before I knew I had done so, I had spoken.
'My father-in-law arranged it,' I said.
'Your father-in-law? Who was that?'
'Old Tom, the bandman. He was also the tailor in Sligo.'
'In the town, you mean?'
'No, in the asylum itself.'
'You were in the asylum then where your father-in-law worked?'
'Yes.' 'I see.'
'I think my mother was also there, but I can't remember.' 'Working there?'
'No.'
'A patient?'
'I can't remember. I honestly can't.'
Oh, I knew he was longing then to ask me more, but to give him his due, he did not. Too good a fisherman maybe. When you see the salmon leaping, you will not catch one. Might as well go home.
'I certainly don't want you to be fearful,' he said, a little out of the blue. 'No, no. That is not my intention. I must say, Roseanne, we hold you in some regard here, we do.'
'I don't think that is merited,' I said, blushing and suddenly ashamed. Violently ashamed. It was as if some wood and leaves were suddenly cleared from a spring, and the head of water blossomed up. Painful, painful shame.
'Oh yes,' he said, not aware I think of my distress. He was perhaps plamasing me, flannelling me, as my father would have said. To enter me into some subject, where he could begin. A door into whatever he needed to understand. A part of me yearned to help him. Give him welcome. But. The rats of shame bursting through the wall I have constructed with infinite care over the years and milling about in my lap, was what it felt like. That was my job to hide it then, hide those wretched rats.
Why did I feel that dark shame after all these years? Why still in me, that dark dark shame?
Well, well.
Now we had a few mysteries in our laps. But the most pressing soon became again our poverty, which my father could not fathom.
One evening of the winter returning home from school I met up with my father along the river road. It wasn't like the joyful meetings of childhood, but I would be proud to say even now that I do believe it brightened something in my father to see me. It lightened him, dark, deep dark, though that Sligo evening was. I hope that doesn't seem like boasting.
'Now, dear,' he said. 'We'll walk arm in arm home, unless you're afraid to be seen with your father.'
'No,' I said, surprised. 'I am not afraid.'
'Well,' he said. 'I know what it is to be fifteen. Like a fella out on a headland in the blazing wind.'
But I didn't really understand what he meant. It was so cold I fancied there was frost on the stuff he put in his hair to flatten it.
Then we were coming idly, easily up our street. Up along the houses in front of us, one of the doors opened, and a man stepped down onto the pavement, and raised his brown trilby hat to the mask of a face that was just visible in the door. It was my mother's face and our own door.
'Well, Jaysus,' said my father, 'there's Mr Fine himself coming out of our house. I wonder what he was looking for. I wonder does he have rats?'
Mr Fine came towards us. He was a tall, loping man, a great gentleman of the town, with a kind, soft face like a man who had been out in a sunny wind – like the man on the headland maybe.
'Good day, Mr Fine,' said my father. 'How's everything going
on?'
'Just splendidly, yes, indeed,' said Mr Fine. 'How are you both? We were terrible shocked and anxious when we heard about the poor burned girls. That was a most terrible occasion,
Mr Clear.'
'Jaysus, it was,' said my father, and Mr Fine pressed on past us. 'I suppose I shouldn't say Jaysus to him,' my father said.
'Why?' I said.
'Ah, just him being Jewish and all,' he said.
'Don't they have Jesus?' I said, in my deep ignorance.
'I don't know,' he said. 'Fr Gaunt I don't doubt will say the Jews killed Jesus. But, you know, Roseanne, they were troubled times.'
We were quiet then as we reached our door and my father drew out his old key and turned it in the lock and we entered the tiny hall. I knew there was something troubling him now after the speech about Jesus. I was
'My father-in-law arranged it,' I said.
'Your father-in-law? Who was that?'
'Old Tom, the bandman. He was also the tailor in Sligo.'
'In the town, you mean?'
'No, in the asylum itself.'
'You were in the asylum then where your father-in-law worked?'
'Yes.' 'I see.'
'I think my mother was also there, but I can't remember.' 'Working there?'
'No.'
'A patient?'
'I can't remember. I honestly can't.'
Oh, I knew he was longing then to ask me more, but to give him his due, he did not. Too good a fisherman maybe. When you see the salmon leaping, you will not catch one. Might as well go home.
'I certainly don't want you to be fearful,' he said, a little out of the blue. 'No, no. That is not my intention. I must say, Roseanne, we hold you in some regard here, we do.'
'I don't think that is merited,' I said, blushing and suddenly ashamed. Violently ashamed. It was as if some wood and leaves were suddenly cleared from a spring, and the head of water blossomed up. Painful, painful shame.
'Oh yes,' he said, not aware I think of my distress. He was perhaps plamasing me, flannelling me, as my father would have said. To enter me into some subject, where he could begin. A door into whatever he needed to understand. A part of me yearned to help him. Give him welcome. But. The rats of shame bursting through the wall I have constructed with infinite care over the years and milling about in my lap, was what it felt like. That was my job to hide it then, hide those wretched rats.
Why did I feel that dark shame after all these years? Why still in me, that dark dark shame?
Well, well.
Now we had a few mysteries in our laps. But the most pressing soon became again our poverty, which my father could not fathom.
One evening of the winter returning home from school I met up with my father along the river road. It wasn't like the joyful meetings of childhood, but I would be proud to say even now that I do believe it brightened something in my father to see me. It lightened him, dark, deep dark, though that Sligo evening was. I hope that doesn't seem like boasting.
'Now, dear,' he said. 'We'll walk arm in arm home, unless you're afraid to be seen with your father.'
'No,' I said, surprised. 'I am not afraid.'
'Well,' he said. 'I know what it is to be fifteen. Like a fella out on a headland in the blazing wind.'
But I didn't really understand what he meant. It was so cold I fancied there was frost on the stuff he put in his hair to flatten it.
Then we were coming idly, easily up our street. Up along the houses in front of us, one of the doors opened, and a man stepped down onto the pavement, and raised his brown trilby hat to the mask of a face that was just visible in the door. It was my mother's face and our own door.
'Well, Jaysus,' said my father, 'there's Mr Fine himself coming out of our house. I wonder what he was looking for. I wonder does he have rats?'
Mr Fine came towards us. He was a tall, loping man, a great gentleman of the town, with a kind, soft face like a man who had been out in a sunny wind – like the man on the headland maybe.
'Good day, Mr Fine,' said my father. 'How's everything going
on?'
'Just splendidly, yes, indeed,' said Mr Fine. 'How are you both? We were terrible shocked and anxious when we heard about the poor burned girls. That was a most terrible occasion,
Mr Clear.'
'Jaysus, it was,' said my father, and Mr Fine pressed on past us. 'I suppose I shouldn't say Jaysus to him,' my father said.
'Why?' I said.
'Ah, just him being Jewish and all,' he said.
'Don't they have Jesus?' I said, in my deep ignorance.
'I don't know,' he said. 'Fr Gaunt I don't doubt will say the Jews killed Jesus. But, you know, Roseanne, they were troubled times.'
We were quiet then as we reached our door and my father drew out his old key and turned it in the lock and we entered the tiny hall. I knew there was something troubling him now after the speech about Jesus. I was
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