Iâm not sure what he saw but it left his face with a curious neglect of reality; he stared ahead. Sometimes a donkey, a flying piece of hay, a budding tree at the end of the street would enthral him but otherwise silence. He kept quiet. He kept his distance. He shared very few things but he talked much to me. By a fire in the Hennessysâ, flames spitting and crying out, he talked of the sacred places of Asia, shrines to draconian goddesses, seated statues of Buddha.
I always nodded with understanding.
I suppose thatâs why he trusted me. Because, although a child of five, I was used to lengthy conversations with fire-brigade men,painters, road-sweepers. So he and I discussed Buddha, Korea and sunsets that made you forget war, long raving sunsets, sunsets of ruby and a red brushed but not destroyed by orange. The air became red for odd moments in Korea; the redness stood in the air, so much so you could almost ensnare a colour.
He had blond hair, sharpened by glints of silver and gold, a face tainted by a purple colour. It was as though someone had painted him, brush strokes running through his appearance, a glow, a healthiness about it, yet always a malign image before his eyes that kept him quiet, that compelled an austerity into eyes that would otherwise have been lit by handsomeness in the middle of a strange, arresting and, for an Irish small town, very distinctive face.
He came in April, time when the hedgerows were blossoming, time when Tinkers moved on and anglers serenely stood above the river. Light rains penetrated his arrival; talk of fat trout and drone of drovers in the pub next door to the Hennessys in the evening.
The Hennessys were the most auspicious young ladies in town. Margaret and Mona. Theyâd been left a small fortune by a father who won the Irish Sweep Stakes once and the pools another time. Their father had spent his whole life gambling. His wife had left him in the middle of it all. But before he died he won large stakes of money and these passed to his daughters. So his life wasnât in vain. They made sure of that, gambling and feasting themselves, an accordion moving through the night, taking all into its rhythms, sound of a train, flash of a bicycle light. The Hennessy girls sported and sang, inflaming passions of spinsters, rousing priests like devils, but retaining this in their sitting room, a knowledge of joy, a disposition for good music and songs that werenât loud and sluttish but graced by magic. Such were the songs I heard from bed up the road, songs about the Irish heart forever misplaced and wandering on Broadway or in Sydney, Australia, miles from home, but sure of this, its heritage of bog, lake and Irish motherhood.
The Hennessys had no mother; sheâd gone early but their house was opened as a guesthouse before their father won his fortunes and so it continued, despite money and all, less a guesthouse, more a hospice for British anglers and Irish circus artistes. One travelling painter with a circus painted the Rock of Cashel on the wall. A fire blazedcontinually in the back room and the sweetness of hawthorn reigned.
You donât bring hawthorn into the house, itâs bad luck; but the Hennessys had no mind for superstition and their house smelt of hedgerow, was smitten by sound of distant train, and warmed by a turf fire. Karl came to this house in 1956.
He meant to stay for a few weeks. His stay lasted the summer and if he did go early in autumn it was only because there was hurt in his stay.
The girls at first kept their distance, served him hot tea, brown bread, Chivers marmalade. He spent a lot of time by the fire, not just staring into it but regulating his thoughts to the outbursts of flame. He had seen war and one was aware of that; he was making a composition from war, images of children mowed down and buildings in flame. He came from a far country and had been in another far country. He was a stranger, an ex-soldier, but he was
I always nodded with understanding.
I suppose thatâs why he trusted me. Because, although a child of five, I was used to lengthy conversations with fire-brigade men,painters, road-sweepers. So he and I discussed Buddha, Korea and sunsets that made you forget war, long raving sunsets, sunsets of ruby and a red brushed but not destroyed by orange. The air became red for odd moments in Korea; the redness stood in the air, so much so you could almost ensnare a colour.
He had blond hair, sharpened by glints of silver and gold, a face tainted by a purple colour. It was as though someone had painted him, brush strokes running through his appearance, a glow, a healthiness about it, yet always a malign image before his eyes that kept him quiet, that compelled an austerity into eyes that would otherwise have been lit by handsomeness in the middle of a strange, arresting and, for an Irish small town, very distinctive face.
He came in April, time when the hedgerows were blossoming, time when Tinkers moved on and anglers serenely stood above the river. Light rains penetrated his arrival; talk of fat trout and drone of drovers in the pub next door to the Hennessys in the evening.
The Hennessys were the most auspicious young ladies in town. Margaret and Mona. Theyâd been left a small fortune by a father who won the Irish Sweep Stakes once and the pools another time. Their father had spent his whole life gambling. His wife had left him in the middle of it all. But before he died he won large stakes of money and these passed to his daughters. So his life wasnât in vain. They made sure of that, gambling and feasting themselves, an accordion moving through the night, taking all into its rhythms, sound of a train, flash of a bicycle light. The Hennessy girls sported and sang, inflaming passions of spinsters, rousing priests like devils, but retaining this in their sitting room, a knowledge of joy, a disposition for good music and songs that werenât loud and sluttish but graced by magic. Such were the songs I heard from bed up the road, songs about the Irish heart forever misplaced and wandering on Broadway or in Sydney, Australia, miles from home, but sure of this, its heritage of bog, lake and Irish motherhood.
The Hennessys had no mother; sheâd gone early but their house was opened as a guesthouse before their father won his fortunes and so it continued, despite money and all, less a guesthouse, more a hospice for British anglers and Irish circus artistes. One travelling painter with a circus painted the Rock of Cashel on the wall. A fire blazedcontinually in the back room and the sweetness of hawthorn reigned.
You donât bring hawthorn into the house, itâs bad luck; but the Hennessys had no mind for superstition and their house smelt of hedgerow, was smitten by sound of distant train, and warmed by a turf fire. Karl came to this house in 1956.
He meant to stay for a few weeks. His stay lasted the summer and if he did go early in autumn it was only because there was hurt in his stay.
The girls at first kept their distance, served him hot tea, brown bread, Chivers marmalade. He spent a lot of time by the fire, not just staring into it but regulating his thoughts to the outbursts of flame. He had seen war and one was aware of that; he was making a composition from war, images of children mowed down and buildings in flame. He came from a far country and had been in another far country. He was a stranger, an ex-soldier, but he was
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