Wandering in Exile (4 page)

Her mother had always told her to try things because that’s how she would find out what she liked, but she probably meant vegetables and things like that and not going to live with a boyfriend. She was very liberal about a lot of things but she was having enough difficulty getting her father to accept that Grainne had a child with a painter. And they still hadn’t gotten around to getting ‘Church’ married.

Grainne had explained it all patiently—that they loved each other and wanted to have children but they just didn’t believe in marriage.

“Not believe in marriage?” her father had fussed and bubbled. “How can you not believe in marriage? You can dread it and fear it, but you can’t not believe in it. That’s like saying that you don’t believe in death.”

Her mother had eyed him coldly until he sat down and accepted the whole thing but Deirdre could tell that it never sat well with either of them. And her going off to spend a few weeks with Danny in Canada would be no different.

Jacinta had been very formal so Deirdre couldn’t say no. She wanted to say she was busy but she didn’t want to lie. She’d just stay and have tea and they would probably talk about how much they were missing Danny.

Jacinta made a fuss and insisted on serving tea in china cups, a part of Granny’s collection that she had been able to retrieve from the pawn. She also insisted that they sit in the conservatory that Jerry had rebuilt for her. “He didn’t actually do the work,” she explained. “A friend of Donal’s did the brickwork and new glazing and Jerry painted it and put in a bit of outdoor carpeting.” But it looked grand and was warm in the spring sunshine.

“You’re not still thinking of going over, are you?” Jacinta asked after she had poured their tea and settled back into her wicker chair.

Deirdre was hesitant. “I was thinking about it.”

“Are you sure? Danny might read something into it and you don’t want to be leading him on, do you?”

“You’d be better off forgetting about her and getting on with your own life,” his mother told him the next time he phoned.

“I can’t, Ma. She means the world to me.”

“Well I hate to be the one to break the bad news, Danny, but she’s going out with someone else.”

“She can’t be. She just wrote to me and said she was still thinking about visiting.”

She hadn’t. Her letters were vague, talking only about how much studying she had to do and how she was worried that she might not do as well as she hoped in her finals. But he couldn’t admit that to himself. And certainly not to his mother, who almost sounded happy with her news.

“Well I’m only telling you what I know.”

“But she can’t, Ma.”

“Oh, Danny. You don’t know women. They do whatever their hearts tell them. Not that you can blame her. You’re over there and she’s over here with the whole world between you.”

He didn’t blame her; he blamed himself. He had no right to expect her to give up anything for him. He wasn’t worth it. He had proven that so many times before. When she came to see him, that day in the Dandelion, she was probably just doing what was right. It meant everything to him and helped him get through it all, but now that he was safe in Canada, he had no right to ask anymore of her.

It was like the guardian angels his granny used to tell him about; good people didn’t stay in his life. He spent a lot of the day thinking about all that his granny used to tell him. He didn’t feel so bad about most of it anymore but he wished she had talked to him about what happened to his mother—rather than finding out the way he did. He was still a little pissed at his father over that, but who was he to hold a grudge?

He had, he decided as he leaned on the bar of the Duke of Gloucester, survived the worst of it.

He liked to spend Saturday afternoons there. He liked the neighborhood and each evening, as he walked from Yonge, across Isabella, everyone he met asked if he’d like some company.

He was embarrassed the first few times but he knew them all by now; young girls running from frying pans to fires and young men, showing their real selves only at night, offering every sexual possibility for nothing more than money.

Some nights Danny was so lonely he was tempted. But he couldn’t—they were even sadder and lonelier than he was. And he always had the Windsor. He spent his Saturday nights there and one of these nights he’d chat someone up and take her home with him. He hadn’t before because of Deirdre, but she wasn’t going to be a part of his life anymore.

It was one of those nights—a blur of bearded bands belting out
The Wild Rover
and
Whiskey in the Jar
. Crowds of young women, second and third generation mostly, danced and gyrated with abandon as young men, recent immigrants mostly, hovered by the bar until their courage grew.

She slipped through the crowd and popped up like a daffodil in the space between Danny and the bar and waved her empty glass at the barman, like it was his fault.

“I’ll get that,” Danny drawled as he lit a cigarette, “and gimme one too.”

He was trying to look her up-and-down, casually, but his own smoke was drifting into his face, causing it to twitch and causing his eyes to water.

“FOB?” she asked as she turned toward him and struggled to contain her smile. He was trying to read her face so she batted her eyelids and dazzled him a little more.

“Is that some kind of French thing for WOP?” He was wearing polyester pants that were low on his hips and were tight around the crotch, leaving little to the imagination.

“Just over?” She smiled at him like she was a little concerned—like he might be a bit slow.

“Me? No. I’ve been here for a few years now. Just got back from a business trip to Europe, ya know.”

“What type of business are you in?”

She was probably giving him a little more rope but he had to go for it. “International business, ya know?”

“Where were you?”

“Do you know Ireland?”

“I read about it once—something about a war or something.” She tilted her head and let her blonde hair tumble down her shoulder to where her sweater swelled.

“Yeah! We’ve had a few of them. I was in the North, ya know, where we’re still trying to get the Brits out, ya know?” He checked from side-to-side before he leaned closer to her face. “That’s what I was on business about, ya know?”

Her skin was almost perfect and her lips were big and warm. Her eyes were a deep sea green, deepening as he got closer.

“Really, are you one of the Freedom Fighters? What do call yourselves, I.R.B. or something?”

“Ah now, I’ve said enough ya know.” He leaned back against the bar and tried to jam his thumb into his waistband but his pants were far too tight. He was getting erect, too, and turned to one side and drained half of his beer as he rearranged himself.

“What’s your name?”

“Billie. What’s yours?”

“Danny. Danny Boyle.”

“Isn’t that a song?”

“Not with the ‘le.’ So what do you do with yourself then, Billie?”

“Guess.”

“I bet you’re an art student, or a model or something like that.”

“Close, Danny boy.” She took the cigarette he offered and let her hair trail along the back of his hand as she leaned forward toward the match. “I’m doing my Masters in Celtic Studies. Right now I’m doing a paper on Irish caricatures and clichés.”

She watched him as his smile wrinkled at the edges. His bulging withered, too, and for a moment he felt like a total fool. But he had to shake it off and looked her straight in the eye. “I really just came over a few months ago. I’m sorry about all that. I was just trying to make an impression, ya know?”

“Okay, I suppose I can let that one pass but do me a favor, Danny boy? Don’t be such an asshole.”

He was unsure and hunched over his drink so she couldn’t see the side of his eyes where little tears were gathering. He should never have tried to be smooth. He should have just been himself. She was probably one of those libbers that always felt she had to put men in their place.

“Danny? I was just teasing you.”

“Well then, I’ll forgive you. Just this once.”

She leaned closer and smiled. “So what do you think of the band?”

“They’re all right. I’m a musician myself, ya know?”

“Really? Maybe I’ll come and hear you play sometime.”

“So am I going to get a second chance then?”

“Just until someone better comes along.” She nudged him with her elbow and pressed closer as the crowd at the bar grew tighter and tighter. The bearded bands became more boisterous, enlivened now as the close of night approached. When they could stand solemnly, with the total reverence of the crowd, and proclaim to the entire city of Toronto, and the cobweb morality the old Orangemen had imposed, that: “Ireland long a province be a Nation once again.”

After the cheering died and the lights were raised, intruding on soft intimacies and pools of boozy passion, the crowd thinned out, leaving only those still in negotiation. Mostly young lads trying to pull birds as well as a few pockets of older men, still trying to solve the problems of the world.

When Billie and Danny stepped outside, Richmond Street was empty. Cold winds had scoured it clean and white-stained by salt, but he wasn’t ready to say goodnight. “You could come to my place. It’s just up on Jarvis Street and we could stop at Harvey’s and I can buy you a burger.”

“Why? Don’t you have any food in your place?”

“I have bacon, Canadian bacon, but it’s in the freezer.”

“Keeping it for a big occasion?”

“At least until I buy some knives and forks.”

“As tempting as that sounds, Danny boy, I’m going to go home.”

“Well, I’ll come with you then.”

“No you can’t. I live with my parents and my father has a shotgun. A really big one.”

They laughed all the way to the subway and he didn’t stop there. He went with her, all the way out to Victoria Park and then on the streetcar where he placed his arm around the seat rest behind them.

“You still can’t stay, Danny.”

“I know that. I just want to see you safely home—that’s all.”

“That’s very gentlemanly of you.”

“Good, because I would love to go out with you again.”

“Are you sure you have room in your business schedule?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“Well, as a matter of fact I do have one night open next week. Next Saturday, same time, same place?”

She insisted that he stay on the streetcar. “My house is just around the corner and I don’t want the neighbors to see you walk me home. They’d tell on me and I might get grounded.”

“Are you serious?”

“Of course not! Listen! I don’t know you so I don’t want you knowing where I live. You might try to sneak back and climb in my bedroom window.”

“And what makes you think I might do something like that, unless you’d like me to?”

“Good night, Danny boy. See you next Saturday.”

As the autumn settled in, Patrick Reilly jumped at the chance to see her again but convinced himself that it was for the cause. “We can’t just let them destroy it.” Miriam’s voice had sounded strained. He had called to see how she was; she’d been away for the summer. “We’re all going down. You have to join us.” They were all going down to Wood Quay to try to save the recently uncovered Viking ruins from being covered up by progress. “You will come won’t you, Patrick? I know it’s your evening off so you can have no excuse.”

He had never done anything like this in his life. He was more inclined to shake his head and say it was a shame—or a holy shame if the situation was bad enough to warrant it. But Miriam had a very contagious fire inside of her. She took issue with the things she thought were wrong and always spoke out against them. He wanted to ask her if she wasn’t afraid of getting into trouble again. But that was just stupid of him. What more could they do to her now? Excommunication?

Besides, it was just Dublin Corporation. The Church didn’t concern itself too much with them. It would be different if they were going to build the cathedral there and not an office block. No! There was no reason why he shouldn’t go down and lend his support to a good cause. This was the bones of the city they were going to pave over. He kept telling himself that but he still felt a little guilty, like he was sneaking off to do something he shouldn’t be doing.

“I’m off now,” he had called up to Fr. Dolan. “I won’t be too late.”

He didn’t like his new parish priest, God forgive him. There was something shifty about him. But he had to give the man a chance. It was a big change for both of them.

He wasn’t the only priest that went. There were even a few monsignors with their flashings of red, strutting among the crowd like robins among starlings. He hadn’t worn his collar and he regretted it. It wasn’t your everyday class of protest. There were people from archeological societies from all over, standing shoulder to shoulder with union members and assorted activists and young lads just hanging out and, of course, the university crowds.

Miriam waved him over. They had torches and were just getting ready to light them as the sky darkened above Christchurch, standing out on the crest of the hill like Mary Shelley’s castle.

He didn’t dare carry a torch but walked along beside Miriam as she marched with hers held out in front of her. The glow sparkled in her eyes and her cheeks blushed and flickered. Her hair shone, red and yellow and black. He almost wanted to reach out and run his fingers through it.

Everyone around them was outraged.

They were there to try to save Wood Quay, the heart and soul of Dublin, from the talons of those that had been elected to serve them.

“It could be so much more,” they encouraged each other with visions of urban spaces where people could gather, not for profit but for the sheer pleasure of it. “It could be the center of a living, breathing city. It would let the people reach out and touch the past that made them.”