LAMENT FOR CHRISTY KING

THERE WAS A WEEK that summer when four men from Roundstone were lost on the water, practically waked in the days of their actual loss, then they were found afloat but dead-engined off the coast of Clare.

So of course there was great partying to be found in every pub at any hour of the day or night for two weeks after. One Sunday, after a hard week’s fishing, we went to Clifden for the evening, ten or twelve islanders and myself rowing over to Eyrephort, bright-eyed in anticipation of good talk and drink.

– Oy, said the crippled man in Joyce’s pub. The Round-stone people are blessed for this miracle (tipping back a pint of good stout). But tis the lifeboat people I’m in wonder of, looking for four days as they did and never finding a sight of the boatmen, though Patsy Joe will tell ye that the lifeboat passed within an arm’s length of them. Makes a man think, does it not? They’ve put sailing boats into the air, made them fly. They’ve put people in them, good men like ourselves, lads, they’ve landed them on planets, brought ‘em back again. But they couldn’t find four men lost on the sea. Oy, as yer Aran man said, the world’s a wonder, and a terror to our hearts.

We thought about that all right, sitting there in the big chairs your body could mould into, looking out at a few cars gliding down the wet street like whales. A murmur of voices at the bar, a clink of bottles, someone humming, the smell of porter and wet wool, pipe smoke; and the utter loveliness of whiskey whirling in glasses and reflecting off hands, deep gold and shot with light.

We rowed home that night, made lonely by the drink, and the oars were quietly creaking on their pins.

And then there was the week when the tinkers returned. I was riding Seamus’s bicycle over the Sky Road, and there, like a weird and colourful apparition, was the same group of travellers, the same mare, and I’d not swear about the dogs but they looked the same, too, and if they were not (but cousins, no doubt), well, it really makes no difference.

– Ah, lass. Ye’re still riding the same bicycle, I see, and we’ve the kettle on for the tea. Will ye have a cup?

– I took one. Thick as tar, and black this time, because Paddy Bourke had moved his herd to his brother’s land at Aillebrack, and no one within miles had a freshened cow.

I looked as discreetly as I could at the various men of the menagerie to catch the eye of Christy. But he was not there.

– Did you have a good time in Sligo? Christy said you’d be going to the ceilis.

A few of the women looked at one another, then down. A youngish girl, twelve or thirteen and beautifully dark-eyed, hair the colour of wild furze honey, said, Well, Sligo is all right now, but sure didn’t Christy fall into a ditch on the way home from a dance, he’d many pints taken, and he slept in the reeds until dawn. When he woke, he’d a terrible cough, all raspy it was, and a few days later he died of the pneumonia.

An older woman, his mother I supposed, suddenly wailed to the sky for this wild son of the devil, her son, now cold and wormy in the ground: Oh, my grief! I’ve lost him surely. The other women silently blessed themselves, and one led the stricken wailer away.

I put down my cup, returned to my bicycle, moved away in the tarnished morning. Christy, you wretch, you leaver. Now that you’ve died, I wish I’d gone with you. What good are you to me or any woman now, you with your beautiful, breathtaking hands. How could anyone say: I’ve fallen in love with a tinker in his absence, I’ve killed him far away with my stupid infidelity. How could anyone say: I wanted the caravans, imagined the eerie paraffin lights and the twining limbs of the children, the wrath of a drunken father; I wanted to travel all the days of my life. Now I am stuck like a thorn in the pure body of a fisherman, my various lingering sadnesses a confusion to his soul.

At night when I go to my bed of slumber,
With thoughts of my true love running in my mind,
Well, I turn around to embrace my darling,
Instead of gold sure tis brass I find . . .

In the fairytale of my childhood, the ruined maiden went forth from her father’s house into the woodlands to live amongst the animals. In a dream, she’d be taught to make a cloak of stinging nettles, pounding and twisting the roots till she had lengths of a terrible fibre which she wove into a rough garment. She’d learn to feed all winter off berries with the partridges and deer. And in the spring a good prince would discover her hidden in an oak bole, and he’d fall in love with her swarthy religious face (she’d acquired a love for God through His creatures), her nettle-blistered hands (he’d kiss them), and he’d take her away on his white steed to a castle gorgeous with hangings and heraldry. Her sins would have been purified by cold, the penance of twigs in her wild hair and the rasping cloak on her arms. She’d have learned the mortification of wormwood, bitter and sorrowful, and she’d have learned patience in the cramped burrow of her woody home.

But where would I go, and who would have me? I’d wear my failures sheer as silk upon my shoulders, both an elegance and a falsity. The work of worms or of serpents.

The government was taking its own sweet time in the completion of the houses, and the islanders were beginning to worry.

– T’would be a desperate winter if we were to have to spend it here. We’re without doing the preparations that we usually know are for doing come summer.

– Aye, and isn’t yer man to be found in Kelly’s pub day and night, Flaherty, the one they say is in charge of the building?

I was always surprised at their thorough knowledge of the individual doings of the county, as isolated as they were. Who said what, owned what, married whom, had connections with the IRA.

A few literate men wrote to the councils and the newspapers, stating their cause in a terse, unnatural prose. The reply was a launch full of photographers and a journalist or two and even a documentary filmmaker; the result, pages of photographs in the nation’s newspapers (men beaching a currach, the cottages, thin cattle, a few of the children peering big-eyed) and inspired paragraphs about the stark beauty of Inishbream and the betrayal of the islanders. Miceal would have not a thing to do with them, and they printed accounts of his reticence and his single statement: Would ye ever leave Heaven for Hell, I ask ye now?

For this was what it had come to mean. The promised land of the council plots, nearly a reality, seemed remote in the soft air of an island summer, however rainy, a tiny harbour all gentle with boats and fields lush with wild flowers hidden in the sharp sand-formed grass.

– But if we are to leave, we’d best to go soon. We do not fancy rowing load after load of belongings over the rough seas of November, do ye follow me? And there’s no fodder for them ladeens to be eating (pointing to the remaining bullocks).

And in my own northern cottage, there were silent evenings in front of the fire. The wireless had worn down to a static drone, so we left it switched off except for the sea-area forecast, now unaccompanied by the dark bed of the night.

I cleared my throat. Sean, can we talk?

– What is it yer wanting to say?

– It’s all different now, isn’t it? Us, I mean. I’d like to leave, to go back to Canada where I belong. I’m not happy, and I think I must make you unhappy, too.

– Woman, I was expecting ye to bring that up. Do ye think I am blind and do not see ye pacing the island like a paddocked horse? And there is the talk I have heard. Ye was seen with that tinker. Some think that is why ye don’t have a child. It is hard for a man to know he has not made his woman content, that she has had to go looking for another man and a tinker at that, a sly milk-stealing cur.

How could I begin to explain: It was never you, I never looked for him, he was there one day, and I was taken by his eyes, his mountainy smell. Or: It is that I am always watched when I walk, when I row out alone. I am expected to fail. There is always the shadow of a face behind those curtains or a figure in a doorway.

Instead, I said the usual things: I am sorry, I did not want to hurt you, believe me, forgive me. Then: Are you angry?

– Ah, I am thinking our marrying was a bad thing, a cursed thing from the beginning. And ye not a true Catholic, how could ye know the bonds we expect? I think ye want to be at the fishing more than ye want to be a wife so. Ye must go back to Canada all right, but could ye wait until the move? It would seem more natural, like.

So the other women prepared for the move, lining trunks with newspaper and packing the china carefully, dusting the awful Kennedy glasses (resplendent with stars and stripes forever). They could be seen any time of the day wringing out linen, airing quilts and apprehensions over the stone walls. It seemed a lorry would meet the currachs on the beach and would deliver the things to the new houses, the lorry driver a cousin of someone, a man who would oblige for a night of pints in the town. The government provided money to buy large furnishings to replace what would never fit in the currachs: beds, dressers, etc. The few cattle that weren’t sold in the summer fairs would swim across, towed on ropes behind the ark of possessions. The nets and pots would stay, piled in byres and unused rooms, waiting for the return of the fishermen, growing dry and warped with the salt of their exile.

There was a week when Peter conducted the sale of his pukaun, sailing to the town quay as weather or tides permitted, showing his boat silently to the sporty sailors who coveted the last of the island pukauns, the boat Peter’s grandfather had built in the old way: laced ribs, measurements of body (length of an arm, distance between knuckles). Then he drank himself to a grim oblivion from his secret and nearly depleted supply of poteen, wailing a dirge to his lady boat on the rocks in front of his cottage. No one called to him to shut up or tried to prevent his drinking.

And I walked longer hours on the north end or gathered shells to keep: limpets (they will always return to the scar they have made. It is like a home to them), cockles, the night-coloured mussels.