Grá

Grá

by J.P. Lynch

grá

noun. Irish. m.

1.    Love

 The day: Frigid with a soft drizzle, and a stiff breeze carrying the sea-spray in off the Atlantic, creating a damp gust that permeated all but the most impervious coats; all in all, a standard climatic state for this particular locality at this particular time of year on the Irish western sea-board; a Saturday, mid- December, just past 12 noon.

 The town: a typical tourist town in the winter, devoid of visitors from the salubrious regions of the Pale with their holiday homes and chalets, and the yanks who come annually to seek their roots or “visit the old sod”. The locals not siphoned off by the interminable flow of emigration subsist the colder months through the cultivation of meagre, stony acres, rendered increasingly unprofitable by reductions in subsidies from Europe and the encroaching of conifer plantations.

 The man: Bare-headed, the wrong side of eighty but still upright and strong of body, a widower with three children grown and gone, formerly a man of the land, now seeking redemption in his dotage, plagued at late by Frostian thoughts i.e. mourning the road not taken.

*

 He walked along the seawall, could feel the spattering of the sea spray as it threw itself against the concrete and brickwork. The chill blowing in from the west across the water worked the chill into his bones; he feel the arthritis in his hands and feet beginning to rouse itself. Adding all this to the dark clouds he could see wandering landwards, he surmised there was some sort of atmospheric disturbance coming. “I shouldn’t be out in this” he muttered aloud to himself “It’s not good for my constitution”. No, he was second-guessing himself again. He had parked the Cortina in the beach carpark specifically so he could stroll along here and clear his head before going up the town. He’d been doing that a lot lately. From the simplest day to day decisions he would normally have made without a second thought, to life changing decisions he’d made decades in the past. He was wracked by indecisiveness and not exactly regret, but something so closely approximating it, he often couldn’t tell the difference. Dr Ryan told him exhaustively and frequently that it was just a consequence of the passing of years, that past choices and mistakes were compounded in the future to look much greater, and to wonder what could have been. Those reassurances never assuaged the feeling that he’d missed out in life, that he’d made the inherently wrong choice at every crossroads. Well today, he thought to himself, I’ll at least make one of them right.

 He turned off the promenade onto Davitt St. and then onto Green St. The sounds of a fiddle and bodhrán leaked out of darkened windows and locked doors of McCarthy’s bar as he passed; musicians gearing up for a hectic weekend on the lead in the holiday season. From the bulk of pubs lining the street floated chords and quavers and semi-quavers; from Delaney’s and Clarke’s, The Harvestman and The Piper, the sounds of a once proud culture being peddled to tourists for pittance. He continued on down towards Collins Place, stopping off in Kehoe’s bakery and Maher’s greengrocers along the way. Kehoe’s to pick up some baked goods, a Bakewell tart and a coconut slice, Maher’s, which doubled as the town’s only florist, to purchase some flowers, a real eclectic bunch, roses, lilies, dahlias, peonies, hedging his bets. Mrs. Maher cracking jokes about it, not so subtly digging for gossip, who’s the lucky woman, you’d a great catch, all the usual clichés. He gives a her a small smile as he endures it, the woman would talk the ears off the devil himself. Once he frees himself form the Guantanamo of grocers shops, he hits Collins Pl. Looks at his hand, number 14 in faded ink, counts the houses off as he passes them, 4, 6, 8, wonders how long she’s been living here, she lived over the other side of town when he last knew her, on the Galway road, 10, 12… He pauses outside to straighten his tie and hat, a navy trilby he’s only really worn at the Galway races, chose it to match his suit. Does it look ridiculous he wonders now; no, it’s too late now. Drawing himself up and summoning every iota of courage in him, he applies his knuckles to the wood of the door. The sound bounces around his skull, magnifying it a thousand times, likening to portentous chimes of doom. And then it opened.

*

 She stood there, looking him up and down, not a hint of surprise on her face at seeing him again like this after all the years. He found his mouth was hanging open, unable to produce a syllable. She had aged, that much had been inevitable of course, but she had done so fantastically. He could still see behind her wrinkled visage the girl she had once been, the woman he had loved so awfully long ago. Until doomsday he would have stood there, staring at her. So, it was fortunate she spoke first. “So, it’s yourself” she said nonchalantly “I thought that you’d turn up at my door someday. I suppose you’ll want to come in”. With that, she stepped aside to let him through. He followed her down to a small kitchen with an oak table in the centre. “I was just making some tea. Will you take a cup?” He nodded vigorously, like a dog eager for her attentions. She came towards the table, cup in each hand and passed one to him. “Milk and sugar there” she said simply. He stared the cup, watching the milk swirl as he applied it and the tea go from a mahogany brown to light, almost tan colour. He examined the print on the cup, brambles, with disproportionately large, vividly purple blackberries. He felt almost like a teenager again; completely unable to talk to this gorgeous woman; being more afraid of saying something stupid than seeming odd for not speaking at all. Mercifully, she broke the spell.

 “So… you’re here” she remarked casually. “I brought you a coconut slice!” he spat out quickly “I remember that you liked them… back then”. She look at him quizzically and then broke into a laugh “God I did didn’t I? I haven’t had one of them in years. How did you even remember that?” The eyes went down to the cup again; the wave of awkwardness washing over him, tongue tied. She looks at him sympathetically, he was never a wordsmith. “Will we go have a drink and have a proper chat? My son’s coming here soon with his kids and they’ll only be getting in our her. The eyes come up, a hopeful but apprehensive look in them. “A bit early in the day isn’t it?” She chuckles again “Not at all. And sure, aren’t we old and on the way out already? Can’t do us much harm now! At our age you just have to do what you want and damn the regrets”. He’s smiling along with her now “Well ok then. Let’s go”. Smacks her hands together enthusiastically, just like she always did back then “Good lad! On we go”.

*

 Down the street to McCarthy’s they went, the doors now unlocked and welcoming, ready to embrace the thirsty reveller. Instruments stowed away now, the ceilí band all set to go but for lack of an audience, they’ll head off for a while until the patrons begin to arrive in the evening. The bar was empty expect for a figure ensconced behind a copy of the racing post, a half-supped pint of Guinness at his right hand. A member of the genus of aged men who spent their pensions on the nags and the drink, a not uncommon beast to sight in pubs across the country. A head peeked out from behind the ink marked pages, a nod in his direction. It was returned, that was as much recognition as he’d get from a man he’d known for years, they took their research seriously.

He ordered, Jameson for himself, gin and tonic for her. They drank the first off quickly in silence, taking furtive glances at each other and scrutinising their glasses when their eyes happened to meet. He’d just gestured to the barman for a second round when she spoke. “I was sorry to hear about your wife”. “Were you now? As I recall you never had anything good to say about her”. There, he’d said it now. That’d kick it off.

The look she gave him would sour milk. “That’s unfair. I never wished ill on her, despite our differences. I know she certainly didn’t conspire against me, the harmless creature”. He felt he should defend his wife, dead just over two years, but there was some truth in it. She never wanted much from life, was always content with her lot, passive. Infuriatingly so at times. Now though, he had an opening and went for it. She beat him to the punch, as she always had. “That’s why you’re here isn’t it, to reminisce about old times, to look for some sort of absolution for the decisions you made”. Just when he thought he had it, the conversation had gotten away from him again. On the back foot.

“I never explained them to you. My parents…”. She cut him off midstream “I know all about how your parents disapproved of me. That your father swore he’d not leave the farm if you married me. All because my family was “beneath” them. Bad gas travels fast in a small town; I was bound to hear at some point over the years”. She stared at him now, sorrow in her eyes “I understand. I do. They were different times. There wasn’t much prospects beyond the farm in those days. It was either that or the boat to the states”. Glumly he put in “Fat lot of good it did me in the end. Scraped a bare living from that rocky ground, and now no heir to take it. Not a one of the sons interested. Rented out to the neighbour now, and I know as soon as I die, they’ll be squabbling over who gets to sell it. It’ll probably go to the forestry lads. As much as I complained about it, I’d hate to see it planted. The land I put sweat and blood and life into”.   

He found himself welling up as he spoke. She took her hand in hers “You shouldn’t be carrying this pain in you. I had a great life. A wonderful family. I don’t regret a single choice I made since you left”. He looked straight into her eyes, so blue, exactly as they had been back then “Could you ever find it in yourself to…”. Once more she stole his thunder “There’s nothing to forgive.” He sat back, beaming. She pointed a finger at him playfully “Try living like me. No regrets. It’s good for the soul. And that can’t hurt at our age”.

He would try that, he thought. Yes, for once, he was sure he would.

*