Echoes (78 page)

Was that where she would start again?

David wished that she wasn't kneeling beside him, but there was nothing else they could do. She had her elbows on the back of the seat in front and her forehead resting on her clenched hands. He noticed how thin her wrist was, with the watch he had given her hanging slightly loosely on it. When he glanced at her he saw her eyes were open and distant. She wasn't praying, obviously.

There was plenty to think about. He felt a great weariness come over him. He was too tired to make her promises, to beg her to come back to the Lodge, to tell her it would all be all right. It might not be all right, and they had never lied directly to each other, they had lied by omission. He had never denied that he was with Caroline, because she had never asked him what way he was with Caroline. If it hadn't been for those pictures, they would have had a chance. Those pictures. If he could only go back to before the pictures . . .

Had she really burned them? Is that what she had been doing when she went to burn the caravan? He shivered to think of it. Suppose the wind blew the wrong way and had swept the flames toward her? But why should she have gone up to the caravan park to burn the pictures, for God's sake? Couldn't she have burned them anywhere? He turned his head and looked at her, head still leaning on one hand, her dark eyes looking ahead, her shoulders tense and full of hurt. Had he been right when he said that nothing made any difference now? Was it too late?

 

The priest had walked around the coffin with the thurible and the sickly sweet smell of incense filled the church as Father O'Dwyer made his circle of the box that contained Gerry Doyle. Then four men, men who had been boys with Gerry and who had watched helplessly while he had taken their girlfriends away, picked up the coffin as if it were no weight at all. They walked out of the church followed by the whole congregation.

They walked, heads bent in the wind, the quarter of a mile to the graveyard which stood high on a hill. There the grave had been dug and the two gravediggers removed their caps as the funeral procession arrived.

Visitors often looked at this little graveyard and said it would be a beautiful place to come to rest. Surrounded by a stone wall, filled with the Celtic crosses of years, its own little ruined church covered with ivy in the corner.

Because it was on a hill you could see the whole beach below, the white flecks of the waves coming in ceaselessly. The sand and stones being pulled out in their wake. Hardly anyone could have looked back down at the beach without remembering that this is why they were here.

The only people who didn't look were Gerry's mother and sister. Mrs. Mary Doyle looked vaguely around. It was like a bad dream, everyone seemed to be looking at her she thought, but her sister held one of her arms and her daughter held the other. There was no sign of Gerry but he must be away working somewhere, he'd be here soon.

Fiona's tears were mixed with the salt wind and rain, but she felt much more at peace now, now that she realized Gerry couldn't have done it on purpose. Whatever those pictures were, Gerry would never have left anything behind him, deliberately . . . not anything that would hurt someone or ruin their life.

She listened to Father O'Dwyer, she didn't understand the Latin words, but she knew that they were necessary to set Gerry's soul at peace.

 

Angela looked at Dick. His face always looked very cross when he was upset, and he was greatly upset by all this. Last night he had whispered to her that there was a lot of violence in Castlebay, a sort of passion that was very destructive.

“It might cease now. Now that poor Gerry Doyle is dead,” Angela had said.

“No, it seems to be starting, what could have possessed that young fellow to do a thing like that. What could have been so bad that made him do it? And look at the caravan being burned out. I know that may not have anything to do with it, but it all seems very violent. All of a sudden.”

Angela said nothing. Someday she would know what it was all about.

Molly Power looked across at the O'Briens as they stood together. Agnes thin and frail always, her two sons beside her, Tom standing a bit back. That's all she had now, after rearing that huge family, two boys in England, that Chrissie married into the Byrne family. And Clare. Who knew what to make of Clare? Certainly her parents didn't; and Molly didn't. She looked over to where the girl was standing stiffly, her long hair blowing in the wind. A good dark coat, not that terrible duffle coat she used to live in at one time. She was a strange girl. No wonder David found it so hard to deal with her.

 

Father O'Dwyer knew how to bury the dead of his parish. He had been doing it for years. But the dead were never like this. The dead were old men and women who hadn't been able to survive a winter. Or someone who died tragically young leaving a family of small children. Occasionally the dead might be children—that was very hard, but there was something to say, about God taking innocent little souls to himself.

Paddy Power wondered what would Father O'Dwyer say to a congregation who knew what a life Gerry Doyle had lived, and that he had ended up by taking that life himself.

Dr. Power had reminded himself only that morning that God was merciful: and if God was, then Father O'Dwyer must be also.

The priest looked around at the cold faces all spattered by the sea spray and whipped by the wind. He would not keep them long but he must keep them long enough to do honor to the dead man. Otherwise why have the ceremony at all?

“You all knew Gerry Doyle, and as we stand here around his grave and pray that his soul is in heaven with the angels we will all remember his love of life, and how he was involved in everything that went on in Castlebay . . .

“I think it's true that since this young man personified life, and youth and energy. His sudden death will make us realize once more what a very slight hold we have on our mortal lives, how easily they can be whipped away. While we pray for Gerry this morning, let us think of the briefness of our own lives. This time next year, not all of us who stand here now may be here, and in ten years' time, many more will have gone to their Maker. But it's not only the old and those who are ready to go, it's the young who are totally unprepared to face the kingdom of heaven, and who still have so much to say to each other and to their families and their friends.

“If Gerry Doyle had been given one more day, there might have been many things he would wish to have said, things to put straight, people to reassure. But the Lord doesn't let us know the time He calls us. Everyone here has a cheerful memory of Gerry. Let us keep those memories in our hearts and pray that his soul is in heaven today, and will rise again on the Last Day.”

There were the last three Hail Marys and the Glory Be to the Father and then Fiona leaned forward to raise the shovel of earth, the first one to fall on the coffin that had been lowered into the ground. She looked down into the big open grave.

“Thank you, Gerry,” she said unexpectedly.

People were almost embarrassed, nobody ever spoke at a time like this, certainly nobody expected the quiet dignified Fiona to say anything so emotional. One by one the men shoveled on earth, filling up the dark hollow space.

This was the bleakest part of a funeral. The finishing touches. People huddled closer together almost unconsciously as if they were looking for some warmth from just being in a crowd.

Clare and David moved together. Partly because they were jostled, partly because they wanted to.

It was David's turn to take the spade in his hand. He paused and looked at Clare. Her glance was steady. She didn't turn away.

David dug into the heap of clay that lay beside the grave and heard it fall on to the earth that was already on top of Gerry's coffin. He took three steps back toward Clare, she had her hand out in its little knitted glove.

He took it and they both watched the gravediggers finish off the work that the parish had begun. Two tall bony men, they had it finished in no time. The two wreaths were put on the little mound. In a year they would put up a tombstone to Gerry Doyle, Born 1935, Died 1962, and passersby would shake their heads and say he died very young.

The people began to trickle down the hill, toward Craig's Bar some of them, some to Dillon's Hotel, others to open up their businesses, which had been closed to honor Gerry Doyle.

A long time ago, back in Dublin, when there had been a simple sort of life, David used to take Clare's hand in its knitted glove and put it into his pocket for further warmth. He wondered if he dared do that now. Very gently he drew her hand toward him and she placed it in his pocket without him having to do anything.

They walked down the twisty road with the loose stones. Down the hill to Castlebay.

MAEVE BINCHY is the author of
Nights of Rain and Stars
,
Quentins
,
Scarlet Feather
,
Tara Road
(an Oprah Book Club Selection),
Circle of Friends
,
Light a Penny Candle
, and many other bestselling novels. She lives in Dalkey, Ireland, and London with her husband, writer Gordon Snell.