Read Online Saints and Sinners by Edna O’Brien - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Edna O’Brien
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to see him in a gaudy shirt and jeans, because in the prison portacabin where she had visited him, everything was muted. Moreover, a policeman had always stood behind them, listening in, except for the odd time when he took a stroll, maybe to smoke a cigarette. They had not shook hands when they met on the steps of the hotel, but she knew by his way of looking at her that he was glad to see her, and he remarked on her hair being much nicer, loose like that. For the painting class it had always been tied back and made her look more severe.
"So you're free," she said.
"I had only ten minutes' warning," he said.
"How come?"
"The governor came down to the sewing room and said, 'You have a car and a driver at your disposal for twenty-four hours, it'll take you anywhere you want.'"
As he spoke she recalled the shiver she had felt as the governor told her that there were many people who wished Shane dead.
"You mean the Brits?"
"Them and his own ... feuds ... feuds ... Put it this way, he'll always be a wanted man" and he raised his arms to fend off questions.
"What were you sewing?" she asked, in surprise.
"Oh, bits and pieces for the lads ...zips, darns, patches ... there was a long queue."
"Who taught you to sew?"
"We were ten children at home ... the mother had a lot of other things to do," he said shyly.
"So the lads will miss you?"
"They might," he said, but without any show of emotion, then looking straight ahead he began to roll a cigarette, thoughtfully. He seemed then to be the very incarnation of loneliness, of isolatedness.
Some friends had pooled together to get him a secondhand motorcar, and a few weeks later he suggested that they drive out into the country of an evening. It was agreed that she would travel by train and meet him in the town about eight miles north of Dublin, where he had found lodgings with a black woman, who chattered all day long to her humming birds, and as he said did not ask questions.
Now they were in the big dining room, famished and waiting for the owner to come and tell them what she could possibly give them to eat. When she met Shane as arranged at the railway station, he was sitting against the outside wall eating an ice cream, and she wondered why a wanted man would sit there, visible to all, in his new jeans and jazzy shirt.
His car was a little two-seater with a fawn coupe top. They had tried various restaurants along the way, to no avail. In one, a sullen owner pulled the door barely ajar and said there was no hope of teas as he was laid up. Several times she got out of the car and went in, only to discover that the restaurant was too rackety or too dismal. She joked about these places when she got back, described the tables, the lighting, the dried flowers and so on, giving each place marks ranging from one to ten. Shane didn't talk much, but he liked letting her talk. The years inside had made him taciturn. Judging by the newspaper photographs that had been taken on the day he was captured, he had changed beyond recognition. He had gone in young and cavalier, and had come out almost bald, with a thin rust mustache that somehow looked as ifit were spliced to his upper lip. He said once to her and only once that she herself could be the judge of his actions. He had fought for what he believed in, which was for his country to be one, one land, one people, and not have a shank of it cut off.
When they came to the gateway leading to Glasheen, she felt it was ideal, so sequestered and the building far below, smothered in a grove of trees. Holding open one half of the iron gate—she had put a stone to the other half—she saw to one side a public telephone kiosk that looked glaringly forlorn, the floor strewn with litter. The horse chestnut trees were in full bloom, pink-and-white tassels in a beautiful droop, and in the meadow lambs bleated ceaselessly. It was pandemonium, what with them bleating and racing around in fear of losing their mothers.
"It's like a maternity
"So you're free," she said.
"I had only ten minutes' warning," he said.
"How come?"
"The governor came down to the sewing room and said, 'You have a car and a driver at your disposal for twenty-four hours, it'll take you anywhere you want.'"
As he spoke she recalled the shiver she had felt as the governor told her that there were many people who wished Shane dead.
"You mean the Brits?"
"Them and his own ... feuds ... feuds ... Put it this way, he'll always be a wanted man" and he raised his arms to fend off questions.
"What were you sewing?" she asked, in surprise.
"Oh, bits and pieces for the lads ...zips, darns, patches ... there was a long queue."
"Who taught you to sew?"
"We were ten children at home ... the mother had a lot of other things to do," he said shyly.
"So the lads will miss you?"
"They might," he said, but without any show of emotion, then looking straight ahead he began to roll a cigarette, thoughtfully. He seemed then to be the very incarnation of loneliness, of isolatedness.
Some friends had pooled together to get him a secondhand motorcar, and a few weeks later he suggested that they drive out into the country of an evening. It was agreed that she would travel by train and meet him in the town about eight miles north of Dublin, where he had found lodgings with a black woman, who chattered all day long to her humming birds, and as he said did not ask questions.
Now they were in the big dining room, famished and waiting for the owner to come and tell them what she could possibly give them to eat. When she met Shane as arranged at the railway station, he was sitting against the outside wall eating an ice cream, and she wondered why a wanted man would sit there, visible to all, in his new jeans and jazzy shirt.
His car was a little two-seater with a fawn coupe top. They had tried various restaurants along the way, to no avail. In one, a sullen owner pulled the door barely ajar and said there was no hope of teas as he was laid up. Several times she got out of the car and went in, only to discover that the restaurant was too rackety or too dismal. She joked about these places when she got back, described the tables, the lighting, the dried flowers and so on, giving each place marks ranging from one to ten. Shane didn't talk much, but he liked letting her talk. The years inside had made him taciturn. Judging by the newspaper photographs that had been taken on the day he was captured, he had changed beyond recognition. He had gone in young and cavalier, and had come out almost bald, with a thin rust mustache that somehow looked as ifit were spliced to his upper lip. He said once to her and only once that she herself could be the judge of his actions. He had fought for what he believed in, which was for his country to be one, one land, one people, and not have a shank of it cut off.
When they came to the gateway leading to Glasheen, she felt it was ideal, so sequestered and the building far below, smothered in a grove of trees. Holding open one half of the iron gate—she had put a stone to the other half—she saw to one side a public telephone kiosk that looked glaringly forlorn, the floor strewn with litter. The horse chestnut trees were in full bloom, pink-and-white tassels in a beautiful droop, and in the meadow lambs bleated ceaselessly. It was pandemonium, what with them bleating and racing around in fear of losing their mothers.
"It's like a maternity