Torn Away Page 3

  The room was small with a sloped attic ceiling and had a window that looked out over the dark rocks and the ocean. The bed had an old-fashioned iron frame, and was covered with a blue eiderdown quilt. He fell onto it. He still wore his tattered sneakers. He felt Ana touch him on the shoulder. He did not move. He felt her slip off his shoes and dimly saw her place them together by the chest of drawers. He closed his eyes.

  He did not get up for dinner, but slept right through.

  Sometime in the early hours of the morning, he was visited by his nightmare, and awoke, crying out when the bomb exploded.

  And Kate Doyle was suddenly there, her arms around his shoulders, clasping him tight, and crooning. “Ah! Hush now, everything is all right, it’s all right, so it is.”

  But he pushed her away, wild, possessed by the devils of fear and frenzy. “Leave me alone!” And threw himself around and pulled the covers up over his head until she had gone away.

  The wild ocean crashed on the jagged rocks, and from somewhere up on the hill came the lonely hoot of an owl.

  Chapter Six

  Declan had slept the afternoon and the night away. Before six o’clock on Sunday morning, he swung his feet onto the floor and sat on the edge of his bed, looking around the small room. Chest of drawers, painted white; small bedside table, varnished brown, with a gooseneck lamp; hardwood floor; blue rug at the end of the bed; wallpaper, yellow with some kind of a white latticework design; two seascape pictures on the wall; a narrow door on the wall opposite the window. He stood and walked over to the door and opened it: a closet, empty, with a shelf and clothes hangers. He closed the door.

  Where was the bathroom? He went out onto the landing. The house was quiet. He padded down the stairs in his socks to the next landing. Which door? He tried one: a child’s bedroom with Superman wallpaper. He found the bathroom on his second try. He went in and locked the door. The room was big with bright lights and giant mirrors, not like a Belfast bathroom at all. He stared at the oddly-shaped elliptical pink sink, the toilet bowl with its padded seat, and the unfamiliar bottles of shampoo and jars of God-knows-what. He ran the bath and stripped off his clothes. He had never seen himself so naked and illuminated. He climbed into the pink tub and soaked himself for half an hour. He dried himself on the biggest towel he had ever seen, wrapped it around himself, grabbed his clothes and hurried back upstairs to his room, where he put on the Jockey shorts and the loose white sweatshirt and thick work socks he found neatly folded on the top of his chest of drawers. His Aunt Kate must have left them for him while he was in the bathroom. He stepped into his old jeans.

  He went downstairs and stood on the bottom step.

  His aunt and uncle were in the kitchen, Kate working around the stove, Matthew sitting in a rattan easy-chair, reading a book. The room was big and bright, a combined kitchen-family room, with a round wooden table and six chairs. Beside his uncle’s rattan chair was a small varnished table, its top crowded with a black telephone, a mug full of pens and pencils and several magazines and books, and its lower shelf filled with two thick phone books, one on top of the other. The walls were papered in the same kind of paper as in Declan’s room—yellow and white.

  Declan looked to the right. Opposite the kitchen there was a living room, also big—every room in this house was big. His aunt and uncle had not yet seen him. Declan walked into the living room. There was a wide stone fireplace flanked by two high book-shelves full of books and binders; an upright piano was set against the wall; there was a TV, a long brown sofa, old and worn, two matching chairs, two unmatched chairs—one a high-backed dark red velvet wing chair and the other a black-painted wooden rocker—and cushions of many shapes and colors. On the floor there was an Indian carpet. A long coffee table made of what looked to Declan like a giant tree knot which had been polished and varnished sat in front of the sofa. There were many paintings on the walls of trees and mountains, beach and sky, rocks and driftwood, ocean storms, all painted in a—what was it called, impressionistic?— style.

  In Belfast, the first things you noticed in a Catholic home, thought Declan, were the pictures of the Pope and Our Lady of Perpetual Succor and the Sacred Heart on the walls; they leaped out at you. But here it was different. His uncle and aunt had the usual Pope in the kitchen and Sacred Heart in the living room, but perhaps because of the sheer size of the rooms, they were hardly noticeable. There were no holy pictures in his room now that he thought of it, only seascape paintings like the ones in the living room.

  A door from the living room led out onto a front porch facing the ocean. The porch was wide and had a couple of old couches. Some of the couch springs had burst their way through the worn fabric.

  Declan left the living room, walked past the stairs, and stood silently in the kitchen doorway. Kate pulled out a chair. “Ah, you’re up. Sit yourself down, Declan, and I’ll make you some Canadian pancakes. Ana and Thomas are not yet up. Is it tea you’d want, or coffee? We’ve become the great breakfast coffee drinkers so we have . . . “

  As she chattered on, she pulled gently at the neck and shoulders of Declan’s sweatshirt the way his mother used to. She could not stand to see folds and creases in clothes that should be smooth, he remembered.

  “ . . . be sure to buy you some decent clothes tomorrow when the store is open, and shoes, the Lord knows you need shoes . . . “ He leaned away from her touch with a shake of his shoulders, and she stood, empty hands suspended like hovering birds.

  He looked at his uncle, relaxed, his big mournful face intent on his reading.

  Kate turned away toward the stove. “And your hair needs cutting so it’s out of your eyes. Matthew will cut it for you, he’s a good barber.”

  He brushed the hair out of his eyes. “My hair is fine the way it is.”

  “We usually go to Mass at ten on Sundays,” said Kate. “You’ll meet Father O’Connor, and maybe a few of the children you’ll be with on Monday.”

  “Monday?” said Declan.

  “When you go to school,” said Kate. “The bus picks up at the general store at eight-fifteen. Pender School is only ten minutes up the road. Or would you rather Tuesday? It’d give you the chance to get some clothes and look around a bit.”

  “Thanks,” said Declan, “but I’ll not be going to any school.”

  Kate didn’t pause in her mixing of the batter. “Not go, do I hear you say?” She shot a glance over at Matthew. “But what would you do with yourself around here? Ana is at the same school, and she says it’s the great place. Ah! Wait and see, you’ll like it just fine when you meet a few of the others.”

  “Good morning, good morning.” An old lady came down the stairs dressed for the outdoors. She carried an umbrella and wore a blue Sunday coat with a little blue hat. She was thin and straight like a dry twig.

  “Good mornin’, Miss Ritter,” said Kate. Matthew did not look up from his book.

  Miss Ritter kept going straight for the door and waved the hand which was not carrying the umbrella. “Make yourselves at home,” she said happily.

  “She always goes to the seven o’clock Mass,” Kate explained to Declan. She poured some of the batter into the pan.

  Declan said, “You’d better know, both of you, I’ve no intention of staying here in Canada. I was forced to come.” He shot an angry look at his uncle. “You had no right forcing me to come.”

  Matthew lowered his book. “It was my duty. I could do no less, Declan. You’re my brother’s son.”

  “You had no right to interfere!” insisted Declan.

  “You’ve no one left in Ireland,” said Matthew. “You will be better off here with your own, you’ll see.” He spoke quietly, almost in a whisper.

  Declan spoke contemptuously. “My own are still in Ireland. Buried in Irish soil. Which is where I will be buried, too, after I’ve revenged their cruel murders.”

  Kate interrupted. “Sit at the table, Matthew, and have your breakfast.” She placed two plates of pancakes on the table.

 
; Matthew took his place opposite his nephew. Kate sat between them with her cup of coffee. “I’ll maybe have a pancake myself when Ana and Thomas come down,” she said.

  “I was forced,” said Declan, noticing Kate glance at the gold ring on his finger and at the angry bruises on his wrists, “I wasn’t asked.”

  Matthew poured syrup on his pancakes, then passed the bottle to Declan.

  Declan poured too much syrup. “I’m needed in Ireland. At least I know my duty right enough. I’m not the kind who runs away from the battle like some I could mention.”

  “You haven’t touched your coffee,” Kate said to Declan. “I’ll pour you a glass of orange juice.” She got up and poured the juice while Declan and Matthew eyed each other across the table. “It’s going to be the lovely day,” said Kate. “After the church you can go for a walk, Declan. Ana and Thomas will show you around, won’t you, Ana?” she said to the girl and the boy who had just come down the stairs.

  “Sure,” said Ana. She smiled at Declan.

  Declan looked at her. She wasn’t wearing her sunglasses now. About the same height as Declan and almost as thin, she had blonde hair, straight, chopped off flat at the jaw line. She wore a white T-shirt and a pair of blue denim cutoffs. Her skin was very tanned. She had pale green eyes and long blonde eyelashes. Her smile was warm and a little tilted, as though she were sharing a private joke that only she and he understood.

  Thomas, he could see now, was one of those handicapped kids—what were they called? Mental retards or Mongoloids, something like that. His broad features looked to Declan like one large, happy-face grin. Declan turned his attention back to his uncle.

  “There’s not much point looking round a place where I don’t intend to stay,” said Declan. He glared at his uncle. “Now that you know how I feel about being forced to come to this wild country, perhaps you will be kind enough to send me back. I’m well able to take care of myself.”

  Matthew put down his knife and fork on his plate and leaned his elbows on the table. “We want you to stay with us, Declan.”

  “Ah! We do!” said Kate. “Give it a chance. We need you to stay, Declan, so we do.”

  “I won’t stay. If you won’t send me back, then I’ll make my own way back—somehow.”

  Matthew gave Kate a doleful look.

  The little chapel was crowded. Father O’Connor’s sermon droned on and on without end.

  In spite of all his sleep, Declan felt weak and tired. He wanted the service to be over so he could lie down somewhere, anywhere.

  Sunbeams shone through the stained glass windows, bathing the chapel in a rich, sleepy light. The pew was full. Ana sat on Declan’s right, Thomas on his left. Ana had changed from T-shirt and cutoffs into a green dress. To Ana’s right sat Matthew and Kate, Matthew stiff in his Sunday suit, and Kate, arty in a brightly colored, flowing kaftan, and a wide-brimmed straw hat festooned with bright artificial flowers.

  Afterwards, outside in the bright sunshine, Kate introduced Declan to the priest. Father O’Connor said how delighted he was to meet him and that, when time allowed, he would love to sit and ask a few questions about Ireland. He seemed sincere. “And welcome to Canada,” he said before they parted. Declan didn’t answer the priest, so his aunt did it for him: “Thank you, Father,” she said.

  They went home and changed into their workaday clothes.

  Matthew settled into his comfortable chair in the kitchen with his book and a cup of coffee.

  “Ana and Thomas will take you for a walk and show you around,” said Kate.

  “I prefer to be on my own,” said Declan as he left the house.

  He started making plans for his escape.

  Chapter Seven

  By the end of the day, he had a plan.

  He would need money. He found two bills, a ten and a twenty, in the kitchen drawer where Kate and Matthew kept their letters and bills. He didn’t like to take it, but he had no choice; they should have left him alone in Ireland and then he wouldn’t need to steal their money. He had no idea how much thirty dollars was worth, but it would do; he would not need much, just bus fare and chocolate money, enough to keep him going for a couple of days until he got back home. He folded the bills and stuffed them into his uncle’s coat, not the stained carcoat, but a warm-looking, padded ski jacket hanging beside it in the closet.

  Next, he rooted through the glove compartment of his uncle’s truck and found a map of British Columbia which he stuffed into his pocket. He studied the map in bed that night. British Columbia was very big. He checked the scale of the map and the area of the westernmost Canadian province and did some rough calculations in his head. The whole country of Ireland would fit into British Columbia ten or eleven times! Imagine that! Ten Irelands! He shook his head in wonderment. He located Otter Harbour. The nearest town was called Sechelt. He located the Vancouver airport on Sea Island. He reckoned he should be able to make it by tomorrow night.

  He left before dawn after a good night’s sleep, before anyone was up. He tiptoed downstairs and helped himself to a couple of large hunks of his aunt’s soda bread which he stuffed into plastic bags. Then he slid the closet door open quietly, pushed the bread into the pockets of Matthew’s jacket, the one with the thirty dollars in the pocket, and slipped the jacket on. A last-minute decision made him grab a green wool toque from the shelf and pull it on over his head. He listened for anyone moving upstairs. All was quiet. He crept out the door. He took nothing else except the map. It was a fine morning with no wind.

  The jacket came down past his knees, but he had chosen it deliberately, knowing it would be warm. His vague plan was to get into the airport baggage room and somehow smuggle aboard the London flight in a trunk or large bag. But first he had to get to the airport. He did not know where he would be sleeping tonight and the jacket would be as good as a sleeping bag.

  Besides, he’d need to wear something warm in the boat.

  He had decided on the boat yesterday for several reasons. A boat was easy to start and easy to steal; the ones with outboard motors required no ignition key; all he had to do was pull the starter and he was on his way. Second, a boat would take him directly to the airport on Sea Island. Third, they would probably be looking for him on the road and at the ferry terminals; they would not be looking for a boat. He hoped. Unless of course, the boat owner discovered his boat missing and reported the theft to the police.

  He walked along the beach; the road would be deserted at this hour, but he did not want to take the chance that someone would see him.

  Because of the forested hills to the east, dawn was slow to come to Otter Harbour, but by the time he reached the boat dock, the sky above the hills was stained pink and orange and he could smell the ocean and the forest. He felt his heart lift with excitement. He was going to make it; he knew it, he could feel it in his bones.

  There was nobody at the boat dock. He climbed into the boat he had selected yesterday, a fiberglass runabout with a small canopy that would protect him from easy identification, just in case they were looking for him with binoculars; it would also keep off rain and wind. He had checked the gasoline yesterday and the tank was almost full; he did not know how far it would take him, but if he followed the shoreline, he could always tie up at a dock and get more.

  It was the first time he had ever been in a small boat. He did not feel as sure of himself today as he had felt yesterday when he had studied the motor.

  He jerked on the starter rope. The 40HP outboard started after a few pulls. He untied the boat and pushed off. He slipped the motor into gear and twisted the throttle to “low” for a few minutes until he had a good direction, then once the dock was far behind, turned it to “full.” The little engine roared, the prow of the boat rose up out of the water, and the dark green sea boiled behind him.

  His heart lifted. He was on his way home.

  The sky was lighter now, and he could see the cliffs and beaches and the forest behind them quite clearly. He watched an eagle soaring ov
er the trees and the rocks with effortless grace. The sea was calm. God was with him. Maybe the eagle was God watching over him, guiding him home safely. Or that seal out there with its shiny nose and bristle whiskers poking up out of the water, swimming along near the boat. Was it his imagination or did the seal give him a wink? Perhaps we are watched over by the dead, he thought. His ma, his sister Mairead, the da he did not remember, who died when he was only three, maybe they were all watching over him. He gave a sigh of satisfaction and sat back, enjoying the plunging motion of the boat, feeling the spray on his face, letting the powerful little motor do the work.

  The sun came up and dissolved the mists from the mountains. He was too warm; he took off his uncle’s jacket and the toque. He studied the map, trying to figure out from the shape of the coastline where he was. The big town he came to would be Sechelt. He kept heading south along the coast, looking for landmarks, checking his map periodically, lying back with the sun warm on his face, watching the other boats carefully. Whenever he came upon one fishing, he angled away from it so he could not be seen clearly.

  After a few hours, he unscrewed the cap of the gas tank and checked the level by peering inside. About half a tank left. He figured he should be able to make it across Howe Sound before he had to stop to refuel. Which made him think about how the Holy Terrors used to siphon fuel from cars and trucks so they could make gasoline bombs to throw at the Brits. If only Brendan Fogarty could see him now!

  He was now in open water, in the channel between the peninsula and Bowen Island, feeling a little less certain of his seamanship The wind had come up and the water was rougher. It was not cold enough to put on his coat, but he pulled the toque down over his forehead against a windburn. His arms and shoulders ached from holding the rudder, even though he tried to balance the load by switching from one side of the seat to the other.