A Son of Aran

H
IGH WAVES BUFFETED THE ARAN FERRY AGAINST THE
quay wall, straining every hawser as the crew prepared for sailing. The darkening waters of Galway Bay reflected the rain-laden sky overhead.

‘Damn this bloody weather,' exclaimed Saureen, as she came aboard at the last moment. Above the whistling wind the captain's voice came over the loud speaker:

‘Passengers are warned that the crossing may be choppy. I recommend that everybody remain below. The usual precautions are being taken.'

‘An understatement, if ever there was one,' Saureen scoffed, scarcely heeding his words. ‘Come hell or high seas, I must get to Aran tonight. What if Peadar and Eileen haven't reached there? Their boat may have been wrecked; they may be marooned somewhere along the island's exposed rocky shore; they may have been washed into a cave in the cliffs. Maybe they're alive and calling out for me.'

Her woven, multicoloured cape drawn tightly across her shoulders, the astrakhan coat that reached to her ankles and the tight tasselled woollen cap that covered her head and ears, shielded her from the worst of the cold. Ignoring the captain's advice to go inside, she clung with difficulty to the rail and gazed with blank expression towards the island, an outline of which she could barely discern.

‘Why should I be worried about the storm?' she asked herself. ‘What do I care if this tub goes down or if I'm swept overboard? I have nothing left to live for. I have destroyed the only decent person I met with in all my thirty-six years— if Eileen and he are dead, I must bear my cross alone. People who I once thought were bosom friends have deserted me. Nobody wants to be associated with me any more; not a single person that I encountered today gave a sign of recognition. Friends indeed! Not very long ago I would have counted them in that light but not any more. I had one staunch friend—too late I realise it. Now he has left me, gone I know not where; I may never see him again. The fault is mine— mine entirely.'

It was seven years since Peadar first came into her life; she recalled the evening so well. Clad in the traditional garb of the islanders, blue-grey home-spun trousers, sleeveless jacket of the same material, chunky hand-knit gansey, tight fitting woollen cap, ‘pampooties' of hide laced with leather thongs—he looked forlorn as he searched for a place to eat on a wet October evening in 1932.

‘The fair was bad,' he told a man he met on the fair green. ‘Demand was poor. I couldn't get anywhere near the value of the cattle I brought in from Aran. I cannot send them back because of the cost but I'm damned if I'm going to give them away to those ‘daylin' men who hover like vultures around the fair-green, waiting to cash in on my misfortune and buy the beasts at their own price. I've heard of Aran men being cheated by those fellows. I'd drive the cattle into the tide before I'd give in to their knavery. I'll bring them a few miles out the road to Ballinfoyle or Castlegar—some landowner will give them pasture until the November fair. First of all I must have something to eat; I didn't have time all day and I'm ravenous with hunger. Will you keep an eye on the bullocks for me until I get back?'

Roping the animals, he tethered them to a telegraph pole and set off in search of a place to eat.

The lights of Rhona's café loomed ahead; he went in. Divesting himself of his rain-laden gear, he found a table. A waitress approached to take his order. Accustomed as she was to dockside workers, islanders and crews from visiting boats, she took stock of this well-set island man. She hadn't seen him before. His unruly mop of raven black hair, his blue-green eyes, strong cheekbones and soft-spoken voice, appealed to her.

‘A fine specimen of native manhood,' she thought, as she took his order for boiled potatoes, bacon, cabbage and strong tea. Peadar had an eyeful of her too as she hurried between tables carrying three plates of food at a time to waiting clients. Not many females like her remained in Aran after the age of twenty; he had little experience of women, least of all those on the mainland. He admired her short trimmed auburn hair, her slim body and her shapely ankles. He marvelled at her free manner as she chatted with all and sundry. When she returned to clear the table she spoke to him in a friendly way and inquired the purpose of his visit to the city. He told her of his plight and his desire to find somebody who would keep the cattle for him until the next fair. She showed an unexpected measure of understanding.

‘There's a man in Bushy Park who might help you,' she said, ‘his name is Carty; he's a decent sort. Tell him Saureen sent you.'

Peadar's animals had been reared with care and attention since they were calves. Two had come from his own cows; two matching calves he bought from a neighbour. He had an eye for a good calf, one that would respond to feeding and grow into a sizeable one-and-a-half-year-old for sale. The black purry cows produced more than enough milk for the domestic needs of his mother and himself. Both liked a mug of fresh milk with their dinner; his mother churned some to make butter and to have buttermilk for baking. Peadar used the remainder to feed the young calves. He liked to take a can of buttermilk when he was working in the fields or going on a night's fishing for herring or mackerel with his nearest neighbour and partner, Máirtín. They fished together in the hooker they shared and were well acquainted with storms and high seas that occurred regularly around the islands. Although both were experienced boatmen, Peadar's mother never let them go to sea without shaking holy water over them; she was conscious of the dangers that lurked beneath those mountainous waves. All had known tragic occurrences in which fishermen from Aran had drowned when a storm blew up suddenly while they fished for herring far out at sea or tended their lobster pots close inshore. Peadar's father was lost when he was only four years old. There were no other children in the family and for all of his forty years, Peadar was the sole support of his widowed mother. Apart from infrequent trips to Galway to buy supplies or sell livestock, his entire life had been spent on the island where he tended his rock-strewn fields. He raised crops of potatoes, covering the outcropping rock with a layer of seaweed that he carried on his back in a wicker creel, planting seed and raising the ridge with sea sand. In autumn he cut and saved hay from the little fields and harvested the rye crop that he grew as a follow-up to potatoes. From this he saved straw to repair the thatched roof of the stone built cottage that he occupied with his mother, securing the thatch against storms by means of stout ropes fixed to iron pins inserted deep in the walls. Inside, the house was clean and neat. The kitchen with its hearth fire of turf carried in a fishing trawler from Connemara, had a floor of limestone flags, a dresser filled with shining crockery, a mantelpiece laden with ornaments collected by generations of his O'Flaherty ancestors, all overlooked by a picture of the Sacred Heart and its little red lamp. In its warm glow, Peadar and his mother prayed the rosary every night before they retired, putting themselves and their cares in the hands of the mother of God.

While working alone, Peadar's thoughts often dwelt on his late father whom he had scarcely known.

‘What disaster befell him at sea?' he wondered. ‘Was he alone in his currach at the time? If he drowned, why was no trace of his body ever found? Did he, by some chance, discover the fabled island of Hy Brasil and chose to remain there?'

When he spoke to his mother about that possibility, she was dismissive of the subject: ‘The story about Hy Brasil, often related by fishermen who claim they once got a glimpse of the island is,' she told him, ‘an old man's tale, although some firmly believe it. Your father was one of these.'

Her reply did little to shake his belief that, somewhere far out at sea, such an island did exist. After all, a poem that he read at school even described its location:

Far on the verge of the ocean it lay

And it looked like an Eden away far away.

The lines kept recurring in his head as he went about his daily chores.

Saureen grew up in Galway and lived in Sickeen for most of her early years. Her parents were long dead and she had no siblings to compare with. She loved the freedom of earning money which she squandered with abandon on high fashion and city resorts. As a waitress in Rhona's restaurant, she was in the way of meeting many visitors to Galway from at home and abroad. Her overt welcome and genial smile made her a popular figure. She was always willing to impart information on entertainment venues and city hot spots. Her knowledge of hotels, guest houses and bars was extensive. She was no stranger to The Hanger, the Astaire, and other ballrooms whose floors she often graced. To most people Saureen was a night owl, a social butterfly; she rather liked the latter approbation. Those who knew her more intimately were less complimentary.