Sullivan, page 11
He pulled her to her feet, and then close into him. It was wonderful. Her hair was very soft against his chin. They clung to one another for a time, but it’s no use, time has stopped still, and your moments have passed. But it’s wonderful, all the same.
‘We’ll go down into shelter,’ he said, gripping her hand tightly.
‘I don’t want to go home,’ she said. ‘Don’t let’s go home, Sullivan, not yet. Let’s not go home for a few hundred years.’
‘We won’t go home yet,’ he said. He ran off down the hill, holding her. She had a job to keep with him. The sheep looked in wonder at those awkward forms running. The sheep didn’t think their heavy shod feet and thick legs were good for running down cliff-side hills. The sheep admired their own beautifully slender shanks and delicate hooves, and then went back to their grazing.
They stopped at the end of the hill. Here it was sheltered from the wind. A gigantic stretch of strand was in front of them. The incoming tide had surrounded gentle hillocks of it and had submerged other parts, so that it was a blue-grey and green scene with the other cliffs away from them braving the tide; hoary, brown, weed-covered rocks the sentinels at their feet. Farther away on a headland jutting into the sea they could see a white building glinting in the sun. That was the outpost of the faraway town.
Sullivan stopped near the walls of the fallen house. It had been destroyed for some time, this house. It was perhaps a relic of the day when the land supported more million people than it could provide for, when men scratched the soil in bleak and barren places until the earth could give them no more and killed them off, two million of them, dispassionately, with a potato blight. Around here the land had been tilled and now soft grass grew on the site and the sheep kept it cropped like a well-cared-for lawn. It was the same inside the four walls where at one time men had loved and lived and died. There was a carpet of grass and the shelter of the still-stout walls. And in here they sat.
Said Sullivan suddenly: ‘ How long were you up there, Bernie?’
He found it difficult to stop saying her name: Bernie, Bernie, Bernie, as if he had never said it before.
Bernie turned her head away from him.
‘I kept my head down,’ she said, ‘I didn’t look at critical times.’ Sullivan laughed uproariously.
‘Did you see when your man came around the corner in the cart?’ he asked.
‘I did,’ said Bernie, ‘ I saw that bit.’
‘Jay,’ said Sullivan, ‘suppose I knew that you were up there looking down at me!’
‘Sullivan,’ Bernie said, ‘ did you never think of me at all before this?’
‘No,’ said Sullivan. ‘I just knew that you were there and that the world was still turning. That’s all I knew, but I know now, Bernie, I know now. I have so many things to tell you. You don’t know. What is it? A person can talk to so few, so few, about things, about everything. What a thing it is to have a person who belongs to yourself! Oh, Bernie, am I going to unload such a lot of things on you? You know something, I’m hungry.’
‘Real hungry?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘ real hungry.’
‘Then we’ll have to go home,’ she said.
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘You don’t know Sullivan. Come with me and you’ll eat like a queen.’
He was pulling her to her feet again. His eyes were lighting. She had to laugh.
‘Life with you won’t be easy, Sullivan,’ she said. ‘Everything will always be on the move.’
‘Wait’ll you see,’ he said, taking her outside. ‘I have been here before. Look for a can, Bernie, a common tin can. Somewhere about here there is a common tin can.’
They found it near the shore. Sullivan greeted its presence with a shout of joy. He pointed out the sea wrack to her. ‘ You test that,’ he said, ‘and every piece, however small, of dry wood you find, gather it into a bundle to burn. You see; I’m going raiding.’
He ran away from her. She watched him. Up by the house he went and the hill beyond. He stood on a grass-covered dike there and waved to her. Then he was gone. Bernie sought for the bits of wood automatically but she didn’t do very well with the search. She would stand up on the shore with a few bits of wood in her hand and look over the sea. The hills on the other side of the bay were barely visible in a blue mist. Bernie just sighed and smiled and wondered.
Sullivan was raiding a potato pit. It was in a field up behind, a long earth-clamped pit. The front of it was free of earth, just covered in with straw to keep the frost away. Sullivan burrowed here. He picked six choice potatoes and he returned. He ran back to Bernie, dropped the potatoes, took her in his arms, ‘Hello, Bernie,’ he said, ‘I’m back again. I was a long time away from you,’ kissed her, looked at her, put her away from him and started to wash the earth off the potatoes in the sea. Then he put the potatoes in the tin can and poured sea water in on top of them. ‘Wait’ll you taste these,’ he told her. ‘You haven’t lived until you have tasted these.’ Bernie was laughing, clapping her hands.
Then he collected sticks, many more than she had acquired, added to them from clippings of a stark hawthorn bush that grew behind the old house, and soon with withered bracken and a match had a fire burning in the old chimney of the house and the tin balanced precariously on the fire.
All the time they were coming together and separating, touching, hands and bodies, touching one another with their eyes, incredulous, not talking much, just to say, Do you remember? And Why? and Sullivan burned his fingers taking the tin off the fire and the potatoes were bursting their jackets off, and Sullivan scraped the salt from the side of the burned tin, and they ate three potatoes, hot ones, juggling them from hand to hand, and Bernie said that she never ate anything like them since the day she was born, and after that they sat close and tried to hold back time again, but it wouldn’t go, and they stayed there until the sky in front of them seemed to be burning to death and the distant white house on the headland was rosy, and then they got up and walked back the long way they had come, and the many miles seemed to be very short until he stood outside the orchard door and parted from her, but this was different. He was taking some of her with him.
Going to his own door he thought: I set out with what thought in my mind? That I was a new man; that I was going to conquer the world. Now amn’t I able to do it twice over? So he didn’t go in. He went out of the street and into the quiet tree-lined avenue where he knew Tony Mahon lived.
It was two o’clock in the morning.
You cannot knock up a respectable house at two o’clock in the morning. He knew Tony’s room. It was one in front. There was a concrete jut-out over the front door to keep the rain off. He leaped for this and grabbed it and drew himself up, scraping his body on the cement. He could smell Bernie with him, her perfume on his hands, all about him. The window was open. He opened it farther and whispered into the room, ‘Hey, Tony! Tony!’ He could feel the warm air of the room.
He heard the voice say, ‘Here, what the hell!’ and the creaking of the bed, and he said ‘ Hey, Tony, it’s me, Sullivan!’ ‘Sullivan? To the fair hell with Sullivan!’ said the sleepy slightly alarmed voice.
‘You want a good actor, Tony,’ said Sullivan. ‘ I’m your good actor. I’m back at the old stand. You hear?’
‘I hear,’ said Tony’s voice, ‘you cracked character. Now go home to hell and give me some peace.’
‘Benedictus,’ said Sullivan, full of joy, and he jumped and landed in a flower-bed and danced his way home, his heart singing, and his mouth singing despite himself, and some of the neighbours afterwards said what a poor show it was that Sullivan fellow coming home blind drunk at that hour of the morning waking everybody up, and what harm, but he has a voice like a scalded crow, so he has.
Chapter Twelve
Whitefaced, the old man, sturdy, with a strong jaw and a mane of pure white hair, faced them across the mahogany table. He was shouting. There was foam on his lower lip. He was pounding the table with a clenched fist.
‘Not now, nor ever!’ he shouted. ‘Not now, nor ever!’
The youth facing him was not shouting but his low-pitched voice seemed to vibrate with pent-up passion.
‘Then that is the end of you,’ he told him. ‘But it is not the end of us.’ He indicated the people around him with his hand: George, his elder brother, the tall bulky one, looking so strong, yet so weak under the eye of the old man; young Gervina, her eyes wide, looking at her young brother as if she had never seen him before; and Margaret, his mother, standing to one side of him, her only sign of nervousness the way she pulled at the lace handkerchief with her long thin hands. ‘Because you are no longer faced with frightened people, like we have been all our lives, leaping to your whims, wide-eyed at night; conscious of your sleeping. But you slept on, didn’t you, yes, you slept on. You had no cause to fear. You had no cause to shiver. Well, you can shiver now. Because this is the end. You have a last chance. You can agree right now, and everything changes, or you can pound the table and shout “Not now, nor ever”, and we will walk out of the open window into the storm, and we will never come back. You hear that. We will never come back!’
Bernie hoped they wouldn’t have to go out of the open french window. Outside it was thundering. The low rumble of thunder was a background to the people. Now and again lightning flashes lit up the lowering sky and you could hear the sibilant hiss of the wind-driven rain. She was biting her knuckles. Please, let him agree; she demanded, please let him agree!
But he didn’t agree. He was too sure of himself.
‘Not now, nor ever!’ he repeated, his lips tight. ‘You underdeveloped snake. That’s what you are. You hear that? What human being would ever believe that I fathered you? To my sorrow, boy, to my sorrow. You go out now, and you never come back. Your brother will not go and your sister will not go. Will you, George? Will you, Gervina? Will you leave me? Will you leave the soft beds behind? What are you going to take with you? You are taking nothing with you! Who will provide for you? Who will wake you in the morning? Who will keep your hands soft and your heads on a feather pillow? Tell me that. You won’t go, George?’
George looked undecided. He shifted his feet. O Lord, Bernie prayed, don’t let him let Sullivan down now.
He didn’t. He straightened himself. He looked his father in the eyes.
‘I’m going, father,’ he said. ‘I’m not used to hardness, I know. That’s not my fault. We won’t have an easy time. But I’m going with Leo.’ ‘You fat fool!’ his father said to him. ‘ Wait till your heavy rump is nestling on boards. Wait until your blood is being sucked with lice.’
Oh, he’s horrible, horrible, Bernie thought.
Gervina didn’t say anything. She walked close to Sullivan and she put her hand confidently into his. He looked down and smiled at her.
This gesture infuriated the old man.
‘Then go, go now, the lot of you,’ he said. ‘I can stand alone. I have stood alone before. God will keep me!’
‘God will not keep you,’ said Leo. ‘God will stir your conscience when you walk the empty rooms. You will have your mansion then and it will be all yours, all yours, every empty inch of it will belong to you.’
‘Margaret! Margaret!’ the old man shouted almost in despair. ‘You cannot leave me!’
They were all looking at her. Her head was bent. Then she raised it. She clasped her hands. The lace handkerchief, almost tattered, fluttered gently to the floor. She turned and picked up her coat where it was lying on the back of the chair. Then she faced him.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I can leave you. I am going with my children. You alone can count the reasons. You alone. Because I won’t. Freedom is too precious a thing to be denied to the utterly oppressed.’
She left him speechless. His jaw dropped. He thought she would have been the lever, the last lever. Now she too had failed him. He sat down. He didn’t look defeated, but he looked older. There was a sag to his shoulders.
‘Oh, for so many years, so many years,’ said Leo to him, ‘you had us where you wanted us. Trained to fear. Fear of what? Fear of nothing! Fear of what we would eat or what we would put on, all the time forgetting that God had given us two hands and two feet and bodies and brains; that we didn’t have to be slaves. You even had us that we forgot we had souls, you hear that? That was the way you had us, and that is going to be your greatest punishment. We’ll get by. Don’t imagine for a moment we won’t. You just think of it, four people are eight hands and eight feet and four brains and four souls. For the first time, we are free. There is no rain out there for us or dark clouds. There is a blue sky and the sweet caress of the sun on our uplifted faces. You can command the silence of empty rooms. They will obey you. You can lash the furniture with your fist. It will cave in under your blows. And you can call our names and let them rise to the emptiness of the cobwebbed attics. But we shall be gone. We shall be free. We shall be singing.’
And on that they walked through the window into the rain; into the thunder of the lowering clouds. He looked after them. He rose. He walked to the window. He called; ‘Come back! Come back!’ but the crash of thunder drowned his words. You could see him shouting but you could not hear him. Three times he did that and then he came in. He stood in the centre of the room, bewildered but still obstinate. You could see the hardness in his eyes; in the cut of his jaw. And then he saw the lace handkerchief. It was dark in the room now. Whatever light came from outside seemed to be focused on the lace handkerchief on the floor. He came down to it. He went on one knee. He put down his hand and he took it up, infinitely carefully, infinitely gently, and carried it to his lips. ‘Oh, Margaret! Margaret!’ he said, but he wasn’t broken; he wasn’t repentant. He proved it. He rose to his feet and stood there and brayed defiance to the ceiling, as if he was braying it to the sky, as if he was braying it to God.
‘Not now, nor ever!’ the old man roared. ‘Not now, nor ever!’
And as the lightning flashed and the thunder rolled, slowly and almost inexorably the curtain came across and closed. There was silence in the theatre for a count of five seconds and then applause broke out. It was honest, it was sincere, and Bernie clapped as hard as ever she could, sitting on the edge of her seat.
Back the curtain went and they stood in a line and bowed, now themselves, their faces cleared of other men’s minds. Sullivan was the tallest of them, she saw. His eyes were gleaming. Sullivan is happy, she thought, I can see that Sullivan is happy.
And well might Sullivan be happy. He was tremendously exhilarated. Not a single stutter in a thousand-line part – a part that pleased him, a part in which his playing pleased Tony very much. He knew he was good. Tony knew that Sullivan’s exuberance had overflowed to the rest of them, so that they were carried away with him, and the onlookers were lifted however much they didn’t want to be.
So they went below, afterwards, some of them, to express to Tony how they felt. They had recovered by this of course. They only imagined that they had been moved. So it was a good play. That was a damn fine play, Tony. You gave us a damn fine play there, and who’s your man Sullivan? He’s good. That fella could go far. Where does he come from? From where? From Duke Street? Holy God, I didn’t think anything like that could come out of Duke Street. Oh, I see, I remember now. His father was the docker that was destroyed. Yes, I remember that. Ah, yes, of course. And that’s who he is. Pity, you know, with a bit of background that fella could be really something. Well, what’s your next one, Tony? That thing! Well, it’s always good for a laugh. But this is a powerful play. He is a great writer, that fellow. Ah, a great writer. It must be great for ye to get a good writer that ye can get yeer teeth into like that. Learn a lot from him.
There were other simpler types, of course, who said: Oh, Mister Mahon, I quaked, honest to God, I quaked, so I did. It was so real. I was crying. Would you believe that? Honestly. It was so moving, so moving. You were so good. You put the heart crossways in me, honest to goodness you did, and that young man Sullivan. Could I meet him? Thanks. Oh, Mister Sullivan, you were so masterful. You compelled me. I was with you all the way. It was so good. I hope we will get more like that. So grand.
Sullivan thanked her, trying to smile at her, trying to stop his eyes from going towards the door, where Bernie was. She had come in and was practically hiding herself in a corner. Afraid of her life she would be noticed. Afraid that she was getting in anybody’s way. She raised her eyes and her eyes met his and all the shyness and backwardness went from them and Sullivan felt his stomach quailing at the look in her eyes, and the love flowing in him and the exhilaration all mixed up made him want to shout and jump around – the smell of make-up and cold cream and sweat – and he thought, This is the life, oh, dear God, this is the life, as long as Bernie is around somewhere even if she is dodging into corners.
So he smiled and said Thanks, and laid on the charm and said That’s nice of you, and Thank you, and when they wanted to know Where did you learn to speak so beautifully, so clearly? he thought back over the agony of the years, and said, ‘Oh, Tony, that’s the good Tony, Tony is very good. Tony is exceptionally good’, and he meant that too, looking where Tony was talking and calmly accepting, and even from the cut of his back Sullivan knew that he was thinking and summing up and assessing and finding fault with and analysing. Tony couldn’t be taken in.
They had a small celebration afterwards, business had been so good: bags of fried chips and lumps of fish cooked inside thick flour paste from the place of the Italian next door, and one of the pleased clients came up with a magnum of champagne and that mixed with brandy gave nearly everybody something to drink, an added kick in the stomach and an added gleam to the eye. Sullivan was in his element, like going into the hot sun after the cold winds of winter, feeling it was warm on your body, going into the marrow of your bones. He wasn’t obviously with Bernie, but he was conscious of her. She was never out of his sight. He was amazed at himself, feeling the slow rise of angry jealousy when one of the company was talking to her, a glass in his hand, one foot up on a seat and the other hand resting familiarly on her shoulder. Besides, she was smiling at him. He knew that she was being polite, because she was being polite to everybody, but all the same she ought to know that Sullivan was the only one in her life now. He felt proud of being possessive. I have something I can really call my own.
