The City of Strangers

Stefan was still for a moment. It was a peaceful place. The thought of what had happened barely a week ago seemed to collide in his mind with the image of a small boy playing in the garden, running down to the sea. He looked at the boarded-up French windows and remembered a photograph on the bloodstained wall at Herbert Place. He had barely noticed it, yet it had stayed in his head; a boy, freckled, in shorts and a white shirt and sandals, smiling by the same big windows, wide open then, pulling a wooden cart full of sand.

Stefan heard the buzz of the plane, searching for any signs of Leticia Harris’s body. He turned and walked on after Dessie.

*

It was just starting to get dark as Stefan Gillespie walked through the fields on the western side of the farm at Kilranelagh, across the Moat Field towards the woods that abruptly fell down the steep escarpment on the far side of the townland. The sheep were thick-coated and filthy with the winter’s rain; the grass was bare and poached, still waiting for the spring flush to show. He noted a ewe hobbling painfully, another down on her knees trying to find some grass worth eating. He had meant to help his father with the foot rot at the weekend; he wouldn’t be here.

He could hear the sound of children’s voices, and he altered his course down the slope towards the high mound that sat just beyond the corner of the field, a cluster of trees rising out of the woods, higher than everything else around it, looking down at the narrow gash of rock and earth and scrappy hazel woodland that was the steep-sided valley they called Moatamoy, after the mound itself.

It was no more than a smooth, round hillock, with a flat top full of twisted trees and brambles and ivy. Eight hundred years ago the top had been surrounded by a wooden palisade. A Norman village of grass-roofed, wattle-and-daub-and-stone houses had clustered at the corner of the field below it, indistinguishable from the grass-roofed, wattle-and-daub-and-stone houses of the Celts the palisaded motte was there to protect its inhabitants from. The Anglo-Normans who had lived here had sometimes fought the people around them, sometimes traded with them, sometimes killed them, sometimes married them, until eventually they had been absorbed into their surroundings so completely that they became, in the words that would always define them, níos Gaelaí ná na Gaeil iad féin, more Irish than the Irish.

Now the sheep grazed where the village had been, but the motte was still a castle, at least in the minds of the children who played there.

Stefan could pick out the voices as he climbed over the wire fence into the ditch that surrounded the motte. Tom’s first of all, shrill and enthusiastic and, it couldn’t be denied, with more than a hint of bossiness about it when the game was his game. He could hear the voices of the Lessingham children, Alexander who was seven, Jane who was ten, and the voice of the Lawlors’ son, Harry. Stefan started up the slope of the mound and found himself grabbed forcefully from behind; an arm was round his neck, holding him.

‘Surrender!’ The words hissed into his ear.

‘I surrender! Just don’t choke me!’

As the arm released him he turned, coughing and spluttering, to see a woman laughing at him.

‘Be quiet,’ she whispered, ‘and we’ll see if we can creep up on them.’

He nodded and smiled. He was used to it. For a moment the woman looked at him, and he looked at her. They were standing very close among the trees. He bent forward and kissed her lips. It was fond rather than passionate, but its familiarity told a deeper story.

At thirty-four Valerie Lessingham was a year older than Stefan. She lived with her children in the big house across the valley from the Kilranelagh farm. Her husband, Simon Lessingham, was an officer in the British Army, serving with his regiment in East Africa. He had been away for more than two years; absence had not made Valerie’s heart grow fonder. There had been cracks in their marriage for a long time; the fact that he was away so much was an excuse not to face them, as it was an excuse not to face other things. Like the cracks in the crumbling house they lived in, and the bigger cracks in the management of the estate that surrounded it, draining money out year after year and bringing nothing back. Lack of attention wasn’t a solution to those problems either.

Neither Valerie nor Stefan had looked for what had happened quite suddenly between them. They had come together for the simple reason that their children played together; their children were more the entire focus of their lives than they cared to admit. And so it happened.

Valerie walked up the slope ahead of him. She had a head of yellow hair to her shoulders. She was thin and tall, and strong enough to stand beside the men who worked on the estate and do the same job when she needed to. The clothes she was wearing, as they often were, had come out of the back of her husband’s wardrobe.

Stefan watched her, climbing gracefully and quietly up the slope. He was aware how much he liked her. She had the carelessness that somehow went with her class, even about their relationship, but she had a well of kindness that often didn’t. Whenever he thought about her, she was laughing. She laughed with everyone, but he sometimes felt that her laughter only really came from her heart with the children, and the children had come to include Tom Gillespie, more often than not.

The track across the fields from Kilranelagh to Whitehall Grove had become well-trodden by the children over the last two years, and the woods that filled the valley between the farm and the estate seemed to have become their world. At the moment, after the arrival of the film The Adventures of Tom Sawyer at the small cinema in Baltinglass three weeks ago, it served as the countryside around St Petersburg, Missouri; the tiny stream at the bottom of the valley, on the other side of the motte, was the Mississippi River. The voices Stefan and Valerie could hear, floating down from the top of the mound, were now those of Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, Becky Sharp, Joe Harper and, intermittently, of Injun Joe, Muff Potter and Aunt Polly too.

‘I was at Garda Headquarters today,’ said Stefan.

‘Be quiet, Stefan,’ she hissed again.

‘It sounds mad, but I’ve got to go to America.’

She turned round, glaring, holding a finger to her lips.

‘You can tell me later, darling!’ The last word meant nothing very much; it was simply the word Valerie called everyone she cared about.

She continued up the slope. He followed, amused. It was a very different reaction from the ones he had got both at the Garda barracks in Baltinglass and at home. The idea of flying to America was, immediately at least, a prospect of such extraordinary wonder that reasons paled into insignificance, especially where Helena Gillespie was concerned. Stefan’s father smiled and joined in, but he still thought it all sounded very odd.

David Gillespie, like his son, had a policeman’s nose; he could smell the politics too, perhaps as acutely as his son. He had worked in Dublin Castle under the British once, when he was an inspector in the Dublin Metropolitan Police. He picked up the excitement in his son’s voice too. It was something he hadn’t heard in a very long time. He felt that the wind was changing; he could see it in Stefan’s eyes; perhaps it was changing for all of them. He wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, but then the wind and the weather were nobody’s to control.

By now Valerie Lessingham had reached the top of the hill. She crouched down behind a fallen tree, and as Stefan arrived behind her she grabbed his hand and pulled him down. There were no voices now, just the sounds of the rooks overhead, a great crowd of them heading home to roost. Then Tom Sawyer appeared among the bushes across the flat top of the motte, in the form of Tom Gillespie; he was holding Becky Sharp, in the shape of Jane Lessingham, by the hand; things were getting very serious.

‘Becky, I was such a fool!’ lamented Tom. ‘I never thought we might want to come back! I can’t find the way. It’s all mixed up. Don’t cry.’

Becky didn’t look much like crying. Jane was older than Tom Gillespie and she was quite a bit taller – she felt Becky needed to buck her ideas up; crying wouldn’t get them out of the cave they were lost in.

‘Tom, if you can’t find your way out of here, I will!’

‘That’s not right, Jane. It’s Tom who gets them out!’

‘I don’t see why it always has to be that way.’

‘It’s in the film. It’s in the book too.’

Suddenly there was a loud whooping noise, then crashing through the undergrowth came Harry Lawlor, as Injun Joe, his belt tied round his head and a pigeon’s feather sticking out of his headband, and screaming loudly.

‘I’m a-going to get you, Tom Sawyer! I’m a-going to get you!’

‘Becky, run, it’s Injun Joe!’

Tom put his fist up to defend Becky, who scowled and looked like she was perfectly capable of protecting herself, but before Harry reached his prey a small figure wearing a wide-brimmed, very torn straw hat, flung himself at Injun Joe. Alex Lessingham, more accurately Huckleberry Finn, was coming to the rescue. Tom Gillespie clenched his fists and shouted.

‘That’s not what happens!’

‘Who cares?’ said Jane.

She ran. Injun Joe followed.

‘Come on, Tom, let’s go!’ said Huck, racing off. And Tom ran after them, laughing, finally abandoning accuracy for fun.

Valerie got up, laughing too, pulling Stefan up on to the mound by the hand. The voices of the children echoed through the darkening trees for a moment longer, and then there was silence again.

‘Come on, you lot!’ shouted Valerie.

‘Tom, we’ve to get back! Tea’ll be ready! Harry needs to go too!’

‘Jane, Alex, it’s almost dark!’

‘Tom! I mean it!’

Valerie sniggered.

‘What’s that for?’

‘I mean it, indeed! Sure, don’t you put the fear of God into them?’

‘They’ll have us standing here all night, Valerie.’

‘Really?’ She took his hand.

He pulled it back.

‘Don’t be so daft.’

She giggled. They walked on a few steps.

‘Did you say you had to go to America?’

‘New York.’

‘What on earth for?’

Out of the twilight four forms launched themselves at Stefan and Valerie, leaping up and pulling them down to the ground, laughing and whooping, in whatever characters they still carried in their heads. Tom and Harry Lawlor pinned Stefan to the ground; Jane and Alex held their mother down, demanding immediate surrender and a considerable ransom. But after a few moments the hostages were released. As they all got up, Valerie grabbed at the severely battered and torn straw hat that had fallen off her son’s head. She frowned a frown of considerable severity.

‘And who did this?’

The children looked at one another and said nothing.

‘This came out of my bedroom. It was new last year. Look at it!’

‘It’s like Huckleberry Finn’s hat,’ muttered Alex.

‘It certainly is now,’ replied his mother. ‘Who did it, please?’

Tom stepped forward, his head hanging down.

‘We were going to put it back, Mrs Lessingham.’

‘Oh, well, that’s all right then.’ Her voice was still very stern.

‘I only cut it a bit, so it looked right. But it’s got quare ripped now.’

‘Quare ripped indeed, Tomás Gillespie!’

She put her arm round Tom; then she put the hat on her head.

‘So what do you think?’

As Valerie and her children walked down the track through the woods, Stefan turned towards the farm with Tom and Harry. The boys climbed over the fence into the field and walked on. He realised he hadn’t explained anything at all to her yet. He called out in the near darkness.

‘I’m leaving for New York tomorrow!’

‘How long will you be?’

‘Five days, six. I’m flying.’

‘What? You still haven’t told me why.’

‘I’ll catch you in the morning, Valerie!’

‘I don’t know what I’m doing tomorrow. I’ll see what –’

She was gone from sight; her voice had gone too, fading into the trees. He wasn’t sure how much she had heard but when he clambered over the fence it was clear Tom had heard enough. He stood with a look of bewilderment and awe on his face, waiting for his father; it was a look shared by Harry Lawlor too. The Mississippi had disappeared from view.

5. Inns Quay

That evening, after tea, Tom Gillespie brought down the newspaper cuttings he had collected earlier in the year about the flying boats that had just taken to the air, flying out of Ireland, across the Atlantic, to America. It was a wonder that no one could have dreamt of, even a few years ago. There were photographs of the planes, gigantic yet graceful; a great, wide, heavy wing of engines and propellers, with the sleek lines of a ship hanging underneath, cutting down into the waters of the River Shannon as they landed at Foynes. There were men in the navy-like uniforms of Pan American Airways and Imperial Airways, names that on their own conjured up for Tom all the vastness of the earth. There was a map that showed the route the flying boats would take, from Southampton Water on the English Channel across England and Wales, across the Irish sea and all of Ireland to Foynes on the Shannon Estuary; from Foynes over the whole of the North Atlantic, the longest, barely imaginable leg of the journey, to Botwood in Newfoundland; then across the Gulf of St Lawrence and down through Canada and New England to New York, the city of skyscrapers that Tom had only seen in newsreels; a city that felt like it was on another planet.

The atlas was pulled out to join the cuttings, and for more than an hour the farmhouse on the western edge of the Wicklow Mountains was open to the skies and the oceans and a light that seemed to shine on all the distance in the tiny maps and make it almost tangible. David and Helena too were swept up in the adventure that filled their grandson’s head, and when Tom finally went up to bed he had exhausted them all with his excitement. He felt as if he was going too.

For a moment even Tom’s father had forgotten that the man he was going to bring back from New York, on the return leg of that great adventure, might be coming home to meet the English hangman.

And the hangman was still English. Despite the fact that two years earlier, in Éamon de Valera’s new constitution, the Irish Free State had officially been renamed Éire, Ireland, and that it considered itself now, for all practical purposes, a republic, there was still one job no Irishman would ever be asked to do in Ireland. So when that job did need doing it was the English hangman, Thomas Pierrepoint, who took the boat train from Euston, the mail boat from Holyhead, and a taxi from Dún Laoghaire to Mountjoy Prison.

Stefan was thinking about what his journey meant now, as his mother and father washed up. He folded up his son’s newspaper cuttings and put them away in the Cadbury’s chocolate box that had a picture of a flying boat pasted on it; he closed the box and put it aside to go back to Tom’s room.

As he returned to the kitchen the telephone rang. It was Valerie Lessingham, her voice bright as always, pushing away what was in his mind.

‘Stefan, I only got a bit of what you said. How long are you away?’

‘It’s not even a week.’

‘I have to be in Dublin tomorrow. So I’m going up there anyway. I thought I might drive you. You said you’d be staying the night. I could too.’

In a relationship that largely revolved around their children, the time Stefan and Valerie had actually spent alone together didn’t amount to much. When the chance did arise, Valerie dealt with it simply enough. Where Stefan approached it all with caution, she just got on with it.

He laughed. ‘Well, I suppose if you’re going anyway.’

It was unlikely she had been going anyway but, like the practical woman she was, there would, naturally, be things she had to do in Dublin.

As he walked back into the kitchen the last dishes were being dried and put away. His father and mother looked round. In a household where the telephone was still a novelty, an explanation was always expected. Stefan would rather it hadn’t been expected right now. It was an area of his life where the less said, especially as far as his mother was concerned, the better.

‘Valerie Lessingham’s got to be in Dublin tomorrow. She’s going to give me a lift up.’

David Gillespie nodded and turned to put a cup in the press. Helena’s pursed lips told another story. Open skies were forgotten.

‘Well, as usual, there’s nothing much happens here that Mrs Lessingham doesn’t want a part in. I suppose we should be used to it.’

David shot a warning glance at his wife, but she took no notice.

‘Normally it’s Tom of course.’

‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’ said Stefan. His irritation was defensive; he wanted to tell her to mind her own business. His father shot him the same warning glance he had shot Helena, and it had the same effect. ‘Leave it alone, Ma. You know no one could be kinder to Tom.’

‘And what does he think about that?’

‘What?’

Helena turned to the range, taking off her apron and folding it very purposefully, several times, before she hung it over the rail to dry.

‘Think about what? You know what he thinks. He loves being at Whitehall Grove, and he loves it when Jane and Alex come here. They have a grand time, don’t they? Leave it at that!’ He knew perfectly well why she wouldn’t leave it at that, at least he thought he did. ‘Valerie gives him more time than anyone outside this house. He thinks the world of her! Why not?’

His mother still had her back to him.

‘Why not indeed? I’m sure she’s an angel come among us!’

Even David Gillespie thought this was unnecessary.

‘Helena, will you come on? That’s enough.’

She turned, smiling now, but it wasn’t a smile of agreement. It was a smile that said she had more to say, and obviously no one wanted to hear it.

‘Probably it is. Trust me to blow out the candle when it’s burning so bright.’ She walked across to Stefan and kissed his cheek. ‘You’ll need an early night, son. You’ve a lot to do. I’m sure there’s more to all that travelling than they say. It’s still a long way, however quickly you get there.’

She walked out and went upstairs.

Stefan sat down at the table. He looked down at the picture of the flying boat. There had been times, more times recently, even before the call to Dublin, when he had felt he needed to get away. It had nothing to do with Valerie Lessingham, or with his mother’s tight-lipped disapproval, or even the slow repetitiveness of his life; it had nothing to do with his family really. It was the feeling that sometimes the mountains around him closed in, watching him grow older, watching his son grow up as he did no more than mark time.

David Gillespie went to the press and brought out two bottles of beer. He stood pouring them, saying nothing for a while. He pushed a glass across to his son and then pulled out a chair on the other side of the table.

‘She’s thinking of Tom,’ he said finally, as he sat down.

‘I know what she’s thinking of, Pa.’

‘Well, that’s another thing altogether,’ David frowned. ‘There is that too. She’s another man’s wife. We’ve never talked about it before, whatever we think, but do you expect your mother to be easy with it? Or me, Stefan?’

‘Does it matter so much?’

‘It matters,’ said his father. ‘You know it does. I’m sure Mrs Lessingham knows it. It’s the children that matter most. You know that too.’

‘What do you think we are? I could count the number –’

‘You can give each other the explanations. Don’t waste them on me.’

Stefan felt the sting in his father’s quiet words.

‘That’s not what really worries your mother anyway. I’m not saying she hasn’t got an opinion about it that doesn’t reflect very well on you or Mrs Lessingham, but all that can’t go on. Sure, you know that yourself.’

For a moment Stefan drank; he did know, of course he knew.

‘It’ll stop,’ he said, gazing down at the glass. ‘These things do.’

‘These things?’ laughed David. ‘Is that all it amounts to? Maybe it’s when it stops that your mother’s worried about. Can’t you understand that?’

‘For God’s sake, I think I’m old enough to deal with it, Pa!’

‘I’m glad for you so. I’m glad for Valerie Lessingham too, if that’s how it is with her. It’s a good job your mother’s in bed. If she was here she’d tell you she couldn’t give a feck whether you two can deal with it or not.’

Stefan laughed, but he could see this wasn’t one of those familiar moments when David Gillespie had been despatched by his wife to say what she wouldn’t say herself.

‘And what sort of sense is that supposed to make? If she doesn’t care, then what the hell is she so angry about?’ He drained his glass and stood up.

‘Jesus, you’re thick sometimes, Stefan Gillespie. He thinks the world of her, that’s what you said. Not that it needs saying. You might be able to deal with it when it’s all over, do you think Tom’s going to find it so easy? She’s pulled him into her family, and I’ve no complaint about that, nor has your mother.’

Stefan gave a wry smile; he wasn’t so sure about that.

‘Maybe she’s a way with strays,’ continued David, with a kinder expression. ‘But you and Mrs Lessingham have taken a road you can’t stay on together. There’ll be a parting, and when there is things won’t be the same again. Perhaps there’ll be more for Tom to lose than you then.’

Stefan stood where he was, looking at his father, as two compartments in his mind opened up to one another, and he realised that not only were they sitting side by side, they looked into each other. He had become very good at keeping things in separate boxes in the years since Maeve had died; he was aware of that. But it was a trick his son had had no reason to learn.

*

In Bewley’s Café in Grafton Street the next evening, Stefan Gillespie and Valerie Lessingham talked about the things they usually talked about: first, their children. It was not only what was closest to their hearts, and what held them together, it was where they found the happiest parts of who they were. Tom was at the National School at Kilranelagh, a mile along the road from the farm. Jane and Alexander were at Stratford Lodge, the Church of Ireland school in Baltinglass. But their closest friendships were with each other, and with Harry Lawlor who was at school with Tom and also inhabited the woods between Kilranelagh and Whitehall Grove. Other topics could be almost as amusing for Stefan and Valerie, some of the time, but there was too often something less than funny below the surface that could rise up to still the easy laughter.

The chaos that was the Whitehall Grove estate was never really as entertaining as Valerie Lessingham made it out to be, though she was good at finding the humour in it. The estate was in serious decline, propped up by Major Lessingham’s army salary and the selling of assets that had once been considered the family jewels. Valerie still talked to Stefan about her husband with the fond exasperation that she had before they became lovers. She needed someone to talk to; Stefan was a friend first and what else they were to each other now didn’t change that. He wasn’t sure why she wanted to speak about her husband tonight. It wasn’t an unfamiliar conversation, but there was concern behind it, preoccupation, even worry. It was as if she was refocusing her mind, all of it, with a quiet intensity that was unlike her.

‘Simon always prattles on about how passionately he’s attached to the land and the house. The family’s been there for over three hundred years and all that, but he’s got no idea how the estate survives. Farming’s still a complete mystery to him. As far as he’s concerned grass grows, corn ripens, sheep lamb, cows calve, and we all live on it merrily! The fact is it’s a business and it’s eating up far more money than it’s making. And every conversation we have, every letter I get from him, is just another version of: Sure, it’ll all be all right. It’ll all be grand. It will all sort itself out!’