A Son of Aran (25 page)

‘I am unable, sir, to answer that question. I have no recollection of ever having been in England or of serving in the forces you mention.'

‘Do you realise that without identification papers you have attempted to enter the country illegally.'

‘I admit that what you say is true but how can I establish who I am and where I come from without having resort to an English speaking authority? I plead with you to allow me to stay in England until my problem of identity can be resolved.'

After adjourning for consultation, the officer returned: ‘Having considered the circumstances you have recounted, directors of the Immigration Authority are sympathetic to your predicament. They have decided that you may remain within Her Majesty's realm but under restriction. Accordingly you are to be consigned to a prison for minor offenders in London, pending further investigation of your case.'

Anguished cries, shouts, and brawls, echoed through the long prison aisles to greet the new inmate as he was being led to his cell. Banging of tin mugs against cell bars signalled a new arrival.

‘Who are you? Where do you come from? What are you in for?' Questions came, one on top of the other. It was futile to try to reply. The warder conducted him to an empty cell and turned a key in the lock. A mattress, a blanket, a small table, a slop bucket, comprised the only items within. This was worse than confinement in the hospital in Africa.

‘How I miss the freedom of having been able to walk around there even though I was unable to communicate with people. I can hear plenty of my own language spoken here but in dreadful circumstances—vile shouts, threats, obscene curses hurled at other inmates, incoherent mumbling of drunks and winos. Bellowing like caged animals, the occupants peer through cell bars, trading insults with the warders, or lie mute on their beds—how long must I endure their uncouth performance before I get my release?'

Time did not appear to be of any consequence to the prison authorities. In the absence of communication with the outside world, a single stroke on the cell wall each day was the only means an inmate had of calculating how many weeks, months, or years he was incarcerated. Lack of natural lighting made it difficult to differentiate between day and night; only the daily routine of eating, slopping out, and supervised exercise in the prison yard, filled the gaps. He had begun to lose track of how long he was in prison when one day in the yard outside he heard a voice at his elbow: ‘
A Pheadair, cén fáth go bhfuil tusa anseo?'
(Peadar, why are you here). He looked at his questioner in wonderment thinking, ‘what is this language I am hearing?

The man repeated his query in broken English: ‘Peadar O'Flaherty, what is a decent man like you doing in this place? It isn't like you to kill someone or rob a bank—why are you in prison?' He stood spellbound.

‘My good man, do you know me? What name did you call me? Should I recognise you?'

‘Why wouldn't I know you? Didn't we grow up together in Aran? Surely you cannot have forgotten me even though we didn't meet these last few years. I am Seánín Mhicil Dubh from Gort na hInnse. I am over here on the buildings for ten years, a rough life by any standards. With a few of my mates I got involved in a fight with some English buffs, lazy sods who were good for nothing only showing their superiority. In the fight they came out second best until someone called the cops. I lashed out at them too, put one policeman on his back, and finished up getting six months in jail for my part in the row.'

‘Seánín, I believe you have saved me from an endless spell in prison. I lost my memory due to a mishap at sea; since then I haven't been able to tell who I am or where I come from. I landed illegally in England and they put me in jail until they find out if the story I told them is true. Will you repeat what you have just told me in front of the Immigration Authorities?'

‘Of course I will, Peadar; isn't that what friends are for? Let me know when you want me to speak for you.'

‘Tell me, Seánín, who have I belonging to me in Aran? Do I have a wife or family? Have I other friends there?'

‘You don't have a wife, Peadar; she died a long time ago. You have a daughter who doesn't live in Aran any more— people tell me she went to live in Spain. Máirtín, your old friend and companion that shared the trawler with you, is still there. I can tell you his address if you want.'

‘Seánín, you have saved my life. Praise to the Lord God who brought us together in this unforseen way. I'll talk to you some more when I get in touch with the authorities.

Warder, warder, I have received information as to my identity. Will you take me to the prison governor? I must speak with him.'

‘You say you have uncovered evidence of who you are and where you come from. Can you tell me the source of this information?'

‘A fellow prisoner, who grew up with me in Ireland, recognised me in the exercise compound. He called me by my name, Peadar O'Flaherty, and told me that he knows my family and friends back home in the Aran Islands on the western seaboard of Ireland. At this stage I have only his testimony but he is willing to restate it in front of the board of inquiry.'

‘How do we know that this is not a story concocted between you for the obvious reason of obtaining your release from custody? Can you advance any other avenue of investigation that might prove the veracity of his statement?'

‘I am of opinion that the police in Aran are in a position to substantiate the information he has provided, if you will be good enough to make contact with them. The island is small in size. The police there will be aware of any islanders who are posted as missing due to an event at sea. My fellow prisoner mentioned an islander named Máirtín with whom he says I used to fish off shore in a vessel that we jointly owned. If my informant speaks the truth, this man will be in a position to verify his story.'

‘On foot of the information you have supplied, inquiries will be made with the Irish Police Authority. If the story you have told us turns out to be true, there remains the question of personal identification. It must be clearly shown that you are, in fact, the person to whom the testimony relates. Can you nominate a person of good character who has known this Peadar O'Flaherty personally, and who is prepared to swear an affidavit in this connection?'

‘My informant tells me I have a daughter who grew up in Aran and is now resident in Spain. It should be possible to make contact with her through mutual acquaintances in Aran.'

‘That's all for now. You may return to your cell. You will be informed in due course of developments as these emerge.'

‘That's the first step on the road to my resurrection from the dead,' he told Seánín when they met in the yard next day. ‘Maybe the sun will soon begin to shine for me again. Up or down, I'll be forever grateful for your role in the matter. When we both get out of this slammer we'll celebrate our release in an appropriate manner.'

The station sergeant in Kilronan raised his eyebrows in surprise at the missive he received from the Superintendent of the Garda Siochána.

‘Peadar O'Flaherty,' he mused, recalling the reprimand he had received following the discovery of the man's wife in the sea and his own intuition that the husband had in some unproven way been an accessory to her death.

‘But sure, that fellow was drowned at sea three years ago. His body was never recovered. Is this another scam? Is someone trying to prove he is alive—something to do with inheritance maybe?' Carefully he supplied the information requested: ‘Yes, a person named Peadar O'Flaherty lived on Aran.

‘Yes, our records show he was lost by drowning in an accident at sea. His body was not recovered.

‘Yes, he has a daughter named Eileen O'Flaherty who grew up on the island. She no longer lives here.

‘I understand that Eileen O'Flaherty has gone to live in Spain, accompanied by another islander named Seosamh O'Loinigh. Addresses in Spain, provided by the Parish Priest of Aran, Father Corley, are as follows—Estat de Tirelle, Valladolid or, alternatively, in care of Father Benedictus, Social Studies Department, Salamanca University.'

Eileen rubbed her eyes when she received a letter from the British Immigration Authorities:

Madam,

We have in custody at Wandsworth Prison, London, a man who claims that he is one Peadar O'Flaherty of Aran, Ireland. To help in processing his application for admission to the United Kingdom, a person of good standing is required to verify the validity of the man's claim by personal identification, and to swear an affidavit in this connection. The man claims that he has a daughter of your name who resides in Spain. In an effort to advance consideration of his application, it is proposed to hold an identification parade at Wandsworth Prison on the twentieth day of June, nineteen hundred and fifty nine. In view of his claim to be your father, perhaps you will wish to participate in this exercise. In the event of your compliance, I would appreciate if you will contact me in advance at the address stated.

Harold Langworth

‘Seosamh, this cannot be true! What do you think we should do about the request? We know that Peadar is long since dead—some people are apparently using his identity for their own ends. Can they not let him rest in peace?'

‘Sure, Eileen, it is a long shot but can you afford to ignore it? What if Peadar never drowned, but maybe was picked up by a passing vessel and taken away to the other side of the world? From reading the telegram, it would appear he is trying to get back into England. If he got that far he would have no difficulty in crossing over to Ireland. I know it will be difficult for you to go to London, what with the baby and all, but I still think it is your duty. If you don't go through with it, you will always have a nagging doubt about the story. If you prefer to go on your own, I will look after baby Carl until you return.'

‘There's no question of me going alone on this errand, Seosamh. Either we go together or I don't go at all. How could you think of sending your wife to England to face someone who claims to be her late father? Supposing it happens to be true—who will come to my aid if I faint from shock?'

The Governor's office was a bleak, unfriendly place—a bare unpolished desk, a table, two hard bottomed chairs on one side, a soft swivel chair on the other, walls festooned with mug shots of wanted criminals, an eerie sensation of the kind of interviews that took place there. Mr Langworth's acknowledgement of their presence was coldly official. Seosamh announced in his best English: ‘I am Seosamh O'Loinigh. This is my wife, Eileen O'Flaherty. At considerable inconvenience we have responded to your request to participate in an identification event relating to somebody who claims to be my wife's father,'

A cynical smirk on the officer's face did not go unnoticed.

‘I have received certain details relating to one Peadar O'Flaherty who previously lived on the island of Aran in Ireland. So you think he may be the same man that we have in custody on a charge of illegal entry to Britian?'

‘It is most unlikely,' Eileen replied. ‘My father was lost at sea some years ago. We are anxious to establish who it is that masquerades under his name and why.'

‘You will have an opportunity of asking these questions in a little while. Meanwhile I must establish your credentials as witnesses in the identification process. Can I see your passports, please?

Hm, I see from your Irish passport that you are Eileen O'Flaherty with an address at Aran, Ireland. The photograph confirms your identity. May I also see yours, Mr O'Loinigh? I am obliged to ask a few questions in regard to your standing as citizens of your country. Has either of you lived or worked in the United Kingdom? Has either of you come to the notice of the Irish police in regard to involvement in criminal activities?'

Their answers in the negative seemed acceptable.

‘Is there anybody in this jurisdiction who can corroborate your profession of good standing? Do you know anybody in the London area, for instance, who can provide a reference of good character on your behalf?'

The two were bewildered by the officer's continued interrogation. Following a brief consultation with each other they admitted that, never having been to England, they were not in a position to nominate anybody in this regard. Suddenly Seosamh had an idea: ‘Eileen, what about Father O'Conneela from Páirc na hAitne—isn't he a Parish Priest in some part of London? He would know us from back home.'

‘Do you know this man's address, or the church in which he ministers?' the officer asked.

‘I'm not sure,' Eileen responded, ‘I think he is in a parish called Harlesden—Saint Nicholas, perhaps.'

‘If you will pardon me for a few minutes I will try to make contact with this priest,' the officer said as he left the room.

‘If this is the way they treat honest people in England, I don't think I'd ever want to trespass on their hospitality,' Seosamh commented when they were alone. ‘Máirtín told me that Irish workers over here are treated like dirt by the cops. Whenever they get into a row with their English counterparts, the Irish are the ones held to blame, thrown into the Black Maria, hauled up before a judge, and given a spell in the jug while the other lot get off scot free.'

‘That's life, Seosamh. The only way is to stay clear of them and not come under their notice. If they get you on their books once, they keep tabs on you after that.'

‘I have made contact with your friend the priest,' the officer said on his return. ‘He confirms that he has known you as upright persons. In fact he will come around to meet you here in the prison complex. We have a room in which we entertain important visitors—I will be pleased to shake his hand when he arrives. Meantime, we will proceed with the identification parade. A selection of inmates, which includes the person in question, will pass before you. Each man will have a number affixed to his front. If you identify any of them as your father you will point to him and call his number. Warder, commence the parade.'