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  The elegant steeple was rebuilt and years of weeds and shrubs removed from between the cracks in its stone work. The magnificence of the wonderful arched ceiling was highlighted with subtle colour contrasts, while up-lighting raised your eyes in its direction. Our church was now a thing of beauty and a joy forever.

  When all was complete, the official opening was presided over by our bishop, John Buckley, a West Cork bowler who had never lost the common touch. Many exclaimed with “Oohs” and “Ahs’’ as they entered the church. But one man was not impressed: “What did ye do with all our money?” he demanded. “Sure there’s nothing changed.”

  Unfortunately one thing had been changed that we should have left alone. We had moved statues. Or to put it more correctly, we had not challenged the liturgical decision that they should be moved. Our Lady had gone from the sanctuary and had been raised to an elevated position in the choir gallery. From there she could look down over the church. The Sacred Heart was now on a pedestal inside the main door, where he could watch the comings and goings. With outstretched arms he welcomed in his flock.

  At first, there was no reaction to the moved statues, but then a gentle murmur came from the grassroots. It grew to a faint grumble and slowly swelled into an intermittent wail. Then it turned into a deafening roar. For a historical record, we had provided a leather-bound visitors’ book inside the front door. We felt that it would be nice to have a record of parish visitors and, most of all, of returning immigrants. But it soon became a conduit for the statue protest and turned into a complaints manual. Trying to pour oil on troubled waters, Gabriel placed a halo on Our Lady. She might have been impressed, but not her supporters. The strange thing was that nobody worried about the poor Sacred Heart. It seemed that he could have emigrated and nobody would have cared, but his mother’s move was upsetting half the parish.

  Then Our Lady decided to take action. One night, she climbed down over the gallery, went straight up the church, and took up her old position to the right of the tabernacle. She called to her son and heir to come back up to his rightful place. When he arrived, she sent for St Joseph and told him to go down and mind the main door. After all, Joseph was the man of the house and it was his job to welcome in the visitors. Then peace reigned.

  It was great to have the job done, but we were only halfway there because we had another church in the northern side of the parish which was in a worse state than St Mary’s and was awaiting restoration. The parish had been divided by the West Cork railway line: Knockavilla lay to the north and Innishannon to the south. It created an artificial border in the parish and introduced a north–south mentality. The railway closed in 1962 but the division was still in the mental geography of some parishioners. The fundraising, however, was intended for both churches and embraced the entire parish, which was very good for cross-border relations.

  Having just finished one church restoration, facing into another was a daunting prospect. Then God decided to give us a break. A wealthy and generous parishioner donated a million. It was a mighty boost to our fundraising. We were delighted for ourselves but also for Fr Kingston, who had bent over backwards to keep us all happy. That he had succeeded was a bigger miracle than the moving statues!

  CHAPTER 16

  The Parish on Canvas

  “Will I ever be ready?” she asked.

  “Sure, of course you’ll be ready,” I assured her.

  “I’m not so sure,” she said doubtfully.

  “What you need is a deadline,” I suggested. “You’ve been talking about this art exhibition for the past few years but you’re getting no nearer to it. When exactly had you in mind?”

  “When I’m ready,” she told me.

  “But when will that be?” I persisted.

  “Well, I’m not sure,” she said vaguely.

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “I’m waiting for the right time,” she asserted.

  “I have a suggestion,” I said hopefully. “Next year, Cork is European Capital of Culture. There’s as much culture in Innishannon as Cork. So next year could be your year.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” she agreed slowly, and I sensed that she was considering it seriously. But then she had second thoughts. “Would I ever be ready?”

  “Sure, of course you’ll be ready,” I assured her; “you’ve a whole year and a half and you already have paintings. Not enough, but once you’re focused you’ll get there.”

  “It’s probably a good year to do it,” she said thoughtfully, and I could see that the idea was beginning to take hold. As we drove home, we discussed the entire project, and by the time we reached Innishannon, the decision had been made. She had one whole year to get ready.

  “Michelangelo did a big patch of the Sistine Chapel in that much time,” I told her.

  “I’m no Michelangelo,” she said with a laugh.

  Years previously, Mary and I had both started painting with Lia Walsh, who after the parish history exhibition started an art class in the village hall. When Lia no longer held classes, we joined up with Brother Albert in Cork, who patiently over the years tried to turn us into artists. Mary is the more talented of us, and many local people had come to her to do paintings for them. Now it was time to spread her wings, and an exhibition was the way to go.

  The first decision to be made was the venue and, after much discussion, it was decided that the parish hall was the best place. Easily accessible to locals, it had the advantage of being on the side of the main road to West Cork; even though we were always complaining about the through traffic, on this occasion it could serve our purpose.

  During that summer, autumn and winter, Mary painted and painted. She loves her own place and that love found expression in beautiful scenes of Innishannon. A great walker of Dromkeen Wood, which lies at her back door, she would have seen it in all seasons and at every hour of the day and night. Now these woodland observations poured on to the canvas in the shapes of pheasants flying over the wood in the early morning and the waterfall glistening in the evening light. Dromkeen in spring is a bluebell wood and in summer a place of light and shade. Mary’s paintings brought the viewer into her wood in all seasons.

  The parish hall needed a bit of an overhaul for an art exhibition. Con Dan, a builder neighbour of Mary’s, came to the rescue and, with Mary’s husband Joe, created the more intimate space of an art gallery. To the left of the door we planned long tables for wine and eats and, to the right, seating where five local teenagers would provide soft classical music on violin and harp. A neighbour who worked with a wine company would take care of the wine. When we discussed the eats, Lena, who was home on holidays from America, surprised me by assuring us that she would take charge of that department. She was then working in the financial world in Boston and told us that she knew exactly what was required for such an occasion. But I was apprehensive about her one-woman catering effort.

  Dromkeen Wood on the morning of the exhibition was a carpet of bluebells spreading from under the trees into Mary’s garden. She came into the parish hall with arrangements of primroses and bluebells. They filled the hall with their woodland scent and highlighted the paintings of bluebells and ditches of wild flowers waiting to be hung. All day, Mary, Ellen and I, ably assisted by Joe, hung the paintings. Hanging an exhibition is a challenging and exhilarating exercise; as the paintings went up, the wonderful beauty of Innishannon spread out around us.

  Suddenly we realised that we had been so engrossed that we had forgotten to eat and time was running out. But before we left the hall we stood at the door to admire the entire scene. Mary and Joe went home to eat and get ready, while Ellen and I walked down the village looking forward to a cup of tea and to putting our feet up. We were exhausted! But when we opened the kitchen door we gasped in horror. Lena had every available space covered with dishes, trays, bowls and all kinds of everything.

  “Have I the two of you for the rest of the evening?” she gasped in the relieved tones of a drowning woman. Ellen a
nd I looked at each other in mutual dismay. No resting time to be had here!

  “Where’s you father?” I asked, seeking temporary relief.

  “Evicted to the front room,” she informed us, and there we found Gabriel calmly reading the paper.

  “That kitchen is a war zone,” he said with a smile and added, rising to the rescue, “You two look in the need of a cup of tea.”

  After tea, Lena issued instructions and the two assistants did as we were told. She had created little bits and pieces that I could not even christen not to mind guess what was in them. But potato skins I did recognise—after all, I had been reared on spuds.

  “What the hell are you doing with potato skins?” I demanded.

  “They are now a delicacy,” she blithely informed me.

  “Well, they might well be in downtown Boston, but some of tonight’s clientele will be West Cork farmers,” I protested. “Here we still regard potato skins as something that you give the dog after the dinner.”

  “Mother, you’re caught in a time warp,” she dismissively informed me. That’s America for you!

  When all was in readiness, I had to admit that the display looked good, including the potato skins, though I still had my reservations about them.

  Mary’s now-retired boss, Dr John Crowley, who had laid the foundation stones for the very successful SWS group where Mary worked, performed the official opening. All her fellow workers and the people of the parish came in strength. She was taken by surprise when Paudie from the local GAA club—for which Mary had done an immensity of secretarial work—presented her with a wonderful bouquet. She had also done major work for Tidy Towns and, when we presented her with a tree, one wit behind me commented, “That’s a great present for someone living in a wood!”

  People wandered around expressing “Oohs” and “Aahs” of delight as they recognised familiar scenes and, of course, we had the people who were interested only in the prices and meeting the neighbours. Early in the night, a young man had bought a painting of a local cottage as a surprise for his mother. Later, when she arrived in the hall, she was very disappointed to see the red dot, as she had wanted to buy this picture of her old family home. There were smiles all round when she discovered that he had bought it for her.

  The night was an outstanding success and by the end of it the paintings were speckled with red dots. The eats had gone down a treat—even the potato skins; I had underestimated the farmers of West Cork.

  CHAPTER 17

  The Day After an Ordinary Day

  It was an ordinary day. On that Wednesday morning, after a leisurely breakfast, I went up to the attic to put foxes on canvas, and Gabriel went for his usual walk. He was a six-mile walker; I was only a three-miler and after the second mile I was thinking of all that I could be doing in the garden or up in the attic. Every morning, Gabriel got up before seven o’clock, and usually when I woke around eight he already had the shop open and had taken in the papers; when Mike came on duty, he went to mass and after breakfast usually had some project on hand.

  Whatever direction either of us took after breakfast, we were both back in the kitchen by lunchtime, and when I came in the door Gabriel had the kettle on the Aga and was usually making sandwiches. Before he gave me the present of a laptop, I did all my writing up in the attic and, if I forgot to come down for lunch, Gabriel would appear with a tray and we’d eat up there, looking out over Dromkeen Wood. If we were both in the kitchen, Gabriel would always ask, “Are we inside or outside today?”

  On that Wednesday, it was the usual question, and as there was a November chill in the air we opted for the front room that Gabriel had christened the curiosity room because from it you could watch the world of the village go by. My sister Ellen, who was staying with us at the time, had gone to Cork.

  After lunch, Gabriel decided that he would like to see the plans for Knockavilla Church, the second church in the parish, which was about to be restored. The plans had been put on display in that church the previous Sunday. We drove up to Knockavilla and he viewed the plans with great interest, and because plans to me are a foreign language he pointed out different facets of the development. That night, there was a meeting in Knockavilla concerning the restoration and, because Gabriel was more meeting-friendly than I am, he opted to go and I locked up the shop as Mike was late home. When Gabriel came back from the meeting, he totalled the tills and then we had tea and discussed the meeting, and we went to bed still discussing the meeting.

  The following morning, the bedroom door burst open and an ashen-faced Mike gasped: “Something’s happened to Dad!”

  I shot out of bed and, dragging on my clothes, tore down the stairs to the shop. Gabriel was on the floor with Dr Máire, who lives down the street, kneeling beside him. He was unconscious and she was setting up oxygen, and I crouched beside him with terror clutching my heart. Our neighbours, Declan and Shelly, were there, and Gerry who lives down the street was advising customers not to come in and explaining what was happening. Very soon, the ambulance was outside and the men brought in the stretcher; it was mind-numbing to watch Gabriel being carried out the door. Ellen and I climbed into the ambulance and, with siren sounding, we were on our way to the University Hospital. I felt that this could not be happening.

  We were whisked into A&E where the medics took over and Gabriel was set up in a cubicle with drips and tubes. It was good to have Ellen because, being a nurse, she understood procedures, and as well as that she was calm and soothing. We sat by the bed as nurses and doctors came and went, but Gabriel remained unconscious. Gearóid came and we discussed what to do and decided that he should contact Diarmuid and ring Lena and Seán and tell them to book flights.

  The day dragged on and nothing changed; late that evening, Gabriel was moved upstairs into a ward that had some very sick people. Through the long night, Lena, who had arrived earlier, and I sat with him as he remained in a coma, breathing quietly. The nurses were kind and comforting and brought us tea as the night crawled on. Because Gabriel’s bed was by the window we saw the dawn break over Wilton. The next day dragged by and we sat with Gabriel, who showed no signs of regaining consciousness.

  In the early hours of Saturday morning, I went down to the hospital chapel while the nurses attended to him. It was quiet and peaceful in the empty chapel. I tried to meditate and not let my mind run ahead of me but failed. What were we facing? Was it recovery or was Gabriel going to slip away from us? The thought of life without Gabriel’s warm presence was a bleak prospect.

  Then Lena tiptoed in, saying that the doctor wanted to talk with us. It could mean only one thing. Fear clutched my heart. The nurse directed us into a little office down the corridor from Gabriel’s ward where the doctor was waiting. He was kind and gentle but his news was otherwise. Gabriel’s condition was deteriorating and it was only a matter of time, and he emphasised that the time would be short. Lena, who was more alert than I was, asked for a private room.

  They moved Gabriel into a little room, so now we could sit around his bed without disturbing anybody, which was not possible in the busy ward. During that long day, we prayed, we talked and we cried. Gabriel lay silent in the midst of us. He had great devotion to the rosary and now the praying of it had a calming effect on us. Time stood still and the world outside ceased to exist. Then, in the early hours of Sunday morning, he slipped away. In the presence of death you are made aware that life is beyond all understanding. It is a time when you switch to auto-pilot because otherwise you could not function.

  The undertaker was contacted and I had thought that, as when Con died, he would come into the hospital and do what was necessary and that we could bring Gabriel home with us. But this was a different hospital and procedures had changed. Hughie the undertaker patiently explained all this to me on the phone in great detail, and in the end I had to accept that we would have to go home alone. It was heartbreaking to walk out of that hospital and leave Gabriel behind. It was a bleak journey home.

  We sat for a li
ttle while by the fire in the seomra ciúin and then it was time to go and pick out the coffin. Gabriel would have done this for me and he would have wanted something very simple. At the funeral parlour, Hughie was waiting and with great kindness walked us through rows of coffins. Because I was disorientated from shock and lack of sleep I saw coffins floating in the air around me and even Hughie, a fairly substantial man, seemed to take off into the air. I had to keep shaking my head to get back in focus, and eventually Gearóid and I picked out a plain coffin.

  A few hours later, we were at the viaduct, a landmark with ample parking, waiting for the hearse, and when it drew up beside us it was mind-jerking to think that Gabriel was now inside in that coffin. We followed the hearse home to the village. Because eleven o’clock mass was on in the church there was parking in front of our own door. Gearóid and Diarmuid took in his coffin and placed it in the same spot where our friend Con’s had been four years before. When the lid was removed, Gabriel looked so peaceful. He was dressed in his best suit, wearing his fáinne, his pioneer pin and his GAA tie of which he was so proud. We lit the wax candles in the old brass candlesticks around him. They were Aunty Peg’s candlesticks and had gone around the village in her time to all the different wakes. They had been used at her own wake and at Con’s and the feel of them was strangely comforting. It was so good just to have Gabriel with us.

  For a little longer the final parting was put on hold and our minds were getting time to absorb this overwhelming reality. It was good then to be part of a small village community because they put their arms around us and walked with us every step of the way. Friends and neighbours poured into the house and throughout the day the extended family gathered. We cried and talked and comforted each other. All kinds of cakes and eats came in the back door and our friends Eileen, Noreen and Hazel took over in the kitchen; Ann, who lives across the road, brought a big pot of soup. Many times during that day, I thought that I was part of something that could not really be happening. But then I looked in at Gabriel in the coffin and knew that this was real. Late that night, some of us went to bed for a little while and the neighbours sat with Gabriel. Through the night, they talked, made tea and told stories beside him.