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- Herausgeber: tredition
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
After the closure of his beloved bookshop due to bankruptcy, Thomas leaves his home in Switzerland and seeks distraction in Ireland, in Dublin, where his sister lives. Travelling to the west of the island, he not only finds a challenging job, but also the love of his life—and discovers a very special talent. The young Swiss inadvertently witnesses the family drama on a farmstead in 12th century Ireland, shaken by the invasion from neighbouring England. Torn between his everyday life in Limerick and the intrigues in the karst region of the Burren, he finally has to make a decision—in favour of a life in the here and now with his attractive companion or a time long past over which he has no influence. The novel tells how Thomas not only finds an exciting and challenging life in the far west of Europe, but also the love of his life and fulfilment in his profession. And at the same time the reader finds himself following the events on a remote farm in early medieval Ireland, whose inhabitants not only have to face the intrigues of their rival neighbours, but also the upheaval caused by the invasion of neighbouring England.
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Seitenzahl: 1444
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
Ähnliche
Dedicated to
my beloved parents,
my family
and my friends
in Ireland
and elsewhere.
Alexander F. Stahel
Glenglas
An Irish Tale
www.tredition.de
© 2024 Alexander F. Stahel
Cover:
Emily McCulla, IRL-Ballyvaughan, Co. Clare
Design:
Typowerkstatt GmbH, CH-8750 Glarus
www.typowerkstatt.ch
English adaption by the author
with the kind support of Caoilte Breatnach,
IRL-Kinvara, Co. Galway
Print and Distribution by the author at:
tredition GmbH
Halenreie 40–44
D-22359 Hamburg
Germany
ISBN Softcover: 978-3-384-19360-5
The work, including its parts, is protected by copyright. The author is responsible for the contents. Any use is not permitted without the author’s consent. Publication and distribution are carried out on behalf of the author, who can be contacted at:
tredition GmbH, Abteilung «Impressumservice»,
Halenreie 40–44, D-22359 Hamburg, Germany.
Table of Contents
Cover
Dedication
Title Page
Copyright
Thank You
History and geography
Irish Names
Prologue
Island of the Drunkards
Westbound
Ghost Stories
The Burren
Glenglas
Áine
Children Big and Small
Visitors
The King’s Call
Children and Calves
Inisheer
The Children of Lir
Mor
A Message from the War
Visitors
The Abbey
Neighbours
Aengus
Róisín
Friends
Family
The Proposal
A Wedding
Fairy Tale Christmas
Conversations
Daily Life
Excursion with an Escort
Not Alone Anymore
Making Plans
Kindred in Spirit
Joseph’s Travels
Wedding Bells
A New Daily Routine
The Homecoming
News
Fears and Hopes
Elisabeth
A Stroll for Two
Offspring
Council of War
A Divorce
Flaggy Shore
An Unexpected Absence
Plans for the Future
Missing
The Legacy
Andrew
Family Outing
Epilogue
Glenglas
Cover
Dedication
Title Page
Copyright
Thank You
History and geography
Prologue
Epilogue
Glenglas
Cover
I
II
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Thank you
Once again, I am deeply grateful to my family for giving me the time and opportunity to write this narrative.
My special thanks go to the Emerald Isle and especially to County Clare in its west, and to the unique region of the Burren, whose landscape and friendly inhabitants keep inspiring me and form the basis for the events in this book.
And last but not least, thank you for taking the time to read what I have put down on these pages, and for encouraging me to discover the world in ever more new stories.
Alexander F. Stahel Flaggy Shore / Braunwald 2024
History and geography
This is a novel and thus a work of my imagination, a story freely created by me. The area, however, where large parts of the events take place, can still be found today as I describe it, and I have left some, if not all, of the actual placenames unchanged. If you travel to the west of Ireland, you will find the extensive beach of Lahinch as well as the Abbey of Saint Mary of the Fertile Rock or the green high valley in which the fictional Glenglas is set.
Historically, too, the story is set against a backdrop of actual events, though I have taken numerous liberties to give them an even more vivid colour. While it is true that Diarmuid Mac Murrough, in an effort to regain his throne, brought the misfortune of English bondage upon Ireland, there is no evidence that the tribes of the west were fighting the invader at the time. And, on a less historically significant level: that the inhabitants of medieval Ireland rode their ponies with no halter, bridle or saddle before the arrival of the English is considered a fact. Whether they actually heated their homesteads with turf at that time is disputed among historians. But whoever has enjoyed the sweet smell of a turf fire will forgive me for deciding to light one in Áine’s cottage.
Irish names
Irish names often have their origins in the Irish language, the language still spoken in some parts of the island (an Gaeltacht). Although many have since been anglicised, their pronunciation is challenging and varies from province to province. I will therefore try to give an idea of what some of the names used in this book sound like.
Aobh (Beauty)
Eev
Aodh (Fire)
Ayih
Áine (Shine, Beauty)
Awnye
Aisling (Dream, Apparition)
Ashling
Athair (Father)
Aher
Caomhóg (The Loved One)
Kweeovogue
Deoch (Drink)
Jughk
Diarmuid (Free from envy)
Dearmwid
Eimear (quick, fast)
Eemer
Fiachra (Raven, King of Hunters)
Feeakra
Fionnuala (The Blond One)
Finoolah
Gráinne (Love)
Grawnyah
Méabh (The Reviving)
Mayve
Níall (most likely The Winner)
Neeal
Niamh (bright, radiant)
Neeav
Róisín (Little Rose)
Rowsheen
Séamus (The One Who Supplants)
Shaymus
Sinéad (God’s Grace)
Shinaid
Siobhán (God is gracious)
Shuhvawn
Prologue
The rider reined in his horse and let the small column of animals with their heavy burdens and the group of silent men leading the horses pass them by. His eyes followed the gaze of the young boy on his large mount.
”Why are the mountains white?” the boy, protected from the cold morning air by a wide, warm woollen coat, asked his father.
“It’s snow,” the man replied. “It piles up many metres high in winter and makes it impossible for months to cross the passes and reach Helvetia or the northern lands of the Franks and Allemanni.”
“And we still want to try?” The boy looked up at his father doubtfully. “Is it dangerous, this snow?” The rider smiled. “It is frozen water. No more and no less threatening than the water of the sea you swim in when the weather is fine.” He led his white horse to his son’s mount and affectionately tousled his dark mop of hair. “Don’t worry, the monks we met at the inn assured me that the mountains were passable. Only at the highest point of the crossing would they have had to make a way first, and it will probably be another two days before we reach the top. The sun is on our side and will make sure that the path is clear by then.”
“I would rather have stayed in Rome,” the boy sulked, adjusting himself in the saddle. “What do we want with the barbarians in the north?”
The man looked at him reprovingly. “You forget that the north is also our home. Even though you’ve never seen it and I barely remember the harsh lands of my youth.” He tugged at his son’s ear. “And you shall not speak condescendingly of people you do not know. Though the cities of the north may not have the same splendour as Rome, they were built by the children of God and are inhabited by our brothers. You will quickly make friends in our new home and the time of your childhood in the Holy City will soon be nothing more than a distant memory.”
The boy urged the big bay forward with a practised pressure of his legs, past his father. “But I don’t want any new friends. And as soon as you have finished your business and the bishop calls us back, we can return home again.”
A few quick steps, and the white horse brought his father next to the boy’s steed and they silently followed the small caravan which had disappeared behind a sharp bend in the road in front of them. They had left Rome only eight days ago, and yet the stench and noise of the city seemed infinitely distant to him in this steep, green valley with barely a dwelling carved out of the mountain’s side disturbing its rising flanks. He understood his son’s displeasure; after his beloved wife had left him less than six months ago to enter the eternal kingdom of heaven, the boy was the only living memory left to him, and it seemed cruel to take away the world in which he had grown up after the loss of his mother. He, too, had not been enthusiastic when the bishop had commissioned him to honour the monastic community on the other side of the Alps with his visit and to ensure that the ties that bound them to Rome would not loosen with the death of the Emperor. But he was well aware of the honour that this meant for him as a simple secular official and the trust that the bishop showed in him. And deep inside his heart, he was happy to leave behind the place that held so many memories of his wife and to be given the opportunity to start a new life in a place that was completely foreign to him.
This was yet another new beginning, but the memory of the day when he first entered the Holy City, after a seemingly endless journey across the rough seas and through the highwaymen- and crusader-infested streets of the Frankish Empire, was nothing more than a vague dream. Upon their arrival, his companions entrusted him to the care of a wealthy Roman noble family who provided for his education and introduction to society, and whose only daughter became his mistress and eventually his wife. His foster parents named him Hibernicus, after the island that was his birthplace; he could not remember his real name and bore the new one with pride.
With the passing of the years, thanks to his unique gift for languages—he mastered the tongue of the Thracians as well as that of the Hels, and the idioms spoken in Persia and Arabia were no less familiar to him than the rough dialects of the Alemanni and Franks—as well as his ability to reconcile the interests of the most diverse parties and, not least, thanks to his stepfather’s connections in both secular and ecclesiastical circles, he rose far above the position that his status warranted. When Romana bore him a son after a year of blessed married life, their happiness seemed complete, and the boy fulfilled all the hopes they bestowed on the child.
The unexpected death of his foster sister and lover, caused by an unfortunate accident in her father’s stables, brought his world crashing down. He fulfilled his duties as befitted a man of his position, but neither in his work nor with his friends did he find the fulfilment that his former life with his wife had offered him, and his son soon became the only ray of hope in an increasingly dark world. After some initial hesitation, he therefore seized with both hands the opportunity offered to him by the bishop’s commission to examine and strengthen the links with the monastery of St Gallus in the North of the empire, hoping that the distance from a city where he had spent the happiest years of his life with his wife and a new task would give him the strength to dispel his pain and fill his life with new meaning.
During the past weeks, he had often asked himself whether his decision had been the one which would enable his son, and himself, to continue with their lives, whether he had the right to tear the boy away from his familiar surroundings and lead him into an uncertain future. The ruined cities north of Rome that had fallen victim to the Emperor’s wrath, the gangs of outlaws they encountered on the streets, only insufficiently held in check by a rule of law that had not yet been re-established, hardly seemed the environment that was conducive to an adolescent. Nevertheless, the boy had held his ground bravely, and the occasional argument, much as it struck his father deep in his own heart, was usually forgotten with the next exciting discovery along the way.
Hibernicus turned his gaze to the snow-covered peaks that separated them from their destination. In less than a week they would reach the monastery, if only the weather remained favourable to them. “The lands beyond the Alps will please you. The summers are said to be mild and fruitful, the men strongwilled and industrious, and the girls lovely and soft.” His son pursed his lips sceptically, prepared to reply, but decided otherwise and followed his father’s white horse at a brisk trot, his coat floating behind him in the cool breeze like a brown flag.
Island of the Drunkards
His gaze followed the group of young men as they hoisted their holdalls off the conveyor belt and staggered down the wide corridor towards the exit. The stench of beer permeated the air in the baggage hall, already rich with kerosene fumes. He lifted the sleeve of his brand-new rain jacket to his nose, just to make sure that the contents of the Budweiser cans the man occupying the seat next to him had enjoyed had not spilled over him in the crush of passengers leaving the plane. His sister had warned him: this is the land of drunks and idlers. Yet: that he would find himself in the confines of the Airbus A320, still on the home tarmac of Zurich airport, in the midst of a drunkenly bawling football team, was something he had not reckoned with, despite her warnings and all his gloomy premonitions.
The flight, which lasted the best part of two hours, had made his worst fears come true; neither the roar of the jet engines nor the music from his headphones, turned up to the maximum of what was bearable, were able to drown out the cheerful singing and the loud shouts across the rows of seats, packed tight with sweating humans. He reluctantly had to admit that the singers, despite the considerable amount of alcohol their blood must contain, not only showed a remarkable sense of rhythm, but also hit the notes in a way that he would not have been able to achieve even when sober.
The fact that he finally had to dispose of his barely digested breakfast into the paper bag he had found just in time in the back of the seat in front of him did little to brighten his mood. Just a small air pocket, the pilot had announced cheerfully in an accent that was difficult to understand, as the Airbus suddenly plunged towards the earth, seemingly unstoppable, for what felt like three thousand feet.
And this in what he considered to be the first month of summer.
Figures clad in bright yellow jackets scurried across the rain-soaked airfield as relentless gusts whipped against the wallhigh windows and the sky above the gloomy grey runways hid behind thick black clouds—it looked as if night had already fallen on the Irish capital. Yet it was not even half past two on this afternoon in early June.
Finally, the gap in the wall spat out his suitcase; just a handful of fellow travellers were still waiting with him for their belongings. He wondered why his luggage was always the last to be delivered. Thomas dragged his mother’s big blue Samsonite off the conveyor belt and rolled it through the green zone towards the exit, past two young plain-faced women engaged in an animated discussion with a man wearing his hair in a long grey ponytail. Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas saw one of the women put a green bottle back into the man’s open bag, lovingly caressing it with one hand.
There was no sign of the happy football team, but his sister was as good as her word. At least she didn’t hold a Swiss flag or any other embarrassing welcome paraphernalia in those elegant hands of hers, with which she imperiously beckoned him to her. “Hello, I trust you had a pleasant flight,” she greeted him. Whatever led her to this inappropriate conclusion.
“It’s good to see you again.” Her husband’s handshake felt like a tuft of seaweed being dragged across the palm of one’s hand. “You too,” Thomas replied unenthusiastically as he gave his brother-in-law an unobtrusive inspection. His hair looked even greasier than the last time they had met and what must have been a light beige raincoat didn’t seem to have been ironed since; he must have slept in it for the past three years. And although this time there was no cigarette stuck between his nicotine-yellow teeth, a mixture of cold smoke and brandy fumes accompanied his not unkind words. Love did not only seem to be blind, but was also insensitive to smell—something that was quite incomprehensible to him, who was used to judging his environment mainly through his nose. But that’s really none of my business. His sister, at any rate, seemed quite happy with her tuft of seaweed…
She drove, for which he was grateful with the smell of brandy surrounding his brother-in-law still in the back of his mind. Elisabeth had never been a particularly safe driver and the lefthand traffic had not helped to improve her skills. Nevertheless, she found her way around the multi-lane roundabouts and the busy motorway that led them away from the airport and northwards, on to the ring road which bypassed the city. No wonder; after all, she had been living here for close to ten years, in this small town in the south-east of County Meath, less than twenty miles from the capital. A year ago, they had moved from their modest apartment on the main road into the small terraced house left to them by her husband’s parents. With its four rooms—living room and kitchen on the ground floor and two bedrooms and a tiny bathroom under the roof—it was too small to accommodate another guest, so they had put Thomas up in one of the local hotels.
He looked at his sister who, regardless of the fast-moving traffic, blocked the right lane at a constant fifty miles per hour. With her grey-blue, slightly slanted eyes, the high forehead criss-crossed by only a few wrinkles under the combed back dark blonde hair and thin but clearly drawn lips above the snow-white teeth, she was still a remarkably good looking woman, not only in comparison to her husband marked by his abuse of alcohol and nicotine.
She had met Harry in the bar in Limerick where she had found temporary work to polish up her English after her training. He was in the west on business and, with three of his bank colleagues, was toasting the prospect of a successful deal. While his business friends enjoyed their Guinness from pint glasses, he effortlessly kept apace with Hennessy V.S.O.P.; according to Irish custom, everyone in turn ordered a new round once the contents of their own glass got anywhere near the bottom. She was in her early twenties, attractive and confident, and the attention of the man in his slightly rumpled suit, older by perhaps ten years, flattered her. He followed the conversation of his companions with only half an ear as he asked the young barmaid about her homeland, her plans, her family, and readily told her about his job in the investment department of a large English bank in the Irish capital and his travels to the continent. After closing time he waited for her outside the back entrance and they tested the compatibility of their bodies at Flannery’s in Catherine Street and more extensively in his suite at the Royal George. Three weeks later, she packed her few belongings, left the gloomy fourth-floor room above the pub and boarded the train for Dublin, where he met her at Heuston station in his dark blue Ford Focus. Their new home overlooked the main street of Ashbourne and it took only the best part of half an hour for the bus to bring them right up to the doorstep of the place where Harry worked, a small accountancy office in the north of the capital.
A decade had passed since then. Neither Thomas nor their parents had been invited to the wedding; a plain card notified the family that Mrs and Mr Elisabeth and Harold Heathcliffe Winter had exchanged their vows in September of that year with a small, private ceremony at Dunboyne Anglican Church. Elisabeth sacrificed two weeks every year to visit her old home; Harry accompanied her on her journey three times and had been lovingly welcomed by her parents. Only Thomas could not quite warm to his big sister’s gaunt husband and his cynical manner. Harry’s liberal use of his father-in-law’s brandy supplies did little to win the trust of Elisabeth’s younger brother, who never had been able to see the benefits of alcohol.
Elisabeth had managed to expand the basic knowledge of her accountancy apprenticeship during long hours of ambitious study and various evening classes to such an extent that she now had her own modern office on the outskirts of town, where she mainly helped her husband’s business partners and friends to keep their assets out of the greedy hands of the Irish tax authorities as far as the law allowed—and more and more often a little further. Harry had set up his own business after the second big banking crash a few years earlier and, as far as Thomas could tell, ran a successful consultancy firm for anyone willing to risk their money on the stock market. A good number of his clients knew him from his former job at the Central Bank of Southeastern England; many, like Harry’s own parents, came from a class of Englishmen all too aware of their origins, whose ancestors had found positions in Ireland at some time in the distant past. Their deep mistrust and contempt for all things Irish had left its mark not only on Harry, but also on his wife, to such an extent that she almost considered her efforts to remove her clients’ fortune from the greedy grasp of the Republic a patriotic duty. When Harry’s parents traded their godforsaken Ireland for the Holy Halls of all God-fearing Anglicans two years earlier, only a few weeks apart, they had left their only son a small terraced house and an insignificant sum of money as well as the incontrovertible certainty that he belonged to a better class than the great mass of his former schoolmates and colleagues or even his neighbours, who in the recent past had experienced numerous influxes from countries such as Lithuania and Poland.
Elisabeth slammed the silver-coloured Mercedes pitilessly against the kerb in front of a long three-storey brick building and pushed the gear lever into the park position. The words “Ashbourne Court Hotel” informed Thomas that they had reached his destination even before Harry had folded his gaunt figure out of the back seat and opened the passenger door for him. Elizabeth waved casually at him as she in rapid succession typed a series of numbers into her iPhone. “We’ve booked you in here; you know, the house…” Harry let the sentence hover in the rain-soaked air and heaved the Samsonite out of the trunk. “That’s some weight you carry about, old boy,” he snorted as he held the door open for Thomas. “Emptied the entire duty free shop, did you?” He winked at his brother-in-law before turning to the smartly dressed young woman behind the counter. “Hello, Teresa, I brought you someone. Make sure he answers for what he drinks, I am only paying for the room!”
This turned out to be bright and spacious, with two windows that allowed a generous view of the shopping centre of a big German retail chain on the opposite side of the street. The sun standing high in the sky—hadn’t it just been pouring with rain?—immersed the large, raised French bed and the comfortable, dark-red velvet suite under a large LCD screen in bright light. Brass-coloured reading lamps with green glass shades decorated the two bedside tables and the wooden desk in front of which a chair covered in the same red velvet waited. Thomas shed his clothes and searched in vain for the light switch on the inside wall of the windowless bathroom. He had already prepared himself for a shower in the narrow beam from his smart phone when he finally found the switch outside the bathroom door. He had plenty of time to wash the travel grime off his body and explore his accommodation or even the small town before his sister expected him for dinner. “How far is it?” he had asked his brother-in-law at the door of his room. “Five hundred yards maybe, three quarters of a mile at the most, never measured it. But we’ll pick you up, no problem.”—“No need. If you can draw me some kind of a sketch, I’ll be able to find you. I’m looking forward to stretch my legs. It even looks as if the sun is finally breaking through.”—“Whatever you say.” Harry had shrugged, fished a packet of cigarette paper out of his breast pocket and drawn a few lines on one of the sheets with an expensive looking fountain pen before handing it to Thomas. “Deerpark 151, if you get lost, you just ask someone. Or you can call me. I’ll nip downstairs then, your sister is still on the phone.” Thomas didn’t have to guess what Harry intended to do downstairs. At least Elisabeth doesn’t have to worry about an attractive barmaid, as long as there is enough brandy behind the counter, he thought, while he massaged the discreetly lavender-scented shampoo, courtesy of the Ashbourne Court Hotel, into his hair with both hands, before rinsing it out and letting it run over his skin under the thin stream of lukewarm water.
A few moments later, when he entered the hotel bar, quiet at this hour, a clean T-shirt under his rain jacket, he felt, for the first time since he had boarded the plane in Zurich, some kind of restrained anticipation of the weeks ahead. He let his gaze wander over the three large screens, soundlessly showing three different programmes: a soccer tournament between two English teams, the latest news from a modern studio seemingly located above the rooftops of the city, and a ball game that was incomprehensible to him even on second glance, with a speed and roughness that made any rugby match seem quite affectionate.
He had no intention of burdening his sister with his presence for more than a week. “I really have no use for him,” she had complained to their mother, “and you know very well that our house is much too small to accommodate any guests. He can stay for a fortnight I suppose, then at least I won’t have to do all the housework myself. But he will have to sleep in the hotel!” The discussion had not been meant for his ears; after all, he himself wasn’t exactly thrilled about his parents’ proposal to visit Ireland for a few weeks, and certainly not to see his successful sister, who would surely put all the blame on him alone for the bankruptcy of his employer. But his mother was probably right, a break would hardly do him any harm after the rollercoaster ride of the past months. And why not Ireland? America held little appeal for him under this president, who half the world thought was a bad joke while the other half believed him to be the beginning of the end of our time, and Australia was quite too far from home… He got homesick quickly, always had; he had never been able to be away from his small hometown for more than two weeks. Not that he had a particularly close circle of friends there—to be honest, most of the people who were close to him in some way belonged to the opposite sex. But he simply felt at home in this small town situated in the protective shadow of an imposing conical mountain, in the old wooden house where he had grown up, in the company of his parents, whom he had never heard exchange a harsh word.
He ordered a second tonic water and the boy behind the bar filled his glass with ice without being asked and decorated it with a slice of lemon. The sleeves of his immaculate black shirt were rolled up and little beads of sweat shone on his forehead, while Thomas shivered despite his rain jacket. I would have been better off going to Italy, he thought, at least it’s summer there in June. But he didn’t have a sister in Italy and, after all, he wasn’t planning to spend his days on the beach. Not to mention that his knowledge of the Italian language didn’t reach far beyond cappuccino and gelato, and a few more words you needed to spend a pleasant holiday. But whether he would succeed here in giving his suddenly unhinged world a meaningful direction again was another question… Hardly, with Elisabeth looking over his shoulder.
He emptied his glass and put a five-euro note on the counter. As if I had expected you to pay for me, he thought, his brother-inlaw’s words ringing in his ears. It was still not raining, the sun was even emitting a modest warmth. So, with only slight hesitation, he unzipped his jacket, which he had pulled up under his chin before leaving the building. Two little girls in green school uniforms laughed at him as they skipped past with those irregular jumps that only little girls know. Even the man dressed in blue overalls who, high on his ladder, was carefully tracing the gold paint on the façade lettering that proudly proclaimed Dunne’s Pharmacy, gave him a friendly nod.
“What are you going to do now?” Elisabeth carefully placed one lamb chop next to the other in the simmering oil. “I can take you into town tomorrow if you like. I’ll show you which bus to take from my office, that’s easy enough. Though the buses aren’t very reliable here. They do guided tours of the Guinness Brewery if you’re interested. Or you can go and see the Book of Kells at Trinity College, which is what most tourists do. But we have to leave by eight at the very latest, I don’t think you’ll get breakfast by this time.”
“Don’t you worry, I won’t starve. Do you have some sort of dressing for the salad?“ Thomas emptied the bag of cut lettuce into the red plastic bowl she had set out for him.
“Back there, in the fridge. I make it myself, the stuff they sell here is inedible.” Elisabeth had always been an ambitious cook, intent on perfection as in every aspect of her life. She placed two sprigs of rosemary over the chops and carefully swirled the potatoes in the butter. “I mean, I don’t mind you staying around for a while. But I really don’t have the time to babysit.”
“I thought I might go to the west coast. I don’t really want to stay in the city, you know I get claustrophobic around too many people.”
“Will you pass me the red wine?” She took the bottle from him and poured a generous measure into the pan. “And what was going on in your company anyway? Did they have to close down completely?”
His close contact with the female sex had taught him not to be surprised by the sudden change of subject. And after all, he had been expecting the question. “It just didn’t pay anymore. With the increasing competition from online providers, the regular customers were simply not enough. We tried everything— public readings, movie nights, meet the authors, afternoons with games for kids and parents… We just couldn’t make ends meet.”
“I told you right away it was nonsense to waste your life with an apprenticeship as a bookseller. Who wants to read books these days? Those times have gone long ago. You just have to accept that we live in the here and now. You could have become an IT expert or taken on a job in a bank—they would have hired you on the spot. But no, Mr I-Always-Know-Better is too good for this world. Wake up, Tommy.”
“I don’t like computers. Or numbers. And just counting your hours every single day and hoping for retirement—no, that’s not what I expect from life. I’m too young for this.”
“Life doesn’t automatically make us happy.” She stirred the gravy before turning the pieces of meat over once more. “Harry should be home soon, he was just dropping off some contracts to be signed. I’ll be done here in a minute.—You get a job that pays enough money, then you can buy your happiness. You don’t have to love your work in order to be happy.”
He would have liked to ask her if she was happy. But he knew his sister too well for that, he knew the answer and he also knew what answer she would give him.
“We might sell the house. Harry wants to move to England, a former colleague has suggested a partnership. And I’m so tired of this place. The ignorance, all the dirt, the if-I-won’t-come-today-I-might-come-tomorrow—I’m so fed up with this country…!” She avoided his gaze, pressing her palm on the pieces of meat. “It would also mean less pressure for him. And,” her voice became quieter, „maybe it would finally work out with the child. I’d take my time too, we can afford it.”
He focused all his attention on the green asparagus, which was quietly frying in the butter. Elisabeth’s desire to have children was a taboo subject that no one in the family dared mention.
The two premature births, the first less than a year after the wedding in the fifth month of pregnancy and the second two years later in the seventh month—the one that almost cost her life—had brought her to the brink of a serious depression and left deep wounds.
It was the first time she brought up the subject in his presence. “I’m not that young anymore, we don’t have much time left.” Her voice didn’t show any emotion.
“But you’re not yet thirty-five! Today, hardly any women have children when they are younger!”
“I don’t want my children to suffer from old parents. And Harry will be forty-seven this autumn; once the child finishes school, he’ll be nearly seventy.”
If his liver and lungs last that long, Thomas thought. “And what does he think? I mean, can he imagine being a father?” And isn’t he afraid for you?
“We haven’t discussed it yet. I don’t want to put him under pressure. Maybe if this partnership thing works out… You won’t say a single word to him!” She glared at him menacingly, the meat fork in her raised hand.
“Why would I? After all, it’s none of my business. If you don’t talk to each other…”
“Of course we talk to each other. Everything in its own time. You’ll have to learn that if ever you have a girlfriend. Speaking of which, what about that… What was her name? Sonja?”
“Tanja. Nothing at all. We are just friends. She likes to read, I like to read, we listen to the same music, and the two of us get annoyed by the way the town council plays its stupid games.”
“And what else? I mean…”
„There’s nothing else. No need for you to get excited.”
“But that’s not normal for a boy your age! Everyone else… Are you trying to tell me you’re still a virgin?!“
The sound of the front door opening spared him a reply and Jack the budgie, another legacy of Harry’s parents, greeted the master of the house with a loud trill.
“Well, who do we have here? Haven’t we had anything to eat yet? No one thinks of you when I’m not in.—Anybody at home?”
“Can’t you take off your shoes before you come in here?” Elizabeth eyed her husband under a disapprovingly furrowed brow as he deposited his wide-brimmed, dripping hat on the fridge. “Not there! What in God’s name are you thinking?”
“I love you too.” He pulled her towards him by means of the meat fork pointed accusingly at him, but his mouth only found her ear as she reluctantly turned her head away. “I’m busy. Dinner will be ready in a moment. I take it from your good mood that your negotiations were successful?”
“There was nothing to negotiate. I plucked him. Like a ripe apple. He practically fell off the tree. Oh, hi, Tommy. I completely forgot you were here. At least I won’t have to wash the dishes!”
“As if.” Elisabeth shoved the salad bowl into his hand. “Make yourself useful. And take off your shoes!”
The lamb was tender, the potatoes crisp and the asparagus buttery and firm. Harry swirled the deeply blue-red French wine in his glass and eyed it narrowly before holding it under his nose, examining it and finally taking a hesitant first sip. “Warm enough, but drinkable. And?” The look directed at Thomas resembled strikingly the one with which he had examined the wine. “What are your plans? Are you thinking of staying on? Do you want me to get you a job? The book business isn’t doing all that well, I hear.”
“He wants to visit the west coast,” his big sister replied before Thomas could even open his mouth. “I thought we could let him have the Ford, it’s just sitting here, costing money and occupying space. And tomorrow I’ll take him to town.”
“What do you think, is it difficult to find a job? Just for a few weeks, a few hours a day maybe.” Thomas asked it a touch too eagerly, he realised too late.
“As a bookseller?!”
“No, no. Something like you did,” he glanced at his sister, who was separating the last piece of pink meat from its bone, “in a pub or something. Or on a farm maybe?”
“They are harvesting strawberries in Wexford this time of the year, the farmers are always looking for seasonal workers. But you?” Her eyes skimmed her brother’s slender, tall figure. “You’ve never done anything useful in all of your life. And besides, it’s not in the west. Why would you want to work anyway?”
He didn’t even try to defend himself. “After all, I have to live on something. I never made the kind of money that would allow me to enjoy a lazy summer. But if you can’t help me, I’ll find something on my own. Anything, whatever is out there.”
“Costello’s maybe…” Elisabeth furrowed her pale brow thoughtfully.
“In Limerick? Do you know anyone there? That was years ago!” Harry shook his head before turning his attention to the claret.
“Margreth knows the manager. They used to have some kind of a fling, I think. I can ask her. Anyway, you’d be in the west there. And yet still close to civilisation. Or at least what they call it in this country.”
“Margreth! Of all people.” Harry shook his head and folded the newspaper beside his plate while Elisabeth focussed on cutting a potato into small pieces and bathing it in the gravy. The hands of the small golden clock on the mantelpiece showed half past eight and the sun was still shimmering on the rain-soaked street in front of the house, forcing Thomas to squint his eyes as he looked out of the kitchen window. In the driveway of the building opposite, a couple of teenagers were playing basketball. He tried in vain to stab the last remaining leaf— dandelion?—in his plate. Finally he used his fingers.
His sister pushed back her chair. “There’s no pudding. And everyone clears their own dishes.” And, with a sideways glance at Thomas: “Do you want coffee?” Disregarding his better half’s instruction, Harry handed his plate to his brother-inlaw. “I need some fresh air.” He purposefully patted the pocket of his jacket where he stored a stash of tobacco. “It’s all right about the Ford. I will have it checked tomorrow, just in case. And I’ll have an americano while you’re at it.”
Over the next few days he explored Dublin. He followed Elisabeth’s recommendation and joined the endless queue of tourists from all over the world who were introduced to the history and production of the famous stout. The multi-storey building was modelled on a gigantic glass and the bar on the seventh floor offered not only creamy-tasting, jet-black stout but also a magnificent view over the roofs of the former industrial district. In the heart of the imposing cathedral corridors of a library framed with wall-high bookcases full of old volumes in the venerable Trinity College, he admired the page of the Book of Kells which was on display on the day of his visit, with its elaborate, colourfully drawn initials, and he visited the extensive zoological garden in Phoenix Park, an immense green space on the outskirts of the city, which also housed the headquarters of the Irish police, the Garda, and the president’s residence.
He crossed the Liffey over the Ha’penny Bridge without having to pay the road toll of half a penny, to which the former Wellington Bridge owes its nickname and which the city had abolished some hundred years previous, visited the Liberty Market with its countless colourful stalls and admired the shop windows of the expensive businesses in exclusive Grafton Street. When it wasn’t raining, which didn’t happen all that often in the Irish capital, even in June, he found his favourite occupation in feeding the ducks in a small park called St Stephen’s Green. Although located in the middle of the city and overlooked by a huge glass-fronted shopping centre, the park gave him a feeling of being far away from the hustle and bustle of daily life, a feeling that was reinforced by the fact that most of the other visitors greeted him with a strangely oblique nod of the head or a friendly It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?
He had politely declined Harry’s offer to take the Ford into town; the short bus ride caused him fewer problems than the left-hand traffic on the busy streets and a subsequent endless search for a parking space. But although public transport— which, contrary to his sister’s fears, proved surprisingly reliable—allowed him the freedom to linger for a glass or two in one of the busy pubs, he usually found himself dining in the Ashbourne Court Restaurant, which for little money served portions that surpassed the capacity of even his stomach. To his astonishment, he invariably found potatoes in one form or another on his plate, no matter what he ordered—chicken curry with rice, pasta and pepperoni with mushrooms, even pizza—the potatoes accompanied every dish uncalled for and persistent. And just as uncalled for and stubborn, his brotherin-law awaited him each and every evening at the hotel bar, with a forlorn smile, unwashed hair and a glass of brandy in front of him. Thomas was surprised to find that he was beginning to look forward to these meetings. Harry still unabashedly made fun of both the ruling and opposition parties, as well as the state-owned telecommunications company and the Catholic Church, which was no longer as omnipotent as it had been in recent years. But his earlier sharp, pitiless sarcasm seemed to have given way to a quiet, almost sympathetic humour and, despite all the criticism, he gave the impression of harbouring a certain understanding for those so scolded. Maybe I just didn’t understand him before, Thomas mused as he sipped on his large glass of cider, and for the first time he thought he recognised what his sister saw in this unkempt, alcohol-addicted man years her senior who smelled like an ashtray not cleaned in days.
“Why did you stay in Dublin anyway? I mean, now that your parents… And you don’t really have a connection to Ireland.”
“A connection? Well, I grew up here, after all. And I don’t really know anything else.” Harry silently contemplated his brandy and then raised his head to look at Thomas. “My parents were born here, my grandfather worked for the parish at the end of the nineteenth century. Yes, it’s true, we never really liked Ireland, or the Irish, to be honest. But none of us really knows the country we call home. England.” He let the word roll slowly over his tongue. “It seems I am the first Heathcliffe in three generations to set foot on home soil. And ironically, I’ll probably be called The Irishman over there… Did Elisabeth tell you about this? That we might be going back?” A grin showed on his face at this wording. “Back… Has she?”
“She only mentioned that you intend to sell the house,” Thomas answered carefully. After all, he had promised her not to talk to Harry about their plans.
“Yes, I got an offer. From a former colleague. Not that I really like him. But I’m not that young anymore, and this might be the last opportunity. Elisabeth is not happy here. She has no real friends, only a few colleagues. It’s too damp here for her, too cold. Although, in England…” He shrugged and turned towards the boy behind the counter. “Will you give me another? And one for the lad?” Thomas held up his hand, declining. “That’s the custom here. You don’t want to spend the whole evening nursing the one glass in front of you, do you? The same again, for both of us,” he addressed the barman, who was operating the tap with one hand while holding two half-pint glasses in the other. “But she expects everything to be better in England. And then there is the matter with the child… She actually believes it was her fault. That she didn’t take enough time. Too focused on her career. The evening classes, the late nights… That’s nonsense, of course. It just wasn’t meant to be. There are more things in Heaven and Earth… Yes, good old William.”
“Do you have any plans? If it works out with the partnership? Where you want to live if you are really going to move?”
“Partnership? Which partnership? Never mind. London is insanely expensive, I checked. But a few miles out of town… Maybe in Hempstead, a couple of friends live there, they commute too. From there it’s less than fifteen miles to the city. But we haven’t found anything yet. It all depends on what we get for this place. Or are you interested?” His broad grin showed an irregular row of nicotine-yellowed teeth. The ring of fifteen identical buildings, surrounding a courtyard covered in tarmac and concrete, appeared before Thomas’ eyes, the ball-playing youngsters in the driveway across the street, the fake fireplace with the blueish gas flames. He shuddered.
“I’ll be lucky if I can save enough money to buy my return ticket by the end of summer. No, a house is definitely not on my shopping list. Sorry to disappoint you.”
“We’ll see. You never know. Don’t you worry; when I was your age, I used to put my lunch money aside to go out with the lads at the weekends. And now I’m sitting here drinking brandy and making plans to conquer the world’s financial centre.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to us!”
Thomas didn’t quite know whether the “us” included him or was limited to the promising future of Elizabeth and Harry in the English capital. This, at any rate, is not my future, he thought as his still half-full first glass touched his brother-in-law’s, while on the big screen above the bar an elegantly dressed woman high above the city reported on the sinking of yet another refugee boat in the Mediterranean.
Westbound
He now regretted his stubbornness not having taken at least a few practice rides with the Ford. The cars passing him on the right irritated him as much as those entering the motorway from the left and he finally found himself in the slipstream of a large semi-trailer truck marked Nolan’s International,
