had done. A quiet man, under middle size—
My arse.
with strong shoulders and deep-set blue eyes below brows slightly darker than his dark hair. That was Shawn Kelvin. One shoulder had a trick of hunching slightly higher than the other—
That was true. I did carry one shoulder higher than the other. But only after I’d been shot a few times and I’d fallen off a train. He’d got the eyes right too, although he could have made more of them. The dates were way off, and the geography. I’d never returned, to Dublin or Kerry, or anywhere else.
But I couldn’t be sure. There were holes in my life, holes that I still fell into. I’d been twenty when I left. I remembered leaving, standing on the deck of the night boat to Liverpool. I remembered myself exactly then. I stood in the wind and felt the rise and drop of the boat as it tried to cut across the waves. I’d left, but I’d never gone back.
But I had to keep reading. I couldn’t be certain I wasn’t in there. The Quiet Man was nearly twenty years old; it had been published in 1933. I’d had brothers, sisters I couldn’t name. I’d done things I couldn’t properly recall. I’d met people I didn’t know. Was one of them this man, Maurice Walsh, the chap who’d written the story? Had I spilled my guts to him one night in Chicago or St Louis, or anywhere? I could say No, but only because I couldn’t remember.
She was past her first youth into that second one that has no definite ending. She might be thirty - she was no less - but there was not a lad in the countryside would say she was past her prime.
That wasn’t too far from Miss O’Shea. She’d been out of her young years when I’d accidentally caught up with her, at her mother’s house in Roscommon. She’d been sick but she’d been beautiful, out there in the field, when - Two and two? - I’d turned and found her, much older than me but still a young one.
I kept reading, but the more I read the less I had to care.
On himself, and on himself only, lay the task of moulding her into a wife and lover.
I could laugh at the thought of moulding Miss O’Shea. She’d have boxed the fuckin’ head off me. I could relax now. I read, because it was a story. And I finished it. I took the pages away from my face. It was dark.
I’d been worried. I’d been terrified that I’d be in there, with Miss O’Shea, my life already told. It was the fear that I wouldn’t know it, that I’d read it and not know myself, no matter how often I read, or coaxed and battered my memory.
But it wasn’t about me at all. I felt that certainty, and I stretched. I hadn’t stretched like that since I was a young fella. The enjoyment of it, the pride - the sheer length of this fine man - I did it and heard no cracks. I could relax; I could rest. I was still intact.
Then there was the fury.
Your man in the story, Shawn Kelvin, a steel-worker and a boxer, came home to Ireland from Pittsburgh. He set up house and married Ellen O’Grady, a fine-looking bird with a tongue and a temper. Her brother, Big Liam - for fuck sake - wanted her out of the house, so he could bring another woman into it, a widow with a few quid. There was a dowry too - the fuckin’ dowry that Ford had tried to shove into my life. Kelvin wasn’t fussed about the dowry; he was happy enough with the woman. But Ellen was having none of it. She wanted what was hers. There’d have to be a scrap, because Big Liam wouldn’t cough up. But Kelvin wouldn’t fight Big Liam. Ellen was ashamed of him, and that was the start of the lockout; the legs stayed shut. So Kelvin demanded the money, in front of the wife and Big Liam’s farmhands. He told him he could have the sister back; all deals were off. He more or less threw her into the muck in front of Big Liam. So Liam stormed off, and came back with the money. Kelvin took the cash without even looking at it, and made straight for the thresher - whatever the fuck that was, some farming machine with a
My arse.
with strong shoulders and deep-set blue eyes below brows slightly darker than his dark hair. That was Shawn Kelvin. One shoulder had a trick of hunching slightly higher than the other—
That was true. I did carry one shoulder higher than the other. But only after I’d been shot a few times and I’d fallen off a train. He’d got the eyes right too, although he could have made more of them. The dates were way off, and the geography. I’d never returned, to Dublin or Kerry, or anywhere else.
But I couldn’t be sure. There were holes in my life, holes that I still fell into. I’d been twenty when I left. I remembered leaving, standing on the deck of the night boat to Liverpool. I remembered myself exactly then. I stood in the wind and felt the rise and drop of the boat as it tried to cut across the waves. I’d left, but I’d never gone back.
But I had to keep reading. I couldn’t be certain I wasn’t in there. The Quiet Man was nearly twenty years old; it had been published in 1933. I’d had brothers, sisters I couldn’t name. I’d done things I couldn’t properly recall. I’d met people I didn’t know. Was one of them this man, Maurice Walsh, the chap who’d written the story? Had I spilled my guts to him one night in Chicago or St Louis, or anywhere? I could say No, but only because I couldn’t remember.
She was past her first youth into that second one that has no definite ending. She might be thirty - she was no less - but there was not a lad in the countryside would say she was past her prime.
That wasn’t too far from Miss O’Shea. She’d been out of her young years when I’d accidentally caught up with her, at her mother’s house in Roscommon. She’d been sick but she’d been beautiful, out there in the field, when - Two and two? - I’d turned and found her, much older than me but still a young one.
I kept reading, but the more I read the less I had to care.
On himself, and on himself only, lay the task of moulding her into a wife and lover.
I could laugh at the thought of moulding Miss O’Shea. She’d have boxed the fuckin’ head off me. I could relax now. I read, because it was a story. And I finished it. I took the pages away from my face. It was dark.
I’d been worried. I’d been terrified that I’d be in there, with Miss O’Shea, my life already told. It was the fear that I wouldn’t know it, that I’d read it and not know myself, no matter how often I read, or coaxed and battered my memory.
But it wasn’t about me at all. I felt that certainty, and I stretched. I hadn’t stretched like that since I was a young fella. The enjoyment of it, the pride - the sheer length of this fine man - I did it and heard no cracks. I could relax; I could rest. I was still intact.
Then there was the fury.
Your man in the story, Shawn Kelvin, a steel-worker and a boxer, came home to Ireland from Pittsburgh. He set up house and married Ellen O’Grady, a fine-looking bird with a tongue and a temper. Her brother, Big Liam - for fuck sake - wanted her out of the house, so he could bring another woman into it, a widow with a few quid. There was a dowry too - the fuckin’ dowry that Ford had tried to shove into my life. Kelvin wasn’t fussed about the dowry; he was happy enough with the woman. But Ellen was having none of it. She wanted what was hers. There’d have to be a scrap, because Big Liam wouldn’t cough up. But Kelvin wouldn’t fight Big Liam. Ellen was ashamed of him, and that was the start of the lockout; the legs stayed shut. So Kelvin demanded the money, in front of the wife and Big Liam’s farmhands. He told him he could have the sister back; all deals were off. He more or less threw her into the muck in front of Big Liam. So Liam stormed off, and came back with the money. Kelvin took the cash without even looking at it, and made straight for the thresher - whatever the fuck that was, some farming machine with a
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