The Rebels of Ireland (123 page)

“I accept what you say. Hear my second objection, then. I fear this Gaelic revival, that she is part of, because it is not Ireland.” He waited a moment, for effect.

Willy frowned. The Gaelic revival went far beyond things literary. For most people, indeed, it meant the promotion of Gaelic sports, like the ancient and noble game of hurling. The Gaelic Athletic Association had attracted a large following in the last twenty years.

“You dislike the GAA?” he asked.

“Not as such. But why is that, if a member of the GAA is seen, even once, playing a game like cricket, he is expelled?”

“You must allow some natural reaction against the domination of England,” said Father MacGowan.

“I am Irish,” replied Gogarty. “I couldn't be more so. But I do not care to be so circumscribed. What is it to be Irish anyway? Is it to be Celtic, whatever that is? I should think half the blood of the Irish was Viking anyway, before the English came. Do you know that one in six Irish names is Norman? But what really concerns me is the desire, in turning away from England, to look inward into this small island, instead of outward. Through all our history, we have been involved with wider shores, with the great culture, the religion, and the trade of Catholic Europe. I fear that this Gaelic fixation demands that, as an Irishman, I become something less than an Irishman is.”

And now a most remarkable thing occurred. The Count rapped his hand on the table.

“Ah,” he cried. “Aha!” Even Sheridan Smith started in surprise. Nobody knew the high-born personage could become so animated. “That is right, young man. Do not forget us, the Wild Geese, the great Irish community of Europe.”

Willy gazed at him. He'd always heard of the Wild Geese, those gallant men who had flown away out of Ireland two centuries ago, rather than live under English rule. But he had never thought to see one. So this strange, aristocratic figure was a Wild Goose. Somehow, it wasn't what he'd expected.

The Count, however was waxing eloquent by now.

“There's not a Catholic country, not a city where you won't find us. Military men and counsellors, priests and lawyers, merchants and traders, too, no doubt, but always men of honour, held in respect. And we never forget. We are still Irishmen. You will find us at the Irish colleges in the capitals. It was émigrés who founded the Irish Franciscan College of Prague, you know. And, if I may say it, no nation has garnered greater honours. Numerous Irishmen have worn the Order of the Golden Fleece—that which there is no higher. Two hundred knights of the Spanish Order of Santiago. As
for titles…” His eyes assumed an almost dreamy, mystical expression: “Burkes and Butlers, Leslies and Taafes, Kavanaghs, Walshes—the Counts von Wallis, you know, are the Walshes of Carrickmines. There are so many. As for my own family, there are numerous barons Byrne. We ourselves, the counts Birne, as we spell it now, were O'Byrnes originally, before we left.”

“And which of the many O'Byrnes would that be?” asked Father MacGowan.

“We had quite modest lands,” the Count replied. “You probably won't know of the place. It is called Rathconan, up in the Wicklow Mountains. A family called Budge has it now,” he remarked with an aristocratic shrug. “I know nothing about them.”

O'Byrne of Rathconan? Willy stared in amazement. It had never occurred to him to connect this fastidious nobleman with his home. And then another realisation hit him. Damn it. And we thought that the place was ours.

So awesome and exotic was this aristocratic catalogue that, even here in the not-to-be-sneezed-at surroundings of Wellington Road, it reduced the table to silence.

Until, Willy could have sworn, there emanated from old Mrs. Smith, who so far hadn't said a word, a distinct sniff. But now that she did speak, she spoke quietly.

“It's strange to me,” she said, “that no one has mentioned the most important place of all. For there are two Irelands, not one.” She was an old lady, in comfortable circumstances, but it seemed to Willy that under her pale old face, there was something calm, yet strangely cold, and absolute. “If my husband, God rest his soul, had not saved me, most of you wouldn't be here. I'd have died in the Famine in Clare, along with the rest of my family.” She looked at Willy. “Do you know how many left Ireland for America in the decade of the Famine?” She did not wait for a reply. “Three quarters of a million. And in the ten years after? Another million. And a constant stream since then, year after year. There are two Irelands: Ireland in Ireland, and Ireland in America. And America remembers
the Famine.” She glanced at Sheridan. “Your cousin Martin Madden in Boston collects money for Ireland. Did you know that?”

“I didn't actually.”

“My brother William's son. He is quite prosperous now, I believe. He collects money. And it will be collected and given as long as there are people in Ireland who want to be free of England. The English may try to kill the Irish in Ireland with kindness, but they will never appease the Irish in America.”

“Or those in Australia,” added Father MacGowan, softly, “but they are too far away.”

“To whom does Martin Madden give money, might I ask?” said Sheridan Smith.

“To those who need it,” his mother answered, with a grim finality.

“Oh.” He looked embarrassed.

The Count glanced at the old lady curiously.

“I'd better go and see to my daughter,” said the Countess.

“We're all done, I think,” said Sheridan's wife.

“Perhaps,” said Father MacGowan, “I'll stretch my legs. Gogarty, have you a moment?” He gave Sheridan Smith a meaningful look as he and Gogarty went out, and indicated Willy.

“Oh yes,” said the newspaperman, glad to change the subject. And a moment later he drew Willy aside.

He didn't need to know much about him, he told the young man, to set him at ease. A recommendation from Father MacGowan was quite enough. Did he know what he wanted to do with his life? Well, nor had he at that age. “How can you possibly tell,” he asked obligingly, “until you've tried a thing or two?” There were some small jobs at the newspaper where a young fellow could get a look at things, so to speak. Not much pay, of course. Could he continue to live with his uncle and aunt? Good. Hmm. He'd never sold anything of course. “But you might find a talent for it. I've a good man who sells advertising space for the paper. To tradesmen, mostly, and that sort of thing. Advertising is very important to a newspaper, you know. You might go round with him for a bit. Learn the ropes.”
There would be other things to do about the place, as well. Would that suit him?

Indeed it would.

“Splendid then. Come into the office tomorrow morning. Oh.” The newspaper man's eyes were suddenly riveted on the doorway. He stared. So did Willy.

The little girl who had just come in with the Countess must have been five or six. She was pale and slim; she had a cascade of raven hair. And a pair of green eyes, emerald green, that seemed to generate a light of their own. Willy had never seen any eyes like them.

“She's better,” said the Countess.

“I'm hungry,” said the child. “Hello Great Granny.” She ran over and kissed the old lady.

“I'm your Great Uncle Sheridan,” said Sheridan. “You were tiny when I last saw you. Do you remember me?”

“No,” said the child. Then she gave him a brilliant smile. “But I shall now.” She turned to Willy. “Who are you?”

“I'm just Willy,” said Willy.

“How do you do, Just Willy. My name is Caitlin. That's because I'm Irish.”

“Just Caitlin?”

“Oh.” She laughed. “I see. I am Countess Caitlin Birne.”

“I am Willy O'Byrne.”

“Really?” She glanced at her father for guidance. “Are we related?”

Sheridan Smith intervened smoothly.

“Father MacGowan is outside, he's just sent in word that you should accompany him back. Come, I'll take you to the door.” At the door, however, he detained Willy for a minute. “Going round Dublin, of course, you'll meet all kinds of people. Some are better to know than others. You can always ask me, if you wish.”

“Thank you,” said Willy.

Sheridan Smith nodded.

“One small word of advice, perhaps. Not to be shared, you un
derstand? Not even with Father MacGowan.” He paused, while Willy listened respectfully. “Do you know his brother? He keeps a bookshop.”

“Only by sight.”

“Good. Well, take my advice. Avoid him.”

As he walked back through the mist which, with the hint of coolness developing in the autumn afternoon, seemed ready to close in upon them again, Willy was lost in thought. So many sensations, so many discoveries in a short space of time: his mind was still trying to take them in. Then the strange shock of meeting the most beautiful child he'd ever seen; and the unexpected warning: he hardly knew what to make of it all.

And how curious that the old lady should be a Madden from Clare. His grandmother, he knew, had been a Nuala Madden from that region. But he'd seen a photograph of her, and she looked nothing like the old lady he'd just met. Well, Madden was a common name in Connacht. He was no more likely to be related to the old lady than he was to the Count.

Yet still, in the misty afternoon, he could not escape a sense that the whole world were covered by some hidden skein of relationships, under the ground perhaps, or above the mist, like flocks of birds, eternally migrating back and forth.

“What are you thinking?” asked the priest.

“I was thinking, Father,” he replied truthfully, “of the strange interrelatedness of things.”

“Ah. Indeed. It is one of the ways, you know, by which we may discern God's Providence.”

“Yes,” said Willy. “I suppose so.”

“And the further proof,” the priest added cheerfully, “is that you have a job.”

The months that followed were exciting ones for Willy. He did as he was told, toured the city looking for advertisers, and made himself useful to Sheridan Smith, who after a few months pronounced himself satisfied. He was even given a small increase in wages. His aunt and uncle were glad to receive his rent.

Sheridan Smith also kept an eye out for him in other ways. “Here's a book I reviewed. I don't want it myself. Give it to someone if you don't want to read it,” he'd say casually. But he noticed that his employer always chose well for him. He obtained the next volume of Lady Gregory's work in this manner and, Kiltartan English or not, immersed himself joyfully in the stories of the Children of Lir, Diarmait and Grania, the Fianna, and many others. And when the good lady and the poet Yeats opened their new Abbey Theatre, he would push a ticket at Willy and remark, “They send us these complimentary tickets sometimes. Go along if you want to.”

Several times during the summer, he had been up to see his family; and during these visits, he had had some long conversations with his father. Mrs. Budge was up at Rathconan in the summer, but often in the winter months now, she would go into Dublin, where she had taken a small house at Rathmines. From there, she would make sorties into the city centre. “She has even more opportunity to be insane in Dublin than she does here,” his father remarked bitterly. His father avoided her as much as he could nowadays. But nonetheless, there was something he wanted from her; and after much discussion, it was he who finally suggested: “Go and talk to her in Dublin if you like, then, Willy. You may do better than I can.”

It was not until late the following year, however, that Willy finally ventured out to see Mrs. Budge at Rathmines. Her house was modest—two-storey over basement, with a small garden in front made lightless by some large evergreen bushes. He went up to the front door and was ushered in by a maid that he didn't know. She must have been hired in Dublin. She asked him to sit on a chair in the narrow hall.

He wondered whether Mrs. Budge would be the same in Dublin
as she was up at Rathconan. There she had developed a reputation for increasing eccentricity. “She knows what's going on, mind you,” his father had told him. “If a cow's not milking well, she'll know it before you do, and God help you if anything's mislaid.” But the turban seemed to have permanently attached itself to her head now, and she had taken to reading strange books that were reputed to be occult.