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THE AMERICAN ROOM


1966


JIMMY FINNEGAN, aged about 70   -   JERRY ANSELMO


ANNA, married to his nephew   -   GERALDINE ZECHNER


DERMOT MALONE, a very young parish priest   -   CIARAN MORGAN


BISHOP Francis   -   HARRY CLEARY


RALPH STEVENSON, lives in the Manor, aged 50   -   WILL GOVAN 


GRETA, Fr. Malone's housekeeper   -   ELIZABETH MONAHAN


SEAMUS, Jimmy's nephew. Vietnam vetern in 2022   -   DAVID WELCH




LOCATIONS


Jimmy's apartment


Anna's house


On board a plane. At the airport


The parochial house


On board a train


Outdoors. At the parade


At the door of Ralph's house


The graveyard at Glenree






JIMMY


It was the accent, you know, the first thing I thought of. Funny, isn’t it, the 
Things that come into your head. I remember that too, something very mundane rolling round in my head, the time I thought I was done for, when they had us cornered at the back of Longfield House. Yes… I wonder,,,
How many of them are still alive? I should have kept in touch over the years, but, well, the way things were… And they weren’t exactly in a rush to see how I was doing…


Anyway, I said to myself, they’ll all be looking at me. And listening too, to see if I’d become a Yank. Forty years and why wouldn’t I? only I haven’t. No, not even if the accent’s gone. I’ll have to disappoint them all, waiting for the chance to accuse me of turning my back on the old country. Well, they won’t. I’ll not give them that satisfaction. I must start listening to myself, take out any.. yes. Sweets, not candy. Sweets not candy. The boot of the car, not the trunk petrol not gas...


So here I am in this apartment. Yes, it’s a bit ramshackle and untidy. But it’s mine. No, it’s more than that. It’s who I am – who I was. They’re always saying to me -especially Seamus – he says ‘Pops, why can’t you brighten it up a bit? It’s nineteen sixty-six, for Chrissakes.’ And I say ‘young man, you’re not too big for a smack.’ Smack? I’d like to see anyone try. He’s six-two, two hundred pounds, solid muscle. He could be a pro. Running back, tackle. But no, he’s drifting like all the youngsters now. A good kid, though. Talking about the army. I don’t know. Time enough, he should try College first. He’d make the team easy, in any sport you care to name.


Anyway, the rooms – they’re all part of Ireland, part of Glenree to be exact. Stuck in time, but who cares? Except for one. The American room, I call it. It used to be like the others but I changed it when we got Kennedy into the White House. A new beginning. So I did up the room. A real Uncle Sam job. The Stars and Stripes, a big Chrysler calendar. John Glenn on one wall, and Jack and Jackie on the other. Everything big and bright. And then.. poor Jack. Poor Jackie. And those kids..
At least he got to Ireland before the end. That was what put the going on me, really. To see him there and me here. But of course he wasn’t surrounded by lies…


People living on top of each other. That’s what took me longest to get used to. Never really did, to be honest. New York, they city that never sleeps. Well, they got that right. And kids these days, how can they listen to that noise? Well, at least when I get to Glenree I won’t have to put up with that.




              ***






ANNA


Mother of God, I nearly died when I got the letter. Him. Coming here. To this house, after forty years. Oh God, it never goes away, does it? It’s his house. The home place. No matter that I reared my children here. Looked after Maurice’s mother and father – that man’s brother – and set up my little shop in the front parlour. No, I’m still a stranger. My God, you’d think after forty years away he’d have changed. But they never do, that family.


Not but his letter was quite nicely written. Coming back for the fiftieth anniversary of the Rising. Might even be meeting Dev, no less. Which is all well and good, and the best of luck to him. What do I care about the lot of them, and all the trouble they caused?


But then he goes on ‘I’m sure you could see your way to making my old room comfortable for me, if it’s not too much trouble.’ I don’t even know which room it is. And no one to ask. Well, he’ll have to make do with whichever one I can get ready. How long is it? Still a while away.


And he’s looking forward to meeting Maurice. Well, that won’t happen. A couple of pound every month for the past three years. He was very good when he went to England first. Working on the roads. Different places, moving around. New postmarks on the envelopes, some places I never heard of. I used to wonder about him being lonely over there, like me here.
Then the addresses on the letters kept changing but the postmark stayed the same. London N5. Some of them have second families over there. I’ve heard people say it in the shop. Oh, not about him, I’ve given them no sign. I’ve spent a fortune on new things for the children, pretending out the money came from him. But I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing it. And now this..




RALPH


I had to laugh – well, smile actually, a wry smile – when the letter arrived. No stamp of course, and the harp and ‘Dáil Éireann’ embossed on it. No who would I know in Dáil Éireann? We’ve kept out of politics since the State was founded. Not that any of them would be falling over themselves to have me on board, not with this accent. ‘Jaysus, we want to coax them in, not drive them away.’


But there it was. Not from Dublin, of course. Fergus Sweeney and his committee inviting me to take part in the fiftieth anniversary celebrations. The Rebellion. My God. It was very strange really. I was surprised by my reaction. The humour didn’t last very long. I was angry, very suddenly. Why? I had an impulse to reply, thanking him, and inviting him in turn to lay a wreath of poppies at the family vault in the parish cemetery. It would have been a laugh though. Fergus skulking through the paths waiting for the almighty to strike him down for entering the grounds of a Protestant church. Or that officious parish priest they got recently. He's so young and full of himself. Or am I just getting old? No. Only fifty. 


It was his tone. Expecting us to be grateful for an invitation to an event in our own country. For I am Irish, in spite of what people say behind our backs. More than that, I think – that we should be thankful they didn’t burn us out in the twenties. As if they’d done us a favour.


I felt like writing back and reminding him that we had our own anniversary. Father at the battle of Loos. Those poor men. Hill Seventy. Strung out like crows on the barbed wire at the German trenches. Aunt Polly told me the news sent Mother in labour early. I nearly died, I was so weak. Poor mother, she could never bring herself to visit the grave. I must get over to France some time this year. I missed his fiftieth anniversary last September.


Why the hell should I bother getting worked up about this? Only, I mean, this country is ours. We belong to it now, not it to us. And maybe they mean well..




                  ***




DERMOT


Parochial House, Feast of –


My Lord Bishop,
You will, I hope, forgive the formality of the address when I explain that a matter has arisen, the solution of which may require recourse to canon law. A native of this parish, James Finnegan, has been living in new York since the nineteen-twenties. He is returning for the upcoming celebrations and is, they say, to meet the president and receive a medal from him.


All well and good, but he has written to me to announce his upcoming arrival as if he were some sort of celebrity. There are rumours that your predecessor but one excommunicated him, along with many others, for their part in the Civil War. The ban on the others, of course, has been long ago lifted, but as he had left the country – under a cloud, as I’m led to believe – his may still be valid. How should I approach this men? I ask your advice.


Another matter. He informs me that he intends to live out his days in New York. But he wishes his remains to be cremated and taken here to be buried in the family plot. As you can imagine I am very much opposed to this idea. Thank God this is a quiet parish, largely unaffected  by modern ideas, and I intend to keep it this way. This is Saint Peter’s, after all, not Newgrange or the Hill of Tara. I know that technically there is nothing to prevent this, so how do I go about it? And what do I tell him?


I await your counsel.


Yours in Christ,
Dermot Malone.






BISHOP


The cathedral, Feast of –


Dear Dermot,


Thank you for your letter, which reminds me how right I was to make you the youngest parish priest in the diocese. I know you were unsure of yourself at the time and reluctant to accept. But you were, as you know, the most outstanding pupil I came across during my time as principal of the college, not least for your ability to anticipate difficulties. You will be as fine a pastor as you were a prefect.


As far as Mr. Finnegan’s excommunication is concerned, we can leave that to the Archdiocese of new York. If they are administering the sacraments, we may do the same. After all, it is a matter for his conscience, not ours.


On the other matter, I quite agree with you. There are enough overseas influences coming into our country – books, music, clothes – I sometimes wonder how our young people will be able to withstand it. Cremation is well and good in cities, where land for burial is scarce. But not here.


There is also the question of this man Paisley in the North. Thank God we enjoy good relations with most of our reformed neighbours. But this man heaps insults on us, which is bad enough, but on our faith, our most sacred beliefs..
He is constantly harping on about idolatry and superstition – what would he say if we were cremating our dead? We’d surely be cast as heathens! No, it’s quite out of the question.


Again, we can look to the church authorities in New York to smooth this over for us – but when his visit is done and he is safely across the Atlantic. In the meantime be polite but non-committal with him. It's a virtue you will need to cultivate if you are to succeed me, which in due course I hope and expect you will.


Yours in Christ,
Francis.




DERMOT


My Lord Bishop,


Thank you for your advice and support. I can’t see why this man should think himself so special. He seems to have been little more than a common thief. During the Civil War the Manor House was raided. Thank God it was left intact, but a sum of money was stolen along with some artefact of great value to the Stevenson family. Finnegan had left the country within the month. He was dishonourably discharged by the IRA in his absence. There is still a lot of bad feeling about his conduct among the few of his generation still living.


In any case, isn’t scared ground in America as good as anywhere else? Think of our poor countrymen buried in England. No chance of their being brought home. Why should he be any different? It’s bad enough bringing that man casement back, all the things he did. Forgive me, but it’s enough to make your skin crawl. At least our flock is free of that sin, thank God.




             ***






(On board a propeller plane)


JIMMY


My God, it's strange to be crossing the water by plane. All that blue. And not too bumpy. Big difference from crossing the States, all those little fields and trains and rivers you can even see from this far up.


I didn't think I'd be this nervous. A bit, yes. But it's a big thing, I reckon, coming back. Nd as a hero too, getting a medal from the President himself. The only man from Glenree to be in the GPO on Easter Monday. They can't take that away from me. They never could. No, sir.


They're all gone, those lads from the Flying Column. Dead or scattered all over the world. None of them are coming back. Just me. Dave Keeley dead, too. And Maggie. God rest her. God rest them both, I suppose I should say. It all worked out in the end. They're gone and I'm still here. And their daughter Anna married to my nephew Maurice. And living in the home place. Wonder what kind of reception I'll get. Ah well, I'll soon find out.


(The plane lands)


No one here to met me. Well, everyone's busy, they've all got their own lives to lead. So this is Ireland. Well, not really. It's just another airport. Shannon. They made a great job of it. All the planes coming and going. Not like us, packed like cattle onto the boat. Everyone straining to see the last sight of Ireland. Praying for a good day so you could see the coast for as long as possible. Very sad.


The only trouble is the luggage. Not much room for gifts. Still, we've sent them enough over the years. 






ANNA


I wonder what's keeping him? Not a phone call to say he'd been delayed. And the children all washed and turned out for him. Running ound, all excited. I had to send them to their room in case they knocked something. All this bloody fuss over someone I've never even met. Come on gorl, cop yourself on. He's only another Finnegan.


It's all anyone can talk about. Oh, I know they're only fishing for information. 'Will Maurice be home for the parade?' they know fine well he won't. 'Wouldn't your father be proud if he was still alive?' what about Mammy? Didn't she do her bit too? But nobody ever thinks of the women. They even tried to keep us off the organising committee. They only let them on to take charge of the catering and the children. All as bad as Jimmy Finnegan, the lot of them.


(Later)


Well that was strange. He was as nervous as I was, believe it or not. He's a fine looking man for his years, I'll have to give him that. A bit too many suitcases for my liking. I hope he's not planning on staying too long. I made a fry for him. He said it was the first proper fry he'd had in forty years. He asked about mammy and Daddy. Said he was sorry they weren't here to see the fiftieth. I thanked him. What else could I do? Maybe he meant it. And he liked the way we'd done up the room for him.




JIMMY


I mean what were they thinking of? Those little kids with their bright shiny faces. Of course I said I liked it. What the hell else could I do? It was like something out of a Hollywood set. Like a jigsaw puzzle of bits of America that don't fit. My own little room. I thought it would welcome me like a long-lost friend. An old man's foolishness I know. But this... I know she means well. It was good of her. But... hold on a minute. All this is new. All these knick-knacks. And you can't get them here, I know that. She must have sent away for them. Is this what she's been spending her money on? On me instead of those kids? The bit Maurice sends over – if he sends anything at all. I have my doubts. Poor girl. Okay, Finnegan, let 'em all see your best side.




                 ***






ANNA


Three days he's been here and already it feels like three weeks. He's been stirring things up in the shop. Of course he's the big sttraction, they're all around him like wasps round jam. He loves, it, getting in the odd dig about which side their families took in the Civil War. Does he not realise we have to live here after he's gone back?




JIMMY


Nobody talks in this country. Really talks, not like in the States. These people and their kids growing up. Hey need to know what it was like, who did what. Even if they don't like what they hear. They grew up, I recon, scared to ask at home. They think it was like the movies, blanks and fake blood. Well, I didn't go into details but I let 'em know it wasn't like that. No sir, and I'm fair to both sides. At least I think I am. I try my best.


ANNA


Of course they're all laughing at him behind his back, I'm sure of it. They all know about the medal and the money. They won't let the cat out of the bag, they're getting too much craic out of him as it is.


JIMMY


I met some of the Committee today. Fergus, he's the head man. Bit of a dry stick. Teacher or lawyer. Never been near a gun in his life. Wanted to know all about the GPO. Well, says I, I just did what I could. I answered the call, you'd do the same in my place. He was impressed all the same. A bit modern for my taste, a bit too go-ahead. Talked about the new man, Lemass. Industry and factories. Factories here? And the young people, getting them involved in the celebrations. Guitars and folk songs. What's wrong with out fine ceilidh bands? He smiled his lawyer's smile and said he thought I'd be in favour of it, being from America and all. No sir, keep our music the way it's always been. That's what we're doing over there. Let everyone else be as modern as they want but not us. I think the others agreed with me.


Anyway, they want me to lead the parade. The only man in the village who was in the GPO. Me, the Grand Marshal. I thought it would only be a little thing. But no, it's going to be on Easter Sunday, before the others. To get a crowd. There'll be the Army and the Bishop and bands. Proper bands. And veterans at the front with me leading them. I'm getting my medal personally from Dev on the Tuesday. It'll sit nice and shiny on my lapel when I march past the stand on the Sunday. Eat your heart out, Dave Keeley. And the rest of you, wherever you are. I'm gonna be part of history. Again.


And Ralph Stevenson was there. Of course they'd have to have a Stevenson on the Committee. Looks like his old man. What age was he back then? Five, six?






RALPH


So that was the famous Jimmy Finnegan. I'm not sure what I expected, to be honest. He's quite well preserved, well dressed. A bit of money though whether for show or not I couldn't say. I caught him looking at me a couple of times, though he didn't give anything away. There was a bit of tension. Everyone knew the story, and that I was there when it happened. Not that I can remember, just a child. And they were wearing masks in any case. And none of them did any actual harm. Except for him. I was going to speak to him but I thought No, let him make the first move.


Interesting that no one thought to introduce us. Or maybe didn't want to. Half of them didn't want me there in the irst place, I'm perfectly aware of that. But I suppose they felt they had to have me, seeing as how I'm on all their other committees. Fifty years on, and they still don't know what to do with us. How we fit in. If we do. I don't think they ever got over seeing me in forty-four in my RAF uniform. That was a mistake, wearing it coming home on leave. I just wanted Mother to see it. To make her proud. Still, I wonder how they'd manage to organise their celebration and them speaking German?


I remember Mother showing me the letter. An apology of sorts. No name. Signed in Gaelic. Divisional commander or some such thing. They'd raided the house for guns, necessity of war and all that. Of course we'd got rid of them all, we knew what was coming. They didn't ransack the house or anything like that. They were quite courteous, Mother said, out of respect for Father. They took nothing. Not a shiling, not a crust of bread. Or so we thought. But when we looked father's medal was gone. His DSO. Posthumous. For valour, leading the charge on Hill Seventy. They could have taken anything else, they could have burnt the house and it couldn't have hurt Mother more.


We never got it back, and she never got over it. Then the letter came. It said the perpetrator had stolen the medal on his own initiative and was currently a fugitive. He would assuredly be caught and the medal restored. But it never was. Finnegan had taken it and absconded to America. And there he's stayed for forty years. Probably sold the medal over there. At least Mother didn't live to see him strutting round the place. And now he's to lead the parade. That's justice for you.




                ***




ANNA


Well, well. That was an interesting evening. He was in from his meeting, just sitting down to wait for the news to come on the television. Just dying to say how backward we are, not having colour TV, when there was a knock at the door. Who was it only Greta from the parochial house. With a message for Jimmy from Father Malone. Wants him to call up tomorrow.


Well, he nearly died when he saw her. He tried not to let on, but it was no use. I'm wide to him now. So of course she had a cup of tea with us. He sat in his chair, squirming. Like a child in school bursting for a wee but afraid to ask out. I could hardly keep a straight face.


Greta was very interested in his life in America. I should have guessed they'd know each other. They're about the same age. But Greta's so quiet, you'd hardly think of her at all. She really made him uncomfortable without trying. Thank God he's met his match at last! I'd ask Greta what it's all about but I know she'll never tell me. 






JIMMY


Jesus, what's wrong with me? I might have known that witch would show up sooner or later. She caught me on the hop, though. Working in the priest's house, no less. She always had that knack of looking at you as if she could see right through you. I played it cool, though. Never let on I knew her in New York. Our paths hardly ever crossed over there still, she saw me begging that day outside Grand Central. And that time I got beat up in Fleming's Bar. She saw me carted all bloody. And that time in Dublin... well, least said. And now here she is. Well, I'll be prepared tomorrow if she answers he door at the priest's house.




GRETA


He couldn't wait for me to go. Poor Jimmy! Always big talk, even back then, as far back as national school. There was a lot of his sort, growing up. And he did do his bit against the Tans. But Dublin... no, I won't say a word about that. I wouldn't do that to him, bad and all as he is. So he's up to see father tomorrow. That should be interesting. 






                   ***




                                              


GRETA


Anna, the poor girl. How does she put up with him? He's even more unbearable than he was when he was young. Mind you, they're two of a kind, him and Malone. The two of them were at it hot and heavy by the end. I'm sure you could hear them halfway down the village. They started off civil enough.




JIMMY


I knew she'd have her eye on me so I didn't even knock the door too hard. Good evening Jimmy, says she. You're very formal on duty, Greta, says I, nice as pie. That shut her up. I could see she was fuming though.


Malone was quite stiff for a young fella. You'd think he'd be a bit more go-ahead at least. I said next to nothing. He invited me after all, so let him do the talking. So it was small talk at first -  America, the celebrations, how the village has changed. But I knew what it was all about. This cremation business. They warned be in New York that the church was still backward about those things here. He was trying to say it without saying it, so I kept my mouth shut. Let him squirm. 




PRIEST


He tried to undermine me from the start. I was courteous, I did my best to make him feel at ease as a returning exile. But he just sat there, answering in monosyllables. In the end I saw no point in carrying on. So I simply came out with it. I told him that while I understood and sympathized with his wish to be laid to rest here, that burial of ashes would require permission from higher authorities, a request which I could not support. I tried to explain that this is not America. He said nothing but his face reddened. Then he said 'They do it in the cities, here, don't they?' this is not a city, Mr. Finnegan. And even there, it is the preserve of.. other denominations. Surely you're  not suggesting we imitate their practices?




JIMMY


Well, as soon as he said that I had him. He'd put his neck in the noose, just what I was waiting for. Don't give me that about Protestants, says I. That shook him. He couldn't even bring himself to say the word. Where I live we don't have a bit of bother with Protestants. The Germans, the Swedes. no. The only people who have a beef with us are the Italians, the Poles, the Puerto Ricans. All Catholics. Sure they're fine people as individuals. My daughter-in-law's Polish. But put 'em all together, the Catholics don't get on with each other over there. Protestants, no trouble. So don't give me that.


Well, that shut him up. For a minute. Then he started to talk, raised his voice. Well, I didn't think he had it in him. But you don't talk like that to Jimmy Finnegan. Better men have tried. But I didn't say that, just let him get on with it. No way was my ashes going in the clay here. If I wanted to be buried it would be like anyone else. I said my family can't afford to have my body shipped over, that costs a fortune. That's not my problem, says he. Then I'll just have to come back here to live. We were both shouting by then.


Well if you do, he roared, you'll behave like a Christian and do as you're told. It's not the Civil War now. I knew what he meant. The so-called money. I stood up. 'Ill do what I goddam like. And when I'm done I'll stay around and haunt you.' and out I stormed. She wasn't even listening at the door. I guess she didn't need to. You could have heard us a mile away.




               ***




PRIEST


I'm sure people are talking about me after the other evening. They were gathered in the porch this morning after mass. Whispering. I can't afford to have my authority undermined like this. But I can't be the one to raise the subject. That would give him the upper hand. And I'm certain they're watching me, to see my next move. I'll have to find another way. And not just here. On a wider stage. The Lord knows there are plenty of forces trying to undermine the Church. Especially among the young. Listen to that noise. And the clothes they're wearing. Even here. Look at him, for example. Yes..




ANNA


What went on the other night? He came back in, furious, but very pleased with himself at the same time. And very polite all day yesterday. Then this morning at breakfast he said 'You know Anna, the last things my parents said to me when I left was your room will always be here for you. I'm sure they would have expected Maurice to respect that wish.' Well I'm not Maurice, I said, staring at him. He was the first to look away. I kept calm while he was there but as soon as he left I got a dose of the shakes. I hope it doesn't mean what I think it does. Dear God, no...




               ***








JIMMY


What a day! What a couple of days. I finally met Dev face to face, instead of in the distance like I did in sixteen and twenty-two. God help him, he could hardly see in front of his face, had to be guided by his aide de camp. He's no slouch though. His mind is as clear as a bell. Ah, James Finnegan, he said, when I was introduced. One of the old brigade. That's right Mr. President I replied. I don't remember your name from the prisoners' roll call. I got away in the last charge. I was one of the lucky ones. Our poor dead comrades. His voice had a shake in it. Ireland has done them proud, says I. And I drew myself up to my full height, even though he couldn't see me. And so have you Mr. president, I said.


He was quiet for a minute. Thoughtful, like. And I suddenly remembered the day Jack Kennedy was on the campaign trail in our neighbourhood. In his open top limo. Crowds of people, all the Irish. Poles too, Italians. As he went past I shouted 'Good luck Mr. President'. Which was a bit cheeky seeing as how he hadn't even been elected yet. Everybody laughed and he turned towards us and smiled. I thought I'd say it to his face some day, remind him of the day he went through our neighbourhood. But I never got the chance. And now here I am, in front of my old chief, using those same words to him. Who ever would have thought it?


I don't know what came into my head, an impulse I guess, but I spoke to him. I don't know f I was supposed to, but what the hell? It's funny Mr President the way you're from New York and are here. And I'm from here but ended up in New York. Ah, Mr. Finnegan, says he, we are a wandering people. Our missionaries, our nurses, our peace keepers. Keeping the flame lit all over the world. Fine people, I said. And so they are.  


So then an aide stepped forward with my medal. I thought he would just hand it to me, but no. he pinned it on.  Looked over at Dev, and at his aide de camp, in his uniform and his braid and ceremonial sword, and I said to myself What were we like in our ragtag uniforms and bits of guns and couple of rounds of ammunition. And we did it. This is what we did. Our president, our army. Our flag. And I knew I'd do it all again, even if it meant another forty years in exile, or worse. Yes, by God, I would. And the years just seemed to fall away from me, and I was back there. Just for a couple of seconds. But it was so real. 


And Dev moved on to the next in the line and the spell was broken. Just a little bit, mind. 


I got a ride back into town from the park. I decided to treat myself so I went into a hotel in O Connell Street. And goddammit if they weren't playing that loud guitar music. That crap Seamus has blaring out of his transistor radio. I mean, come on. It's one thing for the youngsters to be listening to it. But in a hotel... Of course this is Dublin. It'll never catch on down the country – I hope.


It put a bit of a dampener on the day, hearing that music – if you can call it that. I got to thinking on the bus back to Glenree. Why did we send all that money back home? To look after the folks of course. But so that Ireland could look after itself, so it wouldn't have to change. That we could come home and find it the way we left it. That it would be different from everywhere else. But what if it isn't? What if it turns into a place like England or the States? What was it all for then? Maybe that dried stick in the priest's house is right. No change if we can help it. No, I'll never admit he's right. Oh, I'm just a contrary old man, I know. But one who's done his bit for his country. They can't take that away from me. Not now. Not when I've got this pinned to my chest. Wait to they see me wearing it at the parade on Easter Monday. That'll show them!




                ***






ANNA


I wish it was over, this whole commemoration. It's not just having him stuck in the house, bad and all as that it. All this talk about beating the English and half the country over in England looking for work. I'm sure the English are laughing at us. And war. Look at those coffins coming off planes in America with the flags on them. Who thinks of their mothers? I bet in fifty years there'll be a big for that and the mothers will all be forgotten about.


And people going on about my father. 'In a few years it'll be his turn. Won't you be the proud one? Fifty years since the ambush'. Everyone talking about the ambush except the people who were there. I wonder did they talk about it to each other when there was no one else around? I'll bet the didn't. I wonder how many of the rest of them had nightmares? All of them, I'd say, God love them. Their wives having to pacify them. Their children terrified. That and the Civil War and nobody taking bout it. No wonder so many left.


After this is over and he's gone I'm going to write to Maurice at whatever address he puts on the letter. Tell him I'm coming over with the children. To live. That'll put the wind up him. It's about time the Finnegans got a taste of their own medicine. I'll give Jimmy his due, though. He's dropped a couple of hints he's not impressed with Maurice staying away. For the kids sake, though, not mine. no. blood's thicker than water. 




              ***






GRETA


It was hard to keep from laughing at first. The sight of him leading the parade down the street and everyone clapping. Like a peacock he was, and the medal on his chest with its lovely tricolour ribbon. And the look on Father Malone's face when he went past the stand and saluted. I must say he did look well, though. And I looked at them all on the platform, the Minister and the bishop and all the bigwigs and I thought to myself 'If you only knew what I know.'


and then it stopped being funny. I don't know why. Maybe it was the sight of Anna and the other women. As if they didn't exist, just there to make up the numbers. And I felt responsible in a way, as if it was y fault for not speaking up before now.


He was only there by accident, you know. He went into town that morning to meet some lassie and saw the Volunteers parading. He trailed along as onlookers do, and when they charged into the GPO he was swept up in it all. Someone put a uniform round his shoulders a stuck a rifle in his hands. Then they must have seen he wasn't a regular. So they took the gun and gave him odd jobs to do about the place. Messages, bandages, that sort of thing. Mind you, he did that well enough.


And how do I know? Because I was there. He wasn't the only one. Myself and Josephine Leary were in Cumann na mBan. Josephine. I hero-worshipped her. She was studying medicine, I was doing nursing. I'd have followed her anywhere. I did too, when the whole business was over. To New York. But that was years later.


All those years and he's never admitted it. He can't now, it's too late. He knew at the time, when we came home, that I'd never say. It would have killed Mammy and daddy to know I was mixed up in anything. Mammy wasn't well. So when the War of Independence started, I did what most people did. Kept the head down. Took care of mammy. Jimmy Finnegan did his bit, I'll give him that. Until the Civil War, and that business up at the Lodge. The medal and the money. Not that there was any money. I've an idea what happened about that. But he took the medal all right.


And now he can't look me in the eye. Why? Well, on the Thursday of Easter week things were looking bad. We were running short of supplies. Josephine was in Boland's Mills with Dev. I was in the GPO. Finnegan had become quite good at bandages and splints. I kept my eye on him. We hardly spoke. There wasn't time.


We were low on morphine. I volunteered to see if any of the pharmacies were open. It was risky but there was nothing else to do. They said all right but wanted me to have an escort. They picked Jimmy, gave him a revolver, and out we went.


We got cross the river easily enough. Gunfire was sporadic and I knew the side streets pretty well. There were people moving about, looking for food. I knew a couple of dispensaries but they were either locked or looted. So we went on. The streets got wider and emptier. We would have made an easy target for any sniper. So I turned to him and told him to go back. A woman on her own respectably dress, has a chance. If I'm stopped I'll tell them I'm on my way home. If they catch you with your uniform they'll shoot us both. He knew it made sense. I  still don't know if I meant it or not at the time. We were both terrified. But it was the right thing to do. So back he went. Beyond the corner there was a pharmacist's that had been looted. There were a couple of soldiers standing around, guarding it I suppose. They were chatting and joking. They didn't see me. Then someone came for them and they moved off.


I got in through a broken window and took what I could of what was left. I stuffed it into my clothes and bonnet. I heard a bullet whistle by me on my way back. That was the worst bit, waiting for the next one. But it never came.


I got back all right but he wasn't there. He hadn't made it. I felt dreadful. I blamed myself for sending him back but I couldn't tell them, so I just said we got separated. I kept busy trying to forget what had happened but it was no good.


The at midnight he appeared. Said he'd been captured and interrogated but had managed to escape. So he was a hero. It must have been a very easy interrogation. There wasn't a mark on him. I figured out what happened. He'd been hiding out. It must have come to him on the way back. If he'd arrived without me, he'd have been called a coward. And I mightn't have got back to explain. So he'd hidden and invented this story to cover himself. Always smart, Jimmy Finnegan.


But I knew. And he knew that I knew. We could see it in each other's eyes. We never spoke about it. In fact, we hardly ever spoke about anything after that. Not even up to this day.


After the Rising I came home. Never told anyone about what I'd done. To this day nobody knows except one. When Mammy died I went to New York with Josephine. There were more chances for a woman doctor there. Then Daddy had his stroke and I came home. And that was that. I never left. Greta, the priest's housekeeper. The quiet one who says nothing. And when I die this story will die with me. But his won't. And his is only half a story.






JIMMY


I could feel her eyes boring into me the whole way down. Greta. She always had that about her. Even at school. The clever one who doesn't bother putting up her hand.  She sent me back that day on purpose, I'd swear it. Still, it doesn't matter now. And those two – Malone and the Bishop. I've been round long enough to now when two people are not on the best of terms. Wonder what's the story there?


And ralph Stevenson. Yes, you've gotta hand it to him. He just looked straight ahead. Touch of the old stiff upper lip all right. Even returned my salute when I marched past. The guy's got style, all right. Old military, of course. Family tradition. World War Two, I'd say.


At last. My hour in the limelight. Up front where I belong. Where I should have always been. And would have, if it wasn't for that son of a bitch Dave Keely. No, let it lie. It's done now.


I see Anand the kids. Yes, wave. That's nice, they've got little Irish and American flags. A great day. Still, I'm glad that part of it is over. Now I can go to the tent for something to eat and talk to people. I'm looking forward to this. Make way for the VIP!




BISHOP


Strange are the ways of the Lord. Never was that more true. What a week! I may have misjudged Dermot. First there was that business with Finnegan, losing the head the way he did. Does he not realise the man is merely a second-rate trouble maker? The kind you ignore and they'll go away. He'll meet a whole lot worse than that as he goes through life. And now this business of this letter he wrote to the newspapers. Young men not respectably dressed at Mass. No jacket and tie. Blaming the late late Show, no less. I doubt if he's ever even seen it. And the, my God. The length of women's skirts. He has little to be looking at from his pulpit. Some comedian made a joke about it at a cabaret in Dublin during the week. I hope it ends there. If the English papers get hold of it they'll have a field day. And of course I'll have to back him publicly if anything comes of it. Mind you, he might have a point. Some of these youngsters look a bit worse for wear. And early in the day too.




ANNA


It was nice of him to look over and wave. There' I said, doesn't Daddy's uncle look well? And he did. I wish Maurice was here. All the other women, their husbands have come home specially. Still, the children have had a great day.




RALPH


Of course it had to end in a fracas. Very Glenree, no blood, no bones broken. And Jimmy Finnegan in the middle of it, no surprise. Everything up to that point had gone really well, I have to give them that. The Minister made his speech and departed, and so had the Army. And there was a concert in the hall. The usual – schoolchildren, a pageant in Gaelic – I'm going to have to learn a few words of it, just to show them. And Finnegan, the man of the moment. 


There was this young chap – long hair, not scruffy but not tidy either. There was some antagonism between him and Finnegan. They'd both had quite a bit to drink and had words several times. Not heated, but in passing. A dig, they call it here. Needling each other. Then Finnegan made some remark about which side the young chap's family had fought for in the Civil War. And the young fellow said 'Well, not the side that ran off with two hundred quid and a medal!' Well, I knew every head would turn in my direction, so I looked away, pretended not to have heard. Next thing there was a bang, and the young fellow was lying spark out on the floor. Finnegan rubbing his knuckles. Fair dues to the old boy. I didn't think he had it in him. Mind you they're all soft, these young people.


I thought there was going to be a melee, a re-enactment of the Civil War. But no, the wives stepped in and made peace. The children were all disappointed. But when things had settled down, Finnegan had gone. And his nephew's wife was heading out the door.




              ***












JIMMY


I've been itching to do that for forty years. But to a nobody like that? No, sir. It should have been Keely or his buddies. And a bullet, not a fist. Ach... my knuckles. I'll pay for that in the morning. But it was worth it. And I bet she's coming after me. Well, let her. She'll hear a few things she doesn't like, but tough.




ANNA


I was at the back of the stage with the children. They were having a lemonade after the concert. I could hear his voice and then a scuffle. I knew it had to be him. He couldn't let the day go without causing something. I came out and saw him making his way through the door. I asked one of the neighbours to look after the children for a few minutes. I'm going to have it out with him. I've had enough. Who does he think he is?


I was on my way out the door when I felt a hand on my arm. It was Greta. She said 'Leave him for a few minutes, let him cool down. He's liable to say anything.' well she doesn't say much, but when she does, I suppose it's best to listen... Anyway, after a minute I was ready to go. She said 'Don't lose your head with him. But don't let him walk on you, either. Stand up for yourself.'




JIMMY


Well, it's all out now. The whole story. And I didn't lose the head. Yet. Maybe nearly, once. And she heard me out so far, fair dues. We were both quite calm, I think.


I apologised to her – her only, and the kids – for any embarrassment the incident caused. But there's a reason. And I told her. Yes, I took the medal. It was there. My people had slaved for them for centuries. I'd got out of the place. I'd managed to escape, and there  I was, back again, in the middle of a war. Old man Stevenson was dead. Ralph was a kid. What use was a medal to them? It was the Civil War, we were going to lose, we knew that. What was I going to get for my trouble? A medal? No, a bullet. Well, I wasn't going to die with nothing. I was worth more them that. We were under instructions to touch nothing. Your father's instructions. The platoon leader. I should have been in charge. I was there at the start. In 1916. 


The medal. Call it a spoil of war. It was there. I took it. Simple as that. No. No. If it had been anybody but your father in charge, saying touch nothing, I'd have left it. But because it was him, I took it. That's the real reason.


You see, there was something between us. Your mother and me, we had an understanding. That's what we called it in those days. We were innocent back then, we were going to wait util the war was over.


We were innocent but your father was shrewd. Always one step ahead. While I was lying in a ditch with a rifle, he was organising. He was a good organiser, I'll give him that. And he knew whose boots to lick and whose back to stab. I thought she's interrupt when I said that, but she didn't. She just sat there.




ANNA


All the time he was going on, I was thinking, he's right, you can't choose your family. And you can't choose your family's story.


And that's when I decided, my children are getting out of here. As soon as they're old enough. They'll go and make their own lives. And they'll never hear a word of this. And if I stay here, they'll never come back to take care of me. I can do that much or them, at least.




JIMMY


Two days after the raid, the story broke about the medal. If only I'd returned it there and then. But my damned pride wouldn't let me. Next thing I knew I was being accused of stealing two hundred pounds. I denied it, but no one believed me. But there was never any money. I only figured it out later. Your father made it up to discredit me. To get rid of me. I was court-martialled – in my absence,  I ask you – and found guilty. Your father came to me. I knew it was him but I couldn't prove it. He had four other men with him, he was taking no chances. He said I should have been condemned to death, but because of my record in the GPO, they were letting me off. He gave me a bullet. Said I wouldn't see the next one, or even feel it. There's a boat to new York in forty-eight hours. I won't be long finding out whether or not you're on it. And that was that.


No, not quite. I'm no coward, I would have stayed, seen it through. But I went to see your mother, to explain. But I never even got a chance. She just looked at me and said 'Ah, Jimmy, the poor woman. How could you?' And I knew them it was over. I'd lost and he'd won. So I turned on my heel and left. Never spoke to a soul about it until now. I couldn't do it, let your mother know what kind of a man she'd married. And it's not so bad being slandered when you're three thousand miles away. But to come back and have a pup like that throw it in my face? No.




ANNA


My head was spinning. Who are these people? I didn't recognise any of them My mother and father and him? All mixed up in a dirty little adventure like that? No. No. Then I remembered Greta, what she'd said about him. He'd had years to invent this story. I told him, this is just your word. A man I've known two weeks. A man chased out of his own country. I've heard that guff you spin people in the shop. And then I mentioned Greta's name. Big mistake.




JIMMY


As soon as I heard that witch's name I could feel my head starting to fill up. I took a deep breath, my heart was pounding. Great, I thought, just great. All I need, that one dropping her poison in the well. Let me tell you, she's going to hear all about the kind of character that woman is. Miss Greta and her doctor friend of hers. Oh yes, I saw through them pretty quick, soon as I saw them together in New York. You don't live in that place too long without getting to know all kinds of things. So I said, let me tell you a couple of things about that woman. Miss holier than thou Greta. I was just about to blow her whole reputation sky high when the phone rang. She hopped up to answer it, couldn't get out of the room quick enough. Just as well. It'll give me a chance to calm down. But she'll hear all about it when she comes back. Never fear.




ANNA


Saved by the bell. Poor Greta, what has she done? And I must admit my heart gave a jump. I thought it might have been Maurice calling to wish us a happy Easter. But no. It was from America. For him. Some young fellow for Uncle Jimmy. Sounded excited. And happy. Well, I suppose it's nice for someone to have good news to give. 






                                         ***




JIMMY    


That phone call I got from Seamus just knocked me back. I gotta keep myself together. He rang, he was all excited. Pops, he said, I made a decision about what we was talking about. About my future. Well, I said – I had to shout, the phone lines here aren't too good. I've joined the army. He was all excited. The marines. I was speechless. The Marines? That means Vietnam. I was trying to take it all in. what could I say except congratulations. But my heart was pounding . Vietnam. Jesus. I was going to suggest, give him a hint, that he reconsider, take a bit of time, you know, when he said 'you know Pops, it's on account of you that I joined up. What? Yeah. All the stories you told me about the fight for freedom. And now you're getting your medal. Well, I want to do the same. To help the people in Vietnam win their freedom from the Commies. Jesus Christ. If anything happens to that boy, it'll kill his Mom and Dad. And it'll have been my fault. Me and my Goddam stories.


And then of course the line went dead. Wouldn't you know it? I was going to say no, no. it won't be like that. You're the foreigner over there, you'll be the British. They'll do to you what we did to the Tans. Only worse. You won't know what's hit you. And you'll end up like the Tans, burning people out of their houses. If you live, if they don't get you first. I was going to phone back, talk to him, talk to Joe and Agnes. But no, better to leave things for a bit. What could I do here? Make it worse, maybe. That's all I seem to do even here.




Every time I think about Seamus now I keep seeing the young lad I shot back in twenty. Jesus, am I going mad? Every time. I can't see one without the other. The old story. We ambushed them, we had the better of them.
They shouted we surrender, threw their rifles down. God that felt good, to have eaten them. My first time. Then when we came up to them – it was partly our fault, we were careless – the officer pulled out a revolver and shot one of our guys stone dead. Well, the order went out. 'No prisoners.' and there was this young fella, a boy really. And I went up to him. He knew what was coming. He turned white as a sheet, started to shake. I walked right up to him. He'd have been younger than Seamus, a schoolkid I reckon. Looked like he'd lied about his age. He was crying, his legs were buckling. I gave him a couple of seconds, to say a prayer, I guess. Then he closed his eyes and said 'Tell Mother I was brave. Don't tell her I cried.' then I pulled the trigger. No. Donnellan always told us if you get close shoot them in the head. So the Tans will know how close we can get. But I couldn't. In that split second, I couldn't have his mother seeing him like that. So I shot him in the heart. Ell Mother I was brave.


We were told when you shoot someone say a prayer for his soul and forget about him. It's war. I should have. But I couldn't. A week later I got a paper. Cold blooded murder, cowardly, the usual stuff they come up with. Nothing about them shamming a surrender. Anyway, there it was. Anthony Harewood, private, aged seventeen. Tiverton, Devon. Widowed mother. Eldest of eight children. Ah, my God. I had nightmares for years. Not about him. Her. The mother, a woman I'd never seen. The messenger oy with the telegram. The kids asking when their brother was coming home. Did she have nightmares about me?


No, I couldn't shoot him in the head, couldn't have her seeing him like that. They shot Collins in the head but they patched him up good, you'd never have known. But they don't patch up those young boys. no. and they won't patch up our Seamus either. And medals? Didn't that youngster deserve a medal? Didn't he die like the rest of them? Goddamn that medal. Goddamn all those stories I told Seamus. Lies most of them. Just to make me look big..


I'll have to go back early. See him before he goes. Just wish him luck. It's too late to do anything else. Anna'll be glad to see the back on me. She's not a bad sort. She's done good with those kids of hers. And she's as well off without Maurice. What did anyone get from our family really but bad luck?




                 ***




BISHOP


The Cathedral, Easter Monday


My dear Dermot,


I'm glad we had our conversation following the parade yesterday. I have a busy day today with the main commemoration in Dublin. I will be in Maynooth for the following two days. I will write a longer letter when I get back. But I feel it necessary to write to you before I leave, which is why I am sending this by special messenger.


I ask you to reflect and pray before formally requesting that you be allowed step back from your parish ministry and return to working as  curate.


Your recent actions may have caused mild embarrassment but no more than that. I believe we will face greater difficulties if we turn away from our duties or if we fail to adapt to the times. Ireland is changing and we must change with it, however reluctantly. We will have to endure much worse than lewd and juvenile remarks from second-rate comedians. In spite of this, I see great hope in our young people, but we cannot lead if we think and behave as if it were still the early days of the State. You may well see this letter as a betrayal of the opinions we have shared. I hope not. In any case, I have great faith in you, both as a pastor and as a person. I would be grateful if you would reconsider.


Yours in haste,
Francis




             ***








ANNA


Something's happened. He's going back early, not a word of explanation. It must have been that phone call yesterday. He stayed up in his room, just like a child. I had to call him twice for dinner. He hardly ate, not one word out of him. I asked him if everything was all right. He said it was, and then he said to me 'Anna, you've been very good to me. You and the kids. I should have told you before now. I hope you don't mind.' well, that made me even more anxious. It's so unlike him.


Then he went out for a walk and when he came back he told me he was going back. As soon as he could. I asked him if there was anything wrong. He just smiled and said 'I'm needed back home.' that was it. And off he went to pack. I could hear him throwing things on to the bed, into his suitcase. The American Room. I needn't have bothered. Then it struck me. He said 'home'. Over there. Does that mean he's given up on staying here? Don't get your hopes up. He might just be saying it as an expression.




JIMMY


I can hear her down below. Or no. I can't hear her. She's standing down there, or sitting. Listening. Waiting. The kids are off to school. After a grand big Irish breakfast. I'll miss that. Followed by goodbyes and hugs. They're good kids. And this country will be good to them, I can feel it in my bones. And now there's just me and her. Go down and say goodbye. The cab should be here soon. So that's keeping me here? I guess I'm afraid of her.
No, no, how could I be? There's not a bad bone in her body. It's not her. It's .. she's the ghost of her mother and father. I have to make my peace with them before I go. How do I do it? What do I say? All that stuff, it was such a long time ago but it feels like it's happening inside me again at this very minute. And she doesn't understand. Why should she? It's not her life.
Yes, that's it. It's her and no one else. I was rude to her, it doesn't matter why, or who I thought I was getting at. She's the only one I have to apologise to. Not her mother or father. And I don't have to forgive them either. Only the living matter. That's it. Now straighten up and go and do it.




ANNA


Well, that's it. He's gone, and for good I hope. God forgive me, but I don't want to see him again. Not staying here, anyway. He was quite nice at the end. Apologised for any trouble he'd caused. I said nothing, which wasn't nice. But I still didn't trust him. I  thought it was one of those things where you say 'It was no trouble' and he'd say 'Well maybe I'll come back.' So in the end I just said 'It's all in the past.'


he asked me – and it was strange coming from him – if my mother and father had been good parents. I told him' No one could asked for better.' And he said nothing else matters.


The taxi came early. He said he had one more call to make. He gave me money for the children. Dollars. Buy candy for the little ones, he said. And something for yourself. He tried to give me a handful of money – notes – but of course I wouldn't take it. So he put it on the table. Treat yourself. The money was lying there. I went to give it back. He said 'Please. For old times' sake.' I knew he meant my mother. What could I do? I left. He smiled and I got a glimpse of what he must have been like as a young man. I could see why my mother took a shine to him. And why my father hated him.




               ***




JIMMY


So here I am. My God, it's strange to be back here after all this time. The long driveway. First time I've ever come up here in a car. The gatehouse is very rundown, I reckon the cottages on the estate are the same. And there it is. Manor Lodge. I walk to the door, one hand in my pocket. I can feel the cab driver's eyes on my back. So I give the door a good rap with the silver knocker. And he opens it. That caught me. I thought there'd be a servant. But it's him. I don't know which of us is the most surprised.




RALPH


No one comes to the house in the middle of the day. It's too far out of the way for casual visitors. I heard the car on the gravel and the  knock on the door. I thought it was the postman with a parcel so I opened the door. And there he was. Jimmy Finnegan no less. A bit of a bolt from the blue, I have to say. But still... So I invited him in, like you do.




JIMMY


He asked me in, which was nice of him, but I was in a hurry. I could hear someone rattling round inside. His wife, I suppose, if they've no domestics. I met her once, at the celebrations, just to say hello. She's English, I think, or from down the country. Hard to tell with the accent. Wonder what she makes of us? Probably thinks we're half-cracked. She's not far wrong. I said 'I have something belongs to you.' i put my hand in my pocket, took it out and gave it to him. The look on his face!




RALPH


Father's medal. You could have knocked me down with a feather. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask where did you get it? But of course I knew. And he knew I knew. So I just said 'Thanks'. Though why should you thank someone for returning stolen property. no. Just be polite and leave that stone unturned.


I held it up to the light. It was immaculate. He'd kept it well, I'll give him that. My father's medal. It had come home. 
I asked him 'Why?' he misunderstood, or maybe I didn't ask the question properly. He said:




JIMMY


It doesn't do to hold onto something that doesn't belong to you. Isn't that what the war was about?


RALPH


I felt like saying 'Well, you held onto it long enough,' but I checked myself. Then, it was almost a whisper 


JIMMY


You have to leave something for your children.


RALPH


I know I hadn't made myself clear. I wanted to know why now? Why come all this way? You could have posted it.




JIMMY


I looked at him. He was pale and grey. A fine man, but beginning to go past his prime, like the rest of us. I told him, my mother and father, my grandparents, we all worked here. On the estate, in the house. I never worked here. I got away to Dublin. Your parents were very fine people, better than most of the others. But we never felt we could look your people in the eye. It just wasn't done. I knew I'd have to give the medal back. But it'd have to done like this, looking you in the eye. For them. I'd meant to get over before now. But there was always something to delay me. And now I've done it.


RALPH


There was something about that moment, the fact that he'd confided in me – his parents' shame, I suppose, and my parents' ignorance or indifference – there was some kind of bond between us. I went to shake his hand, but at that moment the taxi driver revved up – impatience, or a reminder – and he turned to go. 


He was half way to the taxi when I called out 'Us. My people, as you call us. Are we Irish or English? What do you think?' What a question! But nobody here would give you a straight answer. They'll always tell you to your face what they think you want to hear. I knew in that instant that he wouldn't. So – 'What are we? Mr. Finnegan?'


He turned and smiled and said 


JIMMY


Don't ask me. I'm an American


RALPH


And then the car door slammed and he was gone.




JIMMY


What the hell made me say that? The first thing came into my head. He caught me on the hop. And being called Mister Finnegan by one of his lot. Maybe things are changing after all.


And anyway, what am I? Joe fought in Korea. Seamus is shipping out to Vietnam. Putting his life on the line. For America. One war for Ireland. Two for the States. I gave them a son and a grandson. I reckon that makes me as much a Yank as anyone else. And Ralph Stevenson can be as Irish as he likes. I love the place but I owe it nothing. All debts are discharged. When I go home... I reckon one Irish room will be enough.




                  ***






SEAMUS


Well, I finally made it over. Took a while with lockdown and all these restrictions, but here we are, me and Uncle Jimmy's ashes. You wouldn't believe all the forms I had to fill in just to take a plastic container across the Atlantic. In case it was a bomb. Still, here we are.


I might as well make the most of things so I'm going on to visit Mom's folks in Poland. I don't know much about them but what the hell? I don't even know how many of them speak English, but if I don't do it now I never will.


Poor Jimmy'd hardly recognise the old country. It's like the moon compared to the things he told us about it. But everything changes. The food's good, not bacon and cabbage like he used to talk about. You can't get proper bacon and cabbage in the States, he used to say. And spuds. Well, he was right about the spuds.


I've an open return ticket. Makes sense. I don't know how long I'll be, and if there's another outbreak, well it could be weeks. So... Jeez, when Marie asked how long I'd be away and I said I don't know there was something in her face reminded me of Mom when I was leaving for Nam all those years ago. Same question, same answer. Same expression on their faces. But I'm definitely coming home this time.


Glenree was strange. It's like a small town, all new houses. So many languages! I wasn't expecting that. It reminded me of home for a minute. Made me kinda homesick. But the church. It was run down. I hadn't expected that. Not a light or a candle or a flower. Wonder what Jimmy would have made of that? Sitting forty years over the fireplace in the good room. Well, it looks like he got the last laugh. Still, it's kinda sad. 


There was this old guy came over to me by the grave. Said 


You're a yank, yes? You have the look of a Finnegan about you. Am i right? His name was Fergus something. Turns out he remembered Jimmy from he time he was here back in sixty-six. Stirred things up a bit, our Jimmy, he said. Story of his life, I said. Then he said 'You still have a bit of the old accent. I can definitely hear a trace of it.' I think he meant it. But you never know. Jimmy always maintained this place was full of – what did he call it then? - story-tellers. no. Tale-spinners.


Fergus told me the parish is joined with its neighbor because there aren't enough priests. No young men joining up. We have that too, I said. Neither of us said why.


He told me a lot about the place in a few minutes. The whole history of the place, going back to before Saint Patrick. How it's come on these past few years. They have a famous film director born here – I'd never heard of him, all modern stuff, I suppose. And an international rugby player. Scientists, programmers, you name it. I was very impressed. And they have a choir -mixed, everyone can join. They give recitals in the two churches, Catholic, Protestant.


I asked Fergus what do you think Jimmy would have made of this new Ireland. His answer was that he'd have been proud of it. But the old bastard would never have admitted it. Well, he got the last part right.


Then Fergus left and I went to the trunk of the car and took out the urn and the spade. I hadn't got far down when I hit wood. Well, there's a lot of family members in there. So I made a little trench and poured in the ashes, covered them up. I didn't care who saw me, priest or no priest. That battle was fought a long time ago. I said a quick prayer, put my hand in my pocket for my car keys, and felt it. His nineteen sixty-six medal. I'd taken it with me to show people but nobody cares any more. And I was going to show it to the folks in Poland, but they've suffered worse. So I made another opening and dropped the medal in. Closed it so you couldn't tell. Medals. My Purple Heart cost me half my right foot. Jimmy used to ay his cost forty years of exile.


My cousins are gone. They're all living away. Dublin or England or Europe. All doing well for themselves. And they can all get home in less than a day.


Aunt Anna passed away a couple of years ago. I'm sorry I never got a chance to meet her, but maybe not. She ain't buried here, he's with her own folks a few rows away. The people here, they sure know how to bear a grudge. And Uncle Maurice – well, nobody knows, or if they do they're not saying. Probably dead somewhere in England.


Well, that's it. Flying out to Warsaw in the morning. Up early, drive, leave back the rental. Gotta look over my Polish phrasebook this evening.


Witaj! Nazywam sie Seamus!