Ashes In the Wind (16 page)

She laughs. ‘You’ve been the busy one. And it’s clear what you have in mind. They say that one of the Burkes used the Folly to meet his fancy woman from the village. Is that what I am?’ dropping his hand suddenly. ‘Your fancy woman from the village?’

‘No, it is not. You’re my girl, you’re my only girl. I...’ And Grania silences him with a kiss before he can say any more.

Later, when they are lying on the blankets and the cushions, John asks her about her father.

‘He’s IRA all right, and a hard man, a leader. He’s killed men, I’m sure, but so have most soldiers, and he wanted to see Ireland free. He doesn’t think we’ve got there yet. He hates the Oath, hates the Six Counties separated from us, doesn’t believe in the Free State, he’s a de Valera man. When I was at university in Dublin, he was on the run – he’d turn up unannounced every now and then, take some money and some food, and then be off again. I’d hoped all that was over. And now it’s Irishmen killing Irishmen.’

‘You were at Trinity?’

‘You should know by now Trinity’s not for us Papists, on pain of excommunication. I was at University College, Irish Literature.’

‘I’ve not read much, a bit of Swift and Yeats.’

‘That’s Anglo-Irish literature. I mean poetry and prose written in Gaelic. It’s an undiscovered world – you should visit it. Have you any Gaelic?’

‘A little. My mother was fluent.’

‘Good for her. It’s a wonderful language for poetry; it translates pretty well.’

She looks steadily into John’s eyes, and says in a soft voice,

I thought, O my love! you were so
–

As the moon is, or sun on a fountain

And I thought after that you were snow,

The bright snow on top of the mountain;

And I thought after that, you were more

Like God’s lamp shining to find me,

Or the bright star of knowledge before,

And the star of knowledge behind me.

That’s from ‘The Love Songs of Connacht’. Douglas Hyde translated it; he’s a Prod, God help him. It’s even better in the original.’

‘It’s lovely.
As the moon is, or sun on a fountain.
It’s how I feel about you.’ He kisses her.

‘Is it indeed?’ Grania looks happy, jumps up, straightens her clothes and heads for the door.

‘Next Thursday?’ says John.

‘Next Thursday.’

For John these stolen mornings are a source of anticipation for most of the week, delight for two or three hours, and a sharp sense of loss as he rides away.

He finds a Dun Emer Press edition of
The Love Songs of Connacht
in a second-hand bookshop in Maryborough and gives it to Grania when they next meet at the Folly.

‘It’s in English and Irish,’ he says as he gives it to her, and she reads out the poem she had first recited in both languages.

‘You don’t have to choose,’ she tells him.

Later he tells Grania about the murder of his mother and William, his fruitless search, the fire, the visit to Tomas in Kilmainham.

‘It’s a terrible story. I’m sorry about it, sorry for us all,’ Grania says, and holds him tight. ‘And Mannion would have done that sort of thing in his day.’

‘I thought I was a Kerry man, even after the killing and the fire. Right up to the day I left I thought we belonged there. I’d spent most of my life in Kerry. I knew every inch of the Drimnamore River. Tomas and I used to poach it with worms, although he used to say you can’t poach your own river, so what’s the fun in that? I knew all the bogs, knew when the snipe and the woodcock would be in. I could sail around Garinish Island and Rossdohan blindfolded.’

He blows his nose hard.

‘I knew everyone in Drimnamore. We employed twenty-seven men and women on the estate – what’s become of them? What’s happening to the oyster beds? They’ll need to be ordering the spats from France now. Kerry’s such a beautiful county, rain or shine – wild, big, not calm and contented like Queen’s County.’

Grania gives him a little dig in the ribs.

‘I know, Queen’s County is better in many ways. The Famine here was bad enough, but it was far worse in the South-West. You pass roofless cabins every couple of miles along the Kerry roads. But you don’t have the mountains, the estuaries, the big waves of the Atlantic. One day we’ll go there together.’

Grania doesn’t reply, kisses him instead.

‘Grania,’ says John, stroking her cheek. ‘It’s a great name. I love the sound of it.’

‘She was the daughter of Cormac mac Art, high king in Tara. You’re my Diarmuid.’ She kisses John again, and goes on, ‘Grania was promised by her father to Fionn, the leader of the Fianna, even though Fionn was far too old for her. So there’s a great feast in Tara before the wedding, and Grania, pale and silent, suddenly sees the handsome Diarmuid among the guests. She takes the loving cup to him, whispers, “My heart is filled with longing for you,” and lays a
geis
on him, a spell of obligation. Diarmuid has no choice but to go with her, even though he owes loyalty to Fionn. So that night while the guests are asleep they steal away. They are pursued for a year and a day by Fionn and his two hounds, Brann and Sgeolan, but Fionn never lays eyes on the lovers. After many narrow escapes Fionn and Cormac allow them to live in peace. They have four handsome sons.’

‘That’s a happy enough ending.’

‘But it’s not the ending. Fionn and a small band of the Fianna visit Diarmuid, and they decide to go hunting around Ben Bulben. Rash of Diarmuid, as another
geis
had been laid on him years before, forbidding him to hunt the boar. Perhaps he forgot. Anyhow, during the hunt Diarmuid kills a huge boar, but not before it gives him a terrible gash in the thigh. The boar is his half-brother, by the way. Fionn finds Diarmuid dying. Although he has the power of healing, his old resentment is still strong, so he returns with the healing water too late and Diarmuid dies. Years later, Grania’s hatred of Fionn fades away and she marries him and goes to live in Kildare.’

‘I like the beginning, and the four handsome sons. I’m not so happy about the boar, and the way she marries Fionn,’ says John.

Grania smiles and jumps up. ‘Enough legends. There are no boars in Ireland any more, so you’re safe enough. And perhaps it’s you that have laid the
geis
on me.’

John kisses her and she rides away.

The Folly is becoming more comfortable; in one of the side buildings John finds a wooden table, a couple of serviceable chairs and some more cushions. He brings over a dark red carriage rug that he bought in Abbeyleix.

‘It looks like a Turkish seraglio now,’ says Grania, adding as she sees the crestfallen look on John’s face, ‘I’ve always wanted to be the only woman in the harem.’ She pulls him down onto the rug.

They are never together more than a couple of hours, barely long enough to talk, barely long enough to give each other pleasure. When John tries to go further, Grania pushes him away and sits up.

‘I want you too, properly,’ she says. ‘I dream about you, about having you inside me. It’s not hell-fire I’m worried about, although when I go to confession I don’t tell the priest everything, just the sins of pride and envy, and that gives him enough to be getting on with. If I told him about us I’d be saying Hail Marys until Christmas. But I can’t risk getting pregnant. Mannion would kill the both of us. And I like what we do, even if it’s getting off at Rathmines.’

‘Rathmines?’

‘That’s what we convent girls call not going all the way. It’s the last station before Dublin. I’d like to go there with you again, please.’

The next Thursday Grania brings lunch, hot soup in a thermos, slices of ham, some cheese, a couple of apples, two bottles of Guinness. They sit at the little table, drinking Guinness out of tin mugs. John plucks up his courage and asks about Eamonn, not certain he wants to hear the answer.

‘Charles says you’re about to get engaged to a lawyer in Maryborough.’

‘It’s none of his business, and I’m not sure it’s any of yours. They’re all well ahead of themselves. They don’t have enough to think about. You saw Eamonn at the dance. He’s decent, good-looking, rather dull. He’s a Pioneer, and that counts against a man in my book. He never touches a drop, not even this stuff.’

Grania takes a sip of her Guinness.

‘Mannion would like me to marry him sure enough, see me settled with a professional man and surrounded by Catholic children. Funny, that, when you think about his life – farm labourer, gunman, didn’t have a feather to fly with until three years ago. Scrimped to send me to a convent school, thrilled when I went to university, likes the fact that I speak Gaelic better than he does. And now he’s a member of Dáil Éireann, although he followed Dev out and hasn’t been back.’

She takes another sip of her Guinness.

‘I’ll tell you something else. He’s enjoyed the war, God help him. Commanding the IRA round here, and the revolver in his pocket, means that he’s respected and feared. People look up to you Ascendancy Prods automatically. I don’t mean you, my dear one, but you’ve got a confidence you were born with. Which I like, because it hasn’t turned to arrogance. Mannion’s earned his respect. He doesn’t have to touch his cap to anyone.’

‘Do you love him?’

‘Of course I do,’ she says, and pauses. ‘Although he’s not easy. He gets angry, and takes it out on whoever’s handy.’

She pauses, rubs the back of her neck, then goes on.

‘I’m a little afraid of him, if I’m honest. He’s thought about raising his hand to me once or twice, but never done it. He sees everything in black and white, or green against red, white and blue.’

‘I meant Eamonn. Have you ever...’ and John’s mouth goes dry before he can finish.

‘You needn’t worry; I don’t love him, and Eamonn would faint if I opened my mouth for a kiss. Here, let me show you something else he and I haven’t done together.’

She pulls him down onto the rug, loosens his belt, grazes her cheek along his stomach, and takes him in her mouth. Then she says, ‘And you can kiss me there too,’ and shows him how and where.

‘Glory,’ she says when he has stopped. ‘That took me well beyond Rathmines.’

Later John watches as she trots away down the ride. He sets off for his cottage, passes a wild apple tree, plucks a branch of blossom, turns around and canters after Grania. When he catches her up she has dropped the reins and her horse is ambling along; she is singing quietly to herself, ‘O my dark Rosaleen, Do not sigh, do not weep.’

John pulls up beside her, kisses her and gives her the white and pink branch.

‘Sean, you’re my dear one,’ she says. They ride along slowly, knees touching and holding hands, until they reach the top of the little hill looking down on the Mannion farm.

‘Be off with you now,’ and Grania leans across for a final kiss.

The next time they meet they leave the horses tied up outside the Folly and walk slowly through the woods, holding hands, stopping to kiss each other. Grania picks a bunch of primroses, which she puts in the tin mug above the fireplace. When they have finished lunch, John stands up, holds her hand and takes a step towards the cushions. Grania shakes her head.

‘The English have landed, it’s the wrong time of the month,’ she says, and John is happy at the reason for the morning’s celibacy. He sits down again and asks Grania about her mother.

‘She walked out on Mannion after the Easter Rising. She couldn’t stand the coming and going in the middle of the night, not knowing where the next meal was coming from. I went with her at first to Mountrath, but then my sister got married and I moved to the farm to look after Mannion and the horses. I go over there once or twice a month. She’s a teacher in the elementary school, teaches Gaelic. She got me going on the language, sent me away to summer school every year in the Gaeltacht, in Connemara. I love it there, it’s maybe as beautiful as Kerry. Wild enough, and it has those big Atlantic waves.’

‘You won’t go there this year, surely.’

‘Ah, my dear one, I will, I must. I speak no Gaelic when I’m here, read little enough, and I still have work to do on my MA thesis. It has a grand title, “The impact of
The Lament for Art O’Leary
on the poetry and politics of modern Ireland”.’

‘Art O’Leary?’

‘Shame on you, Sean, and it written by a Kerry woman from Derrynane, just down the road from Derriquin. Eileen O’Connell, aunt of the Liberator. Her husband, Art O’Leary, was murdered by one of yours – all right, by an Englishman – who wanted his horse. It sounds best in Irish:

Mo ghrá go daingean tu!

L
á
d
á
bhfaca tu

Ag ceann tí an mhargaidh,

Thug mo shúil aire dhuit...

‘I know Mo ghrá, and mo mhuirnin. My love, my darling, I’ll find eight weeks without you hard.’

‘I will send postcards, although they won’t be very loving, as they all get read and passed around at the Post Office. And when I come back...’

She doesn’t finish.

‘And when you come back?’

‘Then we’ll see. I’ll not be here next Thursday; I spend most of next week with my mother. I go to Connemara two days after I get back from Mountrath.’

They hold each other for a long time outside. Grania’s face is wet with tears, which John kisses away.

A day later John goes to take The Elector out to his paddock and finds him lying down in his box. He doesn’t get up until John gets Mick to help him.

‘Looks like colic,’ says Mick.

‘I looked in on him last night and he was fine. And he’s only getting a peck of hay, no oats.’

‘It’ll walk off, sure.’

They take the horse up to the paddock; his eyes are dull, his head heavy. Once through the gate he stands still where he normally canters away.

‘He’s not himself at all. I’ll get Charles to come, see what he thinks.’

Charles comes and looks worried. ‘If it’s colic it’s bad – best get the big vet over from the Curragh. He’s your man for a real problem. I’ll phone him from the house. You take the horse back to the box and stay with him.’