January 1942
It was nearly midnight when the knock came. Art had just finished stapling a batch of his latest pamphlet: Trotskyism: Its Roots and Its Fruits, which he had self-published under the banner of Proletarian Publications. Priced at 3d, he needed to sell four hundred to recover his printing costs. After that he would give the remaining stock away free. Today it took him five hours to sell two copies, but at least it was two minds saved from the cancerous treachery that had liquidated the Communist Party of Ireland. Trotsky’s paid agents in Dublin must feel threatened by his defiance as they sensed the keen edge of truth homing in on their lies. This was why their knock did not surprise him now. The opportunist traitors would want to seize every copy so as to suppress the one small voice of dissent. Art took the one knife he possessed and, clenching it in his right fist, kept it concealed behind his back as a second knock came.
He flung the door open, making himself as big as possible. Only one figure stood there, an old man with a raincoat folded under his arm. Art glanced past to see if others lurked on the stairwell, but the man seemed alone. He was no policeman or cleric – Art had developed a second sense for these. But there was something familiar about his quiet gentility, recalling memories of childhood. It was hard to distinguish his features in the unlit hallway of this, the coldest tenement Art had ever lived in. The only light came from two candles stuck in old ale bottles in his room. The man removed his hat. He seemed breathless and slightly disorientated. Perhaps he was lost. Art stepped back to pick up a candle so that they would see each other clearly.
‘Hello, Art.’
‘Mr Barnes?’
Art could not remember when he last saw the retired manager of the Royal Bank in Donegal town. Mr Barnes whose son used to play duets with Eva on the piano. Art reserved a special contempt for bankers as lackeys of international capitalism, but found it hard to feel hostility towards this quiet figure.
‘You’d better come in.’
Mr Barnes took the single chair beside the small table where the pamphlets were stacked. Art sat on the bed, watching the old man examine his spartan room. The walls were bare except for a portrait of Stalin hung from the nail where a previous tenant had erected a Sacred Heart candleholder. Noise came from the pavement below, with men congregating around the now closed pubs of Wexford Street. Somebody had started singing The Foggy Dew. Mr Barnes produced a white handkerchief and scrupulously cleaned his hands, although Art knew they were not dirty.
‘I’m afraid I can’t offer you tea,’ Art said, ‘or anything else for that matter, unless you would like some dry bread. There is a tap on the ground floor if you would like me to fetch you some water.’
‘That’s not necessary,’ Mr Barnes replied. ‘The stairs just left me winded, I have been up and down so many of them. Two days I have been looking for you. I didn’t want to stop and have to start again tomorrow. There’s so little time, you see.’ His gaze was neither kind nor aggressive, but contained a hurt bemusement. ‘Prepare yourself, lad, the news I bring is bad.’
‘Brendan?’
Mr Barnes shook his head. ‘It’s your father. He died in London three nights ago. Your mother wanted him to deliver a letter in person to the Soviet Embassy, hoping they might be more co-operative now that they’re our allies. He was on his way back for the late train when an oil bomb fell close by. Having his warden’s armband with him, he helped people leaving the local cinemas to reach the nearest shelter. By that time there was no chance of a train back to Oxford. An old lady was refusing to leave her kitchen because she had two cats and animals aren’t allowed in bomb shelters. But your father persuaded them to let her bring one cat, then he went back out to help direct the fire crews. Afterwards people thought that he was asleep in a corner of the shelter. Only after the All Clear was given did anyone realise that he was dead, with the second cat curled up inside his coat.’ Mr Barnes paused. ‘Nobody knew how to contact you. I am executor of your father’s will. I know a man in the Dublin constabulary who was able to say that you are frequently seen around this area.’
‘So they’re still keeping files on me?’
The banker leaned forward. ‘Just for once in your selfish life forget about yourself. Your father is dead. Did you not hear what I said?’
‘My life has not been selfish. I have kept nothing for myself.’
‘Your father…’ Mr Barnes sounded exasperated.
‘Yes, I heard you.’ Art rose. ‘Do you think I am not grieving? All my life I’ve grieved in advance for this moment.’ Walking to the window Art looked down at the men below whose casual camaraderie could turn as easily to blows. These were the people for whom he had left his family, people who jeered him when he tried to sell his pamphlet in the pubs.
One of his earliest memories was of his nurse saying that one day he would be master of the house when Father died. He had been five years of age and previously never understood why people treated him differently from his big sisters. Nurse’s words had promised riches but also filled him with dread because he had never previously contemplated the fact that his beloved father could die. Her remark had set a clock ticking in his mind, a clock he had spent his life trying to hold back. Perhaps his hatred of inherited wealth sprang from the fact that what he most wanted was for Father not to die. Now that clock had finally struck. He turned to Mr Barnes.
‘You think me a bad son.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I loved him more than any of you realised.’
‘All I know is that you hurt him more than you may realise.’
Art saw that Mr Barnes was uneasy with this conversation. He was a practical man, here for practical reasons to do one final duty for a friend.
‘I also know, whether you wish it or not, that you are now head of the Goold Verschoyle family, with the responsibilities that entails. You have your Travel Identity Card, don’t you? I can advance funds for your trip to Oxford for the funeral. Your sister Eva has already travelled over. It will just be the pair of you and your mother. Afterwards I can explain the details of the estate to you. There is a considerable volume of papers…’
Mr Barnes sighed. ‘This is hardly the time. Come and see me in Donegal.’
‘It’s a valid question.’
‘You know the answer. The Manor House is yours for your lifetime only. After that it must be passed to your eldest son.’ Mr Barnes looked up. ‘You possess a son, I believe.’
Art looked down at the secondhand army boots that had seen him through the past six years. Did his son have boots for the Russian winter? Judging by reports, conditions in Russia were atrocious. Stalin’s genius had made the Germans walk into his trap, imagining that the Soviet people were fleeing as they retreated towards Moscow, leaving not one grain of flour or can of gasoline behind to aid the fascists through the winter. This retreat had caused riots among traitors in Moscow, imagining that Stalin had fled to safety. But Stalin had publicly stood on the roof of the Lenin Mausoleum to steady the population. He refused to leave his people and had suffered with them as they dug machine-gun nests on every street corner. His brilliance had twice repelled the Germans who tried to storm the city, and then in the ice of December, he counter-attacked. The Germans had not taken Moscow and never would while Stalin lived to inspire liberty. The people were united in this Great Patriotic War, along with their neighbours in the newly-liberated Baltic States. But they were also starving and being butchered by enemy fire. To be stuck in Dublin was worse than manning an artillery position in minus forty degrees outside Moscow, because Art was helpless here, unable to discover if his wife and child had died in the desperate slaughter and unable to protect them if they had survived. Stalin would ensure that nobody needlessly suffered, but not even Stalin could be everywhere to watch over his people at every moment.
‘What else is in the will?’ Art asked.
‘Can you not wait until your father is buried?’
‘You’re the one placing responsibilities on my shoulders. Surely you’re pleased that I am not shirking them?’
‘I don’t have the will with me,’ Mr Barnes replied. ‘There is a settlement naturally on your mother – the house in Oxford goes to her. There are bequests to your siblings – you will hardly begrudge them that. Brendan’s share will be put in trust, I made sure that you would not get your hands on it. There is cash and some shares and finally a property on Raglan Road in Dublin that your father inherited from his cousin. He left it to you, against my advice I may add. Still that was your father, to the last he refused to judge you.’
‘What’s that house worth?’
‘It’s a handsome property. Worth more than enough to get you out of this squalor, more than I would leave you if you were my son. I can arrange its sale, have the cash paid to you. After that I will have done my duty to your father and can wash my hands of you and the whole affair.’
Art touched one of the damp stains like obscure maps on the wall. His fingertips were black when he showed them to the retired banker. ‘This squalor is how thousands of Irish people live. I possess a room to myself, therefore I am rich compared to some of my neighbours. I am sorry if the sight of reality offends you.’
Mr Barnes rose. ‘I have lived longer than you. I was born ten years after a famine. People don’t recover from famine, their faces never fill out again. Squalor offends my sense of justice, but a man unnecessarily wallowing in it offends my sense of decency. People here would sell their souls for a fraction of what you will receive after probate. You mock your neighbours by pretending to be like them. They are here through lack of opportunity while you are here by choice. You cannot earn their respect like that. I imagine they think you a fool. Remember Madame Despard. Half of Dublin fleeced her until her money ran out, then they burnt the roof over her head. A fool and their cash are easily parted.’
‘Have you the deeds of Raglan Road?’ Art asked.
‘It cannot be sold until after probate.’
‘I wish to give it away.’
‘At least bury your father before starting to mock him.’
‘I always respected my father.’
‘What sort of respect is it to scatter his possessions to the four winds?’
‘I will use each possession wisely. I know people who need them.’
‘Your sister in Mayo is one,’ Mr Barnes insisted. ‘Your brother in South Africa…’
‘Do you understand nothing?’ Art asked. ‘Where would be the justice in that? I begrudge them nothing but in all conscience how can I give them what they have not earned?’
‘That was their father’s money, their grandfather’s and great-grandfather’s.’ Mr Barnes was animated, consumed by a passion Art had not seen in him before – the naked self-preserving instincts of the bourgeoisie.
‘It was stolen from ordinary people in rack rents and cheap wages,’ Art replied. ‘I will honour my father by returning it to its rightful owners. Naturally I shall pay you the standard commission for administering this.’
‘You go too far in insulting me!’ The old man donned his hat. ‘Your father was my friend. I want no fee. I came here for his sake and because I remember you as a compassionate boy. Something terrible happened to you.’
‘I grew up.’
Mr Barnes produced an envelope. ‘I am advancing you enough money to get some decent clothes en route to Oxford. You will go, won’t you?’ He looked anxiously at Art. ‘At least do this one kindness for your mother.’
Art counted the money in the envelope and tried to return half of it. ‘I will go, but in the clothes of the common man. I cannot change who I am. Father understood that.’
Mr Barnes ignored the money Art held out. One candle on the table was so low that its flame flickered wildly, slowly being snuffed out by molten wax. It cast distorting shadows on the ceiling.
‘I have done my duty to an old friend. I can do no more.’ He reached into his pocket again. ‘The key of the Manor House.’
He placed it on the table and left. Art did not follow him out onto the dark stairwell, but stood at the window to watch the old man emerge and walk slowly away. Art kept staring down at the street because he did not want to turn and face the key on the table. He felt small and lost, a fatherless son. It was good that Eva was with Mother. They shared much in common. He would be the outsider when he took the boat in the morning.
Art wanted to pray but did not believe in any God. Even atheists could believe in ghosts however. He knew why he was afraid to turn. Father’s ghost was standing beside the table, watching Art not with his own eyes but with the eyes of Martin Luther. Grandpappy’s ghost was there too and others in the list of ancestors which Father had traced for him as a boy. All of them gazed at him, all waiting. Art trembled. This room had never felt so cold. He was not sure how long it took him, but eventually he turned to survey the emptiness lit by a single candle flame.
‘I refuse,’ he said, repeatedly. ‘I refuse my place in your line.’