Oranges From Spain Read online

  He had been going well, but when Brophy had told him to stay in after school, all the enthusiasm went out of his work. He looked at it without interest and, as a gesture of resentment towards Brophy, decided to end it. He wrote, ‘And as you can see that man is very cruel to animals in many different ways and I think it is wrong as animals never do anything to hurt us.’

  The essay was obviously too short, but it was a safe gesture. Brophy would be content to punish him for his homework and would turn a blind eye to its brevity.

  His half-hour of detention was made worse by the fact that he had no company. The homework he had to repeat was a maths one which consisted of working out percentages of given amounts. He found he could handle the percentages when they were whole numbers, but when fractions became involved, he floundered hopelessly. He knew he was still arriving at incorrect answers, but he tried to compensate for his lack of success by presenting the work as neatly as he could. More of his time was spent underlining in red and ensuring a pleasing layout. Father Brophy had often said he would never punish a boy for stupidity – dishonesty, laziness, maliciousness – these were punishable offences, but never stupidity. Kiernan did not entirely believe Father Brophy, but at this particular time it suited him to pretend he did.

  Father Brophy sat at his desk reading a book, seemingly oblivious to his captive. Kiernan could see from its cover that the paperback was not a religious one. The classroom was disturbingly silent and each empty desk reminded him that its usual occupant was enjoying himself elsewhere. But sooner than he could have hoped for, the work was finished. He approached Father Brophy’s desk slowly and stood silent and penitent before him. Father Brophy let him stand for about a minute, pretending he wasn’t aware of his presence, then gave the homework a cursory inspection before wordlessly indicating that the boy could go.

  Walking home through the housing estate, the boy slowly recovered a feeling of well-being. Perhaps the day could still be salvaged – after all it was Monday, and Monday was his favourite television evening. He made a mental list of his intended viewing. That evening, he knew the film was a Clint Eastwood western, and the prospect made him give a little shuffle of pleasure as he walked. On Mondays, too, his parents both went out to the club, and as his older brothers were usually out, he often had the house to himself. He liked Clint Eastwood a lot. There was never much talking and plenty of action in his films. He loved the way he always looked half-asleep until he had to draw his gun. Father Brophy would not approve of Clint Eastwood, but to Kiernan Caffrey there seemed little in the world that the Father did approve of.

  He walked on past the row of shops which formed the centre of the estate. Most of their windows were boarded up and their open doors gave no indication as to what was sold inside. Posters and graffiti spewed over every inch of space, last year’s names and events overlaid with fresher additions, like so many layers of skin. A dog sniffed round the wheels of a pram. A wire grille swung loosely like a page in a book. A group of women huddled outside the newsagent’s, one still in her slippers and clutching a bottle of milk. He saw two of his classmates come out holding single cigarettes they had bought. He was glad he had stopped smoking, and although he still had the odd one occasionally, he only did it to pass himself. His mind went back to the tape he had heard in school about how scientists made dogs inhale cigarette smoke to find out about lung cancer.

  Remembering it was Monday, he walked a little quicker. His mother liked to get the tea over early so that she could get ready to go to the club. Thinking of this reminded him that he was hungry. Tea on Monday was never anything much, but he consoled himself by thinking of the television programmes he was going to enjoy. He cut down an entry. As he turned the corner he almost tripped over a figure crouching in at the hedge of one of the gardens. It was a Brit. They stared into each other’s faces, but nothing passed between them except the distancing of caution. The boy saw about six others in similar positions ahead of him. At the start it had been different. Some of them had tried to be friendly and would speak, but too many things had happened since then. But except when there was trouble on and the word was out, only the very young children bothered to stone them. Mostly they were just ignored. He adopted an attitude of casual indifference to the soldiers’ presence as he walked by, pulling a twig out of a hedge and beginning systematically to shed its leaves. Two of them carried guns for firing plastic bullets as well as their rifles. All the soldiers he passed stared closely at him, but no one said anything and no one stopped him to look into his schoolbag. Then all but the last man stood up and moved out. As he turned round and watched them go, he saw the first soldier covering their exit and observing the length of the entry. His sleeves were rolled up and he had tattoos on both arms. He was chewing gum with exaggerated movements of his mouth and just before he too left, he winked in the boy’s direction. The boy turned away and continued to shed leaves.

  As he was walking he saw a small green caterpillar on the cuff of his pullover. He stopped and delicately removed it, then rumbled in his pockets for a tin to put it in. Among the clutter of debris produced was nothing suitable, but then he remembered his lunch box. Taking it out of his bag he placed the caterpillar inside. He knew his mother would not be pleased, but he could remove it as soon as he reached home. There was a rifle shot. He wondered if it would be possible to keep it and look after it until it grew into a butterfly. He had nearly been successful the previous year with frogspawn, but something told him that this would be more difficult. From the sound he knew that it had come from an Armalite. He turned and walked back up the entry. When he reached the top his lunch box was almost knocked from his hand by a boy running. It was one of his classmates charging in the direction of the shops.

  ‘They’ve got a Brit! They’ve got a Brit!’ he shouted breathlessly.

  Kiernan sealed the lunch box and, carefully placing it in his bag, followed the boy. A small crowd of youths had gathered already on a little patch of green that faced the shops. There was a soldier lying on the pavement outside the butcher’s shop. His helmet had been taken off and his flak jacket flung open. A soldier on his knees cradled the wounded man’s head in his lap. Splatters of blood stippled the shop window and a rivulet of red seeped down the pavement towards the gutter. Near by on the pavement a bottle of milk lay broken. The expression on the face of the soldier who was crouched over the wounded man told that he was dying, and would be dead before medical help arrived. The other soldiers stood upright, their faces pale with fear, holding their rifles to their shoulders and moving them from side to side to cover potential vantage spots where the sniper might be hiding. But they knew, just as the crowd knew, that he would be long gone.

  The boy watched as the blood reached the edge of the pavement and trickled into the gutter. An old woman stood motionless in a doorway fingering rosary beads. From the interior of the butcher’s shop, faces peered through the meat hanging on skewers, but no one came out. The boy noticed that the shot soldier had tattoos on his arms. A priest came running from somewhere – it was Father Brophy. He started to administer the last rites. The soldiers looked at him with suspicion and listened to his words as if he was mouthing some final curse. The boy felt vindicated in his dislike of the priest.

  The crowd had increased in numbers now. Some of them began to shout abuse. The boy was worried that Father Brophy would see him, and slowly he slipped through the crowd to its rear. The shouting grew, with people whistling and banging the ground with anything that came to hand. Then, deepening his voice to try to sound like a grown-up, he shouted at the group huddled in front of the shops,

  ‘Go on, die, ya bastard!’

  His voice blended with the others and then he turned away. Soon, more Brits would come and they would be angry. It would be better to be indoors when that happened. Besides, it was Monday, his favourite television night, and his mother always liked to get the dinner over early so that she had plenty of time to get ready for the club. As he broke into a run he remind
ed himself to remove the caterpillar from his lunch box before he left it in the kitchen. He wondered if it would turn into a butterfly.

  The Martyrs’ Memorial

  The fire in the lounge had almost burnt itself out, but no one had the initiative or the courage to put more coal on. It was an unspoken rule that only Mrs McComb or one of her senior lieutenants was entitled to perform that important task, and even on a wet holiday afternoon, none of her guests was inclined to dispute it. The embers glowed brightly in the gloom. Grey, salt-laden squalls gusted against the windows, leaving behind changing patterns of rain. He sat on a window ledge and watched the droplets slide into nothingness. On the seafront the lines of coloured lights swayed like skipping ropes. Few people braved the spray-washed pavement. Only an elderly couple sheathed in macs ventured along its length, their heads bowed as if under a weight, and from time to time the probing wind slipped inside their coats and billowed them out like sails. Scudding clouds darkened the remaining blue pockets of sky, and the sea swelled and wallowed in a shifting swirl of grey. In the distance, the white strand was swathed in thickening cloud, barely distinguishable through the gloom. Up in the convent on the cliff tops, two lights burned like the eyes of some watching animal. He turned away with a shiver.

  It was only four o’clock and still two hours away from dinner. The dismal weather had driven almost all the residents of the guest house into the sanctuary of the lounge, and despite the fire there was a cosy feeling of security, as they sheltered like ships in a harbour. The room was furnished with an ill-matching assortment of armchairs and settees, unified only by the presence of puffed-up cushions, with gaudy floral covers. A stern, yellow-keyed piano stood to attention against the back wall and a mixture of badly painted pictures and religious texts decorated the walls. Above the fireplace was a photograph of Mrs McComb and the late Mr McComb on their wedding day. He looked round at the dozen or so residents. He knew them by name. They were the same middle-aged and elderly couples who stayed the same time each year, booking the last week of July in order to miss the crowded Twelfth fortnight. Creatures of habit. Mr Cranston sat slumbering on the settee with one of Mrs McComb’s edifying religious tomes opened at random on his knee, while his wife knitted somnolently in the same colour of wool she had used the year before. Her eyes had a glazed, faraway expression, and the click of her needles and the rustle of turning pages were the only sounds in the room. Mrs Kilfedder was engrossed in the pages of the People’s Friend, while her husband, a fisherman from Kilkeel, sat bolt upright in a stiff-backed chair, his arms folded. From time to time, he would close one eye and squint intently into space with the other, as if making mysterious assessments and calculations. He wore a stiff white collar and a tartan tie, open sandals, and a brown Aran cardigan that smelled of fish. The Mehargs, who owned a shoe shop in Ballymena, were having some sort of silent argument, conducted by sharp, bird-like movements of the head and meaningful glances, that finally resolved itself and settled into frosted stares. Close to the fire, Mr and Mrs Gillespie, the retired missionaries, dozed contentedly. After supper each evening, Mrs Gillespie would play the piano which stoutly refused to wilt under the weight of photographs, framed catering certificates and brass ornaments that squatted on its lid, and Mr Gillespie would lead the assembled company in chorus singing. Mrs McComb herself would grace the occasion with her presence, and sing passionately and sincerely.

  His own parents puzzled over a jigsaw that they had spread out on a coffee table, and as he watched them he felt a little resentful of their relaxed contentment, and conscious of his own boredom. When he was younger it had been all right, but there was a limit to how many times you could play pitch and putt, walk the cliff path, attend the beach mission. All of it bored him now, but though he wanted something fresh, there seemed little prospect of any change in their predictable holiday pattern. They seemed to genuinely enjoy their annual holiday and looked forward to it with an eager anticipation that left him bemused. It didn’t seem to matter about bad weather or anything else – a week in Mrs McComb’s Portstewart guest house was, for them, a restorative, a panacea for tired spirits, and a vital preparation for the coming winter. As much as he disliked the prospect, it seemed selfish to spoil it for them in any way.

  Outside, the rising wind rattled the windows, and caused the residents to raise their heads.

  ‘Stormy weather ahead,’ observed Mr Kilfedder.

  ‘Brewing up all day,’ added Mrs Kilfedder, in support of her husband’s expert assertion.

  ‘It has got very dark,’ said Mrs Cranston timidly, temporarily pausing from her knitting. ‘It’s like the middle of winter.’

  ‘The darkest hour always comes before the dawn,’ said Mr Gillespie, and the profundity of the observation momentarily silenced the outbreak of conversation.

  ‘Yesterday was a nice day,’ ventured Mrs Cranston, resuming her knitting, ‘though it did get a bit cold later on.’

  ‘At least it was dry,’ agreed his mother, holding up a piece of puzzle. ‘We walked round to the strand in the afternoon, and it was very pleasant – wasn’t it, John?’

  ‘Very pleasant,’ confirmed his father. ‘The wind was quite fresh, but sure, that’s the best thing in the world for blowing away the cobwebs and clearing your brain.’

  ‘You’re not far wrong there. Nothing like a good sea breeze in your face for making a man think straight,’ said Mr Kilfedder. ‘It’s when a gale blows up and you’re a long way from shore – that’s when you start to worry.’ And he closed one eye tightly and slowly nodded his head in affirmation.

  ‘That’s when the power of prayer can become very real,’ said Mr Gillespie. ‘I’ve always found that throughout my life.’

  ‘Amen,’ interjected Mrs Gillespie.

  ‘You know, Mr Kilfedder,’ he continued, ‘we, too, have spent our lives on the high seas of life, fishing – fishing for men. All our lives trawling and netting lost and perishing souls.’

  ‘The young men are all using this radar business now for catching. They didn’t need no fancy machines when I was a spindle of a boy on my first boat, and I’ll not be using any now. You can have all the fancy gadgets you like, but you’ll never replace this,’ and he closed both eyes and touched the side of his nose with his finger.

  ‘Smell?’ asked Mrs Cranston. ‘You smell the fish?’

  ‘Instinct,’ growled Mr Kilfedder, and he glared at her with round, wide eyes, as if he had just sighted a mermaid.

  ‘You know,’ said Mr Gillespie, a lifetime of experience telling him that an opening had presented itself, ‘it reminds me of that story in the Bible where the disciples had been fishing all night and hadn’t caught a single fish, and then Jesus appeared and told them where to cast their net. And when they did it, the net was full to overflowing, and you know, we all have to listen to the voice of God guiding us, and follow where he leads us.’

  ‘When you got the call to the mission field,’ asked one of the other guests, ‘did you know at once it was the voice of God?’

  ‘I would be less than truthful, Miss Penny, if I told you I didn’t have doubts at first. The sacrifice involved was so great that it was easy to think of excuses, but just like Samuel, God called again, and there could be no hiding from His voice. And because we heeded that call all those years ago, God has seen fit to bless our lives and bless our work.’

  ‘Amen,’ said Mrs Gillespie.

  ‘Amen,’ echoed Mrs Meharg.

  There was no further conversation, and the guests resumed their previous activities. There was still an hour before dinner. He looked out and saw that it seemed to have stopped raining. Down on the front, a woman was walking a small dog, and two young boys were trying to splash each other in a puddle. The sky was ominously dark, but a little patch of brightness was struggling to emerge and, taking advantage of the lull in conversation, he slipped out of the lounge and down the stairs towards the front door. The curdling smell of cabbage enveloped him and he screwed up his face in miserab
le anticipation. He hated cabbage, but he knew his mother would expect him to eat at least some of it out of politeness. The one thing he hated worse than Mrs McComb’s food was the way the smell of each meal wafted its way up from the depths of the kitchen and permeated every nook and cranny throughout the entire house. Even in his tiny attic with the sloping ceiling, he woke each morning to the sizzling, frizzling smell of soda bread and potato farls. It was strange – even after he had been back home for a few days, the cloying, yellow smell would stay with him and cling to his clothes. As he passed the dining room door, he saw the new girl laying the tables. She was too intent on placing knives and forks to hear his light-footed step.

  He crossed the road and clambered down on to the glistening rocks. The tide was going out and the rock pools were brimming lagoons awash with fronds of podded seaweed. Damp black, leathery strands latticed the rocks and purple clots of anemones clung to the shiny solidity of stone. Insects skimmed the film scumming the surface of the water, and he plopped a pebble into the middle of a deep pool and watched the effects of the ripples. Finding a bit of driftwood, he poked under the rubbery mass of coiled tresses, prising them up on the end of the stick before dropping them again. From under some stones he had dislodged, a crab scuttled for new shelter, disguising its destination with a clouded sandstorm of panic, but he did not pursue it. The sky was growing dark and, throwing the stick in the direction of the sea, he stood up and stared with fretful fascination at the convent on the cliff top. There were more lights on now, and he wondered what went on behind those forbidding walls. Crouching down in a cleft in the rocks he peered cautiously at its impervious heart. It struck him suddenly and forcefully that just as he watched it, perhaps someone, somewhere in the maze-like multiplicity of rooms, might at that very moment have him fixed in a fierce and inscrutable gaze. He ducked below the top of the rock and squatted with his back pressed against the cold and crusted surface. Approaching footsteps on the shingle made him start, and with his heart beating fast, he made himself small and silent. Sharp, whorled limpets burrowed into his back and dampness seeped into the seat of his trousers, but he continued to press himself into the rock until the footsteps had trailed away.