Venetia Kelly's Traveling Show (49 page)

Next, when the laughter had died, I told her about my parents’ circumstances. This is what she said—James Clare was listening, with that shrewd look on his eyebrows:

“My first response is embarrassment, for all the known reasons. My brother is a louse in the locks of politics. My second has to be an attempt to rationalize everything we know.”

I said, “I want my parents to get their farm back. To sleep in their own bed again.”

Miss Fay pursed her lips and, as though thinking aloud, said, “From
what I know, the law will not help you. And you have discovered that yourself. But law in this country is made in many ways, one of which is precedent.”

I had to have it explained—and she continued.

“So if this has happened before—then at least you have moral law on your side.”

I waited. She remained silent for what seemed like long minutes of my life, her face contorted as though in pain.

“I love my brother, I do, he’s my twin. How am I going to get over this?” She turned her head. “Can you help me, James?”

James said, “In every legend, at a very important moment, the hero receives help from somebody wise.”

Lips still pursing in anxiety, she asked, “If I write it down, then I’ll not have spoken it. Will that do, James?”

He nodded.

“And, James, tell us more of what happens in legends. That might help Ben too.”

James grinned, and cranked up that voice of his, a voice that went on to tell an entire generation of schoolchildren what he explained to me that night. To them he gave the examples; to me, the theory.

“It’s as old as the hills. Ordinary life. A hero, always a young man. He’s given a task, usually by his king or queen. To save a realm or right a wrong. Great forces will try to prevent him and he has to defeat them—by strength, but that can also mean strength of character. He has many setbacks, but as long as he keeps his heart pure, he wins and comes back in triumph.”

I needed to hear no more; the parallels felt uncomfortable; I asked only one question.

“His heart pure?”

“That means seeking nothing for himself,” said James.

Miss Fay retired to her writing desk, and James told me more—about the characters that heroes meet on such quests: the scheming queen; the evil king; the wizard; the princess; the gatekeeper.

“If this is a legend, what are you?”

He laughed. “You won’t know that until it’s all over. But—and this is what I’ve been trying to do with you—you’ll be able to see it all as a legend. And boys, oh, boys, that’s a powerful cure.”

Miss Fay reappeared and handed me an envelope.

“Now,” she said, “I’ve handed you a weapon. God forgive me.”

Time, the pressure of it, and the concern over my parents’ circumstances, forced my hand. I should have researched everything. Instead, I went at the problem headlong. It took one day to locate King Kelly, and another day to come face-to-face with him. Dublin, most cities, confused me; I knew fields and riverbank pathways and trout pools, not long rows of tall houses. Country cuteness—our term for cunning—travels well, however. I used my experience of talking always to everybody, and despite my confusion in the streets and lanes, I gathered the information I needed.

While in Dublin, King Kelly lived in an apartment at the top of his sister’s house, where Sarah and Venetia had stayed when they first came to Ireland. I went there.

Gretta, Aunt Kelly, looked askance at me (she did in the later years too, when I went back to question her). No information of any kind would she impart about her brother. Nor would she “send the fool farther”—that is, give me a clue as to how I might find him.

A doorman at the Mansion House had more specific news. Mr. Kelly would be attending a meeting tomorrow morning of his party’s elected members—in the same Mansion House on Dawson Street. The meeting, set for ten o’clock, would go on until noon.

Next morning, I stood there from nine o’clock. They began to arrive at about half past, King Kelly among the first. He saw me and had reached the door before I could get to him. I waited. On the way out, two hours and more later, he tried to walk away very quickly—until I said, “I’m going to follow you everywhere.”

Turning like a cornered rat, he fumbled in his vest pocket, handed me a card, and said, “Be at this address this evening at six.”

I mostly recall the staircase, winding and elegant, and the white stucco details—relics of empire. He had a large office, and when he opened the door he hustled me in.

“What do you want, boy?”

“I’m married to your granddaughter, Venetia.”

“Ah. A handout? Is that it?”

I didn’t even know what a handout was.

“My father’s farm. Put it in her name.”

The cigar. The brown suit. The veins on the face. The nose hair. He plucked at his crotch like a banjo player.

“You cute little bastard. That’s why you married her.”

“Why should my parents have to suffer like this?”

“You’re too young to understand stupidity, Ben. But you will, you will.”

“Did the Morans in Ballymore—did they understand it?” I didn’t yet show him Miss Fay’s piece of paper.

He walked to his desk, sat behind it, and pointed to a chair. I walked to the chair, thinking slow, deep thoughts.

“I was right to pick you. You were wrong not to come with me.”

“My parents.”

“What about them?”

“Give us back our land. And the house.”

“Ben, who told you about the Morans?”

“Isn’t it well known?”

He sighed and sat back, as thoughtful as a judge.

“I see where you’re headed. When are you going home again?”

“When I get an answer from you.”

“Oh?” He looked amazed.

“I’m going to follow you everywhere. People will start to ask questions.”

“God,” he said. “You mean it.”

“It’s our farm.”

“Go home to your parents. I’ll work something out.”

“The men there. With the guns.”

“Leave that to me too.” He glanced across at the clock on the mantel. “But I’ll have to hurry.”

I said, “I’ll take the morning train.”

Then came the moment that I described at the outset of this tale, what I called the “Beginning of the End.” As I’ve said, I saw my father standing at the door of the cottage, cheek by jowl with a man I’d never seen before. Now that I look back on the scene, I should have guessed from the demeanor of both men that my father had been instructed to look out for me, and that the other man was now hustling him with some force indoors.

If I’d known—would I have gone ahead to the cottage? And been grabbed by the throat? And seen my parents terrorized? And my father hammered on the ear with a gun-butt?

When they released me and pushed me into the center of the room, they should have had more men there. Four proved insufficient, especially if you immobilize two of them with heavy kicks to the knees, a trick that I saw dirty players use on the football field.

Bizarre, isn’t it? For a moment I hated using that piece of foul play. It paid off. I elbowed the third in the ribs, deflating him, and ran so heavily and fast past the fourth that he couldn’t catch me. And in such a small room he didn’t fire at me—that was my gamble, which paid off. They couldn’t now kill us all, they couldn’t now erase the family; my parents would be safe; I was an escaped witness.

If you ever have the misfortune to become involved in a piece of violent contact, know three things. First, it’s faster than you think. Second, it’s nastier than you’d ever anticipate. Third, no matter how well you acquit yourself it leaves you feeling lower than you’ve ever known. After the fight with my father I couldn’t smile for days; after this fracas, I felt smeared with slime.

And yet some kind of new feeling had gripped me. I can best describe it by saying that I behaved almost as though I were acting a part. At this far distant remove in time I’ve been able to see that I’d thrust myself into the story of my life; I was acting my own deeds. And believing them. Once again I was striding like a hero; once again I wore seven-league boots.

In those boots I took my next steps. I felt sure that my parents wouldn’t be harmed. And I also felt sure that King Kelly had no intention of restoring our property to us. I’d need greater force on my side.

My newspaper reading had informed me of an event about to take place in Ennis, the principal town of County Clare. That, I felt certain, and I don’t know why, would ensure my success—after which I would go to join Venetia and the company in Donegal, where I could read the newspapers, and watch for the fallout.

W
ith a new assurance I asked all the right questions in Ennis. I was directed to be at a certain place at a certain time. Be there early; get up to the front; be the first through the door. Have my question ready; ask it succinctly; ideally have my name and address on a piece of paper; don’t waste time.

Powerful men have a singularity of purpose about them. When they look, they look only at you. When they focus, they focus only on you. I saw and felt all of that when I went to Clare and met Mr. de Valera in the room where his constituents came for his help. Most elected members held a “clinic” or “surgery” once a week; he, given the demands on his time, could do so only once a month; acolytes and party managers did the rest.

The queue formed early—eight o’clock for his arrival at ten o’clock; I’d been there since six. He stepped from the car and walked up along the line of people, shaking hands, until he reached the doorway. How tall he was, and how forbidding—and yet a flash of good nature, because as he shook my hand he said, “If you’re the early bird, I must be the worm.”

He had no idea what I wanted—I presume he expected help with a
grant, planning permission, or, given my age, a scholarship to some college.

When I, his first supplicant of the day, was shown into the room, he was sitting at a table, a statue in remoteness and authority. Men hovered, and at his side a woman sat with a pad taking shorthand notes.

“Tell the Chief your name,” said a hovering man; I had no piece of paper.

Too nervous to accept the great handshake, I blurted, “Sir, there’s a private militia, wearing blue shirts, hundreds of them training with lots of guns on the farm that was swindled from my father.”

It wasn’t a face you could ever forget. I’ve used the word “hawk” before; after that encounter I prefer “eagle.” If Ireland ever had a Mount Rushmore, there would have been room for only one face. Not only that, I seemed to see it all at once—the dark and fierce eyes, the long nose, the longer jaw.

Did I feel comfortable? Oh, God, no! I felt that my body had been strung across wires. It got worse. He stood up—he was much taller than me—and put his hands on my shoulders.

“This, young man, had better be the truth.”

“It is. Sir, it definitely is. I’ve just come from there. To tell you.”

“Who’s in charge? Who brought them together?”

I’d rehearsed all of this. “Sir, the newly elected member for North Cork, Mr. Thomas Aquinas Kelly.”

De Valera beckoned to a hoverer and whispered something. I was escorted, neither kindly nor unkindly, from the room and taken in the official car down the street to the Old Ground Hotel. There, I was asked to wait in a small meeting room at the back. A minder hovered and a waitress brought me tea and toast.

At just after noon de Valera and his entourage arrived, including the woman with the shorthand pad. I rose, trembling again with anxiety. He gestured for me to sit, and took the chair beside me.

He questioned me like a policeman—not a flash of warmth, not a kind look. He asked the same questions over and over—the first time the men arrived, the first time I saw a gun there, the number of men. He asked me again and again, “Are you sure of Mr. Kelly’s identity? What you’re saying is very serious.”

At the end of it I saw why he had become a leader. He softened his attitude
and thanked me so warmly and with such respect that not only would I have followed him out of a burning house, I’d have gone into one for him. As he rose, I heard him say to one of the men, “Sooner than I thought.” Then he turned to me and said, “I don’t think there’s anything I can do about the farm. But you should keep up the pressure.”

I never met him again. Not face-to-face. I saw him many times, at rallies, functions, national events. The ferocity seemed never to dim; the aloofness never broke down. When people hated him, they couldn’t say it temperately. When people loved him, they idolized him.

I stood at neither extreme—fascination was my response. This was a man who had been alive since the beginning of the world—or so his sheer force suggested to me. In that encounter I believe that I matured by several years.