2004 - Dandelion Soup (42 page)

Nancy Carmichael gasped.

“What sort of woman could do that to her own child?”

Michael Leary glanced at Nancy. She would have made someone a great mother. He looked then at Padraig and was transfixed. He looked from Padraig to Nancy hardly believing his eyes! There was most definitely a resemblance between the two of them. He’d never have noticed it before but now that Padraig’s hair was growing longer and the sun had sprinkled his skin with freckles he could definitely see it. It was small wonder that Brother Anselm had thought them related.

“Anyhow, Dancey and I went in search of her mother but I didn’t really expect to find her. Dancey could tell me very little about her past except that they’d lived in many different places, never staying anywhere long. We were together for many months but in the end I had to let her go.”

“Why?” asked Padraig simply.

The Old Pilgrim smiled sadly.

“There are times when the blackness comes upon me, a deep despair that lasts sometimes for many months. It wouldn’t have been right to subject the child to that.”

“But why on earth send her halfway across Europe to me, a man you don’t even know?” Solly asked angrily.

“Because many years ago, Solly Benjamin, you did me a very great favour.”

“I did? Well, it’s news to me!”

“You did indeed and I never forgot your generosity.”

“I’m in the dark still,” said Solly.

“It was at Rossmacconnarty station, a filthy rainswept day not unlike yesterday. I was a broken man and you gave me something that was precious, and I knew at that moment that you were a man of honour, a good and trustworthy man.”

“My God,” Solly said, staring hard at the Old Pilgrim. “The man in the waiting room! I remember it as clear as if it were yesterday. You wore a mackintosh and I thought it was odd because your clothes were good quality but they were filthy. I gave you some money and…and the ring. But how did you know where I lived?”

“Your name and address were written on your suitcase and I never forgot them, always hoped I’d be able to repay you one day.”

“But how did you know I was still living there; after all, it was years ago.”

“I had someone check that you were still registered at that address. And now I have something to return to you.”

He removed the ring from his finger and handed it to Solly Benjamin, who closed his palm tightly round it as his eyes welled with tears.

“Thank you.”

Padraig jumped to his feet with alacrity.

“Would you let me see that ring, Solly?”

Solly held out the ring for the boy to see and Padraig drew in his breath with astonishment.

“Where did you get it?” he asked.

“It’s been in my family for generations. There was some story that it was given to one of my distant ancestors by a holy man to help them flee from persecution.”

“But your ancestors didn’t ever sell it?”

“No, but if you look closely there are one or two stones missing that must have been sold at some point,” Solly explained.

“Solly, in Santa Eulalia there’s a monk in the fresco wearing a ring just like this one. And in the last part of the fresco there’s another bearded man holding the ring in his hand. Maybe, Solly, this is the ring from the fresco!”

“That’s a bit far-fetched, Padraig,” Father Daley said.

“Well, if you go to Santa Eulalia and take a look you’ll see for yourselves.”

“He’s right, you know,” Midi said. “Think about it, Solly. You’ve told us that someone gave one of your ancestors that ring to help them on their way. There were many Jews expelled from Spain, many of them may have fled along the pilgrim trail.”

“It could be that your ancestors once passed through Santa Eulalia, like Mr Leary’s did,” Padraig said, “and you, Solly, like the monk in the fresco, passed the ring on to someone else in need!”

“Everything seems to lead back to Santa Eulalia,” Leary said thoughtfully.

Dancey Amati came slowly down the stairs and paused in the hallway. She sniffed the air excitedly and breathed in the welcome smells of tobacco and horses, wood smoke and hay and, above all else, dandelions.

Take a fistful of garbanzos

A clutch of white beans

A handful of dandelions

Two wide-brimmed hatfuls of spring water

A slosh of olive oil

Some slivers of monastery beef

Two cloves of silvery garlic

One enormous wrinkled tomato…

The words had stayed with her all this time. She had repeated them so many times, over and over in her head, like a charm to keep herself safe.

She stepped nervously towards the dining-room door, her heart beating wildly. Then she saw him.

“Peregrino Viejo!” she yelled.

At the sound of her voice everyone turned to look at her.

Solly swallowed hard. She’d been silent for so long, he’d thought she might never speak.

The Old Pilgrim turned round and held out his arms; she ran to him and was caught up in his embrace. He was lifting her up and up, kissing her cheek, stroking her hair, the feel of his warm tears like silk on her own skin.

“There is no more beautiful sight than a child being reunited with a loved one,” Muli said softly.

“And now I have a story to tell you about another child.

“Some years ago, here in Spain, a desperate young man who had come out here to fight in the war asked me to help him.”

“Who was he?” asked Padraig.

“Patience, Padraig, patience.”

Muli continued quietly.

“I was asked to visit a village in Ireland and wait for a young woman to contact me, a very beautiful young woman as it turns out. I met her there and arranged to take her to a safe house in Dublin and leave her in the care of an old woman called Gerty Wiseman.”

Michael Leary listened intently.

“The young woman was unmarried and pregnant and she was fearful of what her father might do to her if he found out about the baby she was expecting. She was terrified that she would be made to give up the child for adoption. She went to stay in Dublin with Gerty and there she waited for the return of her young man, who had promised faithfully to come for her and the child.

“The child was duly born but the father never came. She would, I expect, have assumed that he had been killed out here in Spain in the civil war and that like many others, his body lay in an unmarked grave.”

“So do you think the man buried at Santa Eulalia could be…” Father Daley interrupted but then fell into silence.

“I don’t think that she ever really gave up hope of seeing him again, did she, Padraig?”

Everyone in the room looked at Padraig.

Padraig stared at Muli as if he were in a trance.

“No. She used to say that one day, when the wind was blowing in the right direction, he’d sail up the River Liffey and find us and we’d all be together again.”

Padraig fell silent and swallowed hard.

“Then,” Muli took up the story again, “tragically, Padraig’s mammy was run down and killed. Gerty Wiseman, I’m sure, would have looked after him, but she, by this time, was dead. Of course, there was no father’s name on his birth certificate, and Padraig’s mother had already changed her name to avoid being found by her family. It was assumed that Padraig was an orphan and he was whisked off to St Joseph’s orphanage in Ballygurry.”

Leary interrupted, “It sounds like this fellow who was buried up at Santa Eulalia could very well be Padraig’s father. What was his name again?”

“George Fitzallen,”said Father Daley.

The Old Pilgrim spoke then.

“George Fitzallen is not this boy’s father.”

“How the hell do you know that?”

“Because,” the Old Pilgrim said quietly, “I am George Fitzallen.”

Donahue looked across the room at Nancy, who had paled to the colour of chalk.

“But George Fitzallen is buried at Santa Eulalia,” Father Daley exclaimed.

“You’ve a fine complexion for a dead man,” Donahue said.

“Who the hell is buried in that grave, then, if it isn’t you?” Leary asked.

“I have no idea. I saw the grave for the first time myself only the other night.”

“How bloody odd. That must have given you a right turn,” Donahue said, “seeing your own tombstone like that.”

“Remember Brother Bernardo said that he wrote to the family of the man but he never had a reply,” Padraig said.

“My father wouldn’t have cared less about my death,” the Old Pilgrim said. “I was not welcome in my father’s house.”

“George Fitzallen! Bloody hell!” Padraig said excitedly. “I’ve just thought of something else.”

“What is it?” Michael Leary asked.

“The trunk that that we found in Señora Hipola’s house in Pig Lane when Miss Drew fell through the stable roof! I thought there was going to be treasure in it, but there wasn’t, was there, Nancy?”

“No, there wasn’t, just a pile of dirty old clothes.”

“Can you remember what sort of clothes, though, Nancy?” Padraig asked.

“Sure, just a filthy old suit and a mackintosh.”

“Yes,” Padraig continued, “a dirty stinking mackintosh with faded tartan on the inside and leather buttons.”

“What in the name of Saint Patrick has a pile of old clothes got to do with anything?” Donahue said.

Padraig looked directly at the Old Pilgrim and said, “They were your clothes, weren’t they?”

“Yes, they were,” the Old Pilgrim said quietly. “I stayed in Pig Lane when I first arrived in Spain. I wanted to get rid of everything from my past life and I left the trunk behind.”

“Well, all this talking is fine and dandy but we don’t seem any closer to solving any mysteries,” Donahue said.

“Your name was on the wedding invitation I found!” Padraig cried. “Wait while I remember the words…”

The Old Pilgrim twisted his hands anxiously.

“Padraig, what wedding invitation are you on about?” Leary asked impatiently.

“I found it between the pages of a book that was in the trunk. Let me think now what it said. “Mr and Mrs Egbert Brennan…something or other…invite you to the marriage of their daughter Vera Mary Brennan to George Fitzallen…””

“So did you get married?” asked Donahue.

The Old Pilgrim shook his head.

“That day at the station,” said Solly, “there were wedding bells in the background. I remember thinking what an awful day it was to get married…”

Padraig’s mind was racing. He felt again as though he were inside a glass dome that someone had shaken madly and the snow, like his thoughts, was blizzarding, refusing to settle.

He shook his head, waited for his thoughts to arrange themselves.

“Florence Gallivan,” he murmured. “That was the name on the label in the back of Señora Hipola’s wedding dress…”

Muli nodded at Padraig in encouragement.

“I left her at the altar,” the Old Pilgrim mumbled.

“Florence Gallivan?” said Donahue. “No wonder! No one will blame you for that. I went to her shop in Cork once with my mother. Florence Gallivan must have been ninety if she was a day and that was years ago.”

“He wasn’t marrying Florence Gallivan, he was meant to be marrying Vera Mary Brennan,” Padraig continued.

The Old Pilgrim shuddered and closed his eyes.

“Why didn’t you want to marry her?” Nancy spoke quietly.

“There was a very delicate situation I’d rather not speak about in front of, er, youngsters.”

Donahue nudged Leary in the ribs and grinned.

“Was this Vera Mary Brennan in the pudding club?” Donahue ventured.

“She was pregnant, yes.”

“That’s disgraceful, man, leaving a girl in the lurch like that with a child on the way.”

“But she wasn’t pregnant by me.”

“Oh right,” said Donahue, wrinkling his brow in confusion.

“My father demanded that I marry her to save her reputation or he would let the world know of the, er, delicate situation…”

Donahue jumped in.

“I remember now, it wasn’t a woman you were caught with but a – ”

Father Daley gave Donahue a kick under the table and smiled encouragingly at the Old Pilgrim.

“He’s one of them momosapiens!” Donahue whispered.

“Will you shut up, Donahue,” Leary muttered.

Father Daley stared open-mouthed at the Old Pilgrim.

“Well, er, who did put her in the family way?” Father Daley asked.

Nancy Carmichael cleared her throat, and spoke.

“I expect it was this man’s own father, Lord Fitzallen, who was the father of the child.”

The Old Pilgrim stared at Nancy in incredulity.

“She wouldn’t be the first younggirl he’d got pregnant, I for one know that only too well,” Nancy said.

Michael Leary could hardly believe his ears.

The Old Pilgrim looked steadfastly at Nancy as though he had just come face to face with a ghost.

A ripple of shock went round the room.

Dr Garcia drew back the grille on the cell door and looked in at old Brother Anselm, who was sitting motionless in a high-backed chair facing the iron-barred window.

He selected a key, unlocked the door and entered the cell. Brother Anselm did not stir even as the doctor placed his hand on the old man’s cold papery one.

When Brother Anselm had first been brought in he had fought like a madman, but now he was calm, he just sat for hours and hours staring at the window.

Dr Garcia drew up a chair and sat down next to Brother Anselm, who stirred suddenly and turned to face him, his rheumy old eyes like lonely planets in an undiscovered universe.

It was quiet in the cell except for the rattle of Brother Anselm’s chest. From somewhere outside came the sound of a caged bird singing.

“Isabella, is that you?” Brother Anselm whispered in a faltering voice.

The doctor did not reply, he was used to the inane chatter of the insane.

“You came after all, I told them you would…”

Outside, the bells of Santa Anna began to ring loudly.

“When I am well again we must escape…you and I, I have treasures, we can be together, the two of us, we can find the child…”

Dr Garcia sighed as he listened to the old monk’s ramblings.

“It’s the child I worry for, Isabella, our granddaughter…”

The warder wondered did the childless, at the end of their lives, always grieve for the family they never had? When his time came to die would he too curse the fact that he had never married? Would he wish that he had children to leave behind as a legacy? Maybe, like this poor old man, he would fantasize about imaginary lovers and phantom children.