History of the Rain (5 page)
He looks at his handiwork a moment. Being German there are no loose bits. He nods. Grandfather sees the eyes he is to remember all his life.
‘Tommy okay,’ he says.
Then the German soldier goes back to War.
He climbs up the side of the crater, into Round Two of Advance Retreat, and is shot clean through the centre of his forehead.
Next thing Grandfather knows he’s on a stretcher. He’s not in Paradise; there are no gold streets, no immortal wheat, not a single Cherub. Instead he’s in that bounce that I know too, when you’re tied into the stretcher and they carry you along and all you can see is the sky above moving backwards like you’re floating downriver and thinking how peculiar it is to be on your back moving through the world.
On good days it can be a bit Michelangelo, like you’ve drunk Heaven-Up I told Timmy and he liked that and said you’re a poet like your dad. On good days before a treatment when the sky is that blue and deep and you’re being borne along you feel you never saw it before, you feel it’s not a roof but a door and it’s actually quite open if you just take the time. That’s my revelation anyhow. No angels though. I’ve never gone the whole Sistine.
German-bandaged, Grandfather was carried back to British Lines. The red bloom soaked out from his chest like the Overdone Imagery Mrs Quinty says I use all the time.
I don’t give a Figroll, I should have said.
The thing is, it wasn’t what he was expecting. So the first phase is just this enormous surprise, this
O
that this is how the plot is twisting. Along he goes in the stretcher and he’s all the time expecting that he’s done, that if the pain would lessen he could just close his eyes and wake up in Thomas Traherneland. Because he does believe in a next life, his version is one of those blue-sky kinds with the light coming from behind huge white-puff clouds and saints kind of standing on them like very serene superheroes who’ve decided long wavy hair in the seventies was
the
look and a peach or apricot robe was quite comfortable in the weather up there. That kind of afterlife. Anyway, what with all the Latin and kneeling and candles Abraham’s pretty much got the passport. So there he is, blood crisping, eyelids kind of butterfly-fluttering,
Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison
on his lips, and here are the hands of the angels coming to lift him up.
Only they’re a little rough.
That’s because they belong not to an angel but to a young medic called Oliver Cissley. Oliver’s so ardent it’s given him glossy eyes and fierce neck acne but he has come to war to save lives.
Grandfather is delivered to Cissley right there on a plate and so bingo! Young Oliver gets to work just as Grandfather is in that place between Living and Dying, between Fish and Fisherman, my father says, and Oliver thinks this is what he came for and starts whipping the bullets out – one, two, and actually yes, there, three – and hauling Abraham back from the Hereafter.
Grandfather is a Near Thing.
Which is no fun. Believe me.
Because for Grandfather then there was only Falling Back Down to Earth, which is not great and just plain awful for a pole-vaulting salmon.
Sorry, I couldn’t resist.
That’s pure MacCarroll. We have mixed metaphors and outlandish similes for breakfast.
When you transplant a little English language into a Clare Bog this is what happens, Miss Quinty.
Ruth Ruth Ruth.
It’s just so fecund.
Ruth Swain!
Grandfather survives. The War moves away and he stays behind. They give him a little time to recover and see if he can Take up Arms again but he can’t even Take up Hands. The holes in his chest and the soul-thick air of the battlefields of Boulogne join forces to give him pneumonia and next thing he’s on his way back to England without Messrs. Morrow, Eacrett, Cheatley & Paul, all of whom are growing poppies in France, and he’s moved into a Home called Wheaton in Wolverhampton.
Years later my father tried to find him there, first by reading everything he could of World War One, then by leaving us one October and going by train, ferry and bus to Wolverhampton long after Abraham was dead and Wheaton Home had been turned into fifty-six apartments for people who didn’t see ghosts. I don’t think he found him, but when he came back Mam said he smelled of smoke.
Great-Grandmother Agnes is dead when Abraham returns. In those days you could die beautifully of Failure of the Heart, and that’s what she did, prayers said, palms together, close your eyes and bumps-a-daisy, another one for Greener Pastures, My Lord.
When the authorities ask Abraham of any living relatives he says he has none. A caustic shame is the natural by-product of the Impossible Standard.
So, at this stage in Our Narrative it doesn’t look great for my chances. (See Book 777,
The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy
,
Gentleman
, Laurence Sterne, Penguin Classics, London.)
(Has its advantages I suppose. For one thing, I won’t die at the end.)
Abraham has had his soul burned. That’s what I’ve decided. He’s had an Icarus moment, only English Protestant-style. Like all of England he has fallen the long distance from Rudyard Kipling to T. S. Eliot, which is a long way, and it left him with ashes on his soul. He was not worthy. He’s a Veteran at age twenty. So he sits in a fusty room with a narrow bed and a small window that gives a view of the fumy skies of Wolverhampton and starts smoking himself to death. He can’t believe he’s still alive. He’s God’s Oversight. He should have been the hasty three-and-a-half feet under the sunny sweet-scented fields of France where they put Morrow, Eacrett, Cheatley & Paul together so they could get on with enjoying the hurdy-gurdy of the afterlife. Instead, Abraham Swain has been caught halfway, between worlds, and this is where he’s to stay the rest of his days.
He’s failed the Philosophy of Impossible Standard and so he lets his father believe he’s dead. He lives one of those quiet little lives no one notices, wearing brown trousers, walking to the shop, ‘Daily Mail
today, sir?
’, chainsmoking through the horse-racing in the long dull afternoons.
And, Dear Reader, years pass.
But there’s always a Twist.
Remember Oliver? Well, here comes a fine old lady, handsome, stately, wonderfully neat, who knocks with no nonsense on the door of Abraham Swain and sweeps into his room very much like Mrs Rouncewell in
Bleak House
(page 84, Book 179, Penguin Classics, London) from whom I have borrowed some of her character.
Mrs Rouncewell has had two sons, of whom the younger ran wild, and went for a soldier, and never came back. Even to this hour, Mrs Rouncewell’s calm hands lose their composure when she speaks of him and, unfolding themselves from her stomacher, hover about her in an agitated manner, as she says, ‘What a likely lad, What a fine lad, What a gay, good-humoured, clever lad he was!’
Only her name here is not Mrs Rouncewell, but Mrs Cissley. Her Oliver the very one that saved Abraham and who wrote letters to his mother from the Front – What a likely lad, What a fine lad – the poor woman’s hands fluttering about at the near mention of his name. And in these letters – ‘Look, I have them here’ – and indeed she does and dips in and takes from her large black bag a pale wing of pages smelling of peppermints.
‘This one,’ she says. ‘This one tells how he saved you. Abraham Swan.’
‘Swain.’
She lays the letter before him. Freed of it, her hands catch each other in mid-air and pull themselves down on to her lap into a moment’s peace. Then, while Grandfather reads of himself as the miracle Swan, head turned and squinting one-eyed to inhale, Mrs Cissley says: ‘His brother died young. Oliver was Our Hope.’
Slowly rises the Swain brow.
Mrs Cissley’s hands rise up off her stomach, catch each other, wring, twist, interlock, fly free and fall once more to her lap, leaving in the air an old-soap scent of despair that won’t wash away. Her face cannot accommodate the population of emotions. Some of them are pushed down on to her neck where they get together to set off a poppy bloom in the shape of France.
‘You see, he’d want it to be you,’ she says, her hands clasped back-to-back in a reverse of praying, an exhale of peppermint into his smoke.
Grandfather’s face is white, as if he has an instant’s foreknowledge, as if the announcement that is coming has already reached him, like the little shudder in the phone before a text comes proper.
Mrs Cissley can hardly bear to say it, can hardly bear to let out the words because with them will go the last remnant of the long-dreamt future of her Oliver. The hands clasp a moment longer, holding to hope in Wolverhampton. ‘My husband,’ she says, and her tongue touches some bitterness on her lower lip. ‘My husband owned the Falkirk Iron Works.’ The bitterness is also inside her right cheek. The tongue presses there, the lips tighten and whiten. ‘Two million Mills grenade bombs. He made a fortune from the war.’
Mrs Cissley makes no movement but her eyes widen.
‘There are lands in Ireland,’ she says at last, ‘a house and lands. They were . . .’ She can’t say it. She just can’t. Then she shakes her head and the name falls out, ‘. . . for Oliver.’ And at that her handclasp is undone, the hands open, and the soul of her son flies away.
‘Rain today, Ruthie!’ Nan shouts up through my floor from her place by the hearth downstairs.
She knows I know. She knows I am up in the rain here and watching it weep down the skylight.
‘Rain today, Nan!’ I call back. She cannot come up to my room any more. If she came up she’d never get down. ‘When I go up the next time, I’m staying Up,’ she says, and we know what she means.
Days like today the whole house is in the river. The fields are wrapped in soft grey tissues of weather. You can’t see anything but you hear the water flowing and flowing as if the whole country is washing away out past us. I used think our house would float away out of the mouth of the County Clare. Maybe it still will.
But to keep it in place today I’ll write it here.
Come west out of Ennis. Take the road that rises past the old tuberculosis hospital that Nellie Hayes was in once for months and seventy years later said she remembered seeing blue butterflies there. Drive up the hill, get caught behind Noel O’Shea’s bus as it drags ahead and what Matthew Fitz calls the Scholars are waving back at you and making demented faces that recall their grandfathers.
Turn down left, pass the big Boom houses, seven-bathroom monuments to that time, take a sort of right and suddenly the road is narrow and the hedgerows high since the Council stopped cutting them, and you’re in a green tunnel, winding down and away all the time. That’s what you’ll feel,
away
, and your wipers will be going because the rain that is coming is not hard or driving but a kind you can’t quite see falling but is there all the same. It started raining here in the sixteenth century and hasn’t stopped. But we don’t notice, and people still say
Not a Bad Day
though the drizzle is beaded on the top of their hair or in the furrows of their brows. It’s a mist like the old no-reception on the black-and-white television Danny Carmody had and didn’t rightly tune in because he didn’t want to pay the licence, kept just a Going Blind Channel he watched up close in which the figures moved like black dots in white and the licence man said was still television so Danny took the TV out into the garden and said he didn’t have a TV in the house. Well that’s what we live in, that’s what you can see, mouse-grey air seeping, so already you’re thinking this is some other world, this place in the half-light that isn’t even half, not really, not even quarter.
You head along and you know the river is somewhere down here. You’ll feel you’re descending towards it, river in a green underworld. And the drizzle kind of sticks to the windows so the wipers don’t really take it and the fields seem lumpish and bunched together the way you imagine green dancers might if they fell under a spell and lay down. That’s how I think of it, the slopes and slants, the green dips and hills on either side of you.
But keep coming. Keep coming. Stay with the river fields. Where you see the estuary wide and thickly flowing you’ll have a sense of things being sucked out to sea, and you won’t be wrong. There’s a bend called The Yanks because three different sets of them crashed there looking sideways in river-awe. Mind yourself. But keep coming. You’re in the Parish now, about which nothing is more eloquent than the first sentence in Charles Dickens’s first book: ‘How much is conveyed in those two short words – “The Parish!” (
Sketches by Boz
, Book 2,448, Penguin Classics, London). This is Faha parish, not
fada
, meaning long, or
fado
, meaning long ago, though both are true, not
fat-ha
, an over-eaters stand-up place, or
fadda
, as in Our Fadda who Art in Boston, though far and father are in it too, Faha, which one half of the parish politely calls Fa-Ha, and the other, who don’t have time for syllables, make of it a kind of elongated bleat of the note that follows do-re-me,
Fa
.
