As the train pulled into the station at Baltinglass it followed the road and the River Slaney, black now under still thickening cloud. Beyond the river, Baltinglass Hill rose up above the town, a great pyramid of green. Three thousand years ago the people who lived there had buried their dead on its slopes and had looked down from the stone fort at the summit, as a new people arrived. The newcomers had probably followed the river too. And then the people who watched from the fort were gone, even the words of their language had disappeared, unremembered for thousands of years. They left only the ring of stones on the hilltop and the megaliths that once covered their dead.
Stefan put Susan Field’s letters into the inside pocket of his overcoat. He looked across the river at the hill he had climbed so many times as a boy, and at the ruins of the abbey that had stood below it for a thousand years, sitting next to the small Church of Ireland church that had replaced it. The abbey was not quite forgotten, but it was another place of tumbled stones and unremembered words; it was where the dead were buried now, his grandparents and his great-grandparents among them. The train juddered to a halt with the grinding of steel on steel and a long, weary hiss of steam.
In front of the wooden station buildings, a tall, bearded man in his sixties stood on the platform. Next to him, tense with anticipation, his eyes fixed on the train, was a boy of four. The old man had Stefan Gillespie’s dark eyes and so had the boy. David Gillespie and his grandson Tom waited, and then Tom ran forward as a carriage door opened and his father got out. Stefan folded his son into his arms and lifted him up, laughing, for no reason other than that Tom was laughing, with the simple happiness of seeing him.
‘Jesus, you’re a weight, Tom Gillespie! What’s Oma feeding you?’
‘Will you carry me then?’
‘I will not!’ But he carried him a little way along the platform anyway, till they reached David. Inevitably Stefan’s father was looking quizzically at his face and the evidence of the beating. ‘And I’d a run in with a feller before you say anything else about it. It’s nothing but bruises so.’
‘Did you lock him up, Daddy?’ asked Tom, impressed.
‘Well, not exactly. It was sorted out.’ He laughed. His father just nodded, suspecting there was more to it than nothing but bruises, but he asked no questions. It was clear Stefan wouldn’t be saying any more.
‘Tom was at Mass with the Lawlors. He wanted to stay and walk back with you. And I fancied a bit of a walk myself. We had nothing better to do, did we, Tom?’ It was a two-mile walk from the farm on the saddle of land behind Baltinglass Hill and another two back up again.
Tom took his father’s hand as they walked to the road.
‘Is the trike in the window at Clery’s still, the way you told me?’
‘When did I tell you that?’
‘You told me last week, and the week before.’
‘And the week before, ever since you saw the picture in the paper.’
‘Is it there though?’
‘I’d say it is.’
‘Do you look every day?’
‘I maybe miss the odd one.’
The town began just beyond the station. The buildings closed in on either side of the road and shut out the fields along the River Slaney; the blank, stone walls of the mill on one side and low two-storey houses and shops on the other. As they crossed over the bridge the water from the mill race made the river noisier and more urgent, though as it spilled out on the other side it resumed its leisurely course. Again the hill rose up, this time over the wide main street. Here some of the buildings were higher; the bank, the solicitor’s. There were occasional splashes of colour on the rendered fronts of the small-windowed shops and houses, but mostly they were grey, and mostly the grey plaster was crumbling. In the square, next to the statue of Sam MacAllister, who had died in the hills beyond the town in the last days of the rebellion of 1798, was a Christmas tree, yet to be decorated. Beyond the square was the Catholic church. It marked the eastern end of the town as the abbey ruins did the western. But the business of the churches was done for this Sunday. As grandfather, father and son walked through Baltinglass a Sunday silence hung over it. The shops were shut. And for those who were not at home, the pubs – as was their way – were curtained and shuttered, looking in on themselves, and not out on the world.
They were soon through the town and among the fields again, walking away from the river now and beginning the climb to Kilranelagh Hill and the farm that had belonged to Stefan’s grandfather; where his own father had been born, and where David had returned when the Dublin Metropolitan Police had become, inescapably, part of a war that he wanted no part in. They talked about the sow that had farrowed last week and the six new piglets in the sty, and the geese being fattened for the Christmas market, and the one they’d picked out, the fattest one of all, that they’d eat themselves. They talked about the calf that was ill with scour that Tom had prayed wouldn’t die – it was better now and out in the orchard field with its mother, though she still hadn’t the milk for it and Tom was giving the calf the bottle himself. There was the window that Tom didn’t want to talk about at all, that he and Harry Lawlor had smashed, knocking tin cans over with Harry’s catapult. There was the book Opa was reading him now, about Eeyore and Piglet and Winnie the Pooh, and there was the rhyme he could sing from it to a tune Oma had made up on the piano. They always used the German words for grandmother and grandfather; the other grandparents, Maeve’s mother and father, were Grandma and Grandpa, but Stefan’s mother and father were always Oma and Opa, just as his mother’s parents had been to him. They talked about the speckled hen Oma was cooking for the dinner, the one Opa had to kill after Tess the sheepdog chased it into the hay barn and it broke its leg. And they talked for the fourth time and the fifth time about the tricycle in the window of Clery’s department store in O’Connell Street, with a trunk behind you could put things in, that Tom had seen the picture of in the newspaper. He’d cut the picture out and put it by his bed, next to the photograph of his mother and father and his collection of books and stones and tin soldiers. It had been on three lists he’d sent up the chimney, despite warnings that it wasn’t a good idea to overdo it with Santy.
There was a steep track into the farmyard from the road up to Kilranelagh Hill. There was the smell of dung and hay. A long stone barn stretched towards the house on one side of the yard. They heard the sound of the cows inside, calling for food. On the other side of the yard stood a rusty, corrugated shed, full of straw. Quite suddenly, something black and white hurtled through the barn door, barking and snarling furiously. Tess stopped at Stefan’s feet. She looked up at him and abruptly turned away, trotting back into the barn with just one backward glance to tell him that her job, a quite unnecessary job as it happened, had been done. Then as Tom opened the door to the kitchen there was the smell of the dinner. Stefan walked across the room and put his arms round his mother. Tom held up the paper bag his father had brought and took out the loaf of bread that was in it.
‘We’ve got some bread for you, Oma, some special bread!’
Helena stared at her son’s battered face. He put his finger to his lips.
‘It’s from Weinrouk’s. Do you remember it? I’m sure it’s still Mr Moiselle who makes it. Remember? When did you last have a loaf like that, Ma?’ She smiled. She remembered very well. She had more to say, about the bruises, but that would have to wait. She looked back down at the pots on the stove. She spoke quietly, not wanting to let her concern show to Tom.
‘Father Carey’s here. He’s been waiting.’
The sitting room was dark. It looked out on to the farmyard through a window that let little enough light in on a summer’s day. Now the clouds were black over the farm and over Kilranelagh Hill above. It wasn’t a small room, but it was lined with bookshelves that crowded the heavy furniture into the centre. The priest was by the fireplace, crouching down, almost on his knees, pulling out a book. He rose as Stefan Gillespie entered the room.
‘You wanted to see me.’
Normally the word ‘Father’ would have been added to this, and in a man he liked Stefan would have had no problem with that polite expression of respect, even though Anthony Carey was barely two years older. But there was neither liking nor respect, and the feeling was thoroughly reciprocated in the cold and cautious eye the priest cast in his direction.
‘It’s about the boy.’ No name, just the boy.
‘You’d better sit down.’
The priest made no attempt to sit down. Instead he walked to a table at one side of the room where he had made a neat pile of the books he had already taken from the shelves. He put the one he was holding on top of the pile. Then he noticed the bruises on Stefan’s face. He gave a sour grin.
‘A rough night, Sergeant?’
‘A rough customer. I do meet them in my job.’ The reply was curt. He had no intention of explaining himself. He waited for the priest to continue.
‘It’s about his schooling,’ said Father Carey, businesslike now. He had a thin, angular body and somehow his voice had the same spiky quality.
‘We’ve already talked about that,’ replied Stefan shortly.
‘I felt he should begin school at St Tegan’s this September, you remember I’m sure. You weren’t happy about that at the time of course.’
‘I didn’t think he was ready. He’d have been the youngest one starting. He’s still only four. He’ll go next year. I don’t see there’s a hurry.’
‘The particular circumstances –’
‘I thought this was settled. I spoke to Father MacGuire –’
‘I was away then.’ Father Carey smiled.
The smile expressed what both men knew – that Stefan had chosen to speak to the parish priest when the curate was away, precisely because he was. Father MacGuire was an older, gentler, easier man altogether.
‘I have now taken over from Father MacGuire as chairman of the school’s board of management. It’s a lot of work for the parish priest. We both felt that I would have more time and energy to devote to it.’
‘The school year’s begun now anyway. There’s a term gone.’
‘My feeling – my strong feeling – is that Tom should be at school.’
‘Next year he will be.’
‘As I’ve said, the particular circumstances really do argue against that, Sergeant Gillespie, as far as the Church is concerned. He is a Catholic living in a home that is not Catholic. I have a responsibility to ensure that he does not suffer in a situation that is, from the Church’s point of view, extremely unsatisfactory. The lack of a Catholic home makes his presence in a Catholic school all the more imperative. He should start after Christmas.’
‘He’s very young. He’s still – after his mother’s death –’
‘Your wife has been dead for two years. It’s hardly a reason for the boy not to go to school. In fact it’s her absence, the absence of a Catholic mother, that makes it all the more important that he does go and go now.’
‘He goes to Mass every Sunday with the Lawlors.’ There was nothing to be gained from telling the curate that Tom’s mother had no time for the Church at all. It was a mixed marriage, and in order to be married they had to agree that their children would be brought up as Catholics. That was simply how it was. Death did not release Stefan from the contract. But the easy, familiar way the priest threw Maeve into the conversation, a woman he hadn’t known, was about more than that. He knew it irritated Stefan, and it did now. Stefan said nothing, struggling to hold his temper.
‘I’ve never been in here before.’ It was an abrupt change of subject. Father Carey looked round the room at the crowded bookshelves with a mixture of amusement and contempt. ‘You’re quite the reader so,’ he said.
‘Is there something wrong with that?’
‘I’ve been looking at your … library.’ The final word was said with a patronising smile, but he was serious. ‘I’m not easily shocked, Mr Gillespie.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m not with you.’
‘This is in German,’ he announced, picking up the book that was on top of the pile with a look of distaste. ‘But not hard to decipher, even for me. Isn’t it The Communist Manifesto? Would I be right about that?’
‘It was my grandfather’s. He studied philosophy, at university in Munich. All his books are here. And why wouldn’t they be?’ Stefan knew the priest was going to test his temper in every way he could. He was already angry, angry with himself as well as Carey. He was explaining away the presence of a book instead of telling the priest to get out of the house.
Father Carey put down the book and frowned at the rest of the pile.
‘Voltaire, Hobbes, Locke, Darwin, Martin Luther. I’ve picked these out. I’m sure there are others. All these are on the Vatican’s Index Librorum Prohibitorum. As a great reader, I hope you’ll know what that is.’ The words continued to express disdain for the idea of Stefan reading anything at all.
‘I think I can work it out. But there’s not a book here you couldn’t walk into any public library and pick up. What are you trying to say?’
‘That may or may not be true. But this is not a library, is it?’ The curate walked across the room to another bookshelf. ‘This is a house in which you and your parents are bringing up a Catholic child. Yet I see books, many books, that I wouldn’t even want a Catholic child to touch.’
‘He’s four, for God’s sake!’
‘They’re certainly not all books your grandfather brought from Germany though. I’ve heard of this, Point Counterpoint. It’s by a man called Aldous Huxley. I think you’ll find it’s a book that the State Censorship Board has actually banned. Hardly an ancient, inherited tome. A souvenir of your Trinity days perhaps? You were there, briefly, weren’t you?’
‘You’re very well informed about banned books. I’m not.’
‘I make it my business to be, Sergeant. As a policeman you should make it yours, since owning Mr Huxley’s book breaks the law.’ He moved sideways, running a finger along a line of books. ‘Then there are the bibles.’
‘Perhaps they’ll cancel out The Communist Manifesto,’ Stefan ventured. The attempt at a joke didn’t help. It didn’t disguise his animosity.
‘You won’t be familiar with the catechism,’ said the priest coldly.
‘Familiar would be overstating it.’ Stefan walked to a bookshelf and looked along a row of books. He took out a small, grey Catholic catechism.
‘You think you’re a clever sort of man, don’t you, Gillespie?’
‘I’m trying to keep my temper, Father Carey.’
‘Protestant bibles, several Protestant bibles, in English and German. This German one, I presume, is Luther’s.’ The priest spoke the name as if he was referring to a pornographer. ‘The catechism asks a question of the faithful: What should a Christian do who is given a bible by Protestants or by the agents of Protestants? The answer is that it is to be rejected with disgust, because it is forbidden by the Church. If taken inadvertently, it must be burnt immediately or handed to a priest so that he can dispose of it safely.’
‘I know burning books is the coming thing in Europe, but I don’t think it’s Ireland’s way yet. I’m sorry. Tom starts school next September, as we agreed. That’s all there is to say.’ He had had enough. He wanted to bring the conversation back to the reason the priest was there and put an end to it.
‘I won’t be leaving it at this. It won’t do, Sergeant.’
‘This is my parents’ house. It’s my home, my son’s home. Please go.’
‘You don’t understand your position.’
‘What?’
The priest’s eyes roamed round the room again. Wasn’t it obvious?
‘Am I supposed to see an acceptable home for a Catholic child here?’
‘I’ve asked you to go.’
‘The child is already motherless, the idea that he should grow up surrounded by all – all this …’
Stefan’s determination to hold his temper was failing. He stepped forward. He would make the curate leave. The expression of grave concern on Carey’s face turned quite abruptly to a smile. It was the smile of a man more pleased with the job he has done than he expected to be. Briefly his smug, angular features reminded Stefan of the self-satisfied, knowing face of Hugo Keller; here was another man who knew he was untouchable. Stefan had the same desire to wipe away that smile. And the priest could read it. He held Stefan’s gaze, almost challenging him to go further; one step further would do it. But the moment was gone. And the priest could read that too.
‘Watch that temper, Sergeant. You’re not in the Garda barracks now.’
Father Carey picked up the black fedora that sat on the table beside the books. He stepped round Stefan with a curt, businesslike nod, and left.
For a moment Stefan didn’t move. He turned to the window and looked out. The black figure strode through the farmyard, across the cobbles to the road, the fedora, slightly too small, perched on his head. All of a sudden, out from the barn, low to the ground, came something else black, with a flash of white round the collar. The sheepdog aimed itself at the priest, barking furiously. She wasn’t going to bite but he didn’t know that. He turned and kicked out. The dog changed direction effortlessly; now she was behind him, snarling and yapping. The curate’s very black and very polished boot kicked again. The dog slithered back on her legs. As the boot touched down it landed in a pat of watery dung. Father Carey cursed. He looked up to see Stefan watching from the window. He turned towards the road angrily and walked on, faster than before, conscious of the dog slinking along behind him, no longer barking, her teeth bared, her lips curled in snarling, silent disdain. The sheepdog didn’t like the priest very much either; but unlike Stefan Gillespie she had nothing at all to fear from him.
*
Above the farm, higher up on the bare slopes of Kilranelagh Hill, was a graveyard. It was a wild place, full of tumbled stones and brambles and tussocks of thick, uncut grass. The only sounds there were the wind and the rooks and the screech of the foxes at night. It had been a cemetery as long as anybody could remember. When the mountain townlands were full of people and the churches in the valleys were not their churches, this was where the dead came. There was no church here of any denomination, though there was a place of worship. Where the graveyard disappeared, almost unnoticed, into the surrounding gorse, there were two great stones that had marked the way out of this life for three, four, five thousand years. Now there was a neat and lovingly tended Catholic cemetery above the river in Baltinglass, but this was where Maeve Gillespie had once told Stefan she wanted to be buried. Neither of them could have known in that idle conversation, one day on the slopes of the mountain, that the time for her burial would come so soon.
She had loved the farm from the first time he brought her home to meet his mother and father. She was the one who said they’d live at the farm below Kilranelagh, when he had only thought of a house in the suburbs of Dublin. And when she was gone, with such brutal and aching suddenness, he knew it was where she would have wanted Tom to be. He couldn’t live on his own in Dublin with his father. It felt right that he was here. Or if it wasn’t right it was the best Stefan Gillespie could do. The future was uncertain. Two years on from Maeve’s death he still felt he was unable to see beyond the next week. For now, the farm was where his son was safe and happy. Tom’s happiness was all that mattered. And Maeve was safe too, here among the tumbled stones and the raggedy tufts of grass on Kilranelagh Hill.
Husband and son stood over the grave. Someone had left a single white lily a few days earlier. The dead were closer here than they were in Dublin. Neighbours did not forget. Tom clasped his hands tightly together and talked to his mother. There was a prayer, but when that was said he opened his eyes and whispered all the small, important happenings of his week, and gave her yet another description of the tricycle in Clery’s window. As they walked back down the hill to the farm the rain that had been threatening all afternoon began to fall. They ran all the way, but by the time they burst into the warm kitchen they were drenched to the skin. They sat by the open range drinking tea and eating Weinrouk’s white bread, with butter and plum jam, before Stefan went out to the barn with David to milk the cows. When they came back in his mother was in the sitting room, packing books into boxes. ‘They’ll come to no harm in the attic, will they?’
That night Stefan Gillespie didn’t sleep very easily. The rain lashed hard against the roof all night. He lay in the small bed across from Tom, listening to his son’s slow, contented breathing. Tom could start school after Christmas. The books could go into the attic. All they had to do was let Father Carey have his way. Tom would be all right. But the day had taken Stefan to some strange places. In some way all the dissatisfaction and unease he felt about his own life was being stirred up, all the things he’d locked away behind what he simply had to get on with; the Gardaí, the money he needed to earn, the support he had to give his parents, and Tom, always Tom. Yet, when he fell asleep it wasn’t any of that he was thinking about. As his eyes closed it was the dark-haired woman, Hannah Rosen, who filled his mind.