Finnoula

‘Finnoula Morris, you have lived too long.’

I stared at myself in the hall mirror and saw the wreck of a woman against the wreck of a home. Hairlines criss-crossed the once smooth skin, the grey curls lacked lustre, the once erect figure drooped like a bent tree. Already the house felt alien, taken over by packing cases, no longer mine. I was happy here, I thought. We were happy here. Tom and I, then Bridie and I. My husband and my sister. Now it is ended. Tom admired my beauty once, my fine bones, green Irish eyes and glossy black hair. What would he think of me now?

The innocent and the beautiful

Have no enemy but time.

I knew all about time. Hadn’t I taught history once?

‘Silly old fool,’ I said to my mirrored image, ‘get on with it now.’ I limped back to the sitting room where boxes littered the floor. I would have to be careful where I put things. I didn’t want to fall again. On the table, brass candlesticks, two chiming clocks and a collection of knick-knacks awaited my decision – to keep or send to Oxfam? Bridie would have had no trouble choosing, but she was gone. Left with only memories, I was finding it hard to relinquish the objects to which memory clung.

I had hoped it would never come to this, that I would have the good sense to die before independent living became impossible. Used to managing. I was stunned to apathy. I did not want to move.

‘Cysgodfa is a true home from home,’ the manager had said, showing me round. I was attracted by the garden, the freedom to take one’s own furniture, the prospect of privacy with the option of social activities laid on.

We had entered a clean, cream bedsitting room with ensuite bathroom. ‘This would be yours if you decided to come.’

I had decided. Failing health left me no choice. Thankful my savings could secure such spacious surroundings, I noted where my escritoire might go, my favourite Parker Knoll chair, my tallest bookcase. How many books could I bring without cluttering the place? Books were my only companions now. I could not do without them.

‘You may bring your own curtains too if they will fit.’

I shook my head. My curtains, like me, had seen better days.

I need a sherry, I thought, overwhelmed by the change I faced. But instead of carrying me to the dining room where the drinks were kept, my legs gave way and I sank on to the nearest high-backed chair. What a bore old age is. I found my stick, propped against a table, and prepared to do battle with my arthritis. But first I had to be still, take deep breaths and gather strength.

It was then that I remembered Elin’s letter. I had tucked it under a candlestick that morning, meaning to read it when my cleaner had gone. I reached for it, glad of an excuse to delay getting up.

Elin didn’t write often, twice a year at most, but her letters always cheered me. She had been the star pupil of my teaching days, one of the few who kept in touch. We had recognised each other as kindred spirits despite the teacher-pupil divide. It was our nature to push boundaries, ask awkward questions, challenge the status quo. She would have made a fine historian if she had not gone in for law.

I smiled. Pupils rarely take your advice, ’specially the strong-minded ones. Elin could be frustrating beyond belief. She had a good brain but would not work. Her approach to rules was casual, her behaviour often outrageous – one speech day she arrived to collect her prize wearing a reefer jacket and her latest boyfriend’s shirt. Another time she hung a Free Wales Army banner from her classroom window. She insisted on speaking Welsh whenever possible though the school taught in English. But she was quick to grasp the heart of an argument, a lover of ideas, a pleasure to teach when in the right mood.

Staff members she provoked argued with the head for tougher sanctions.

‘She brings the school into disrepute…She upsets the others…You must make her toe the line.’

‘That Pritchard girl! Writing letters in Science class then having the cheek to say it was to do with school because she was writing to her MP about Welsh language education.’

‘Now she’s appeared in court aren’t you going to expel her?’

But Elin was our brightest hope of an Oxbridge place and such awards were rare for a school like ours. Despite everything she was likeable. She could talk her way out of any tight corner with her silvery Celtic tongue. She didn’t go to Oxbridge though – ‘Too English and too establishment,’ she argued, ‘I couldn’t fit in.’

Couldn’t or wouldn’t? I asked myself. We tried to point out the long history of Welsh scholarship at Oxford and Cambridge. Wasn’t Bishop Morgan, translator of the Welsh Bible a Cambridge man?

‘Look beyond Wales,’ I urged her, from my own experience of exile. ‘You need to widen your horizons. Get the bigger picture. Learn from the best minds.’

‘There are good minds in Wales.’

‘I know that.’ So there were in Ireland when I was young, I wanted to say. I had to get away for more than education. As you do, Elin, I thought. ‘Spending your whole life in a small country can limit your perspective. You’ll get locked in a narrow way of seeing before you’ve had chance to explore the wider options. There are other ways of looking at the world.’

Ill-chosen words. They merely fuelled her nationalist passion. I was fighting my brother over again.

‘Sean, there must be other ways than violence and hate.’

‘You tell me, then. Where have decades of pussyfooting got us? Ireland is still divided.’

That was why I left. I could not live with the boxes we put ourselves in, the walls around us, the insidious, suffocating myths that bind us to the past.

‘Violence doesn’t bring freedom. It ties you up all the more.’

‘Well now, St. Finnoula, will you be telling them in the North how they get jobs and houses with all this discrimination, ask the Prods nicely will they ease up on us? See where that’ll get you.’

If I had been a stronger person, a better Christian, I might have been able to stay and work for change. But the tide of events was against me. Within ten years violence had broken out in earnest and was to last for decades. I could never have taken on my whole family in that atmosphere. Not with our kind of Republicanism, which bred martyrs for the cause. They would have me killed first.

‘They’ll not give an inch till we hurt what they value,’ Sean said. ‘It’s a war we are fighting.’

I saw the same passion in Elin and her friends and was afraid for them. When you have known what nationalism can do you fear its hold on young minds. I had no wish to see her join a Welsh radical group that sanctioned violence. Many feared the growth of such then.

‘There’ll be time enough to return to Wales after,’ I assured her. ‘You can bring back what you’ve learnt, enrich your country, have something positive to give.’

‘So why aren’t you in Ireland?’ She had the grace to blush then, apologise for overstepping the mark and withdraw. But her riposte left me riled – and unsettled.

That was typical of Elin. She had a way of turning things back on you, shining a searchlight on your own life. She always had the last word. Teaching her was like working a thoroughbred of great potential but wayward temperament. You had to humour, tease, cajole to get her best.

‘Think about it,’ I tried some weeks later, after we had discussed university entrance. She was more receptive, chastened by her brush with the police and parental censure. ‘If it’s Welsh independence you’re fighting for, or a bigger say in your own affairs, you need to know the system. Isn’t it the first rule of war to know your enemy?’

She smiled in spite of herself.

‘Of course, if you think you couldn’t stand the challenge of a different environment…’

She stalked away, glowering, but turned up next morning with her UCL entrance forms filled in. She slapped them on my desk for inspection, daring me to comment. I refused to say a word.

‘How did you do it?’ the head asked afterwards.

‘Luck. I managed to hit the right spot at the right time.’

‘Well done, anyway. The sooner she’s out of the nationalist orbit the better. I don’t want her wasting her life in jail. She’s mad enough to do anything if they put her up to it.’

‘It’s the boyfriend, I think, the one who was in court.’

‘Let’s hope she grows out of him. Separation won’t do them any harm.’

Elin never came back to Wales. I am not sure why, her later letters do not say. When she finished her studies she stayed in London.

As I reached for her letter I had a mental picture of her as she was at school – long, red hair, open collar, no tie, arguing in a sixth form debate on the importance of political protest. I could envisage her then as a barrister, or politician. ‘A suffragette,’ Miss Phipps remarked, ‘born after her time.’

‘An idealist,’ I corrected, ‘and very much of her time.’ Nationalism was the cause of the moment and Elin embraced it wholeheartedly. A few years later she would have been burning her bra.

I smiled and spread out her letter. It was satisfying to have steered Elin to university. When she got a First we were delighted and approved of her intention to do research. Then I heard nothing from her till the eighties when she wrote from Hong Kong sending a donation to a school project. I learned she was working for an international law firm, a fact that took some digesting. It was hard to imagine the Elin I knew in that world.

‘Our ugly duckling has become a swan,’ gloated Miss Phipps, now on the verge of retirement. ‘Who would have predicted it?’

I was oddly disappointed. Elin had joined the establishment after all.

This letter was a surprise. Not the usual droll account of foreign travels, it was short and to the point. Her brother had died. She didn’t elaborate but I guessed his loss had hit her hard. At school she had seemed closer to Gareth than to either of her parents. There had definitely been something amiss in her relationship with her father. It was obvious at parents’ evenings when he criticised her constantly in front of others.

I shall be in Wales for the funeral on May 21st and will be staying for a week to help my sister-in-law put the will in hand. I thought I’d look up one or two people while I’m there. Could I call on you?

Perhaps you’d let me know if it’s convenient.

She had headed it with her old address and phone number.

Looking at the calendar I realised that Gareth’s funeral had already taken place. I must write a letter of condolence if nothing else. Then I wondered what to do about Elin’s suggestion. The house was a mess. I was moving in a week. People from the local church would be calling to collect the things I had set aside for charity. I felt old and tired. It didn’t seem at all convenient for her to come.

What the hell, I thought, suddenly invigorated. It may be the last and only chance we have to meet. I need something to take me out of myself. I’ll ring to say she can come. But I’ll explain the state I’m in so she knows what to expect.

Her voice surprised me. Precise, standard English, no trace of the Welsh accent she had paraded with such pride. But there was no disguising her pleasure – and her decisiveness.

‘I’ll take you out to lunch if that suits. Then we won’t have to contemplate your packing cases. I assume you’re not immobile?’

‘I can get about but I’m not quick.’

‘Thursday, then. I’m coming to Rhyl anyway. Shall I pick you up at twelve?’

So this was the new Elin. I felt swept along on the tide of her energy. I could do with some of that myself, I thought, and forgetting the sherry, returned to my packing.

And here we are, in the restaurant of a country pub in the Conwy valley, dining together like old friends. It is a pleasant change for me. I do not get out often and the Derw Gwyn has had good reports since it came under new management. I am wearing my emerald suit with the pearls Tom gave me on our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Elin has on a burgundy trouser suit with an orange silk scarf at her neck. I cannot take my eyes from her. For years I have lived with the memory of her as the rebellious student, careless of clothes. Despite her letters this image persisted. Now I am discovering the person she has become. Though recognisably Elin under the smart exterior, understated make-up and tinted hair, she is sophisticated and cosmopolitan. I had not imagined she would change as much as this. ‘You raise your children only for them to become different people,’ somebody once said. It’s as true of old pupils. If only Miss Phipps could see her now.

‘You’re not to choose the cheapest items because I’m paying,’ she warns. ‘Think of this as a thank you for making me see sense all those years ago.’

‘You really think we did?’

‘Undoubtedly. I wouldn’t be where I am now if you hadn’t bullied me into applying to an English university.’

‘I’m not sure ‘bully’s’ the right word.’

‘Whatever it was it did the trick.’

She scrutinises the menu for a moment then says quietly, ‘I needed to get away – more than I realised at the time.’

The waiters are hovering so there is no time for comment. The way Elin handles them, even manages me without patronising, prove her the complete professional. I cannot repress a smile. She always had it in her to command people but never as graciously as this.

We chat over the meal, moving easily from topic to topic: travel, opera, modern history, the world in general. She says little about her work. I gather it concerns the regulation of companies, takeovers and financial contracts. Another world. I am sure I wouldn’t understand even if she tried to explain. She says nothing about Gareth beyond acknowledging my condolences and I realise this lunch is time off for her from the business of bereavement, as it is for me from the upheaval of the move. The sun shines across the valley towards the folds of Hiraethog. This was one of Tom’s favourite views.

Afterwards we take coffee in the lounge and she lights a cigarette. ‘Do you mind? I ought to give it up really, ’specially as they say it contributed to Gareth’s heart attack.’ She blows smoke rings while I sip my coffee and feast on the view.

‘So are you happy, Elin? Has your life turned out as you wanted?’

‘More or less. Give or take one or two glitches I prefer to forget.’

I restrain my curiosity, though I would love to know what happened to the nationalist boyfriend.

Typically, she throws the question back at me. ‘And you?’

‘Apart from having to uproot now. Yes. The school did well, you know, till it was merged.’

‘Do you mind very much giving up your house?’

‘House? No. Independence? Yes. But it has to be done. I’d be a burden to others if I stayed there alone and now my sister’s gone it’s the sensible thing. The retirement home appears well run. I’ll be looked after with the minimum of fuss and I can take some of my furniture with me. It’s not too bad a deal.’ Am I trying to convince myself?

‘Don’t you have relatives in Ireland?’

‘Tom’s family are in the States and I’ve lost touch with my brother’s children. Besides, I’ve not the energy now for that sort of move.’ I think of my homeland’s new confidence, the changes wrought by Europe, the hopes of peace in the North. ‘It seems a better place than when I left. But if I wanted to go back I should have gone when I retired. Then Bridie came to keep me company and the opportunity passed.’

‘You’ve no regrets?’

I shake my head. ‘No, I didn’t really want to return. I enjoyed it here. I was happy, even after Tom died.’

‘Wales has changed, with the Assembly and so on.’ She looks thoughtful. ‘I’m not sure full independence is possible. But a proper Welsh parliament would be good. The Assembly’s neither fish nor fowl.’ Her interest seems academic. No passion there.

‘I always thought you’d be part of a Welsh parliament if it happened.’

‘So I might if I’d stayed. But I’ve widened my horizons.’ A wicked grin and a glimpse of the old Elin beneath the polished exterior. ‘I was a pain, wasn’t I? I wonder how you put up with me at times.’

‘You were an idealist. An angry young woman.’

‘You can say that again. Psychologists would have had a field day…’ She stops speaking abruptly and leans forward to tap her cigarette on the nearest ashtray. ‘That’s all in the past,’ she adds.

But the look in her eyes and the pause that follows tells me it isn’t. Not entirely. I remember the Elin of years ago. Was it simple idealism and youthful passion that led her to behave as she did? Or was there something else? A need to be noticed, perhaps? Frustration? Boredom? Difficulties at home?

For a moment neither of us speaks. Elin stares at the distant view, frowning. Is she remembering her turbulent teenage years, or thinking of her brother? Suddenly she stubs out her cigarette, squashes the smouldering remains in the pottery ashtray, and turns to me with a half smile. ‘Poking into the past doesn’t get you anywhere. Best to take life as it comes, don’t you think? Where would we all be if we spent our time going over things we can’t change?’ Her tone is brisk, dismissive, and I get the feeling she is speaking to herself.

I raise an eyebrow. ‘What are we doing now but remembering our shared past?’ This feels like a return to it – we used to enjoy verbal fencing.

‘I don’t mean that past.’ Her tone is sharp and I see sadness – or is it anger? – in her eyes. I sense shadows from the past drifting round us despite her resolve to ignore them and find myself teasing in response, the way I used to coax her out of her difficult moods at school.

‘The past is useful, of course, if you happen to teach history.’ I manage to suppress a smile. History was her best subject years ago.

She tosses her head and laughs aloud. ‘I ought to have said that, Finn. You’ve stolen my lines.’ We both laugh and our laughter chases away the shadows.

Her remark takes me back to teaching days. It is years since I was called Finn. Bridie used to call me Finnoula. Elin called me Finn to my face at school once, testing how far she could go. Outrageous child. But I proved unshockable, to her annoyance. Now, hearing the affection in her voice, I am flattered to have this personable younger woman address me by my school nickname. It was no lapse. She is grinning at me, the old sparkle in her eyes. But there is no hard edge to her teasing. Elin is not pushing boundaries but affirming our shared past.

What was it about her then that was so engaging as well as so exasperating? We let her get away with behaviour that wouldn’t have been tolerated in anyone else. If she hadn’t been so bright, perhaps, we might have wondered about her background, what her home was like, whether she had sufficient parental support. But her parents seemed pleasant enough on the occasions we met. Unassuming mother. Father a bit of a martinet. They didn’t seem at ease together, I remember.

I return to the present and smile at my star pupil who has come so far. Had she noticed my mental absence? It’s a problem with old age, I find, this tendency to wander down memory’s pathways without warning. Embarrassing in the wrong company.

But Elin is not embarrassed. The silence between us is comfortable and unpressured. She turns from looking out of the window. ‘I wonder if I’ll come back here to live. People do, you know. Wales: the elephants’ graveyard where exiles return to die.’

‘If you do come back,’ I say, slipping into the role of elder counsellor, ‘move while you have the energy to make a new life. While you’re still young.’

‘Young! I’ll be retiring soon. When I think of all the things I was going to do. Change the world, bring in the revolution, turn the academic scene around single-handed. What an innocent I was. Naïve and unrealistic. At least I’ve grown out of all that.’

‘The innocent and the beautiful

Have no enemy but time.’

I can’t resist quoting Yeats.

‘Most of us don’t die innocent or beautiful. We grow up and grow old, lose both innocence and beauty. It’s what’s left when they are gone that matters. And what we do with it.’ I am thinking aloud, speaking to myself but Elin gives me a look, half-amused, half-serious.

‘What to do with what’s left? There’s a question.’ She pauses to examine her hands before giving me a sudden, appreciative smile. ‘You haven’t changed. You always were the only teacher who could make me think.’

In the space that follows, I savour the compliment. A testimonial indeed, I tell myself. I can take this with me wherever I go. It will warm me in my wintry old age.