the old world of Ireland, and everything in his presence and his possessions and his properties showed it. Fiercely anti-clerical, a committed and militant atheist, he represented the bridge from the ancient, mythological glories of kingship and chieftaincy to a brave new dawn that so many of us hoped might lie ahead.
I had come from the ancient MacCarthys, with my branch a well-to-do farming family that had held on to its land for centuries. That farm was mine anytime I wanted to return to it. My parents still lived and worked there, and they had no great passion for prayer.
Elma Sloane came from the beleaguered and impoverished peasantry. The children in her house couldn’t all go to school on the same day because they didn’t have enough clothes to go around. At mealtimes they had to take turns with the few spoons.
In Duff House that evening, we represented such class differences as Ireland could define: the old money of Randall; the safe farming of my clan; the savagely reared Elma Sloane; and the thugs throwing rocks to force her into marriage so that they could grab another man’s fortune. Yes, we had it all that day.
As for Jimmy Bermingham—you may well ask. He dressed like a poor man from a rich country or a rich man from a poor country—which was it? He professed undying love for one girl, yet proved ready to jump on another. In short, Jimmy ran ahead of us all. He also ran guns.
19
When Randall felt strong enough to walk, we returned to the small drawing room. He rested on a sofa, again holding Elma’s hand—a gesture she didn’t contest. Jimmy Bermingham examined Randall’s eye once more and said that the stone hadn’t connected with the eyeball. Annette found a spare pair of spectacles and another warm, damp towel, which Jimmy held to Randall’s eyes. We made small talk, seeking ease.
In time we went in to dinner, to a long dining room with its own echo. Randall kept testing the left eye, opening, it, closing it, fluttering the lashes.
Such a curious evening: the conversation drifted in bits and pieces; here, from my journal, are some snatches:
Randall: “Will I be blind, I wonder? They say if you lose the sight in one eye, you often lose the sight in both. But, of course, I haven’t lost the sight in one eye.”
Elma Sloane: “How did they follow us? Or did someone see us driving in here?”
Jimmy Bermingham: “Did you think he’d fire the gun at you?”
Randall: “Girls aren’t often so beautiful so young.”
And then we heard the drama of Elma Sloane. In its way, it counts as something I collected; does that widen the definition of “folklore”? In a hundred, a thousand years, might it not be legend, if preserved?
She lived, the oldest of twelve siblings, in what was called “a council cottage”—every county in Ireland tried to build affordable housing. A typical cottage had two bedrooms, a kitchen, and some kind of living room; the roof over their heads at a nominal rent gave people some self-respect.
Her father worked for the county council as a roads laborer; her mother jobbed for farmwives. Elma quit school at fourteen, though her teacher called her “highly intelligent and well-behaved.” She chose not toemigrate—if she stayed she could help her mother, and even bring in some money.
“I always liked shoes,” she said about having gotten hired in the local shoe store. “And there’s something nice about helping people ease their feet. Most people who come in, their shoes don’t fit them, and their feet are sore.”
“Good girl,” said Randall.
Her father came to the shop one day and crooked his finger, saying, “C’mere you.” She winced as she mimicked him.
Out on the street, “a tall old man” waited. Her father said, “This is your husband. His name is Dan—he’s a great man, a great hero. Shake hands with him.”
The man put out his hand, and Elma took it. “Because,” she said, “I was afraid my father would hit me.”
That evening her
I had come from the ancient MacCarthys, with my branch a well-to-do farming family that had held on to its land for centuries. That farm was mine anytime I wanted to return to it. My parents still lived and worked there, and they had no great passion for prayer.
Elma Sloane came from the beleaguered and impoverished peasantry. The children in her house couldn’t all go to school on the same day because they didn’t have enough clothes to go around. At mealtimes they had to take turns with the few spoons.
In Duff House that evening, we represented such class differences as Ireland could define: the old money of Randall; the safe farming of my clan; the savagely reared Elma Sloane; and the thugs throwing rocks to force her into marriage so that they could grab another man’s fortune. Yes, we had it all that day.
As for Jimmy Bermingham—you may well ask. He dressed like a poor man from a rich country or a rich man from a poor country—which was it? He professed undying love for one girl, yet proved ready to jump on another. In short, Jimmy ran ahead of us all. He also ran guns.
19
When Randall felt strong enough to walk, we returned to the small drawing room. He rested on a sofa, again holding Elma’s hand—a gesture she didn’t contest. Jimmy Bermingham examined Randall’s eye once more and said that the stone hadn’t connected with the eyeball. Annette found a spare pair of spectacles and another warm, damp towel, which Jimmy held to Randall’s eyes. We made small talk, seeking ease.
In time we went in to dinner, to a long dining room with its own echo. Randall kept testing the left eye, opening, it, closing it, fluttering the lashes.
Such a curious evening: the conversation drifted in bits and pieces; here, from my journal, are some snatches:
Randall: “Will I be blind, I wonder? They say if you lose the sight in one eye, you often lose the sight in both. But, of course, I haven’t lost the sight in one eye.”
Elma Sloane: “How did they follow us? Or did someone see us driving in here?”
Jimmy Bermingham: “Did you think he’d fire the gun at you?”
Randall: “Girls aren’t often so beautiful so young.”
And then we heard the drama of Elma Sloane. In its way, it counts as something I collected; does that widen the definition of “folklore”? In a hundred, a thousand years, might it not be legend, if preserved?
She lived, the oldest of twelve siblings, in what was called “a council cottage”—every county in Ireland tried to build affordable housing. A typical cottage had two bedrooms, a kitchen, and some kind of living room; the roof over their heads at a nominal rent gave people some self-respect.
Her father worked for the county council as a roads laborer; her mother jobbed for farmwives. Elma quit school at fourteen, though her teacher called her “highly intelligent and well-behaved.” She chose not toemigrate—if she stayed she could help her mother, and even bring in some money.
“I always liked shoes,” she said about having gotten hired in the local shoe store. “And there’s something nice about helping people ease their feet. Most people who come in, their shoes don’t fit them, and their feet are sore.”
“Good girl,” said Randall.
Her father came to the shop one day and crooked his finger, saying, “C’mere you.” She winced as she mimicked him.
Out on the street, “a tall old man” waited. Her father said, “This is your husband. His name is Dan—he’s a great man, a great hero. Shake hands with him.”
The man put out his hand, and Elma took it. “Because,” she said, “I was afraid my father would hit me.”
That evening her
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