knees, head in his hands. It was a sliding noise at first, imperceptible unless you listened for it. I strained my eyes into the very corners of their sockets. My husband, alone, had arrived level with our pew. It was Ronnie, beyond a doubt, yet it was Ronnie with twenty years added. He stood, looking down at us. Then, he genuflected, a most laborious business, and took his place in the foremost pew on the aisle’s other side.
I remember little of the service or of the eulogies, hunting stories and prayers. Three teams each of six men from the locality shared the shouldering of Langley out into a day of blissful sunshine, of high swallows, of warm air tinged with the ozone from the nearby sea. When he was lowered down, the huntsman sounded the ‘gone away!’, shrill pips that stirred the blood, and then the long, mournful notes that draw in the close of the hunting day.
‘Ronnie.’
He turned to me.
‘I just wanted you to know that I am very sorry for your grief. I feel for you.’
‘Thank you, Iz.’
He was looking over my shoulder to where Hector had been a moment before.
‘Will you and Hector come back to the pub for a drink? I’ve arranged food.’
‘I think not, Ronnie.’
‘Iz, can we not… things are not good.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it.’
‘I’ve been a fool.’
I couldn’t hurt him beside his father’s open grave.
‘Ronnie, we are what we are. It’s not our fault. Don’t torture yourself, not today.’
‘Hector…’
‘He’s upset, Ronnie.’
‘He’s my son.’
‘He’s upset and angry.’
‘Oh God. Come back for ten minutes.’
I thought of Hector. ‘Sorry, I have to go now.’
‘You don’t have to go, Iz.’
‘Yes, I do.’
I felt a wonderful freedom all at once, for I was no longer tied there. I had escaped and could leave without constraint or conscience. Even the sea could not keep me, much as I had once thought it could, for now I ached for the trees in my Dublin garden, the silence at night, the faces of strangers and the balm of solitude. I found Hector by the car.
‘Do you want to go to the pub?’ he asked. ‘I can drive you there, but I won’t go in.’
‘I want to go home. Now.’
It was not until we were coming in along Captain Penny’s Road that either of us spoke.
‘He looks like death,’ I said.
‘She’s left him.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘A couple of months ago. Dick Coad told me.’
‘Was Dick there?’
‘He was looking for you. He told me she’s run off to England with some old farm hand.’
I looked at Hector. ‘Not Beasley?’
‘Dick didn’t say.’
To laugh seemed the only response. ‘Oh, God, wait till Bibs hears. Poor Ronnie. What a fool.’
‘He’s up to his neck, according to Dick. Some old case in which he diddled someone. They’re taking him to court.’
‘That happened years ago!’
‘Dick said he could do jail,’ Hector said and slammed through the gears of the rented car. ‘And you ask me whether I’d like to come back here again? And be the son of a man who left his wife to live with a tart and who’s now all but in the clink because he’s a crook? Christ, I never want to set foot in this bloody place again.’
As we met the foothills, I thought of how, had it not been for Hector, I might well have gone back for ten minutes, and then learned that Lucy was gone, and of the old trouble that now seemed set to put paid to Ronnie once and for all; and if I had, and had come within reach again of the sea, perhaps I might have thought my freedom to be an illusion and, once again, persuaded myself that my place was with a man who needed me.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
1970
Very slowly, I grew into the daily life of Dublin. The people had a quickness and agility to them, an eye for the main chance but a ready sense of humour that was different to the more open, easy-going inhabitants of a village like Sibrille. Yet Dublin was an amalgamation of little villages, being quite rapidly subsumed into a
I remember little of the service or of the eulogies, hunting stories and prayers. Three teams each of six men from the locality shared the shouldering of Langley out into a day of blissful sunshine, of high swallows, of warm air tinged with the ozone from the nearby sea. When he was lowered down, the huntsman sounded the ‘gone away!’, shrill pips that stirred the blood, and then the long, mournful notes that draw in the close of the hunting day.
‘Ronnie.’
He turned to me.
‘I just wanted you to know that I am very sorry for your grief. I feel for you.’
‘Thank you, Iz.’
He was looking over my shoulder to where Hector had been a moment before.
‘Will you and Hector come back to the pub for a drink? I’ve arranged food.’
‘I think not, Ronnie.’
‘Iz, can we not… things are not good.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it.’
‘I’ve been a fool.’
I couldn’t hurt him beside his father’s open grave.
‘Ronnie, we are what we are. It’s not our fault. Don’t torture yourself, not today.’
‘Hector…’
‘He’s upset, Ronnie.’
‘He’s my son.’
‘He’s upset and angry.’
‘Oh God. Come back for ten minutes.’
I thought of Hector. ‘Sorry, I have to go now.’
‘You don’t have to go, Iz.’
‘Yes, I do.’
I felt a wonderful freedom all at once, for I was no longer tied there. I had escaped and could leave without constraint or conscience. Even the sea could not keep me, much as I had once thought it could, for now I ached for the trees in my Dublin garden, the silence at night, the faces of strangers and the balm of solitude. I found Hector by the car.
‘Do you want to go to the pub?’ he asked. ‘I can drive you there, but I won’t go in.’
‘I want to go home. Now.’
It was not until we were coming in along Captain Penny’s Road that either of us spoke.
‘He looks like death,’ I said.
‘She’s left him.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘A couple of months ago. Dick Coad told me.’
‘Was Dick there?’
‘He was looking for you. He told me she’s run off to England with some old farm hand.’
I looked at Hector. ‘Not Beasley?’
‘Dick didn’t say.’
To laugh seemed the only response. ‘Oh, God, wait till Bibs hears. Poor Ronnie. What a fool.’
‘He’s up to his neck, according to Dick. Some old case in which he diddled someone. They’re taking him to court.’
‘That happened years ago!’
‘Dick said he could do jail,’ Hector said and slammed through the gears of the rented car. ‘And you ask me whether I’d like to come back here again? And be the son of a man who left his wife to live with a tart and who’s now all but in the clink because he’s a crook? Christ, I never want to set foot in this bloody place again.’
As we met the foothills, I thought of how, had it not been for Hector, I might well have gone back for ten minutes, and then learned that Lucy was gone, and of the old trouble that now seemed set to put paid to Ronnie once and for all; and if I had, and had come within reach again of the sea, perhaps I might have thought my freedom to be an illusion and, once again, persuaded myself that my place was with a man who needed me.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
1970
Very slowly, I grew into the daily life of Dublin. The people had a quickness and agility to them, an eye for the main chance but a ready sense of humour that was different to the more open, easy-going inhabitants of a village like Sibrille. Yet Dublin was an amalgamation of little villages, being quite rapidly subsumed into a
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