, the monk turned and looked at me. I was flat on my back. “I slipped.”

“You look ill.”

“I'm not ill. I'm all right.”

“Sit up,” he said, and I sat up.

“A stone or something,” I said.

“You fainted,” the man in the habit said. “You had better come in.”

“
In?
” I was scared then. “In?”

“It's not far,” he said.

It wasn't. He walked me slowly across the fields, his hand through my arm. I did feel a bit queer. A bell rang in my ears.

“How do you feel now?”

“I'm all right,” I said.

“You must sit for a while. Someone will bring you coffee. I must return to work.”

“Thank you,” I said, but he was already gone. “I wasn't ill at all. I know I wasn't. Came out too early, should have taken something before I came out. I walked too far. Yes, that's what it was.”

I slumped on the bench in that room. I remember the room. It was bare, clean, terribly quiet. I could hear myself breathing.

“Drink this.” Somebody had come in, another monk, taller, older. I can see his hairy hand holding up the mug.

“Drink it. It'll do you good,” he said. And I drank it. I felt better after the coffee.

“Brother Jonathon said you'd fainted,” he said.

“Brother Jonathon?”

“Yes. We are Franciscans,” he said.

I had walked right into a monastery. It made me think of another place, one I'd run away from long ago. Something made me feel ashamed then.

“How do you feel now?”

“I feel all right, thank you.”

“You're a stranger in these parts?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Have you far to go. Where are you staying?”

“Rath Na.”

“The Downey property. But I thought it was shut down. There's only an old housekeeper there at present. Perhaps they're coming back again. Are you a relative?”

“No.”

“No,” I said, “No.” And then I thought to myself, “Tell him, tell him.”

“Just a visitor?”

“Just a visitor.”

“It's some twelve miles away from here,” he said.

“I like walking.”

“You don't look fit for it. Brother Jonathon thought so. He should know. He's our doctor here. But he loves to work in the open air, too.”

“Thank you, brother,” I said.

“How long are you staying?”

“Not long.”

“I should rest here for a while. Go when you wish.”

“Thank you.”

“You're English?” he said.

“I don't really know what I am,” I said. “I only got out the day before yesterday.” I smiled then. I'm sure he wondered why I did.

“Out?” he said.

“Tell him,” I said to myself. “Tell him. Why don't you tell him?” But my mouth was closed on that, I couldn't open it.

“Would you care for some more coffee, my son?” A grave-looking man he was, yet most kind. I envied him, too.

“Thank you. No,” I said. “I'll be off in a minute.”

“You want to go?”

“Yes, I want to go.”

“Have you been in Ireland very long?”

“Long enough,” I said, I just felt like that.

“You don't much like the country, I fear,” he said, and when he smiled, it was for the first time.

“Not much,” I said.

“I'll leave you now,” he said. “I too, have work to do. Go when you wish. God be with you.”

“Thank you, brother.”

I rose with him, he walked to the door. When I heard the click of the latch I sat down again. I was glad I did. I felt sick. I knew then that I
must
have fainted.

“How silent it is, how peaceful,” I thought to myself, and again I envied him, and I stared about me. You could almost feel the silence growing around you. I got up and went to the window. Such a little window. I looked out. It was strange then. The morning seemed to have changed faces. The distant hill was gone, the fields, there was only the sea. I saw the sea. I saw near this sea a bench, and on it one old man and one old woman. A shining morning, the sun and the sea met. And in a moment I was back in Cork, back in that house with the old lady that looked after my aunt. Her words began dropping into my ear.

“They were just sitting there,” she said. “Just the two of them looking out at the sea. A sunny morning it was, and the bells was ringing as the people came away from the Mass.”

“Christ! I heard the bullets then, the whizz of them, the bloody heat of them in my ear, and I turned round quickly as though they'd struck the wall behind me.”

And I said to myself, “Down like bullocks, and a fine blow struck for Ireland,” and I cursed the country I stood up in. The door had opened, a monk had come in. “Are you all right? Is something worrying you?”

I got up and ran past him, I ran down a stone passage, so long, I wondered where it began, ended. I walked up and down. When the man came up to me I stopped dead. I looked up at him.

“I thought perhaps you were looking for someone,” he said.

“No one,” I said, “no one,” brusque, and I was sorry then, and I ran after him, caught him by the arm.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “Forgive me. I'm sorry.” How I hated myself. How I hated myself then.

“Is something worrying you? Please say.”

“Nothing. Thank you, brother. Which is the way out?”

“The way you came in.
That
way,” he said, pointing. He walked by my side.

“Thank you very much for the coffee. I'm sorry to have bothered you.” And he smiled, but said nothing.

“Tell him,” I thought, “tell him.”

When I reached the door I knew it wasn't the end. I stopped. The words were galloping in my head again. “Tell him. Tell him. Get rid of it.” He walked me back to the same room. Sat down with me.

“Tell me about it if you want to,” he said.

I sat there. I was dumb. I was afraid to tell him. He waited, calm in that room, waited, and waited. I couldn't speak, couldn't look at him.

“Come with me,” he said.

I got up, I followed him out. And the next minute I was in another room, seated in a comfortable chair.
His
room. His cell. His peace.

“My visitors' chair,” he said.

I sat back, my eyes fixed on my hands as I gripped the arms of it. “Take your time,” he said.

“Yes, Brother,” and then I looked directly at him. “How quiet and peaceful this place is,” I said.

I had to. I felt overwhelmed by it. He said a curious thing then, and it went through me like a knife.

“There is no peace. There never was. It's beautiful to imagine that there is.” I was shocked, he saw my shock.

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-three, brother,” I said.

“What worries you?”

“Many things.”

He leaned forward then, I can even feel his hand on my arm. “Only if you wish to,” he said, and then sat back again.

“Yes, Father,” I said, forgetting.

“Brother Anselm,” he said.

“Brother Anselm.”

“What is it, what worries you?”

“My life.”

“Tell me about it.”

And I told him about my life. I leapt back to my days.

“Where do you live?”

“Gelton,” I said.

“Your family is there?” But I did not answer at once, I seemed not to have heard his question.

I was a child on a quay. It was dark, raining. The shadowed ship rose up and down against it, rattling the gangway. I could hear the screaming of pigs, the lowing of cattle, the steady tramp of feet across the gangway. I heard my mother crying
.

“
Come along,” my father said, “the ship won't wait for us.
”

“
I can't, Denny, I can't. You go,” my mother said
.

And I said at once to my father, “Why must we go on the boat?
”

“
To make more room for the English, perhaps,” he growled at me. I could not see his face, it was so dark. He pushed me upwards, and dragged my mother after him. The ship sailed
.

“Were you happy there?” he asked.

“We were very happy.”

“Are your parents living?”

“Dead.”

“I see,” he said, and so did I.

Gelton. Thousands of streets, thousands of rooms, thousands of feet. Crowds of people, on the roads, in the streets, day and night. Thousands of clocks, the shouting and running of men. The city exploded with people. And the ships came in, and more again, more ships, and more men. Running, searching, finding, hoping, fighting. Making room for others, and more to come, and squeezing up, and squeezing in
.

“Tell me about your parents,” he said. I told him.

“I was destined for the priesthood myself, but I failed it,” I said.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

I wasn't, remembering the dream, the cost. I was back in the beginning.

I heard my mother talking. “I never asked for
this.
I never wanted it,” she said
.

In a squat house, in the box-like room, in the first days of a roaring town
.

“
You were not asked what you wanted,” my father said. “Nor was I! It's the way it goes.
”

In the same room, in the tenth year, I was stood in a corner, and she held my hand. “I will die here,” she said. It made me cry
.

“And your father?” Brother Anselm said.

And in a moment there was my father before my very eyes. A good man, my father. He just worked. He asked no questions. He wanted no answers. The ship sailed, and the ship came home. I grew up, my brothers grew, my sister. He came home again, he went away, and the fire he watched never once went out. My brothers worked, my sister. It would be my turn soon
.

“
The sea,” my father said, “it will be the sea.” I did not know. My mother often stood by a window and looked out. She was quiet, she saw her own sea grow longer, the waves climb. I knew she hated where she stood. But the day broke, and the ship came, and there was my father home again. We were happy then. There was laughing, I always liked to hear the laughing his first night home. He went away, and I waved goodbye to him from the quay, the siren blew very hard as she turned out of the basin. It was in the early morning, and in the afternoon she had the dream. She told it me by the fire that winter day
.

“
It is our secret,” she said, and I said, “yes, Mother, our secret.” And she held it close, I did
.

“Without brothers, without a sister, you would have felt very lonely,” Brother Anselm said.

“Yes, Brother.”

“Tell me about your sister,” he said.

“She married when very young,” I said.

“How young?”

“Sixteen.”

“Very young,” he said.

“My mother wished it. She thought it best. She wanted her to be safe.”

“Safe?”

“Safe. Secure,” I said.

“Where is your sister now?” he asked. “At home?”

“I don't know where she is,” I said, and I didn't, wasn't thinking about her, wasn't thinking about anybody in that moment except my mother, a dream climbing in her head.

“
Listen, Peter,” she said, and I listened. It was at a window. It is always a window, looking out on something, she was always looking out, for something, looking back, hating where she lived, where she stood. I knew it then, felt it, her sadness climbed into my head, at that age, like a plant, grew there, I never got it out, this blow of being dragged by your roots. And it was always leaning, always holding my hand, dream linked to my childish pain, she knew, she knew all the time
, knew.

“
I've been thinking, Peter, and it is this. That you should go for a priest. Your father is working, so is Desmond and Anthony, and so is Maureen. They are not like you, they never were. It is in my mind to let you go.
”

“
Me, Mother? For a priest?
Me?”

“
Yes, dear, you.” The way she said it, like it was the first and the last thing, like it was everything
.

“
What for?
”

“
For the love of Christ. For the love of God
. For me.”

“
For you, Mother?” I said. The way she looked at me. Her hand reached right down
, right
down, I could feel it on my heart
.

“Me?”

“
You are not like the others,” she said
.

I was willed to Christ
.

“You've said very little about yourself,” Brother Anselm said.

“I was thinking about my sister, Brother,” I said, but I wasn't, I was only running away from a crazy dream.

“You say you don't know where she is? Has she gone away?”

“When I came out I tried to find her. It made me quite ill that I couldn't. I haven't seen her for fifteen years.”

“She may not have forgotten you, and she may know already.”

“Perhaps,” I said, “perhaps.”

And there was I, back again. Another day and another house. Another room, and that day was the worst, the crime against Kilkey
.

“She ran away from her husband, Brother Anselm,” I said, and again I didn't look at him, I was anchored, back in this room. I could even
smell
it. A boy again, listening again. The man and the girl. The bedroom, the tight box. I was sat on the bottom stair.

“
I hate you. By God I hate the living sight of you,” Maureen said, shouting, screaming it, turning from him, turning from his eyes, his age, his bald head, his leather-like skin, turning, shouting, ready to go, going, the whole room in an uproar, and outside the people listening, loving it, enjoying it
.

“
I love you, Maureen. You're so young. This man. Who is he? It's a sudden whim, it's nothing really, you'll get over it. Listen, dear. Don't you understand? Please stay.
”