Every time I opened my eyes I was in a different place. I fell in and out of different rooms and dreams. I lay on beds, stone, under sacks. Pigs near, or baking bread. Or nothing at all. Nothing. I rolled away from there, until I knew I was alive. The pain, beyond the skin, a pain becoming bone. The only thing keeping me alive. She wasn’t beside me, and sometimes I knew it, she was. Lying beside me, breathing with me. I felt her hand on my face, my cheek. And someone else. The smell of a child in the room. I tried to see but light flung itself at my eyes. He was near me. Victor was there. I tried to call but my throat was locked and solid. And I was in the back of a motor car. I could smell the leather, feel and hear the road under me before I closed my eyes. And once, I knew I was right under old Missis O’Shea’s roof. Miss O’Shea was right beside me. I woke again for a second and I was somewhere else. Pitch dark. Alone. I closed my eyes and everything was gone. Sun in my eyes, no light at all; pigs outside the window, petrol; damp from the wall I was lying against, heat from her as she moved in her sleep; hungry, sick, always thirsty, always parched and sore. Noises below or beside me, no noise whatsoever. People under the window, boots on cement. Wheels going, motors. Birds giving out in the trees, a branch scraping the wall. Pain, torn awake by it. In my chest, my side. Pulling apart, tearing. Someone handling me. Pushing. Cutting me. Water. On the roof above me. Different roofs. Slate and thatch, corrugated iron. Under a hot tarpaulin, a smell of liquid grass. I was nine again, searching for Victor. Crying. Awake again under a proper roof. Rain slapping the roof. And water on my skin. Warm water being brought over my arms and chest. On my lips. I felt my lips being softened by the water and I slept. The rattle of a cart going over stones. I was in the cart, the back of the cart. Under straw. I suddenly knew that I had to stay still. I could hear other wheels going over the road and other sounds as well, life going on, and I knew that I was being brought through a town. I knew my name and I knew that I was a wanted man. And I knew that I had other names. I knew exactly who I was. I was injured and in pain. But the pain was fine, poking me awake. I breathed around it; it got no worse. It was a throb, a reliable thing. And it was going to go away. I’d been shot and now I was on the mend. If the straw was swept aside I’d be able to stand and run. I’d been saved by Miss O’Shea. I took a breath, my face to the side, not tickled too badly by the straw. She’d carried me away from the Black and Tans. I took a deep breath and knew that I was Henry Smart and that I was alive and still magnificent.
I must have dozed. The cart went off the good road and I was battered around on the boards. The straw poked at me. I heard humming that took on words and went back into humming.
Oh Paddy dear and did you hear the news that’s going around?
A man on his own with the sun away to the side and comfortable. I was tempted to call out to him.
The shamrock is by law forbid to grow on Irish ground.
I could call if I wanted to; I thought I’d be able to.
And if the colour dum-de-dum is England’s cruel red.
But I didn’t. I was thinking again, gathering up the consequences. Maybe he didn’t know I was in his straw; maybe other men had put me there. Maybe he wasn’t alone.
Let it remind us of the blood that Irishmen have shed.
Maybe the song was for my entertainment as well as his own, but maybe there was a gun at the other end of the notes, waiting for my head to come up out of the straw. I moved my hands around me. Whoever had put me there, they’d left me without a gun or leg. All I grabbed was straw. I felt my fingernails. They were long; they’d been left alone for weeks. I decided to wait. To be ready. No more dozing. I was Henry Smart. I was shot and recovering. I wanted answers but they’d come if I waited.
—Never ask questions, Victor.
—Why not?
—If you just watch and listen you’ll get better answers. I could have told you she wasn’t married meself.
—How?
—No rings, son. No rings on her fingers.
—Oh yeah.
—Oh yeah is right. Watch and listen and the answers will come strolling up to you. What do you do?
—Watch and listen.
—Good man.
Beside me in the desk. The heads of little brown animals climbing to her neck. Victor’s leg leaning into mine. Tarpaulin against my face. The crib, an old zinc basin, nicely stuffed and padded. Straw tickling my nose. A fall into black and the river below. Welcome to the Swan River, boys. The smell of an old coat and the rushing water.
I was awake. The cart had stopped. I was ready and sweating. Dust in my eyes.
The straw was lifted.
There was a man there alone, his hands full of the straw, no gun or menace. It was grand and I was hungry.
—What time is it?
—Spud time, said the man with the straw.
—Thank Jaysis. I’m starving.
—That’s often the way.
He put down the straw and helped me off the cart. I stood. My legs felt strange and unowned.
He was fifty or the other side of it; it was harder to tell in the country.
—No hurry, he said.
I took a step.
—Good man.
And another one.
—Oh good man.
And another.
—You’ll need no more encouragement from me.
He threw the straw back into the cart and walked into the house. He’d left the donkey between the shafts.
The door was low and open. I stooped carefully so I wouldn’t lean too far forward and quickly. I couldn’t see the ground or a step. There was no light from a window and I was blocking the door.
—Where am I? I said.
—You’re six foot to the right of your dinner, said the man with the straw.—And there’s nothing in your path.
I made it. I found a chair with my hand and dropped onto it. And then I felt the steam rising from the plate below me. It cooled the sweat that was running off my face. I was already exhausted. I could see the table and the man sitting opposite me and then I heard and saw a woman walking away to one of the corners. It was still too dim to see her face and nothing in her movement gave her age away.
I found the fork and a knife. They were heavy but I managed to get the skin off my first potato and only needed a short rest before I got a lump of it to my mouth.
—Balls of flour, said the man.
—Where am I? I said.
—Back where you started, said the man.—In a manner of speaking.
He was beginning to annoy me.
—Where am I? I said.
—You’re in Tonrua, mister, said the woman.
—He is not now, said the man.—He’s in Muckeragh.
—Don’t listen to that old cunt, said the woman.—You’re right beside Tonrua. You could throw a stone from here at the barracks that’s burnt.
—But the stone would fall well short of it.
—You just shut your mouth now, you old cunt, she said. —You’d give the man a headache. Like the one you’re always giving me.
—Tonrua is one parish and Muckeragh is another one altogether.
—And you’re one old cunt and your father was another one altogether. Just shut up out of that or I’ll go over there and smack you. She brought you here on her back, mister.
—Was she alright?
—She was. She had bullets in her but not like the one you had. They were lodged in her arm just, away from the vital things.
—And what happened then?
—We got you into the cart and brought you on to a safer place.
—’Twas me that brought you, said the man.
—’Twas me that told you to, said the woman.
—Just me or the two of us?
—The two of you.
—And then?
—And then a doctor that’s a friend of Ireland looked at the bullet hole in your side and he discovered another one in your front. The bullet went clean through you and tidied up as it went along. You’re a lucky man, mister.
—He is.
—Shut up, there. The bullet didn’t as much as singe a rib when it was trotting through you.
If it had been one of my bullets, one of the dum-dums, I’d have been pulped. I wasn’t sure why - there was no such thing as a fair fight and there was no God out there to thank - but I decided never to use them again.
—And her? I asked.
—She recovered fast. They say. He had a night’s work taking the bullets out of her arm but he did and she was able to thank him for it.
—She’s the holy terror, he said.
—Shut up there, you, and fill your mouth with them spuds that I dug and washed and cooked special for you.
—I will. Because I’m hungry.
—You will because I told you to. Our Lady of the Machine Gun, they’re calling her, mister. She’s robbing banks and the big houses and killing those new Tan bastards into the bargain. She’ll soon have us free of them and that’ll be a day worth getting up for.
—It will indeed, said the man with the straw.
—What would you know about it? she said.—You old cunt, you know nothing.
—Maybe so, said the old cunt.—But at least I know that much.
—Shut up now.
Her head was as rough as her language. I couldn’t manage any more food - I’d hardly touched the mountain of spuds but I already felt fat and useless - but I used what energy I’d left to turn and look at her properly. She was a hard-looking item, much younger than her husband, but that was often the way in the bog where women would marry dead men to escape from the clutches of spinsterhood. She’d a big round face, and angry red skin like a crust. She must have spent all day staring into the wind. Her feet were bare and her toes were huge, mountainy old things.
—Will you have a cup of buttermilk to wash down the praties? said the man.
—Listen, pal, I said.—I’m a Dublin man. I wouldn’t let that muck near my mouth, thanks all the same.
—You’re a wise man, mister, she said.—That stuff’s only old cow piss that would make you sick to your stomach.
—I never heard you deride the buttermilk before, said the man.
—You’ll hear plenty if I have to get up now and go over to you. You don’t have to say something to think it.
—That’s true enough.
—What would you know about the truth, you old cunt? This man here needs his rest. You go away, now.
The man stood up.
—I will, he said.—It’s been a long day.
—Every day is long when you’re in it, she said.—Go away to your bed.
—I will.
He walked to the door. The light was screaming through it into the kitchen. He went out.
—Where does he sleep? I asked.
—Where he drops, she said.—For all that I care. You’ll sleep down here, beside the fire. There’s a bed above but it’s as well to be down here if the English bastards or the Scottish ones get it into their heads to call on us. Or the cunts from Wales for that matter. Sleep with your clothes on in case you have to run.
She drew back a checked curtain and there was a small bed, built in against the side of the fire. The bedspread surprised me, a field of bright diamond patterns.
She was standing beside me.
—Now, she said.—Your revolver is under the bed with the wooden leg you were holding when she brought you here that night. There are only two bullets in the cylinder but two’s twice as good as one, I suppose. I fell out of a tree once, mister, and my leg broke on me but I managed to crawl back across the yard, in here to Mammy. One leg or the both? she said, wiping her hands in her apron. The one, I said. Be thankful for your blessings, she said. You’ll have the good one to concentrate on while the broke one’s mending. And I agreed with her, mister, even though the pain was something desperate. But she still went out with the axe and cut the tree to fuck out of it. She didn’t leave a root or a leaf. D’you know what she said then? Let that space where the tree used to grow be a reminder always to you that your mammy loved you. She died young on us, mister, and I think she knew it was coming when she went out with the axe. I’ll never leave this place. I couldn’t bring the hole where the tree was with me and I’d never want to be too far from that hole. Now, if you have to get up in the night, you can piss over the half-door. Only make sure the Tans aren’t out there, waiting. They’ve been doing that, I’ve heard. It’s as well to have your fellow safe away in your trousers when those cunts call. And I’ll tell you straight now and not bother with the formalities: I’m available for the ride. What do you think of that, mister?
—What about your husband?
—What husband?
—The man that just left.
—That old cunt? she said.—That’s no one’s husband these years. That’s my father. So, what have you got to say for yourself? D’you want to climb up on me or don’t you?
—Can I have a bit of a nap first?
—You can, indeed, she said.—You’re not mended yet. I’ll not come between you and your recovery. Ireland’s freedom comes first in this house. Will I wake you up?
—I’ll probably wake, myself.
—I’ll be waiting for you, she said.—I’ll not be far away.
—Grand, I said.—That’ll be something to look forward to. Good-night, so.
—Sure, it’s only two in the afternoon. But good-night anyway. I’m a good hold, mister. I’ve been told that before, and more than once. I’m not much to look at but a travelling man once told me that I go like one of them sewing machines.
Her bottom lip hung over her chin.
—I’ll bear that in mind, I said.
—Do, she said.—We’ve a power of rocks and furze around here but the handsome men are few and far between. It’d be a shame to let the chance go by.
—It probably would, I said.
She went up the steps to her bed. I took her advice and kept my clothes on but it wasn’t the Tans I was scared of. I listened to her saying her prayers, then I heard her using the bed to get off her knees. Clothes hit the deck and she lowered herself onto the bed.