A Son of Aran (10 page)

‘Don't worry, Eileen, I'll stay true to you in spite of all distractions.'

‘Thank you, Seosamh, I know you will,' she replied, planting a big kiss on his forehead.

The race course at Ballybrit was a sea of ruddy faces. Clad in lightest garb, gents and ladies ambled leisurely in the glare of the July sunshine—men wiping perspiration from their brows, ladies fanning themselves with race cards in an effort to remain cool. The frantic fever of appraising the horses, looking for tips from those who should know which one was likely to win, and placing bets, added to the atmosphere of the races. The elation of those whose chosen horse came in first was countered by the greater number who tore up their betting slips in frustration. Bookies were the ultimate winners when all was counted. Neither Eileen nor Seosamh had ever placed a bet on a horse. He suggested they should be courageous and have a try. Between them they picked a likely looking animal in the parade ring, identified the horse's name, and proceeded to the nearest bookie's stand.

‘Two to one Jason's Pride, eight to one the field,' the bookie shouted. The young pair stood perplexed.

‘Who'd want to bet on a field?' Eileen asked aloud. A bystander, hearing her remark, explained: ‘The odds are eight pounds against each pound bet on any horse in the race apart from the favourite.'

From the names listed they picked one.

‘Ten shillings on Quicksilver,' Seosamh said as he handed a note to the bookie.

‘That's probably the last we'll see of our money,' he commented as they went to the rails to watch the race. They had neglected to identify the colours under which the different horses ran. When the race started they didn't know where Quicksilver was positioned—all they remembered was that he was grey in colour as the name suggested. When the runners came into sight around the last bend in the course, shouts arose on all sides –'Come on Tallyho Boy, good stuff, Partry Lad, oh, bad luck, Glenfiddle—the f…….is after falling,' that from a disappointed punter. ‘I hope he broke his bloody neck,' the man added in frustration.

Over the last hundred yards the chant from the stand changed, a neck to neck contest was taking place between two leaders. ‘Come on Jason one lot shouted, ‘come on the grey,' screamed others. In the end it was Quicksilver that passed the winning post by a short head. Seosamh and Eileen cheered—with arms around each other they danced through the arena.

‘C'mon,' said Seosamh, when the bookie paid him four pounds and ten shillings, ‘Eileen, we have money, let's go and get something to drink.'

C
ROWDS OF TOURISTS SWARMED ASHORE FROM THE
ferry as it docked at Kilronan pier on a summer day in 1951. Locals took advantage of their arrival to offer horses, jaunting cars, and buggies for hire as conveyance around the island. Others led guided tours for those who were willing to walk. The latter set out in twos, threes and fours, keeping close to the leader in order to glean information on places they passed. One solitary figure brought up the rear. He appeared more interested in assessing the living pattern of the Aran population. Men and women bent to work at making hay in little stonewalled fields, or gathered seaweed and shell-fish along the craggy shoreline.

‘How on earth,' he wondered to himself, ‘can people make a living on this desolate island of outcrop rock and infertile soil? Peculiar it may be, but the potato is one crop that appears to flourish among the rocks—how this can be is difficult to understand.'

Taking advantage of a lull in questions from other visitors, he discussed his observations with the guide—the reaction he received puzzled him even more.

‘When God made Aran,' the guide said, ‘he created a race of people, strong, and healthy, who don't expect too much from life, and are happy to live the type of existence you see. Because of the continuous perils under which they live, dangers on land from storm, rain, and pestilence, dangers on sea from tide and waves, they have great trust in God; they accept all that happens to them as His will.'

‘What wonderful faith,' exclaimed the stranger. ‘Can you tell me how many families live on the island? How many in population are there?'

‘I can tell you the number of houses without any difficulty although many of these are not inhabited. The population changes from one week to another. People come, some stay, others leave; not many natives remain here after they reach the age of twenty. You'll find more people of Aran stock in London, Boston or Chicago than here at home. It's been like that for generations.'

‘Is there a family by the name of O'Flaherty? I met a person of that name some years ago; I think she returned to live here.'

The group leader laughed: ‘There are so many O'Flaherty families that, if I were to throw a pebble over my shoulder, it would surely land on one of them. The O'Flahertys were chieftains here at one time, their descendants are numerous. If you have more precise information on the family you mention I may be able to help you.'

‘The husband's name was Peadar, his wife was called Saureen, and they had a daughter named Eileen. I would like to meet them if they are still here.'

‘Peadar O'Flaherty and his young daughter live on the island; the woman you call Saureen is not with them.'

‘Oh, how disappointing—it was Saureen I particularly wished to meet. Can you tell me where she may have gone?'

‘How well did you know this woman? Are you related?'

‘I am not a relation; she was a friend; I would like to meet her for old time sake.'

‘I am afraid you are going to be disappointed. The woman you ask about never actually lived on the island. She came here once to meet her husband and daughter but she never found them.
Go ndéana Dia trócaire ar a b-anam
(may God have mercy on her soul)—she was tragically drowned offshore. I hope this news does not distress you.'

Carlos turned deathly pale. This was not the sort of tidings he had been looking forward to. Excusing himself, he left the group and, with ponderous steps, he made his way back to Kilronan. In a public bar he ordered one cognac after another and sat in deep contemplation. Taking with him a bottle of spirits, he adjourned to the sea wall where he sat for more than an hour, drinking, meditating, silently gazing into the waves. ‘Somewhere out there it happened! Saureen, Saureen, why did our love have to end this way?' he murmured, as the surge of an incoming tide lapped his feet.

‘Why did I so callously dismiss you when our attempt to carry off your daughter failed? My rash behaviour drove you to pursue your husband and daughter to their island home and to a watery grave. I must accept responsibility for our illicit relationship, for the break-up of your marriage, and your untimely death—entirely my fault.'

He reminisced on the relationship which had developed between them over several years, the birth of her daughter, their plan to abduct the child, and his anger when that plan was foiled.

‘I am responsible for Saureen having, presumedly, set out in search of her husband in the hope that he would take her back, and for the tragic outcome of that search. Was her drowning accidental? Was she murdered? Had she deliberately taken her own life? How am I to know the truth? In the circumstances it would be inappropriate for me to attempt to locate Peadar and the girl—such approach would only serve to add insult to their trauma. I must think of some means of finding them and making amends for the manner in which I have wronged them both.'

In a state of mental anguish, Carlos started to make his way towards the pier, determined to get off the island as quickly as possible to avoid recognition.

‘Wait a minute,' he mused –'what about the parish priest? Might I not speak with him in confidence! I could confess my part in the sad saga, ask for forgiveness, and enlist the help of the priest in making atonement to Saureen's husband and daughter.'

Retracing his steps, he turned into the gravelled driveway, and rang the priest's door-bell. A lean-faced stern looking female answered the door. He intimated that he would like to speak to the parish priest.

‘And what would you be wanting to see the priest about?' she asked. ‘Father is resting—he doesn't like to be interrupted. He isn't young any more; he gets tired from all the work he has to do; if you tell me what you want, maybe I can help you.'

‘My business with Father is confidential,' Carlos said firmly. ‘Please tell him that a gentleman wishes to speak with him.'

Hearing the commotion, the priest emerged from his sitting room, breviary in hand. He removed his dark rimmed spectacles as he walked.

‘That's all right, Mary,' he said, ‘I'll take care of this.' With glowering looks she departed in the direction of the kitchen.

‘Will you step this way?' the priest added, addressing himself to his visitor, and closing the door of his room. ‘Now, if you will be good enough to tell me what I can do for you?'

‘It's a long story, Father—I want to make a confession,' Carlos answered.

‘Very well,' said the priest, as he placed a purple stole around his neck, ‘where do you wish to start?'

‘To begin with, Father, I must explain. I come from Spain. I am of the Roman Catholic persuasion but I have not practised my religion for many years. My reason for coming to you is that I have gravely injured two of your parishioners. I want to ask for absolution and to make amends for the wrongs I have done. The latter part will not be easy. I would ask for your help in bringing about reconciliation with the parties in question.'

The priest listened without comment as Carlos reiterated the story of his sexual association with Saureen, wife of Peadar O' Flaherty, a child conceived raised by Peadar as his daughter, the break-up of the couple's marriage, and the death of Peadar's wife. He had come to Aran today for the purpose of tracking down the family, meeting again with Saureen, and claiming custody of the girl. In the process of his inquiries he learned for the first time of the tragic death of his former concubine. On contemplation, he realised the gravity of his nefarious actions and wanted to make atonement. Father Corley remained silent for a long time before he spoke. Having asked the penitent to reaffirm his guilt, his sincere contrition, and his resolve to refrain from further sin, he imposed an appropriate penance, granted him absolution, blessed himself, and removed his stole.

‘What you have related to me is under the seal of confession and may not be revealed by me. You may talk to me now as person to person and tell me where you feel I can be of help to you in repairing the damage you have done. I can give no guarantee that I will be able to assist in such a sensitive and complex situation. What is it that you would like me to do?'

‘Two things,' Carlos answered: ‘Firstly, I have reason to believe that I am not the father of this girl. Much as I would otherwise wish, I have been told that I am not capable of fathering a child. A story related by the people of my native place in Spain, claims that a curse was put on our family many years ago by the widow of one of our tenants who was evicted from her home by my paternal grandfather. According to the curse, from that time onwards no member of our line would ever inherit the family estate. My father, the subsequent heir, was not, it appears, the natural son of my grandfather. I have no knowledge of the circumstances of my own birth as my mother died soon after I was born. Having been intimately involved with Saureen O'Flaherty before her marriage, when she gave birth to a child I deluded myself into believing that I had successfully laid the ghost of this curse to rest. In the light of events now unfolding I cannot, in justice, continue to sustain that delusion. Secondly, I would like to meet with Peadar O'Flaherty. I want to ascertain if his daughter has been told the circumstances surrounding her birth. I assume that, being forced to live on this rather barren island, he is of limited financial means. I, on the other hand, am a man of considerable wealth. I own vast property in my native Spain. Having no family of my own to share with, life there is very lonely. It would be a source of great consolation to me if Peadar and the girl would consent to be my guests. I would be prepared to arrange a financial package that would see them both comfortably provided for during the rest of their lives. In doing this I would hope we could bury the past and be friends. Thank you, Father, for listening to me. I return to my country much chastened by what I have learned today. If you can be of help I will be most appreciative. Here is my card—you might be good enough to get in touch with me at your convenience; I don't expect an immediate response. Please accept this donation as a token of my appreciation for what you have done for me just now and to cover any further outlay you may incur. As I leave here, I feel great peace descending on me. May God bless you, Father—once again, my sincere thanks. I hope your efforts on my behalf will prove successful.'

After his penitent had left, the ageing priest chuckled to himself as he perused the ornate card he held in his hand: Carlos de Montmorency, Estat de Tirelle, via Salamanca, España.

‘The sunny land of Spain!' he mused. It brought back memories of the Catholic University of Salamanca where, in pursuit of advanced studies, he had spent time more years ago than he cared to count.

‘How I would love to relive that period of my life!' he thought.

Eileen and Seosamh savoured the atmosphere of Galway during the remainder of race week. In the evenings when the news agency had closed for the day, they walked through the streets looking in shop windows where the latest models of hats, dresses, and frocks were lavishly displayed.

‘If only I had enough money,' Eileen exclaimed, ‘I'd buy one of those nice little numbers. Would you love me more, Seosamh, if I wore fashionable clothes?' she teased.

‘Now, how could I love you any more than I do?' Seosamh retorted.