Winterwood (2 page)

I always seemed to arrive when he was in the middle of feeding his chickens. He had ten or eleven Buff Orpingtons he kept
in a coop. There was nothing the kids from the new estates liked better than to be allowed up there, to have a yarn with good
old 'Pappie', and keep him company as he fed his fowl. Especially little Michael Gallagher, the happy-go-lucky fellow with
the freckles who was forever singing.

—I'm the bestest friend of Ned, he used to say to me.

The mothers and fathers were crazy about Ned. They were 'cracked about him', you'd hear them saying. Especially the mothers.
They said he was 'a tonic', and 'terrific with the kids'. Absolutely great to have around the place.

The most recent development was his teaching of the fiddle. Everyone I spoke to was over the moon about that too. I interviewed
a few of the mothers and they told me that as far as they were concerned having characters like Ned in the community was a
great way for their children to find out about an Ireland that was fast disappearing - if not, indeed, practically vanished
already.

You'd see him strolling about the place laughing, nodding to the parents as he whistled some jig. Or chatting away with them,
spinning them some yarn, as they left their kids in for 'Ned's children's ceilidh'. He ran that now in the schoolhouse at
weekends. He'd have known most of the old families, of course. Could roll off their names at the drop of a hat. They absolutely
loved the way he talked, all these phrases you only heard in old-time speech. Half-forgotten proverbs only dimly remembered.
All Ned had to do was say something like:

—I met Auld Quirke on his way up the road and he'd a face on him, ladies, like an ass eating thistles!

And, without exception, he'd have them laughing like lunatics, wetting themselves, practically. They just couldn't get enough
of Ned Strange's conversation.

—You can't beat Auld Pappie, you'd hear them say, a card and no mistake. What would Slievenageeha be like without him? A very,
very dull place indeed, whatever progress we might make in the future.

They'd always wave as they went driving past.

—There he is — our own Auld Pappie!

As Ned looked up from his chickens and smiled. It really was an appropriate name: Auld Pappie.

As Ned fed his chickens and whistled his jigs, the perfect picture of contented old age.

In a way I suppose it was as if he himself were some kind of noble, immovable, magisterial mountain, which seemed to have
existed, literally, for centuries. Long before progress of any kind began.

—Since the very first of the angels got chased, as he might have put it himself, since the very first angel was fucked out
of heaven!

Now and then it would occur to me that something he'd said - or the manner in which he'd said it — somehow just didn't seem
to fit. That he'd been trying too
hard to
impress me or something. Sometimes he'd even mimic my accent to my face. Other times there'd be this look — I didn't like
it. It made me feel queasy, ill-at-ease.

There was one particular evening - I find it humiliating to recall. He rested his chin on his hand and pulled his chair up
next to mine. Then grinned.

—Your father and me went to the ceilidh in Athleague. Your Uncle Florian was there. Boys, we drank more porter that evening
so we did. And then we started into the hornpipes. Florian took his britches down and began to dance in the middle of the
hall. Boys, me and your auld fellow we had ourselves a laugh! Because Florian, as you know, was a divil for the dancing. There
wasn't a hornpipe in the book but he knew. And your father too, he had his moments. Oh, yes, me auld son, Daddy Hatch and
his brother Florian were well known in this valley. You should be proud of them, they were a credit to the mountain, your
beloved caring family. Even if they did put you into the orphanage — ha ha!

He didn't flinch for a second. I could feel my cheeks burning. He just sat there twinkling, saying nothing at all. I was on
the verge of protesting when, out of the blue, he lifted his leg, his shoulders heaving as he blithely expelled wind.

—A reg'lar arse-cracker — the best today!

Before I could say anything he had opened another bottle of clear.

When I looked up again the sun's pale fire was lighting up the sky.

In the aftermath of our 'session', I attributed my reticence to my predictable, pedantic, assumed new suburbanism. I'd simply
been away too long, I reasoned, and had become more or less disconnected, alienated from the life I'd once known, as it once
had been lived on the bare and barren mountain, in a sleepy little town which didn't even feature on the map. I had lost the
skills. I hadn't it in me. I was much too conscious of embarrassment and unpleasantness. And he knew it. He knew I'd do almost
anything to avoid confrontation. Which suited his purposes admirably, indeed perfectly. There was nothing he liked more than
playing games.

To put it plainly, he was amusing himself. Toying with me, really — what else could you call it?

I consoled myself by thinking that if I had become debilitatingly civilised and grown apart from my people and background,
then at least I wasn't alone, for everyone in the valley was doing exactly that — if the gaudy identikit housing was anything
to go by, not to mention the transatlantic accents and the sprawling housing developments, with names more appropriate to
Surrey than Slievenageeha: 'Meadow Vale', 'Primrose Demesne', 'The Chantries'.

Which was why Ned, unencumbered as he was by any new and imported orthodoxy, had, by common consent, come to embody the authentic
spirit of heritage and tradition. It was as if it had been decided that simply having Ned was sufficient. That was enough
to keep them in touch with their fast-fading traditions and customs of the past.

—
Chuck chuckl
you'd hear them laughing, as yet another 'Ned story' was uproariously related.

—My mother used to keep chickens too, you know, in our own backyard, way back when times were simpler.

—Isn't it great all the same, to have someone like Ned? Otherwise our kids would never know anything about our history.

—Sometimes I think we're losing our soul, do you know that Mrs?

—Not while Ned is here to remind us. He'll make sure we don't lose our way.

—Now you're talking. 'The Pride of Erin' and 'Jenny's Chickens'.

'Jenny's Chickens' — that was another favourite reel of his.

—
Chuck chuckl
they'd laugh.

—
Chuck chuck chuck\

—
Chuck chuck chuck,
thank God for Ned Strange!

It was the very first time I'd witnessed his anger and seen the depths of which he was capable. I was in no hurry to see it
again. Even now I shudder, thinking of it. He had happened to come upon the old book by accident. It was an ancient and decrepit
volume, sickeningly musty. His voice was trembling as he turned its sodden pages. I could just about make out the title beneath
his thumb, lettered in flaking gold leaf.
The Heart's Enchantment,
it read.

—
Look!,
he spat, his fucking name is on it. 'John Olson'. He gave it to her as a present, the miserable fucking whore. I knew I wasn't
wrong. I wasn't wrong about Annamarie Gordon!

It was the first time he'd ever mentioned Olson in my company. John Olson was a local man who'd made his fortune in the US.

—He thought he owned the place, he went on, used to drive around in this big fancy limousine Cadillac. You shoulda seen that
conceited face. I've decided to honour you with my presence. So you can count yourselves lucky. You can count yourselves lucky,
mongrel scum. That's what Olson was thinking to himself. That's what that look of his was saying, Redmond.
Look at me
- so what do you think? Am I king of the mountain or am I not? Are you lucky or not to have me home? O Slievenageeha, I think
that you are. I think that you are very fortunate indeed. And I should know. After all, I'm Mr John. I'm
Mr John
fucking Olsonl

He scrunched the stogie beneath the heel of his boot.

—Cunt, he said. Cunt and hoor: I'd as lief have cut his throat. As true as I'm standing here in my own fucking kitchen. Do
you hear me, Redmond? Are you listening to me, boy?

I kept hoping against hope that his mood would change - as it so often did, without any warning. That he'd, out of nowhere,
erupt into laughter, insisting then that it had all been a joke.

He didn't, however. He just stood there in silence, picking at the damp book as it disintegrated in his hands. Staring, with
a fierce and deeply troubling tenacity of purpose, at the blurred italicised signature: 'To Annamarie from John Olson with
love, Slievenageeha 1963'.

I began to dread hearing John Olson's name. But whether I did or whether I didn't didn't seem to amount to a whole lot of
consequence.

—I'm not sorry for what I done to him, he'd bawl. That was why I went to America, Redmond. They think I didn't go. They think
I never went near the States. That's what they say. That's what they'll tell you down in the pub. That's what he told you
that first night. I know. I heard him. Auld Ned would never be able to do the like of that. He'd never ever stray beyond these
hills. These hills are his home, the only home he knows.

He hissed:

—But that's where they're wrong. For Ned did stray. He
did
go to America. He went there - and a lot of other places too. But they'll never know, the ignorant fools.

I tried to come up with an excuse to get out. But it was as if he was defying me to do exactly that. He persisted with his
monologue. I had never heard anything quite so venomous, even from his mouth. I shifted uneasily in the chair. He looked at
me accusingly.

—You want to say something. To me. What is it you want to say, Redmond?

—You said you did something — to John Olson, I said. What was it you did, Ned?

—I hurt him bad. I cut him with a blade. No I didn't. I beat him. I beat him to within an inch of his life. That's what I
did to Olson the snake, Redmond.

His eyes filled up with loathing. I caught a glimpse of my ashen face in the window.

—Why did you have to do that? I asked him.

It sounded stupid. I can see that now. I ought to have said nothing.

He teased his beard and then, all of a sudden, snapped:

—
Why?
Did I hear you say
why,
Redmond? Because he deserved it, you stupid cunt! He deserved it on account of him and my Annamarie!

It was as if all the shadows in the room had suddenly decided to converge on my chair. As though, collectively, to pose that
very same conundrum: why are you asking stupid questions, Redmond?

Foolishly, I had spilt some of the clear down my jacket. You could see that he had noticed, but had decided to let it pass.
He upended his mug and broodily continued:

—Some people say that if a woman does you wrong, that if she happens to stray from the conjugal bower, then what you got to
do, what your responsibility is, is to search in your heart and see if you can extend her some small measure of forgiveness.
But me, I don't happen to believe that, you see, Redmond. I searched in my heart all right but I couldn't find anything that
was of any use to me in there. Nothing. I tried Jesus too - him and all his other do-good cronies. But they were no use neither.
Nope. No good, my boy. Not worth a flying fuck. Do you find that disappointing, Redmond? Well if you do, I apologise for that.
Anyway, it had upset me so bad I had to ask her again. Annamarie my darling, I said to her, why did you do it? Why did you
let Olson put it in you, his tallywhacker? But she wouldn't tell me - just kept on saying she
hadn't
permitted it. Until I swear, my friend Redmond, I swear I couldn't take it any more and says to her: Annamarie you know now
what's gonna happen. No, she says, what is it? Annamarie, I says, it's the cellar. Oh no, she says, not the cellar. Yes I'm
afraid it is, I said. But, you know - you know the saddest thing, Redmond? She never repented. Not once. Every time I looked
in her eyes I could see she was still thinking of him. That old snake — he was still on her mind. Damn near broke my heart
so it did.

—So what did you do? I asked him. My saliva formed a thick and distasteful ball inside my mouth.

He lowered his eyes and gazed at the floor. Then he raised them again and flashed his incisors. The look he gave me chilled
my blood.

—You'd like to know, wouldn't you? Who knows —maybe I'll tell you. Maybe I'll tell you one day, just how it ended between
us. Between me and the lovely Annamarie Gordon.

It was the last thing I wanted to hear, anything connected with good loving gone bad. For in those days my marriage to Catherine
was close to perfect. A flawless union. The sort of partnership people dream about. We'd met at a dance in July 1980, in a
town in County Cork where I'd been covering some local story. I can't even remember what it was now. She was one of the Courtneys,
a well-known merchant family in the area. Her beauty was unique: it's as simple as that. It was unusual to find someone like
her working in a bar, I remember suggesting to her. She laughed and said she'd been studying at UCC, history and philosophy,
but had failed her finals and not bothered repeating.

—These things happen, I said, somewhat vacantly, discreetly trying to avoid her lovely green-blue eyes.

We ended up dating and within three or four weeks —well, if you're talking about enchantment of the heart then all I can say
is I came to know quite a bit about that particular subject. Not to put too fine a point on it, I fell head over heels in
love with Catherine Courtney. Telling her things I'd never have told anyone.

Which was regrettable, obviously, in the light of what happened.

I made it my business to travel down from Dublin whenever I could. I used to love sitting in the pub with her while she had
her lunch. She told me she adored the musician John Martyn - at that time I'd never even heard of him. A situation which I
went about rectifying straight away and the next time we met, I presented her with an album of his called
Grace & Danger.
There was a track on it she grew to love. It was called 'Sweet Little Mystery' and any time I heard it, it thrilled me. It
was as if John Martyn had somehow known. If that doesn't sound too foolish. A lot of what she said I never even heard — too
busy staring at her lips or at her hair. Then one day I found myself saying: