Read Online Venetia Kelly's Traveling Show by Frank Delaney - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Frank Delaney
Tags: Historical fiction, Ireland
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spun and took it on his thigh. He rocked right back at the force of the great boot. For a moment he dropped his fists and I almost rushed out of my hiding place. And then my father ignited: He said something. Again I didn’t hear the actual words, but it inflamed the other man, who drove forward.
They grappled and wrestled, untidy and roiling about. They fell to the ground, they rose again. Once more they grappled, looking for a grip here or there. My father grabbed Mr. Kane’s jacket and tried to swing him around; Mr. Kane took a fistful of my father’s hair and twisted; my father somehow wriggled away.
The fight ended at that moment. With one clean punch my father lowered him. I heard the crack and saw my father wince and pull back his hand as Mr. Kane staggered, half-slipped, and fell. I thought his head rolled a little.
He lay on the earthen seed drills; Ned Ryan came forward to inspectmy father’s hand. My father flapped the hand vigorously and nursed it; he bent at the waist, raised one knee in his wincing, and sucked at his knuckles. Soon, garment by garment, he began to take his clothes as Ned Ryan offered them.
By the time he had dressed again—undershirt, shirt, waistcoat, jacket—the man on the ground was sitting up. He looked at nobody and I felt half a pang of sorrow for him. I expected my father to reach down and offer him a helping hand but he did no such thing.
Turning his back, he beckoned Ned Ryan, who carefully laid Mr. Kane’s coat on the ground and followed my father out of the garden by the far gate. My father finished tucking in his shirttails as he walked, and he sucked his knuckles again. His force, so unexpected, so brutal, roasted me; even from that distance I felt my face burn.
Mr. Kane sat there for several minutes.
Will he catch cold
, I thought,
on the wet grass?
Then he clambered to his feet, spread his hands like a doctor all about his face, searched his head and torso, picked up his coat, and put it on. He stood for long moments, then walked straight toward where I hid. I watched from the bushes as he strode within a few feet of me, his face angry. He muttered under his breath. Then I heard his great boots crunch the gravel, and he had gone.
Sometimes when I try to understand what my father was truly like, I recall that day. I see him as a sturdy prizefighter, stripped to the waist, old-fashioned pose, arms out like big commas.
I see a ruthlessness too, in this man from whom I’d never received anything but tenderness and warmth. Of what was the ruthlessness born? What was it that he kept hidden for so much of his life? I suppose that he, more than anybody, had always known what might happen if he ever broke out of control.
A t this point I want to share an old silent film with you—
The Courage of Esmeralda
. A lanky youth named Liam dug it up for me in a Dublin archive. He had no idea why I sat weeping after this seven minutes of crackling, hissing flicker.
Esmeralda, in a dress of many frills, is walking by the shining river gathering pretty flowers, when she hears a cry.
The word “Hark” appears on the screen, and we see Esmeralda halt her flower-gathering. She cups a tiny hand to her shell-like ear. Now the urgent white words prompt her to mouth, “Where, oh where can that voice be coming from?”
She looks all around—and then she sees. On the road that runs along by the river, a horse, pulling a cart, is rearing and bucking. A man and a boy sit on the cart; the man is trying in vain to halt the horse with the reins. Now it begins to gallop!
Esmeralda puts aside her posy of flowers—she rests them with delicate care on the little roadside stone wall, and she looks in fear and apprehension at the oncoming, galloping juggernaut.
“What am I to do? I am so small!”
The horse’s head is rearing, his nostrils flare, his eyes are wide. Heflings his head here and there. The reins fly from the man’s hands, and he cowers on the cart. He clutches to his chest the
They grappled and wrestled, untidy and roiling about. They fell to the ground, they rose again. Once more they grappled, looking for a grip here or there. My father grabbed Mr. Kane’s jacket and tried to swing him around; Mr. Kane took a fistful of my father’s hair and twisted; my father somehow wriggled away.
The fight ended at that moment. With one clean punch my father lowered him. I heard the crack and saw my father wince and pull back his hand as Mr. Kane staggered, half-slipped, and fell. I thought his head rolled a little.
He lay on the earthen seed drills; Ned Ryan came forward to inspectmy father’s hand. My father flapped the hand vigorously and nursed it; he bent at the waist, raised one knee in his wincing, and sucked at his knuckles. Soon, garment by garment, he began to take his clothes as Ned Ryan offered them.
By the time he had dressed again—undershirt, shirt, waistcoat, jacket—the man on the ground was sitting up. He looked at nobody and I felt half a pang of sorrow for him. I expected my father to reach down and offer him a helping hand but he did no such thing.
Turning his back, he beckoned Ned Ryan, who carefully laid Mr. Kane’s coat on the ground and followed my father out of the garden by the far gate. My father finished tucking in his shirttails as he walked, and he sucked his knuckles again. His force, so unexpected, so brutal, roasted me; even from that distance I felt my face burn.
Mr. Kane sat there for several minutes.
Will he catch cold
, I thought,
on the wet grass?
Then he clambered to his feet, spread his hands like a doctor all about his face, searched his head and torso, picked up his coat, and put it on. He stood for long moments, then walked straight toward where I hid. I watched from the bushes as he strode within a few feet of me, his face angry. He muttered under his breath. Then I heard his great boots crunch the gravel, and he had gone.
Sometimes when I try to understand what my father was truly like, I recall that day. I see him as a sturdy prizefighter, stripped to the waist, old-fashioned pose, arms out like big commas.
I see a ruthlessness too, in this man from whom I’d never received anything but tenderness and warmth. Of what was the ruthlessness born? What was it that he kept hidden for so much of his life? I suppose that he, more than anybody, had always known what might happen if he ever broke out of control.
A t this point I want to share an old silent film with you—
The Courage of Esmeralda
. A lanky youth named Liam dug it up for me in a Dublin archive. He had no idea why I sat weeping after this seven minutes of crackling, hissing flicker.
Esmeralda, in a dress of many frills, is walking by the shining river gathering pretty flowers, when she hears a cry.
The word “Hark” appears on the screen, and we see Esmeralda halt her flower-gathering. She cups a tiny hand to her shell-like ear. Now the urgent white words prompt her to mouth, “Where, oh where can that voice be coming from?”
She looks all around—and then she sees. On the road that runs along by the river, a horse, pulling a cart, is rearing and bucking. A man and a boy sit on the cart; the man is trying in vain to halt the horse with the reins. Now it begins to gallop!
Esmeralda puts aside her posy of flowers—she rests them with delicate care on the little roadside stone wall, and she looks in fear and apprehension at the oncoming, galloping juggernaut.
“What am I to do? I am so small!”
The horse’s head is rearing, his nostrils flare, his eyes are wide. Heflings his head here and there. The reins fly from the man’s hands, and he cowers on the cart. He clutches to his chest the
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