Redemption - Leon Uris [83]
But the damned turf fires of Ballyutogue reached his nostrils from ten thousand miles gone and the beauty of the voices singing from Dooley McCloskey’s public house, and he smelled the fresh high meadows above the heather and the fog and wind blasting in from Lough Foyle…and Bogside!
Think about it, Conor lad. That’s when you wanted to stand the night watch. In that manner you wouldn’t have to come startled out of a nightmare of the fire.
Why did Conor leave Australia, then? He wasn’t certain. The lass was fetching and dear. She came to learn that Ireland whispered to him, reached out for him. He was helpless. He fell into a black spell after his mother departed…and he went back to the sea again.
After a time the visions of the fire and of Myles hanging from a rafter and of Maud on the pavement came under control. After a time he could go three or even five nights…then a week and a month without the nightmare. It never went away, fully.
Even Caroline became more vague. Sooner or later her spirit came onto the scene as he grew serious with another woman. The vision he kept was one of perfection. Then she dimmed, as Dary told him she would.
At long last he was on a ship heading toward New Zealand and Squire Liam Larkin and a family of Larkins he did not know. Conor was happy now that it was Christchurch ahead. Five years of roving had purged what needed to be purged. His mind was clear. He laughed again. He told himself he was open-minded about New Zealand. Perhaps, he even believed it.
God willing, he might find the peace and love his brother Liam had found.
Tomorrow…
When Eye-tallions or Jews or Greeks came down the gangplank to waiting families, there was always a lot of hugging and screaming and weeping. Russians slam one another and wail. Brits give formal little pecks, grins, and sturdy handshakes.
No matter how long the time, how far the journey, an Irish Squire and his roving brother are apt to be plaintive and stiff, as though an explosive greeting were not natural.
Family members didn’t touch each other much in the old country. The Larkins were known to be far more affectionate than most…until the chill set in.
Conor and Liam stood for a long moment or two or three, as though they had to let their lives pass by until they rendered rugged handshakes.
To hell, Conor thought, to hell!
He embraced Liam like no man had embraced him since they had won the Donegal football championship. With the air out of him and a wide grin replacing his somberness, the Squire introduced his family: Mildred, Spring, Madge, Tommy, and Rory.
Each in turn got a thunderous hug and kiss and they walked off chattering like Eye-tallions or Jews.
The awkwardness between the brothers passed in a moment. Four kids wanted to see a rough-up, hear sea chanteys, gape as he spun his yarns, for Conor was the uncle of uncles.
There were the sorrows that Liam and his brother had to work through: the death of their parents, Myles’s suicide, the fire, the spinsterhood of their sister, Brigit.
They spoke of happy times. There were more of these than Liam had remembered. To look at the girls during the wracking season, gathering up seaweed, the bottoms of their skirts tucked in at the waist baring their limbs and the wet of the sea causing their blouses to cling to their breasts, and times at the fairs trying to outwit the tinkers, and Kilty’s wake. Oh, so very many things that were both joyous and essential to one’s very being.
Yet Liam clung to some consternation. In fact, he owed Conor his stature of Squire, for Conor had paid his passage and got him into land. Yet, the monster of youth brought back fears of living under the awesome shadow of Conor.
Mildred watched this carefully, leading her husband along the path brightly. This was Liam’s land. He had made the battle here and won it. Conor would never steal his kids or make himself larger