The Ikon Maker Page 5
‘And what if it doesn’t?’ Diarmaid asked. ‘It doesn’t for some people.’
‘Who for instance?’
‘That boy I saw die.’
Susan turned away, defeated, remembering, even as he said it, Alice, her niece.
‘Some people stop living I suppose.’
He was obviously haunted by her last remark, took up marmalade, spread it on his bread.
‘That’s so true,’ he said.
And as she watched him she thought of the trapeze artist they’d seen together, swinging.
And in herself she wondered with pride if this wasn’t to be the most she’d get from life, her relationship with her son, these weeks.
But on the floor she noticed crumbs going stale; retreated from that thought. One mustn’t think like that. It’s not good.
It might bring an end to happiness.
Always afraid of conceptions she dug the table with her nails.
Her Sacred Heart picture gazed outwards; no, she didn’t want to think.
And she didn’t have to, Diarmaid talked about the war in England, asked her what it was like. And she had to think of the bombs and somewhere in her head their grinding grimacing laughter renewed.
A plate left on the table; a song on the radio later, bed.
And later thoughts. But in the morning when she awoke and saw Diarmaid’s face she realized thoughts didn’t matter. What she had she had.
And buttercups exploded beside an old stone outside. A donkey brayed and she soundlessly moved about her chores.
18
‘Derek died because he wasn’t important.’
‘What sort of talk is that?’
‘I think he sort of forged an identity by dying.’
They stuck in her, those words.
Like hot plates.
Tongs.
The subject pursued its yearning; it was her turn to ask.
‘I think you were closer to Derek than you were to me.’
‘He was my friend.’ They were both eating three bars of Cadbury’s chocolate.
‘But why had he to die if he was your friend? Surely he’d have had you. Surely that would have been enough.’
The questions flowed. The yearning clung. Questions unanswered. Yet there was an unstable atmosphere of reward in the air. It was as if Derek O’Mahony were becoming something of a concentration point; she was assuming his role.
The intricacy increased; down a bog road she sang ‘Come Back Paddy Reilly’. He listened.
‘You’re thinking of Derek O’Mahony,’ she said.
It was the most implausible thing that ever passed between them.
He started. Blond hair flowed down. Dashes – today – of green in it.
He took off an anorak.
The day was too hot. ‘You’re mad,’ he said.
She agreed. Didn’t say so. She was becoming quite crazy. Her dress was blue and it was as though the moment she’d made that remark summer began. Yellow licked the fields. Buttercups.
She felt excited. And with her son she realized that Derek’s presence in his life was far beyond just the indelicacy, say, of sexual contact.
It was dark. The colour of trains.
Of waiting at stations.
‘Derek was a friend of mine.
He’s not though somebody I think of all the time.
I don’t need to.’
The clowns came back at the circus; the trapeze artist. That was her excitement.
Of a new means of contact.
Derek was like a devouring point and in the trapeze artist now she saw all life flow; her new relationship with her son. She felt as she did in Galway before the war when she used take walks with George.
And his name demanded something of her. George. It rang.
With it the green of little silent bits of grass in Galway.
The green of his uniform later on in war.
They sat down.
‘Soon it will be Easter. Your birthday.’
No reply. But it didn’t matter now.
Her thoughts were far away – beyond the hills around which held memories of the Battle of Aughrim – to a time out of mind.
Just the moments of love she’d known.
And as this was one she was totally apart, free, sitting, smiling.
A girl in love again.
19
‘Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.’
A song drummed over the radio.
Later that evening.
Diarmaid reprimanded her. ‘I wish you wouldn’t talk of Derek so much.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Before he died I guess I knew he’d kill himself. We’d fought.
He threw a copy of The Dandy at me. Little boys read it.
And he went off. Like a spoilt brat I thought at the time. Then the clue came. He hung himself.
The clown in the circus the other day reminded me of him. Big face; long mouth.
Derek was one of life’s failures.’
‘Aren’t we all?’ Mrs O’Hallrahan injoined.
Confessional.
‘No,’ Diarmaid said.
And went to bed.
20
She was racked by the thought of it.
The thrown-away Dandy. ‘God speed my love till you are mine again.’ The words of a daft song returned. She took sausages out of the fridge and put them back in. It was as though Rip Kirby had come to life – as though a terrible act had seized the house. Derek’s death. Afraid now she sat and silently said the Rosary to herself, a train edging through the sorrowful mysteries like a knife.
‘Sacred Heart of Jesus I place all my trust in thee.’ And then she reconsidered. Maybe I don’t believe in God at all. But a whole lifetime of belief – and the exaggerated Irish sense of graveyards – and Mrs Conlon steadied her. ‘Of course, dear Jesus, I believe in you. Love my child.’
Touched by the simplicity of her own prayer she remembered Diarmaid in a cradle and left – herself – for bed.
21
Little innuendoes; a letter from a cousin in America, all became part of a growing concern for Diarmaid’s past. And at church one day she noticed Diarmaid, his blond hair, and wondered at his past. It was so different from his country’s lifestyle. So other than it.
The priest raised the host. She wondered at all the times a priest had raised a host at school and how Diarmaid and Derek had looked on, regardless, knowing they shared a secret, an immense secret, a relationship.
She’d never know the ins and outs of that relationship.
She’d never know what actually happened; other than sometimes watching Diarmaid stroke a snail’s back and knowing he must have done the same in Derek’s company.
But this she did know, whatever separated them now united her with Diarmaid. The merciless ongoingness in Diarmaid.
His father’s relentless spirit.
And in a way now – Mass had ended, they were going forth – she realized, more intently than ever, that she was an alternative to Derek, that what was happening now between herself and Diarmaid was the result of a lifetime of waiting.
The doctor’s wife waited in a car.
Over her face she wore a black mantilla. Like a face in a Spanish painting that hung in Susan’s hallway. She awaited her husband.
Mrs Conlon approached. ‘Hello.’ And then ‘I believe you’re going to Galway University, Diarmaid.’
He looked at her with fear.
‘Who told you?’
Mrs Conlon looked at Susan and Susan turned away.
Yes, she had told Mrs Conlon a lie. Yes, she had tried to cover up. She turned away.
Afterwards – with the memory of Mrs Conlon’s fox fur in her mind – she wept.
Diarmaid threw margarine into the toilet.
‘No, I’m not going to Galway University. I’m leaving. Tomorrow.’
‘Diarmaid.’
They looked at one another. The recognition was total. They embraced.
> Swiftly – as though he had done too much – Diarmaid withdrew. But whatever it was was over, Galway University or not.
A picture of an antelope hung over the range. She sat under it.
‘What do you think you’ll do?’
‘Go back to England.’
She took a breath.
‘Do you have to?’
‘Yes.’
She said nothing. Later she made coffee. Briskly the tap turned. And she recalled a visit to the zoo in Dublin in 1958 when Diarmaid was four.
It had been a grey day. Late in April.
Lions had growled. And under Nelson’s Pillar later a flower-seller in a Dublin accent had said:
‘You’re a grand lad, love.’
Now Nelson’s Pillar was blown up.
There was a singular pathos about O’Connell Street in Dublin. As though a leg were missing.
Her son drank from a cup on which a bird – blue – was painted.
‘You don’t have to go.’
‘I must.’
She said nothing.
The following night they went to a concert in Loughrea. A girl sang ‘Rose Marie, I love you’. A young man played an old Beatles song, ‘Can’t buy me love’. The curate made a speech in the middle, and towards the end Elvis Presley appeared.
Or at least a local imitation of him.
It was all sad and old and everything represented in it was already half-forgotten. Like a girl who resembled Marilyn Munroe. Then after the show – carnations given to the girl whose lips exploded like Marilyn Munroe’s – they, Susan, Diarmaid had coffee in a café smelling of haddock.
The street outside was sad and lonely.
Lights blinking on it.
‘It would make you cry.’ Susan recalled her husband’s expression.
A cinema sign said ‘Live for Life’. All energy gone they got a bus home. There they spoke again.
They were precious, the moments now. She didn’t know when he’d leave, hoped it wouldn’t be soon. They’d have his eighteenth birthday together.
So gently she grabbed them.
The feel of things. She watched him. Closely. On Saturdays she walked with him. The spring was exceptional. Primroses blazed.
Her face – in the mirror – became a girl’s. And in Diarmaid’s eyes was the image of the trapeze artist they’d seen at the circus.
His male body gleaming in a white outfit.
An image of love.
Hastening to forget everything she planned nothing.
Then one night watching Diarmaid she became frightened.
He was sitting on his bed, brooding.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I don’t know.’
His face had a harrowed look.
He was crying. ‘Love.’ ‘No.’
His shirt was off.
‘Nothing. Go away.’
This she did. She knew something of his relationship with Derek was returning. It had to be that.
In her room she consoled herself.
It would pass, this fright.
In the morning he left for Ballinasloe on a bicycle.
‘You can’t cycle that distance,’ she told him.
‘I can,’ he replied.
And did. Visited his old school, the tree on which Derek hanged himself, the sheep-flowing fields, visited them as though visiting an old song or turning old photographs. This she gathered that evening.
He went to bed.
In the morning he went out. She found an empty Smarties packet by his bed.
She was making blue shawls for local members of the Legion of Mary.
It was hard not to think but she managed not to too much. He was quiet that evening. A bad sign. He ate nothing.
She watched him.
Then left him. Went to watch Ironside on the television in Mrs Conlon’s. A thing she never did.
Mrs Conlon called her aside. ‘You look worried, dear.’
When she said nothing Mrs Conlon asked, ‘Is it your son?’
She said nothing.
Then Mrs Conlon said, ‘But you looked so happy recently. Like a pair in love.’
At this – sobbing in the quiet of her stomach – Susan left.
Hardly bidding goodnight.
At home she wept.
Skyscrapers seemed to crash in her. She wept for being so fool-hardy. For thinking herself young and beautiful and a friend to Diarmaid rather than a mother.
That night she dreamt of porpoises.
In the morning an alarm clock shrilled on another empty day.
22
Good Friday.
At three o’clock a service was spoken in the church. The priest’s voice droned. Afterwards people kissed a crucifix, women in black scarves, women in fur coats.
And all remembered their dead and the graves of east Galway, limestone headstones, names written into the weather. She stood on the gravel, Susan did. No son beside her.
He was gone. Into the fields. She didn’t resent his lack of religion.
Somewhere she considered he was lucky to have such intensity, to love signs for Chinese cafés in London. That indeed was religion enough.
They ate brown bread that evening. The jam was strawberry jam.
The silences between them were growing deeper.
Her only hope now was that he’d stay till after his birthday.
23
Easter Sunday; the day was fine and bells sounded.
Clouds like dovetails rested in the sky. There was a lot of blue; people marched to Mass and their footsteps were quiet, hesitant all the same. Mrs O’Hallrahan looked out. Ready. Her eyes were swollen. She was crying. Last night Diarmaid had said, ‘Fuck off,’ to her. ‘You bitch.’ That over an Easter egg he’d broken on the carpet for which she’d mildly reprimanded him.
He didn’t go to Mass. Alone she listened to the story of Mary by the sepulchre. The Gardener a Christ.
And she returned home to find Diarmaid had made the lunch. A start at reconciliation.
Parsley sprinkled on the roast lamb; they devoured the meat. The potatoes were roasted.
Stark, yellow with a crust of brown and a froth of white.
They talked little, looked across the table. Outside a yellow car passed with a load of young people. Possibly from Dublin. Umbrellas, top hats sticking up; all gay and shouting.
Diarmaid went to the window. He was going anyway to the sink with dishes. But he gave a look of such wistfulness outside that she could have cried.
Daily now she’d noticed his urge for departure.
A train sounded. Distantly. A bitter Easter Sunday train.
She went for a walk in the afternoon. Alone. Neighbours passed; an old man with a walking stick. He tipped his hat. To him she was a widow, and a widow was an act of God in Ireland, a sacred profession. She was a singular person in this area. That night over Easter-egg wrapping (always she bought Easter eggs at Easter) Diarmaid announced he was going out on a date. She could have died with shock.
‘What.’
‘I’m going on a date.’
He put on a shirt bought in London. It had green lapels. Altogether when he was finished – his trousers were blue – he looked like an angel.
Her reaction was a mixture of joy and frenzy.
She felt a clown.
‘Who are you dating, may I ask?’
‘Sheila Cummerton.’
A girl from Loughrea, it transpired, whom he’d met in a supermarket – of all places – in Ballinasloe.
‘She’s an engineer,’ he told her.
‘No she’s an engineering student in Galway.’
Jesus. Profanities mounted in her. She felt as though she were reading a comic.
They said goodbye. He slipped away. The boy was in love.
24
They went to a fair in Kiltormer together. This she gathered the following day. Danced in the open air on a warm Easter Sunday night.
‘The band was terrible,’ Diarmaid informed her.
This time she met her.
She had olive-coloured hair.
Her whole form stung with fragrance; some delicate perfume.
She had rabbit-coloured skin.
She was nice, yes, but somewhere Susan felt her way uneasily.
‘Do you like Galway?’
‘Yes.’
And after a minute. ‘I like it, but people are stupid there. They drink too much. I like the fellas, but they’re sort of buffoons.
I like going for walks there.’
This remark – poetic as it was – helped Diarmaid’s point of view.
They were having tea – the girl’s spoon slipped.
‘I never knew this part of the country. It’s new to me.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
Silence.
After some seconds.
‘Where did you get your dress?’
‘In Basle.’
‘Where?’
‘In Switzerland. I was there last summer.’
‘How lovely.’
Remarks piled up.
The dress was indeed – memorable. White.
They parted. The two young people slipped away. It was night and walking in a lane later Susan spoke to a sheep.
25
He wept bitterly. She didn’t know why. Wept for days.
His eyes became like liquorices.
‘What’s wrong?’
He didn’t tell. It had obviously broken between him and the girl. These dances in forests of coloured lights in the country beside old crosses and ruined monasteries.
‘Love, what’s wrong?’
The word brought reaction but no reply.
She’d obviously hurt him. Just as Susan had hurt herself by attaching herself to a youth who happened to be her son.
For a whole week it was like a series of Holy Thursdays. All she could feel were his tears. Then apparently they met again. Were briefly reconciled. Went to a film in Loughrea.
Afterwards to a dance. In Ballinasloe. In the Emerald Ballroom.
But this time it ended for sure. Just as Derek O’Mahony had hanged himself – betrayed by all, even himself – so Diarmaid now launched out against history.
Casually he packed up.
‘Aren’t you staying home for your birthday?’
‘No.’