showed that Ulster was on fire: buses and cars alight, riots in the cities.
‘There’s talk of us being sent, you know,’ he said as we sat down either side of an upright plastic menu wedged in a block of wood. ‘To keep both sides apart.’
I felt myself go dizzy. ‘I’d prefer if you didn’t.’
Hector smiled at me kindly. ‘It’s part of my job, Mother.’
I had not ever thought of this, but now it seemed grotesque.
Hector was saying, ‘It may all fizzle out. We may not be sent at all. God, I’m hungry. D’you think their steak is any good?’
There and then, I wanted to tell him what I had sworn I never would, but I needed time to think and to prepare myself.
Hector was saying, ‘You like it down here, don’t you? Do you have to live in Dublin… I mean, just because that’s where you own a house?’
‘I think by living in Dublin I can love Monument best.’
‘I’ll never live here,’ he said. ‘Not because I’m afraid of bumping into Ronnie — I couldn’t care less, to be frank — but, and this sounds odd, I’ve never felt I belong here.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s an inner thing. I feel more at home in England than in Ireland, and that’s being honest.’
‘You do belong here, Hector, believe me,’ I said. ‘Monument is where you belong.’
Langley had been brought to Sibrille’s church and next morning we got there early to put our flowers on his coffin. Local people stood outside the church door and removed their hats when they saw me. My nostrils were met by the smell of candle wax as we walked in and the heels of our shoes echoed in the empty church.
‘Mrs Shaw?’
A small, hunched man holding a bowler hat at his chest stepped from the shadows. I recognised him as the undertaker from Peppy’s funeral.
‘You’re welcome home, Ma’m. Would you like to see the captain?’
For a moment, the meaning of his words confused me. Then I grasped what he was asking.
‘Oh, you mean, Langley. Hector, he’s asking do we want the coffin opened.’
Hector drew in his breath. ‘Why not?’
The man removed wreaths from the lid and placed them around the bier, then with quick, knowing fingers went to screws along the side and gently lifted off the top. I stared.
‘Isn’t he the real old captain? The real McCoy’, the undertaker said.
Langley was dressed in hunting pink, complete with neck stock, britches and gleaming black boots with the brown top cuffs of a master of foxhounds. In one yellowing hand was clasped his riding crop; in the other, his hunting horn. Above all this splendour presided his head, midway to the skeletal, but touched up with foundation and rouge so that no resemblance whatsoever to Langley Shaw remained.
‘Good Lord,’ Hector said.
‘Whose idea was it?’ I asked.
‘Captain Shaw’s idea, Ma’m, I mean, your… his son’s idea. To send him off in style the way he liked.’
‘Could you not have put a horse in too?’ Hector asked.
We settled on the left of the central aisle, one pew from the front. Very quickly, the little church filled as people came to the coffin and genuflected and placed down their flowers. Langley might not have lived here in over ten years, nor hunted this country in thirty, but the respect he was due for his exploits shone from the faces of the countrymen and women who had come to bury him. Nor was his ancient magnanimity to the Catholic Church forgotten, judging by the numbers of priests making their way, satchels in hand, through the alter rails to the sacristy. Father O’Dea, now a parish priest in Monument, paused and shook our hands.
‘The end of an era, or maybe not,’ he said and winked at Hector. ‘I don’t think I’d bother hunting if there wasn’t a Shaw to show me the way.’
We sat there at the front, unable to turn in our seats and inspect the whispering congregation. Then, as if a blade had fallen, the murmuring ceased. I could hear nothing. Hector was seated forward, elbows on his
‘There’s talk of us being sent, you know,’ he said as we sat down either side of an upright plastic menu wedged in a block of wood. ‘To keep both sides apart.’
I felt myself go dizzy. ‘I’d prefer if you didn’t.’
Hector smiled at me kindly. ‘It’s part of my job, Mother.’
I had not ever thought of this, but now it seemed grotesque.
Hector was saying, ‘It may all fizzle out. We may not be sent at all. God, I’m hungry. D’you think their steak is any good?’
There and then, I wanted to tell him what I had sworn I never would, but I needed time to think and to prepare myself.
Hector was saying, ‘You like it down here, don’t you? Do you have to live in Dublin… I mean, just because that’s where you own a house?’
‘I think by living in Dublin I can love Monument best.’
‘I’ll never live here,’ he said. ‘Not because I’m afraid of bumping into Ronnie — I couldn’t care less, to be frank — but, and this sounds odd, I’ve never felt I belong here.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s an inner thing. I feel more at home in England than in Ireland, and that’s being honest.’
‘You do belong here, Hector, believe me,’ I said. ‘Monument is where you belong.’
Langley had been brought to Sibrille’s church and next morning we got there early to put our flowers on his coffin. Local people stood outside the church door and removed their hats when they saw me. My nostrils were met by the smell of candle wax as we walked in and the heels of our shoes echoed in the empty church.
‘Mrs Shaw?’
A small, hunched man holding a bowler hat at his chest stepped from the shadows. I recognised him as the undertaker from Peppy’s funeral.
‘You’re welcome home, Ma’m. Would you like to see the captain?’
For a moment, the meaning of his words confused me. Then I grasped what he was asking.
‘Oh, you mean, Langley. Hector, he’s asking do we want the coffin opened.’
Hector drew in his breath. ‘Why not?’
The man removed wreaths from the lid and placed them around the bier, then with quick, knowing fingers went to screws along the side and gently lifted off the top. I stared.
‘Isn’t he the real old captain? The real McCoy’, the undertaker said.
Langley was dressed in hunting pink, complete with neck stock, britches and gleaming black boots with the brown top cuffs of a master of foxhounds. In one yellowing hand was clasped his riding crop; in the other, his hunting horn. Above all this splendour presided his head, midway to the skeletal, but touched up with foundation and rouge so that no resemblance whatsoever to Langley Shaw remained.
‘Good Lord,’ Hector said.
‘Whose idea was it?’ I asked.
‘Captain Shaw’s idea, Ma’m, I mean, your… his son’s idea. To send him off in style the way he liked.’
‘Could you not have put a horse in too?’ Hector asked.
We settled on the left of the central aisle, one pew from the front. Very quickly, the little church filled as people came to the coffin and genuflected and placed down their flowers. Langley might not have lived here in over ten years, nor hunted this country in thirty, but the respect he was due for his exploits shone from the faces of the countrymen and women who had come to bury him. Nor was his ancient magnanimity to the Catholic Church forgotten, judging by the numbers of priests making their way, satchels in hand, through the alter rails to the sacristy. Father O’Dea, now a parish priest in Monument, paused and shook our hands.
‘The end of an era, or maybe not,’ he said and winked at Hector. ‘I don’t think I’d bother hunting if there wasn’t a Shaw to show me the way.’
We sat there at the front, unable to turn in our seats and inspect the whispering congregation. Then, as if a blade had fallen, the murmuring ceased. I could hear nothing. Hector was seated forward, elbows on his
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