asked Colm if he had any tools, but those he had — screwdrivers, spanners, wrenches, and so on — were too bulky to be of any use. I borrowed a torch though, went back down below, and shone it behind the locker. In addition to the blue plastic scraps, I could see something else, what looked like a scrap of glossy paper.
My belt was new, and the leather in it was still quite stiff. I took it off, doubled it and, holding it like a rod, dragged it behind the locker a few times. It brought out more blue plastic, and some dust, and finally the scrap of paper.
It was a fragment of an old photograph. On the back, written in red felt-tip pen, was
ma Courtney
3459
The photo was of a mixed group, all dressed up and very young, two men and four women. It looked like one of those shots they take after the wedding photographer is done, when everyone crams into the picture around the bride and groom. I didn’t know whose wedding it was, and I didn’t know any of the women, but I recognized the two men. Someone had drawn a circle around their heads, again with a red felt-tip pen. One man looked like John Dawson. The other was Eamonn Loy, my father.
Five
SEAFIELD TOWN HALL STANDS AT THE TOP OF THE MAIN street. You can see it from the harbor, and walking right up the town toward it gives you a sense of how the town used to fit together. It’s a substantial late nineteenth-century granite-clad building with a clock tower, council chambers and public reception rooms. At least, it once was all those things. Now, it’s a McDonald’s. I stood outside it feeling utterly bewildered, like George Bailey in Pottersville. My heart had been pounding since I had found the photograph of my father and John Dawson; now sweat sparked on my face and down my back, and my throat was dry as cardboard.
An old man in a black beret and a tightly belted navy raincoat divined, in part, the source of my confusion, commiserated with me, and directed me to the “new” town hall, which he assured me was, in fact, over twenty years old. I thanked him and followed his directions as far as the nearest pub. Hidden down a side street, the Anchor wasn’t the kind of place that did food, not even sandwiches; the barman didn’t catch your eye; the exhausted-looking men huddled in silence over their pints looked at you once and turned away. I ordered a double Jameson, topped it up with water and drank it off in three or four swallows. I could hear the rustle of newspapers, and the ticking of an old clock. When I walked back onto the street, my hands had stopped shaking.
I had arranged to meet Rory Dagg, the project manager of Dawson Construction’s town hall refurbishment, but I still had some time. I stopped off and bought a prepaid mobile phone in a main street shop and had it loaded with call credit. I called Linda and Colm the boatman and Tommy Owens and left my number with them. Then I walked back down to the Seafront Plaza and bought a roast beef and horseradish bagel from one of the cafes ranged along the walkway. I sat at an aluminum table with two Chinese girls and washed down the food with a bottle of the Dublin Brewing Company’s Revolution Red Ale. The sun was out, and the plaza was thronged with people: office workers grabbing lunch, young mums with buggies passing the time over lattes and iced teas, tourists poring over maps or writing postcards. I felt strangely at home there. And then I realized why: because this scene reminded me more of Santa Monica, of West L.A., of California, than of the Ireland I had left. The only thing that felt truly Irish was the shambling couple with the baby in the buggy and the toddler walking alongside. They were both in their early twenties: the guy had heroin cheekbones and gray skin, and he used his full arm to smoke, as if his cigarette was a barbell; the girl’s hair was dyed copper and her eyes were pinched against the smoke from the cigarette she held in her mouth. The baby cried and the toddler
My belt was new, and the leather in it was still quite stiff. I took it off, doubled it and, holding it like a rod, dragged it behind the locker a few times. It brought out more blue plastic, and some dust, and finally the scrap of paper.
It was a fragment of an old photograph. On the back, written in red felt-tip pen, was
ma Courtney
3459
The photo was of a mixed group, all dressed up and very young, two men and four women. It looked like one of those shots they take after the wedding photographer is done, when everyone crams into the picture around the bride and groom. I didn’t know whose wedding it was, and I didn’t know any of the women, but I recognized the two men. Someone had drawn a circle around their heads, again with a red felt-tip pen. One man looked like John Dawson. The other was Eamonn Loy, my father.
Five
SEAFIELD TOWN HALL STANDS AT THE TOP OF THE MAIN street. You can see it from the harbor, and walking right up the town toward it gives you a sense of how the town used to fit together. It’s a substantial late nineteenth-century granite-clad building with a clock tower, council chambers and public reception rooms. At least, it once was all those things. Now, it’s a McDonald’s. I stood outside it feeling utterly bewildered, like George Bailey in Pottersville. My heart had been pounding since I had found the photograph of my father and John Dawson; now sweat sparked on my face and down my back, and my throat was dry as cardboard.
An old man in a black beret and a tightly belted navy raincoat divined, in part, the source of my confusion, commiserated with me, and directed me to the “new” town hall, which he assured me was, in fact, over twenty years old. I thanked him and followed his directions as far as the nearest pub. Hidden down a side street, the Anchor wasn’t the kind of place that did food, not even sandwiches; the barman didn’t catch your eye; the exhausted-looking men huddled in silence over their pints looked at you once and turned away. I ordered a double Jameson, topped it up with water and drank it off in three or four swallows. I could hear the rustle of newspapers, and the ticking of an old clock. When I walked back onto the street, my hands had stopped shaking.
I had arranged to meet Rory Dagg, the project manager of Dawson Construction’s town hall refurbishment, but I still had some time. I stopped off and bought a prepaid mobile phone in a main street shop and had it loaded with call credit. I called Linda and Colm the boatman and Tommy Owens and left my number with them. Then I walked back down to the Seafront Plaza and bought a roast beef and horseradish bagel from one of the cafes ranged along the walkway. I sat at an aluminum table with two Chinese girls and washed down the food with a bottle of the Dublin Brewing Company’s Revolution Red Ale. The sun was out, and the plaza was thronged with people: office workers grabbing lunch, young mums with buggies passing the time over lattes and iced teas, tourists poring over maps or writing postcards. I felt strangely at home there. And then I realized why: because this scene reminded me more of Santa Monica, of West L.A., of California, than of the Ireland I had left. The only thing that felt truly Irish was the shambling couple with the baby in the buggy and the toddler walking alongside. They were both in their early twenties: the guy had heroin cheekbones and gray skin, and he used his full arm to smoke, as if his cigarette was a barbell; the girl’s hair was dyed copper and her eyes were pinched against the smoke from the cigarette she held in her mouth. The baby cried and the toddler
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