In the small, neat dining room that looked over the main street, a pine-log fire was burning in a black iron grate. A portrait of a smiling Saint Patrick hung over it, with strings of red tinsel around the frame. The waitress had shown her to a table for two in the bay window, near a display case full of ornamental dolls in flamenco costumes. A leering redheaded leprechaun at the back of the cabinet caught her eye. He was brandishing a crooked blackthorn shillelagh, and had a greeting embroidered on his emerald jacket. IF YOU’RE IRISH, COME INTO THE PARLOUR.
A smell of roasted meat and rosemary hung over the room. The leaden windows were blanched with steam. From the kitchen she could hear a tenor voice singing a love aria, but in an exaggeratedly maudlin bleat that sent it up.
O soave fanciulla!
Di mite circonfuso alba lunar!
She had the vague feeling she had been here in this hotel before, but couldn’t remember exactly when. Was it with the Westchester Women’s Cultural League, 1986? The Boston Irish Sons of the Shamrock, back in the summer of ’89? There had been so many little places just like this over the years since she’d been working with the group. So many chicken and mashed potato dinners, with people she hardly knew.
In te ravviso il sogno
Ch’io vorrei sempre sognari!
A thin young man peeked in through the dining-room door. She thought it was odd that he was wearing sunglasses. Unusual things they were too, with small round lenses and thick white frames. He had a long neck and a dirty leather jacket. He peered quickly around the room and then almost as abruptly went away. How peculiar, she thought.
Dammi il braccio, o mia piccina . . .
A few moments later the man appeared again, but this time he entered and came straight to her table.
‘I’m terrible sorry,’ he said, in a broad Dublin accent, ‘I wonder could I trouble you for a light there, Missus?’
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a book of matches. He touched her hand as he bent towards the flame and sucked. The flame went out and she handed him the matches. He struck one himself and lit his cigarette.
‘Thankin you,’ he grinned. As though he didn’t mean it.
He leaned back his head and blew a smoke ring. ‘Would you believe they ran outta matches behind the bar. Been gaspin for a smoke the last half-hour.’
‘Glad to help,’ she said.
He looked closely at the book of matches. ‘Hannigan’s Hotel,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that in Dublin?’
‘Yes. On the quays.’
He nodded. ‘Thought it was. Nice place?’
‘Yes, fine.’
‘Sound, sound. Where you from yourself anyways?’
‘New York,’ she replied, wishing he would leave her, or wishing Aitken would hurry up. What the hell was keeping him so long upstairs?
‘Ah,’ he sighed. ‘New York. Lovely. That’s a place I always wanted to go.’
‘It’s a great city. I hope you do.’
‘Well, you’re very welcome to Ireland,’ he said.
She had the idea he was waiting for an invitation to sit down. Was it possible that he was trying to hit on her?
‘Myself and my husband come here a lot. We’ve had many memorable trips to Ireland.’
He grinned. ‘I hope this one turns out as memorable.’
‘I hope so too.’
‘Trust me, love, I’ve a feelin it will. Be lucky now, all right?’
He winked, turned and went away.
She picked up the menu and began to read it. But although she had hardly eaten all day, she didn’t feel hungry. Her attention was drawn once again to the doorway. The bride and groom were standing by a fountain, arms around each other, posing for photographs.
She saw the young man sidle across the lobby towards the main door. A moment later he went past the window, jogging heavily along with his arms crossed in the rain and the collar of his leather jacket pulled up around his cheeks. The poor fellow looked soaked to the skin, as though every single muscle was trying to draw itself inwards. But still he was wearing his funny sunglasses. She watched him as he opened a saloon car and climbed quickly in, shaking his long wet hair, running his fingers through his fringe. He pulled out a mobile phone, tapped at it and spoke into it, took off his sunglasses and wiped them on his shirt. He seemed to be speaking intensely, angrily. Then all of a sudden he was shouting. She watched, intrigued. He was definitely yelling – now waving his free hand in the air, now stabbing at the dashboard with an extended finger. He tossed the phone over his shoulder on to the back seat. She saw him punch the steering wheel hard. A moment later he started the car, pulled out from the kerb so quickly that he caused a wizened old man on an antique-looking ladies’ bicycle to swerve and almost topple. The car sped off down the street, the furious old man shaking his fist after it.
When Aitken came in he looked tense and weary. But he appeared a little younger too; she thought he might perhaps have shaved. He had on the same jacket and pants as earlier, but he’d replaced his shirt and sweater with a loose black polo neck that gave him, she thought, the look of a playwright.
‘Very dapper,’ she said.
‘Oh, I know. God’s bloody gift.’
He sat down and methodically unfolded his napkin, gazing around the warm room as though he found something about it amusing. ‘Sorry I was a while,’ he said.
‘Did you take a shower?’
‘No, I was hearing confessions.’
A droll grin lit up his face. He snuffled with laughter, closed his eyes with mock piety and made a theatrical sign of the cross. She had a sudden urge to reach out and hold his hand.
‘I hope the bride’s mother doesn’t die in the night, Ellen. I’ll have to give her the last bloody rites.’
‘I’m sure you’d do it beautifully,’ she replied.
‘Make a change from reading people their rights, I suppose. Though maybe it’s not so different in the end.’
She wondered what exactly that was supposed to mean. A waiter with a pockmarked face emerged from the kitchen and took their order. She asked for grilled lamb chops and a glass of red wine. Aitken opted for steak and a Coca-Cola.
‘I think you make an impressive priest, Martin. All your parishioners would fall in love with you.’
‘Stop that now,’ he replied, blushing. ‘It’s a bit late for God and me at this stage.’
The waiter came back with their drinks and a plate of cold meats that he said the chef thought they might like to share. Aitken took a bread roll and broke it in half. He seemed a little distracted now, as he absent-mindedly pulled the soft white dough from the crust, crumbling it softly between his fingers. She found herself trying to picture him with a gun in his hand, standing over the body of the man he had killed. How could that have happened? It was unimaginable.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘we didn’t have the day we thought we’d have.’
‘Really,’ she agreed.
‘But the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.’
She laughed. ‘Let’s hope it isn’t the road to Hell.’
He chinked her glass. ‘Amen to that.’
He began to help them both to some meat, but it was a little greasy, so the slices stuck together and he had to separate them with the tip of his knife.
‘I don’t know if I like the look of that,’ she said.
‘You should try and eat. We don’t want you getting sick.’
She allowed him to put more slices on her plate. It was such a simple and small thing to do, but she couldn’t remember the last time anyone had done it.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘We’ll keep you right. That’s the stuff to send the troops, eh?’
When he’d finished serving them, he paused and bowed his head. He seemed to be looking at the cutlery.
‘Are you waiting for something, Martin?’
‘Well, y’know.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I just thought you might like to say grace.’
‘Oh.’ She coloured. ‘That’s all right.’
‘Don’t they say it at the convent?’
‘Well . . . Yes.’
He shrugged. ‘You must be used to it, so.’
‘Well . . . of course.’
‘Sure blaze away, then. On the count of three.’
He looked so hopeful and childishly expectant, as though some kind of performance was about to begin. She bowed her head and joined her hands, frowning as she realised with a panic-inducing start that she couldn’t remember the words of the grace before meals.
‘Bless us, oh Lord,’ he prompted.
‘Bless us, oh Lord . . .’
‘And these thy gifts . . .’
‘Bless us, oh Lord . . . for this food and this companionship. For the unexpected kindness we find in people. Amen.’
He nodded back at her, looking faintly discomfited.
‘Will that do?’ she asked.
‘Gameball, yeah. Very nice.’
They began to eat. For a while they said nothing.
His hand was only two inches from her own. She wondered what would happen if she allowed herself to touch it. Or simply brushed against his fingertips.
Instead she raised her glass and smiled. ‘Here’s to the elusive Inishowen.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’ He raised his glass. ‘Cheers, my dears.’ He took a sip, put down the glass; took another forkful of food. ‘He’s buried there, by the way. My son, I mean.’
‘Where?’
‘Inishowen.’
He continued eating, sawing at the ham, his eyes fixed hard on his plate. Although he had tried to say it casually, it was clear it was something he had wanted to say.
‘Martin . . . you didn’t tell me that.’
He shrugged. ‘You didn’t ask.’ He ate some more. ‘My ex-wife’s people are from up that way.’
‘My God . . . Are you absolutely sure you’re OK about going?’
‘Yeah. I thought it was about time I did.’
When the main course came, he ate hungrily. They finished the meal in complete silence. When the waiter asked if they wanted dessert or coffee, they both said no, they’d had enough.
‘Will we head on up to the room so, Ellen?’
‘I wouldn’t mind a whiskey. Unless you’re tired?’
‘No, we’ve all night to sleep. It’s only ten.’
The bar had closed early and a noisy crowd had spilled out into the lobby. Ellen slipped outside for a breath of fresh air.
Suddenly people clapped. A man strummed a guitar. The bridegroom stood up in the middle of the throng. Someone threw him a flower and he laughed. A hush fell then, and a chorus of shhhhhs, as he began to sing in a strong pure voice:
Twas early, early
All in the spring,
When the young birds did whistle and sweetly sing.
Changing their notes
From tree to tree,
And the song they sang was Old Ireland Free.
Aitken went to the counter, where the clerk was sleepily reading a newspaper.
‘Ah,’ said the clerk. ‘Was dinner all right, Father?’
‘It was heavenly,’ said Aitken. ‘But we’d like a nightcap now.’
‘The bar’s just after closing, Father. We’ve only an early licence here. I can get you a mineral or a glass of good Meath water.’
‘We’d prefer a triple whiskey, if that was possible.’
‘A triple whiskey,’ the clerk said, flatly.
‘Black Bush if you have it. Or Paddy.’
The clerk glanced guiltily over his shoulder before speaking. ‘Father, I can’t, really. We’ve had bother with the police all over the Christmas. If they pay us a visit I’d get into trouble.’
‘Oh, it’s not for me. Is that what you thought?’
The clerk laughed apprehensively. ‘God, of course not, Father. For one of the wedding party, was it?’
‘Well, no. It’s for Sister.’
His face was expressionless. ‘For Sister.’
‘Yes.’ Aitken leaned forward. ‘Breaking no confidences or anything like that, but Sister has . . . a little problem that way.’
‘I understand,’ whispered the clerk. ‘A lot of them do.’
Aitken whispered back. ‘Between you and me and the wall, the bitch would suck it out of a dishcloth if she was let.’
‘Go on.’
‘If that one doesn’t get her little drop going to bed, I couldn’t be responsible for what might happen. There’ve been incidents before, I may tell you candidly.’
‘Incidents.’
‘Yes, Peter. Embarrassing incidents.’
‘Of what nature, Father?’
‘Well, let me put it this way. Come here to me.’
The man leaned in so close that Aitken could smell his aftershave.
‘She flew over from America with Aer Lingus this morning, Peter. And they’d nothing stronger than beer on the plane.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, she won’t be flying back with them. If you get my drift. Not after the incident she caused over Canada.’
‘Holy God, Father.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘It’s a curse, isn’t it? Boys, oh boys.’
‘It is, Peter. A terrible curse.’
‘I suppose I could let you have a little something for upstairs. But not a word to anyone else, Father. Or your woman inside’ll brain me with a shovel.’
‘Good man, good man,’ hissed Aitken confidentially. ‘A triple please, and a nice cup of tea.’
And as I was climbing the scaffold high
My own dear father was standing nigh;
But my own dear father did me deny.
And the name he gave me
Was the Croppy Boy.