The Ikon Maker Read online

She knew it from the shape of her eyes, her complexion; everything had a bit of Diarmaid.

  ‘Will you have coffee?’

  A boy with hair like a polar bear’s asked.

  She looked at him with surprise.

  ‘O.K.’

  They made her a mug of coffee and offered her a bun.

  One with a cherry on it. The girl said she’d made them.

  Her name was Alice.

  Gradually the others introduced themselves. This was a kind of commune. The first Susan had come upon. She looked about in disbelief. So these were the sort of people Diarmaid was mixing with.

  This was his world.

  And after a minute or two the strangeness wore off and the events of the past few days seemed to implant a new honesty in Susan, Bridget and all that. She could only see these people remotely – maybe as they were – disconnected from reality.

  Reality was life’s pounding wounds. Like Bridget’s face on previous nights. Waiting death like a swan on Irish waters – one of those ancient holy creatures of Ireland who inhabited its lake towards evening.

  Anyway the music which had invaded Susan’s ears as she thought of swans and Bridget had been the music of Swan Lake at the ballet the other night.

  There were no real coincidences. Everything was bound up.

  Everything.

  She saw a picture of Mick Jagger on a magazine cover, her son’s elusive hero whose name she sometimes remembered and sometimes forgot. But there he was again. She felt like chastising him.

  ‘And who are ye? Diarmaid’s friends.’

  She’d never sounded so raucously Irish.

  ‘Yes.’

  They were meek in their replies.

  ‘How long did Diarmaid live here?’

  ‘Oh on and off.’

  ‘And where’s this friend of his and himself gone?’

  ‘To York,’ came the quick reply.

  ‘York. God save us.’

  ‘His friend lectures there.’

  ‘Lectures?’

  ‘Yes, he’s an economics lecturer.’

  That was new. That was sudden.

  The boy in a green shirt told her. His nose had a tremendous resemblance to Pope Paul’s.

  Alice, the girl, stirred.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘No, no love.’

  And she recognized the look on the face, a look like Diarmaid’s, as familiar as the portion of stained glass in the church at home. She felt almost – yes, the word was compassion. She felt strongly for the child. Her son, her daughter.

  She recognized that moment – strangely – that this girl must have been a lover of Diarmaid.

  ‘O Sacred Heart of Jesus I place all my trust in Thee.’ Words from the chapel at home.

  They returned. Her vision was complete. Here Diarmaid used sleep with this girl.

  She had more coffee. ‘Two, please.’ She asked for sugar. She was becoming interested. The Peace News lay beside her. Above her a poster of an atom bomb exploding, a mushroom of smoke with a child emerging from it.

  Strange. And she wondered what someone like Mrs Conlon would think of all this.

  They talked, dribs and drabs of conversation, as Susan would say to herself.

  Bits of nothing passed between them.

  Cherries were produced; they delicately picked them from a mauve bowl. And all the time Susan was noticing Alice, the namesake of her niece, sitting beside the Buddha. An expression half of curiosity, half of faith in her eyes. She wanted to know more. So did Susan.

  She held on, Susan did. One boy was going out to buy cabbage. Another was off to see an old house he and friends of his were thinking of occupying. Altogether Susan was alone now with Alice, apart from a cat and a youth who painted in another room.

  ‘Where did you get your shoes?’ the girl asked.

  ‘Why, in Galway.’

  ‘They’re lovely.’

  Big and boorish, Susan thought.

  Black. She found herself gazing down.

  And between them the shoes stood, a barrier.

  ‘Did you know Diarmaid well?’

  ‘O.K. Well enough.’

  ‘What sort of form is he in?’

  ‘Well as can be expected.’

  The girl sounded bitter underneath, betrayed. She had on a red check shirt.

  It flowed about her hips which were neat and tapering.

  Bluntly her knees knocked together.

  ‘I haven’t seen him for a few days. I left this place before he left. When I came back he was gone.’

  ‘Where to? Oh yes. The North. Good God. What brought him there?’

  ‘His friend. Michael.’

  Susan was perplexed. Who was this man? What was he doing in Diarmaid’s life? From the way Alice spoke of him she gauged that he was young. Or somehow intense enough to be taken for young.

  She wondered about him. Alice kept talking.

  ‘Diarmaid’s been behaving very strangely recently.’

  ‘How strangely?’ Susan wanted to question quickly, immediately. Now it was coming back.

  The emptiness of the last days was going for an acute, almost apostolic awareness of Diarmaid; he was a case history, Diarmaid was. Case of what? Of strange and unwanted feelings. They were her feelings too; her strength.

  Something she’d never suffered for as much as he, but something of which she was totally aware.

  The nerve system of a country. Here she had it in the palm of her hand, Diarmaid’s relationship with Derek O’Mahony. Alice was another Derek O’Mahony. She wanted to ask Alice many questions, but couldn’t. The girl looked strained.

  ‘In other words,’ she said after a few minutes, ‘I was in love with Diarmaid and he left me.’

  She was beginning to cry but something – perhaps recognizing the fellowship of Susan – stopped her. She took in Diarmaid’s mother.

  ‘You must think I’m awful saying this, but I really loved Diarmaid.

  But he’s so messed up.

  There was nothing I could do. He wanted me so much. Then suddenly he left me. He must have changed his mind and I – like a fool – realized I cared more for him than for anybody before. He was like a God to me. He was the nicest guy I’ve met. Tender. That’s it. But his tenderness didn’t seem to stretch when I needed it.’

  All was a bit confusing but it was all there, the long ago at school, Derek O’Mahony wanting Diarmaid, but Diarmaid – finally – being unable to give himself. Tied up in the back of his mind with rabbits – these he would play with as a child – and yes, her, Susan.

  Their relationship exact, living; their daily choice when he had knots of livid hair.

  The girl spoke on. ‘I hope you don’t consider me foolish.’

  ‘Anyway, getting back to the point,’ Susan said, ‘what about this man Diarmaid’s gone away with?’

  ‘Michael. He’s crazy. He’ll drive Diarmaid into a mental asylum yet.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  But before she could answer a boy came in. He looked at Susan, then looked at Alice, began playing piano in another room. Shortly after that more batches of people arrived and all – apparently taken by Susan’s brogue – began treating her as though she were a rare and welcome visitor. A girl with dyed hair wailed with laughter at a joke Susan made about the frost.

  ‘Yes it’s cold in winter where I live and frost covers the road at night. You’d swear every donkey passing was Jack the Ripper.’

  She couldn’t believe her own words. She was going crazy.

  She wanted to leave.

  ‘Listen,’ Alice said. ‘Here’s Diarmaid’s address in York.’

  Alice handed it to Susan though Susan wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do about it.

  ‘Goodbye, love.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  She was glad to be on the street again and away from people she didn’t quite understand.

  6

  Bridget sat up in bed that night. ‘If I were you I’d take a decent
holiday. Get away from the city. It’s no good. I’ve spent half my life here. Now it’s dead for me and I’m dying.

  And I won’t go home either before I die. I’ve given my life to this place and here I’ll stay.’

  ‘But I live in the country,’ Susan said.

  ‘You’ve never seen England though, have you?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been around.’

  Yet the idea struck her.

  Maybe she should visit a country place in Britain.

  ‘Will you come?’ she asked Bridget in the morning.

  The refusal was solid.

  Where would she go?

  Suggestions escaped her.

  Maybe, maybe she thought she should go to York to see Diarmaid.

  But of that she was afraid.

  On a Tuesday she met Alice outside a shop.

  ‘I had a postcard from Diarmaid. He’s happy.’

  One that bewildered Susan altogether. Diarmaid happy. Yes, she’d go investigate.

  7

  She’d never really been to many places but this could have been Venice, Florence to her. Boys in white trousers, their hair very blond and glowing, walked by.

  She felt an immediate intimacy, an immediate glow inside herself even.

  The Cathedral opened, a huge structure. It seemed to fold the streets in; take them into itself. The town indeed was a wonder.

  She didn’t move. Just sat on a bench by the river as evening came. Young men canoed; colours drifted. All was complete.

  If she had a thousand sons she didn’t feel like seeing them now. Let them go about their lives. She was herself now. She didn’t need sons.

  But she headed to Diarmaid’s address.

  Drawn there out of no particular compulsion.

  It all seemed so mindless now. The detective politics of looking for Diarmaid were over.

  Let him go his life, she felt. She had no wish to interfere. When she arrived the door was red; the house part of riverside mews.

  Inside light was on, curtains drawn, shielding the windows.

  A young man answered.

  About twenty-four. He looked as though he could have been older.

  His face lean, taut, eyes shooting out like little fires.

  His hand lay on the doorknob. He looked – quite honestly Susan thought later – like a frightened child.

  ‘I’m Diamaid’s mother. I’m staying at a hotel nearby. I just popped around to see him.’ It was a crazy lie. She had nowhere to stay. Her bags were at the station. She felt like a hippie.

  ‘He’s not here. He went yesterday.’

  Again now she realized how much she wanted to see him. It had never occurred to her, the importance of her venture.

  She felt cold, betrayed. She’d wanted to see Diarmaid. Even if it was as if she couldn’t care earlier.

  But caring was with her all the time. She’d tried to pretend cynicism. She wanted just to be herself, a woman, but now she realized she wanted and needed Diarmaid so much. She was utterly fed up of pretending.

  ‘Can I come in? I’m tired.’

  She stepped in. The house was covered with pictures. Mainly reproductions of little boys painted by apparently famous painters.

  ‘Sorry. I should have invited you earlier. I hope I didn’t appear rude.’

  ‘No.’

  Susan sat down. She wanted to sleep on something. She couldn’t care what this strange man thought.

  ‘I feel so tired.’

  ‘Do you wish to sleep?’

  Alarmed at his generosity she looked at him.

  ‘Yes please.’ Her head was swooning. Something which held her together was gone. All the ropes, and in her mind she could see the trapeze artist she’d viewed with Diarmaid, a symbol, and also now the train journeys of her life, those over the bridge in Ballinasloe, one to Dublin to meet George’s remains.

  She felt like crying. Rolling up like a teething child.

  This was it; her moment. She’d never go back now.

  She cared passionately for Diarmaid.

  She’d wanted to show him that by coming to the green parts of England to meet him.

  The young man, Michael, showed her to her room. There she curled up. Inside her there was fear. Bloated. It must have been like a miscarriage.

  In the night she woke up. Instead of blood there were tears on the pillow.

  She’d been crying. Though in a way there was little to cry at in her life. She’d wept at George’s departure; in Dublin she’d stood motionless as George’s body was produced from an aeroplane.

  Then wailed like women used when she was a child and met coffins on country roads and keened them.

  The tears on her pillow now were an aftermath of the last years; Diarmaid’s subjectivity, his experiences at school, the lonesomeness of school days.

  It was also her lonesomeness.

  This she realized. Outside was a new moon. A singular loveliness about the night.

  ‘Your troubles are my troubles.’ In her head she was calling Diarmaid. Am I going mad? The thought occurred to her. Would they lock her up and put her in an asylum? Maybe. A mad lady she was now, going to ballets in London, traipsing about like a harlot, talking to herself.

  But all this was beside the point.

  A cat sneaked by.

  Her breath softened the windowpane. Blurred.

  In the glamour it was Galway again.

  She and George, making amends for their sadness, their individual solitude, making love in a barn. All these years she’d forgotten because she hadn’t cared. George and she had made love before they married. A terrible sin in Irish consciousness; in fact there’d been pilgrimages to Lourdes against it, prayers at Fatima, and in Ireland’s own shrine, Knock, they’d invoked Mary Magdalene and John the Baptist against sex. But she and George had done it. They hadn’t cared. They hadn’t confessed it. They’d married. Now all the young people in Ireland were making love.

  But it came to her as an outstanding revelation that she and George had openly defied all codes; there in a barn outside Galway, tide swollen in the nearby sea, she’d kissed his lips and bent to his organ, as innocent and lifeless at first as that of a stone cupid. She’d woken him.

  Much shame should have poured on her. It didn’t. After they’d married – years after the war – they’d gone to the October Fair in Ballinasloe. Lights lovely, colourful, and there as Betty Grable sang a raucous song over the loudspeaker she saw a girl call out her lover’s name. That had been the last time she’d remembered her first act of sex with George. Now recalling it beauty filled the night – York Minster stood out.

  ‘Diarmaid.’ His plight had begun that night in Galway. That night – though he didn’t come for many years later – his existence was devoted to truth.

  8

  Over the next few days they became like a couple setting up house together, Susan and Michael. It was strange, possibly the strangest point of her life. They knew one another quickly; they grabbed easily. Walking around York he bought her a cerise blouse – Michael had been Diarmaid’s friend. This she gathered bit by bit.

  Over porridge, wheatgerm on the porridge, he told her about Diarmaid’s coming here. They’d met in London.

  In the flat at Endsleigh Gardens. Michael had been there with his wife-to-be, Eleanor. Both friends of one of the occupants. But they hadn’t been getting on too well.

  The night there they’d finally broken up. Eleanor had gone into the street, Michael following her.

  It was over; she wept. Upper-English, used to gardens, she hadn’t really accepted Michael though they’d been away together. Spent a summer north of Venice. He was Yorkshire, pained-looking; she’d been used to parsonages, couldn’t accept something in him.

  Maybe bluntness, blue jeans.

  She’d listened whimsically to all this, Susan had.

  What was the world coming to? Young people everywhere fighting.

  Though she knew their fighting was special, was part of their attachment.
r />   In her mind Susan envisaged a girl in a pale frock; it was like listening to an old film retold, listening to Michael. He set a scene, almost described clothes exactly.

  ‘We’d seemed so much in love. But no, it was over. We just couldn’t get on any more.’

  ‘And where does Diarmaid fit into the picture?’

  ‘That morning Eleanor got a cab, saying she was going to her brother in Cyprus. She claimed it was definitely over because I hit her. I did. When she was screaming at me about my appearance. Aspects of it didn’t appeal to her.

  She sat down – sobbing. “I can’t have this. I can’t have this,” she screamed. But basically she was saying we were no longer in love. Or worse, never had been. Were relying on one another.

  I walked home.

  Diarmaid was standing at the door. His fists were knotted together.

  He looked like a Greek god or something.

  Something cut out of stone; always there. Yet somewhat tender-looking.

  I was crying. I must have looked like a red-looking rhinoceros. I was weeping loudly.

  Diarmaid just came up to me – Michael was hesitant – put his arm about me and said quietly, “You’ll be O.K.”

  That afternoon we went to the Victoria and Albert Museum together.

  It was something I won’t forget.’

  His arms were brown.

  She was sitting on a cushion, feeling very comfortable, but most ungraceful.

  Yet she was happy, strangely happy. Like a young girl.

  Someone who’d recovered youth, beauty, and didn’t know what to do with it.

  Eleanor seemed to have been just a slot in Michael’s life; this Susan gauged. Like white roses over a garden wall she’d passed by, a delicacy, nothing more. Here now, Michael was alive, disgruntled, young, afraid.

  She felt like saying something like ‘sow’ to him, but that would have been disastrous, unhealthy; she felt like a mother to him. But also acting adviser.

  It was a strange mixture of bodies. The two on the floor, facing one another. Involved in what? – getting to know divisions.

  ‘He came here to get away from London.

  He was fed up of the girl he was living with, Alice. She was getting on his nerves.

  To me she was a lovely girl, just out of school, knowing little or nothing about the world. But she was familiar with certain drugs. In convent school apparently she’d overdosed herself with barbiturates, which event had immediate associations for Diarmaid, seeing I think that a friend of his died at school. They were both products of Catholic environments. They had nothing to lose and much to identify with in one another.