I might…eavesdrop on
their hopeless wisdom
as a blow-down of smoke
struggles over the half-door
and mizzling rain
blurs the far end
of the cart track.
—SEAMUS HEANEY
Maura had written an amusing article about the “scholars’ duel” for The Irish Times, which put it on a wire service. A few London papers picked it up for their Sunday supplements, and one of the people who read it was a man named John Trotter. He sat in his flat in the Hampstead district and read about Keenan Doyle and the Leeside. It was a gray, dreary Sunday morning and John reached up to adjust his reading lamp. He had to use his left arm because he couldn’t raise his right arm above shoulder level. John had been shot in that shoulder twenty-seven years ago when he was a British soldier stationed in Northern Ireland. On cool, wet days, such as this one—all too common for London—his right shoulder ached just below the scapula. The disability had not mattered in his career as the manager in an auto dealership.
After he adjusted the light he continued reading. Keenan Doyle. The Leeside. John lifted thoughtful eyes from the newspaper. That place sounded familiar, although he hadn’t gone into the west. Of course…Keenan Doyle. Maureen Doyle—his Maureen. This was her brother. He knew the name sounded familiar, it was an unusual one. And the pub—he remembered Maureen telling him her brother owned a pub by that name in the Connemara region. He read part of the article again. There was a niece who lived with him, a twenty-seven-year-old niece…Oh, God…a twenty-seven-year-old niece…It couldn’t be…It wasn’t possible…but just maybe…
John leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Instantly he was transported to that night at the fish-and-chips shop, almost twenty-eight years ago. The girl serving their meal had been flirtatious and adorable. He couldn’t stop staring at her. His fellow soldiers ragged on him when he remarked there was no harm in asking her out for a bit of fun. He was engaged to a girl back home in London, but this girl pulled him like a magnet. He and Maureen began a lighthearted affair, full of fun, sex, good times, and plenty of alcohol. John had been miserable during his stint in Northern Ireland. He was scared and not sure what the hell he was supposed to be doing there. He didn’t like walking down the street carrying his weapon at the ready and seeing the small children watching him with their big eyes, which grew less innocent by the day. Maureen offered him an escape from all that. She could make a joke out of anything, find fun—or make fun—anywhere. She was sweet, sensual, uncomplicated, and undemanding. When she told him about the baby he felt terrible, but she said not to worry about it. She wouldn’t want anything from him: “These things happen, love. That’s life. Believe it or not, I don’t really mind—but God knows what my brother will say. Anyway, it was worth it. You were lovely.”
He knew she wouldn’t have an abortion. She was quite religious and went to Mass every Sunday, no matter how late they had been out the night before. A week after she told him about the baby, John was shot in the shoulder during a street melee in Armagh and invalided back to London. He wrote to Maureen once from the hospital, enclosing a few quid, but he didn’t hear back from her. The next time he wrote to her the letter came back marked ADDRESSEE MOVED—UNABLE TO FORWARD. By then his wedding plans with Barbara were well under way and he decided he had to put Maureen out of his mind. It was obvious she considered herself done with him. He would just chalk it up to youthful indiscretion. It was a long time, however, before he stopped seeing her face when he turned off his light at night.
Then, two years later, John read about the Comagh bombing in the London papers. He always read the news stories of the Troubles carefully, and in this incident several British soldiers had been killed. The paper listed the names and had photos of all the victims and he saw it: Maureen Doyle, aged twenty. Maureen—dead. Adorable, vibrant Maureen. Dead. And the baby…what about the baby? His baby. He reasoned with himself: Maureen was probably married by now, so the child would have a father, right? But…but no, her last name wouldn’t still be Doyle, then. So perhaps the baby was…John sighed. His wife was expecting their first child within the month. This would be terrific news to hit Barbara with. “By the way, dear, I’ve got a two-year-old kid from when I was over in Northern Ireland and now the mum’s dead. What do you say? Care for another?” Oh, shit.
But the news nagged at him and after a couple of days he phoned the police station in Comagh, explaining that he had been stationed in Northern Ireland a couple of years ago and was an old friend of one of the victims. He thought she had had a child; was there any way he could find out what had happened to the child? The RUC was helpful; they told him that the child was a little girl and she’d gone to live with her uncle, Keenan Doyle. He hung up the phone. He had a daughter. A daughter. But there was nothing he could do. She was at least with her uncle and not placed in an orphanage or foster home or anything. She was probably perfectly happy. She was fine. It was impossible to tell Barbara about it now, when they were expecting their first child. He had put Maureen out of his mind; he’d have to put his daughter out of his mind as well.
John Trotter’s disabled shoulder now gave him a twinge as he came out of his reverie. He remembered it all so clearly, and so much had changed since those distant days. He and Barbara were divorced. Their son, Richard, was in his last year at the London School of Economics. John was still the manager of the auto dealership but the younger employees were aggressive and hungry for promotion, making him increasingly uneasy about the future. He lived alone in this flat, which he hated. He missed their little house with its monkey puzzle tree, climbing roses, and patio. But Barbara lived there alone now.
Slowly he got up and went into his bedroom. When he moved out of the house he’d gone through all of his things, deciding what to keep, throw away, or leave behind. He remembered finding the clipping of the article about the bombing and a photograph of Maureen, the only thing he had of her. He’d taken it himself. She was in a group of people, one of two girls and three soldiers in his regiment. He remembered the day many years ago when Barbara had found it. He told her that the two girls in the picture were dates of his friends and that he had kept it as a keepsake of his friends in the regiment. He looked at the photograph now. Maureen’s bubbly spirit glowed through the passage of time. What a darling she had been. He wondered if his daughter looked like Maureen. He wondered…He looked up and caught sight of himself in the mirror above the dresser. What are you doing? he asked himself. What are you thinking? There would be no point—no point—in trying to meet this girl. It was all such a long time ago…My God, it was a long time ago, like it had happened in another lifetime, or to a different person. John’s tired, sad eyes looked back at him from the mirror. Don’t go looking for trouble; it’s not worth it. You’ve learned that much in life. The fact that you’re lonely and bored with life isn’t enough reason to do this. He opened the drawer again to put Maureen’s picture back. Then he hesitated, closed the drawer, and, picking up his wallet from the dresser top, slid the picture inside it.
It was the time of year when the travelers came. On the fading last day of September, when the hill greens were subdued and interwoven with early autumn golds, Siobhan saw the little group appear out of the soft, muggy mist. Galway Gwen and her family were annual visitors at the Leeside. From astride Blasket up on the hill, Siobhan spotted the bright blue van in the lane, pulling a beige camper. That would be Gwen’s son, Turf, and his wife sitting in the van’s front seat. Their numerous offspring would be riding in the back. Every year Siobhan looked forward to seeing if another baby had appeared during the year’s interval, or if another was imminent. Turf’s wife, JoJo, cheerfully produced them like an annual crop of runner beans. The van drove very slowly, and soon the old yellow-and-blue barrel caravan that Galway Gwen called home came rattling behind it. Her son and his flighty wife might prefer their fancy camper, but she’d stick to her pony-drawn abode that had been built by her late husband’s own hands some fifty years ago.
Siobhan rode slowly toward the pub to greet them. These were old friends. Every year they stopped at the Leeside, and every year she and Uncle Kee bought sweaters created on the old woman’s needles. Gwen knitted sweaters specifically for them now, for after years of selling to them, she knew their sizes and preferences for color and design.
Occasionally they would buy other things. When Siobhan was confirmed Kee had purchased a handmade necklace of copper and seashells for her, which Turf had made. Siobhan wore it on special occasions. There was a very special occasion approaching: Uncle Kee would be turning fifty in a few weeks. Siobhan hoped Gwen would have something unique that would be the perfect present.
“Hello the house!” she heard Turf yell. He always did that. He had seen it in the film The Quiet Man as a youngster and it had tickled him.
“Hello yourself!” she called as she approached.
The van doors opened and a wave of humanity tumbled out. JoJo climbed down with difficulty, as she was heavy with the late stages of pregnancy. But Turf moved like lightning, a quick, redheaded, scruffy fox of a man. Their five children were like drops of quicksilver, darting and fluid, redheaded like their father and, like him, reticent in speech. Ranging in age from eight to eighteen months, they were half wild with the freedom of their lifestyle, but their big shrewd eyes were wise with the knowledge necessary to survive a precarious existence.
Turf left his brood to fend for itself and went to guide his mother’s pony into the pub’s side yard. Siobhan knew that he liked doing things, keeping busy. He’d told her that anything was better than standing around talking to people. As Siobhan eased Blasket in the direction of the pub, she thought back to the night, twenty years earlier, when Turf had been a boy of thirteen and Uncle Kee caught him stealing a box of crockery from the pub’s shed. Even now the thought of it sobered her, for the sight of six-and-a-half feet of her angry uncle bearing down on Turf filled her with awe. One clout from those oversize hands and Turf lay dazed on the ground. She remembered holding her breath as Uncle Kee squatted down and looked Turf in the eye.
“That’s to let you know I settle my own scores, such as they are. I don’t bother with the Guards. You and your mum, and your da when he was alive, have been coming here ever since I can remember, and are always welcome. You can go the way of those tinkers who want to steal everyone blind or you can keep your honor as a traveling man who wants only the open road and enough to keep his belly full. If it’s the last, you’ll always be welcome at the Leeside as a friend. If it’s the other, there’ll be no more stopping around here for you and yours. It’s for you to decide, Turf.”
He had succeeded in putting the fear of God—and the fear of Kee Doyle—into the boy’s heart. Turf had told Siobhan he’d rarely stolen since. He and his family eked out a living collecting dole, selling wares, and scavenging, and Turf was usually able to get some carpentry work in Galway during the winter.
His mother, Galway Gwen, was stoic and steady like a rock—a traveling rock, if such a thing existed. She was most content during their traveling months, and just marked time while they camped on the outskirts of Galway during the cold, gray winter.
Siobhan rode up to Gwen’s caravan and dismounted.
“Hello, Gwen. Hello, Turf.”
“Good day to you, Siobhan,” Gwen answered in her soft, gravelly voice.
Turf said, “Blasket’s looking grand.”
“Thanks. He’s doing well. I see you’ve got yourself a new cart horse.” Siobhan went over to the big skewbald with its shaggy hoofs.
“Aye,” replied Gwen. “T’other one got sick and had to be put down. Ten euro it cost me. The bastards wouldn’t let Turf do it.”
“I didn’t want to,” Turf said to Siobhan in a low voice.
Gwen continued: “We picked this one up outside of Ballinaboy for not a bad price. He’s a good-enough beast.”
Siobhan patted the pony on the neck and looked into its placid eye. She didn’t bother to ask its name. Gwen never named her animals.
“How does he look to you, Siobhan?” Turf asked diffidently. He had a healthy respect for her feel for horses. In some ways Siobhan had seemed “not all there” to him when he’d been younger. He had been a bit wary then, a bit in awe of the remote young girl. Now, after years of visits had shown him her guileless nature and kind heart, they were friends.
Siobhan deftly looked at the horse’s teeth and eyes, then ran her hands down the pony’s front legs and withers. She pronounced her judgment: “He’ll do fine for you.”
The door of the pub opened and Kee stepped outside.
“It’s the Galway Gang, is it? You’re welcome, as always. JoJo, would you like to take a load off?” She leaned against the side of the camper resignedly while the children clustered around a preening Blasket.
“Go on inside, woman,” Kee ordered her. He reached up to help Gwen descend, though she showed no sign of appreciating it. Siobhan held the door open for JoJo and motioned the children inside as well.
Turf said to his eldest, “Get the buckets, Dan, and give both these animals some water.”
“Yes, Da.”
Kee showed the young Dan where the outside spigot was and watched the boy deftly carry the buckets of water to the ponies. Galway Gwen stood by impassively as Kee reflected, “Watching Dan reminds me of myself at that age.”
She nodded. “Simple things are tradition.” Then she surprised Kee by quoting Seamus Heaney: “ ‘Once a year we gathered in a field of dance platforms and tents where children sang songs they had learned by rote in the old language.’ That one always puts me in mind of Puck Fair.”
“Gwen, I’m speechless. You know Seamus Heaney then?”
“I’ve got to be doing something with my evenings. I can’t abide television.”
She moved slowly toward the door, coughing slightly, and Kee walked beside her, marveling at the complexity of these people beneath their deceptively primitive surface.
“How was Puck Fair this year?”
“Not bad. Young Dan won a goodly purse in the fishing contest.”
“Lots of tourists?”
“More every year,” she replied with some disgust. “It’s getting so that except for the crowning of the bloody goat there’s no much difference about it.”
“But more people to sell your wares to.”
“That’s true enough,” she admitted.
Gwen entered the pub and seated herself at a table alone. She sat regally despite her worn pink sweater and baggy flowered skirt. The wind had blown her wild white hair into spiky tufts like a crown upon her head. Gwen always bought a pint when she first arrived “to wash the road out of my teeth.” Turf and JoJo had a pint as well, although at times Turf preferred whiskey. Siobhan always treated the children to Cadbury’s hot chocolate, heavy on the milk. It was a rare change for them from their usual fare of sugary tea and carbonated soda.
“Isn’t this nice, now,” JoJo remarked after she drained half her glass in one draw. “You’re both looking grand.”
“When’s the baby coming?” Kee asked her.
“In God’s good time, Mr. Doyle. The doctor tells me it’ll be around October eighteenth.”
“That’s my birthday,” Kee said. “I’ll be seeing fifty this year, and not with delight.”
“Well, good luck to you, Mr. Doyle.” Turf raised his glass. “Our babe could do no better than to share your day of birth, a fine gentleman like yourself.”
“All right, that’ll do,” Kee said with a wry smile. He opened the cash register and took out a twenty-euro note. He placed it in front of JoJo. “Get something for the child.”
Her thanks were profuse as she deftly took up the note and deposited it in her bosom, amply augmented by her pregnancy. After the drinks were disposed of, everyone went outside again so Kee and Siobhan could inspect the available wares. The children scattered like wild birds to burn through some of their energy. Galway Gwen hauled herself up the rickety caravan steps and opened the half door. She removed a large red velvet cloth from a huge old chest that doubled as a table. She opened the chest and lifted out two thick sweaters. She rarely gave Kee and Siobhan a choice anymore, but it didn’t matter. They always liked the sweaters she showed them and bought them without hesitation.
“Here you be,” the old woman said as she descended the steps. “I thought you might be wanting to see these two,” she continued politely, knowing full well that the sweaters were as good as sold.
“They’re grand as always.” Kee handed them to Siobhan while he pulled out his money.
Siobhan stroked them with pleasure. They were beautiful. Uncle Kee’s was a dark rust color and hers a soft heather blue, both knitted in an intricate pattern related to the Aran Island sweaters. As Kee paid for them, a look passed between the two women. Gwen correctly interpreted it as a signal that Siobhan wanted to look at more merchandise without her uncle being present. This was accomplished by Gwen thanking Kee politely and remarking that she wouldn’t keep him away from his business any longer.
“Take these inside, Uncle Kee,” Siobhan said as she handed him the sweaters. “I’ll help JoJo round up the little ones.”
Kee disappeared around the corner of the building, and Gwen said, “Right. Now then, missy, come along up and look around.”
Gwen’s caravan was kept neat, if not very clean. The walls and barrel ceiling were permanently grimed from the smoke of a million campfires mingled with the grease of bacon fat and the moisture of nature and humanity. But because it was so small, everything had its niche. It had always been a fascinating place to Siobhan from the time she’d first climbed the rickety steps at age three. Here was a world unto itself, as was her own world, but this one moved about. It was like being a turtle or a snail. Siobhan wondered what it would be like taking your house with you, out into the strange world, so that no matter where you ended up, you were home. When Siobhan was sixteen, and facing the dilemma of going off to university if she passed her exams, she’d asked Gwen about going out into the world. Did Gwen think that there were some people who were meant to stay in one place all their lives, just as there were people—like the travelers—who were meant to always be moving on? The old woman had considered the matter gravely before answering.
“I believe,” she told the girl, “that there are some people who can never travel and some who can never settle. There are people who think they want the one and are stuck with t’other. But I do believe that there are a wheen of people who can make the change—if the want is real enough, and big enough. I’m thinking it’s fierce hard to be a traveler and become a settled person, harder than the other way round. But maybe that’s just my own eyes looking at it. I could never settle.” Gwen paused, then went on thoughtfully, watching Siobhan’s face. “The women in your own family had to decide about settling or no. Your grandmother—one of the dearest friends of my life—did it, but it went a bit against her nature. It’s not that she wanted a free life, for she didn’t. But she was a city person at heart, and life here was a mighty adjustment for her. But she did it out of love.”
Siobhan’s heart beat a little faster; Gwen rarely talked about the past.
“I wish I’d known her.”
Gwen sighed. “As do I, lass. The two of you would have been grand friends.”
Swallowing hard over the lump in her throat, Siobhan said, “I…I’m not remembering my mother much. You knew her. Did she…need to be free? Was that her decision about settling?”
“I wasn’t knowing her well; she was young when she left. I remember that most times when we were here your mother would fly around like a sprite, always laughing and teasing. She had more energy than a flock of curlews. I’m thinking it wasn’t so much a decision as her knowing her own nature. And following it. I think that took some courage.”
“It’s hard sometimes…not to be wondering what might have happened if…if she’d come back here, with me.”
Gwen reached over and patted the girl’s hand, a rare gesture.
“No regrets, child. You don’t need that pain in your young life. Just look at the road ahead. It’s worked for me.”
Siobhan looked now at all the goods that Gwen, Turf, and JoJo had made, collected, bartered, or bargained for over the last year. Jewelry, belts, scarves, hats, tea towels, pots, pans, and tools. There was nothing that struck Siobhan as being quite right, quite nice enough for Uncle Kee’s birthday present. She knew Maura would take her into Clifden to shop if she wanted her to, but it would be more special coming from Gwen. She had hoped to find something here. She hesitated, reluctant to not buy anything, wondering if she should just get some small item for herself. Then her gaze fell on a carved mask hanging on the caravan wall. It was about ten inches high, carved from bog oak, and was a faithful rendition of an ancient Celtic statue. It was perfect.
Siobhan said, “That mask. Where did you get it?”
“Oh, some carver at Puck Fair had them. He fancied one of my sweaters and asked to pay with that. I thought it was pretty enough.” She coughed hollowly.
“It’s grand. Could I…”
“It’s yours for thirty.” She didn’t mention the fact that she had demanded two of the masks in payment for the sweater and the second one hung in Turf’s camper.
“But is it really for sale? I mean, if you like it…”
“I’ve looked at it for a month. That’s enough.” Gwen took the mask down from the wall and handed it to Siobhan without hesitation. Siobhan accepted it gratefully and paid her. She could have bargained Gwen down but that was not their way. Uncle Kee had talked to her about it years ago. “These people have little enough, compared to us, with the dole and all. We can afford to pay what they ask—it’s only once a year.”
Siobhan lingered and knew that Gwen sensed she wanted to talk about something. Time was nothing to Gwen so she perched on her blackened stool and lit a cigarette. Siobhan felt peaceful and at ease with her, and made no effort to hurry herself into conversation. She’d always felt comfortable with Gwen and Turf; even though their lifestyle was a complete inversion of her own, they were “different”—set apart, a bit peculiar—as she herself was.
“Gwen,” Siobhan finally asked, “can you love someone if you don’t really know them? And how can you tell if you love them?”
Again, as she had years ago, Galway Gwen considered the matter gravely before answering.
“Those questions are as old as those hills out there, missy. Have you learned nothing from all that old poetry you’re always reading? But then, the poets never get it quite right, do they? Because what’s true in love for the poet might not be for them that’s reading it. Love has as many faces as there are faces on God’s earth, that’s the way of it. And there’s no one trick or rule that’ll tell you what you want to know. But I’ll tell you what I think. If when you’re not together there’s a little emptiness inside you—not some bloody craziness, mind, but an empty hollow deep down in yourself—then that’s a love for a lifetime. That’s the way of it, as I see it.”
Siobhan sat down at her computer at 12:45 a.m. to e-mail Tim:
The travelers came today. Gwen, the old stalwart, her son Turf, his wife JoJo and their children. They come every September around this time. Sometimes they camp overnight, although they didn’t this year. Remember the lines from the fourteenth century “The Land of Cockaigne”?
In Paradise what can you see
But flowers, grass, and greenest tree?
Though joy and pleasure there are good
Ripe fruit’s the only kind of food;
There is no hall nor bower nor bench
But water man his thirst to quench.
Every time they visit I think of that—Gwen and her family experience all those feelings just like our ancestors did a thousand years ago. I think that means a lot to her; it unites her freedom with her history. And I love being connected to the rhythm of their lives. I always look forward to them coming. Each year we buy sweaters from Gwen. They are thick and warm and knitted in lovely colors. One of my favorite things is a soft blue shawl that my grandmother got from Gwen years ago. I love the feel of it around my shoulders. I also bought a present for Uncle Kee. His fiftieth birthday is next month, and Gwen had a wonderful carved Celtic mask, of the Janus figure on Boa Island. She is a kind, wise woman. I think she likes the world to believe she’s hard. Maybe she is, in some ways, but only in things necessary to survive—things in her head, not in her heart.
Siobhan’s own heart beat a little faster as she typed the next paragraph.
I find myself lately wondering more about what it would be like to see some of the world. I’ve spent my whole life at the Leeside. I see people who go here and there but don’t seem happy. I also see people who’ve taken a good look at the world, and only then have made their decision about where they want to be. Like the Kellehers, or Brendan and Maura, or even Katie. How does a person really know where they are meant to be? Do you think you’ve seen enough of the world to know where you would be happy?
Or with whom, she finished the thought. She clicked the Send button and her message was cast out into the dark early morning.