Cold spring, p.18
Cold Spring, page 18
‘And my paper must have exclusive publication rights.’
‘You haven’t left me much choice.’
‘I’ll be going back to Dublin at the weekend and I’ll take you with me. In the meantime you can start writing, and if you’re sensible you won’t shave. If we’re stopped by the police, I’ll say you were thumbing a lift and I picked you up on the road. Is that clear?’
‘What about Sharon and Emily? I can’t leave them here.’
‘I’ll see what I can do. I’m sure something can be arranged.’
When Jim told his father about his conversation with Ambrose, he shook his head. ‘What if you get into trouble with the police?’ he asked.
‘Do you have a better idea?’
‘How can you be so sure he’s innocent?’
‘I’m not absolutely sure but I’m almost sure. I’m convinced he isn’t play-acting.’
For a moment neither of them said anything.
‘It will get him off your hands, and get him out of danger at the same time,’ Jim explained. ‘You’ll be able to get a good night’s sleep again.’
* * *
Towards evening Jim took Sharon a creel of turf and a jug of the morning’s milk. He found her in the kitchen, cleaning her brushes while studying the oil painting on her easel.
‘Can I have a peek?’ he asked.
‘Peek away.’ She turned the easel and the painting towards the window.
He studied the two crude-looking figures on the canvas, not quite knowing what to make of them. The figure on the left had a simian head and a burly, almost shapeless body. The figure next to it was tall and thin with a hard, rocklike face suggesting human features that had been eroded by millennia of rain and rough weather.
‘What do you think?’ she smiled.
He had to think swiftly because he had no idea what to say. He looked at the roughly made painting again and thought of the Cloigeann, a standing stone on the hill with a bull’s head.
‘One of the figures reminds me of the Cloigeann but it isn’t the Cloigeann. I don’t think I ever saw an ape standing next to it.’
‘It isn’t the Cloigeann, I agree, but the Cloigeann was at the back of my mind. I’m going to call it “The Stone Men”.’
‘And what is the ape doing next to the rock?’
‘Ah, you’ve got it all wrong. I’ll let you in on a secret. I started off painting Red Miller standing next to Muiris and then, as I painted, the whole thing took off in a contrary direction. Now it’s no longer Red Miller and Muiris, but I think it says something about a certain type of civilisation that hasn’t been said before.’
‘You fooled me. But then I’m no connoisseur.’
‘Neither am I. I’ve never met a connoisseur. Have you?’
‘I’ve met one or two but they didn’t impress me.’
‘You must introduce me some time. Now, since we’ve got milk, I’ll make you a cup of tea.’
He talked to Emily about the picture she was colouring while Sharon went about the kitchen, making slithering noises in her worn-out slippers.
‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ she asked as she poured the tea.
‘If the day is good, I’ll spend it on the bog cutting turf.’
‘You must sit for me some time if you can find the time. Already I can see the portrait in my mind’s eye.’
‘It wouldn’t work. I’m not Muiris, not the archetypal Man of Leaca.’
‘Let me see now?’ She came across and cupped his chin in her hand. Then she turned his head so that the dying sunlight fell on his left cheek and temple.
‘Yes, that would do. You’re younger than Muiris and like him you’re tall, and you have the same strong features. When you’re his age, I’ll paint another portrait of you and then you’ll see what I mean.’
‘Muiris is a peacock who has no need of peahens. He’s self-sufficient, self-righteous and self-opinionated.’
‘He’s my favourite neighbour. He’s the only man in Leaca with my sense of humour. He’s got his own way of talking. Everything he says can be taken in ten different ways.’
‘You may change your mind if you ever feel the sharp edge of his tongue,’ He got up and thanked her for the tea.
‘When are you going back to Dublin?’ she asked.
‘At the weekend. We’ll have finished the turf-cutting by then. While I’m here, I’ll bring you a creel of turf every day to keep you warm.’
‘Do you think Nick will ever come back?’ she asked as he went to the door.
‘If he has any sense, he will.’
‘I can’t stay here much longer on my own, I’m afraid.’
‘What will you do? Sell the place?’
‘Who would buy it? The foxes?’
‘Keep it, then. A bolthole in the country is a lovely thing to have.’
He went off down the road with the empty creel on his back, aware that she was watching him from the door. Talking to her had an unsettling effect on him. She was quite unlike any of the girls he’d met in Dublin.
20
Muiris took an empty ten-glass whiskey bottle from the dresser and filled it with poteen from an earthenware jar. The poteen was for Jim Barron, whose brand of humour he appreciated. Jim knew how to tell a story, and, what is more, he enjoyed a drop of the real McCoy. Not that he needed the real McCoy to tell a real story for he had a gift not given to everyone. Tom, Jim’s father, didn’t have it, and neither did his mother. Jim must have got it from listening to Paddy Canty as a boy. Muiris fancied himself as a storyteller. Now that Paddy had gone, he saw himself as the only true shanachie left in Leaca.
It was almost nine o’clock as he pulled on his donkey jacket and headed for Tom Barron’s, holding the bottle of poteen by the neck. He hadn’t seen much of Tom since they’d disagreed over Ambrose. Now, thankfully, all that was water under the bridge. Tom was a good neighbour, and for that reason he liked to be on good terms with him. He was a proud man was Tom, and like all proud men he couldn’t stand pride in anyone else. It was a question of the mountain and Mohammed, and Muiris was a big enough mountain to let bygones be bygones and make his way, however proudly, to Mohammed.
As he turned into Barron’s lane, he thought he spied a light where no light should be. At the bend he lost sight of it and thought no more about it. The night was moonless, but the sky was a colander of stars, which was as good as any half-moon, though not as good as a moon at the full. It was what his father used to call a ‘sky-moon night’. The stars were blinking though there was no hint of frost. It was a sign of dry weather to come, just what was needed for the turf-cutting. When Jim and Tom had finished their own turf-cutting, they might give a good neighbour a start, but he wouldn’t ask them, he’d allow them to do the decent thing of their own accord. That way they’d feel they’d done him a good turn out of the goodness of their hearts. Now that Ambrose had gone, help was not easy to come by. If Tom and Jim didn’t give him a hand, he’d have to pay a youth from the lower glen.
As he rounded the crook of the lane, he saw light in the old house, and between him and the clear night sky a thread of smoke rising from the chimney. It was all very strange. Was Tom making a run of poteen on the sly? Highly unlikely. He was a cautious man, not a man to risk being caught on the wrong side of the law. Keeping to the grass verge, he approached the window of the old house but a heavy curtain blocked his view. He went round the side and looked in through the back window at the two men who were seated on either side of the fireplace. He stayed looking for several minutes because he could not believe his eyes. Then he turned on his heel and went back down the lane still clutching his bottle of poteen.
* * *
‘It’s hard to believe,’ Cormac said.
‘You may well believe it,’ Muiris snorted. ‘I saw him sitting by the fire in the old house with my own two eyes. At first I didn’t recognise him for the beard.’
He reached into a niche in the fireplace wall and pulled out a fistful of dried dillisk, a purple seaweed, which he distributed among the four neighbours whom he’d invited at short notice. They all began chewing the dillisk as if it were betel or the choicest Virginia tobacco leaf. They were well used to chewing dillisk or dulse, which had a slightly salty flavour and provoked the desire for another glass of Muiris’s excellent poteen. Pouring generously, Muiris handed a brimming glass to each of them. To fulfil the requirements of long-established custom, he made a hot toddy for himself before returning to his armchair in the chimney corner.
‘He was sitting by the fire talking to Jim,’ he said. ‘There was a sráideog on the floor by the fire for Ambrose to sleep on. He had his back to me but still I recognised him. It was the slope of the shoulders and the small hands that gave him away.’
‘Could he be a friend of Jim’s down from Dublin for a day or two?’ Red Miller wondered.
‘Why should a friend of Jim’s be wearing Ambrose’s green jacket?’ Muiris demanded.
They all looked at one another as the true import of Muiris’s question sank in.
‘It doesn’t make sense,’ Marcus said. ‘Why should Tom give him quarters with the police looking for him in every port?’
‘Tom goes his own way, he was always deep,’ Muiris emphasised. ‘He knew about the Triangle. Maybe he’s trying to save him from his rightful fate.’
‘It’s a curious thing for a good neighbour to do,’ Neil Durkin pronounced.
‘It’s hard to credit,’ Red Miller said. ‘Tom going about his business as usual, while harbouring a wanted man. I was talking to him only this morning on the hill.’
‘We’ve been bamboozled once,’ Muiris said. ‘We can’t allow ourselves to be bamboozled again.’
‘What can we do?’ Neil Durkin wondered.
‘Last time we drew lots, and one of us got the Triangle. None of us knows who got it except the man who drew it. It’s up to him to carry out the sentence before anything else can go wrong. Now we all know the score and what is more we know where to find Ambrose. We’ll say no more about it tonight. The next time we meet we’ll be talking history.’
‘You mean we’ll be talking about Agent Cox?’ Cormac said.
‘Agent Cox is history, I agree. Ambrose must join him for the sake of history, too.’
‘How will we know the sentence has been carried out?’ Neil Durkin asked.
‘I’ll know,’ Muiris said. ‘I was fooled once. I’ll never be fooled again.’
Red Miller drained his glass and put it down. He was looking into the fire, as if trying to discern the outline of a face in the coals. Muiris reached into the niche in the chimney corner and produced more dillisk. He poured another drink, and they talked about turf-cutting for a while.
‘We’ll call it a night, men,’ Muiris said finally. ‘I won’t pour another because one of us must stay sober as any judge. There’s serious business to be done and tonight is the best time to do it.’
* * *
Jim felt pleased with himself. He had found a way of getting his father out of a hole and doing himself a favour at the same time. Ambrose had an interesting story to tell, and he had enough savvy to realise that he didn’t have the skill to find the right words for readers of a popular newspaper. His story would create a storm. The police would find themselves in the shit, and deservedly so. He would have to be patient, however. First of all Ambrose would have to clear his name and the real culprit must be found. For a moment he wondered if Ambrose was leading him up the garden path but he immediately put the disturbing thought from his mind. He would have to help the poor devil in every way he could. If necessary, he would arrange for him to have the use of a safe house in Dublin where he could live until the hue and cry died down.
He crossed the yard to the barn, where Ambrose was lying on the bed reading a book he’d lent him: Robin Flower’s translation of Tomás Ó Criomhthain’s autobiography describing life on the Great Blasket in the second half of the nineteenth century.
‘I’m enjoying The Islandman,’ Ambrose said. ‘It’s a book that everyone in Leaca should read. The life it describes isn’t very far removed from the life we know here.’
‘But we have no Tomás Ó Criomhthain now that Paddy Canty has gone.’
Ambrose closed the book. Awkwardly, he got up from the bed and sat on a chair by the fire.
‘Have you spoken to Sharon?’
‘Yes, I brought her a creel of turf and a jug of milk just now.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Like everyone else, she thinks you did a bunk to evade the law.’
‘I suppose she thinks I’m guilty.’
‘I suppose she does.’
‘Is she worried about me?’
‘Well, naturally.’
‘Is she very distressed?’
‘I think she’s got over the initial shock. She’s bearing up.’
‘What did she say?’ he asked again.
‘She said she couldn’t stay here on her own much longer. She’s thinking of moving to Dublin.’
‘And how is Emily?’
‘Playing with her doll. She’s a lovely little girl.’
‘Sharon must think I’ve deserted them. The sooner I can talk to her the better.’
‘You’ll have to be patient. You can’t talk to her here without giving the game away. You’ll have to wait till I manage to get all three of you to Dublin. I’ve already got a place for you in mind.’
‘The move can’t come too soon for me.’
‘Have you given any thought to our article? It must be hard-hitting. It must show up the police for the bumbling idiots they are.’
‘Article? I was thinking of writing a book.’
‘But a book will take ages to write! We must publish while the iron is hot, while your name is still hot news. The reading public has a very short memory.’
‘I don’t see it like that. I’ve suffered for this. I don’t intend frittering away the experience on one or two ephemeral articles.’
‘It’s a question of money,’ Jim reminded him. ‘You need to find a way of supporting yourself and your family. You can boil down your experience into two or three articles, and when they’ve been published and you’ve pocketed the money, you can turn to your book. That way you’ll get a breather to write literary prose. You’ll kill two birds with one stone.’
‘You could be talking sense there.’
‘We mustn’t pull our punches. Remember that a good article is an article that someone in authority would rather not see published. We must lay the blame squarely at the door of the police.’
‘That isn’t how I see it. I was planning to turn it into an analysis of the mores of an isolated rural community.’
‘Oh, that would never do.’
‘It would really set the cat among the pigeons, though.’
‘Wrong cat, wrong pigeons. It would be attacking the soul and culture of the Gaeltacht. You must remember that the Gaeltacht is seen by many as an ideal of Irish life. Any criticism of it wouldn’t look good, especially coming from an outsider.’
‘I can only write the truth as I see it,’ Ambrose said, rather pompously, he thought.
‘It’s horses for courses. You write it as you see it, then, and I’ll rewrite it for popular consumption. After that you’ll be free to rejig it as you like for your book. My editor always says that if you find the right angle, you’ve found your story. I think he’s right. The angle makes both the story and the moral of the story.’
‘And isn’t that why all journalism is shit! I think I’d better sleep on this,’ Ambrose said.
Jim got up to go. Ambrose was being awkward and he knew it. Jim couldn’t help wondering if his plan to get some good copy out of him would ever work. He didn’t have a choice, though. The first requirement was to find a way out of the cul-de-sac his father had woven for himself. The business of money was secondary. Still, he would jot down a structure for Ambrose’s articles in order to keep him on the straight and narrow.
‘I hope you don’t mind if I lock the door.’
‘I do mind. If you lock it, I’ll feel imprisoned. Surely, you can trust me. With the police on my tail, I have nothing to gain by running away.’
‘As you wish,’ Jim said, without adding a ‘good night.’
* * *
Ambrose felt tired and out of sorts. He had been wondering if Jim would ever leave. Jim was a typical journalist with an eye to nothing except the main chance. Still, he couldn’t afford to turn up his nose at his offer. He would write his story, giving just the bare bones. Then Jim could edit and publish it under his own byline. He would save the best things for his book, however. That way the essence of his experience would not be vulgarised by a man bent on titillating sensationalism for the masses.
He lay down on the bed and picked up the book again. After a few minutes he closed his eyes. Sharon was on his mind, and Jim had been less than frank. He knew more than he was letting on. There was only one thing for it. He would have to pay her a visit. Even if he told her the ghastly truth, she wouldn’t think any the less of him. Nothing could be worse than not knowing and wondering why and where he’d gone. Sharon was not a placid person. She craved movement and excitement. Already she’d be making plans for a life without him. That was why he must see her straightaway. It was almost eleven. He would wait until the neighbours were asleep, and make sure to be back in his bed before first light.
Again he went over his conversation with Jim, an intelligent man who lacked the instinct for objective analysis. This wasn’t a story about the incompetence of the police. It was a story that had its roots in a colonial past and the prejudices of an inbred community against an innocent stranger cast in the role of the ancient enemy. He had been misled by his neighbours’ fondness for company and conversation. And he’d had no idea of the malign influence that one man can have on a whole townland. He had seen Muiris as a consummate actor who would make a run of poteen in the deep mountains today and go out with a shepherd’s crook tomorrow, dressed up as Shackleton on his way to the Antarctic. His most arresting memory of him was the day he emerged from the still-house shrouded in smoke and clutching a bottle of the still-warm poteen. Then it had occurred to him that there was something about him that did not belong to the ordinary, everyday world his neighbours knew. Yet he was a man who had earned the respect and concurrence of those around him. For a moment he tried to imagine the kind of man he would be if he had been born in London of good parents who could afford to give him an education to match his keenly critical intelligence.
