DERRY
I
They stepped on the dry and dusty Derry streets, the whole fifteen of
them, with their bundles over their shoulders or dangling from their
arms. Norah Ryan, homesickness heavy on her heart, had eyes for
everything; and everything on which she looked was so strange and
foreign: the car that came along the streets, moving so quickly and
never a horse drawing it; the shops where hair was taken off for a few
pence and put on again for a few shillings; shops with watches and gold
rings in the windows; shops where they sold nothing but books and
papers; and the high clocks, facing four ways at once and looking all
over the town and the country beyond.
The long streets, without end almost, the houses without number, the
large mills at the water-side, where row after row of windows rose one
above another, until it made the eye dim and the head dizzy to look up
at them, the noise, the babble of voices, the hurrying of men, the
women, their dresses, filled Norah with a weary longing for her own
fireside so far away by the shores of the sea that washed round Donegal.
A bell tolled; Micky’s Jim turned round and looked at Norah, who
immediately blessed herself and commenced to say the Angelus. “That’s
not the bell above the chapel of Greenanore, that’s the town clock,”
laughed one of the women.
“There’s no God in this town,” said Micky’s Jim.
“No God!” Norah exclaimed, stopping in the midst of her prayer and half
inclined to believe what Micky’s Jim was saying.
“None at all,” said Micky’s Jim. “God’s choice about the company He
keeps and never comes near Derry.”
The party went to the Donegal House, a cheap little restaurant near the
quay. The place was crowded. In addition to the potato squad there were
several harvestmen from various districts in Donegal, and these were
going over to Scotland now, intending to earn a few pounds at the
turnip-thinning and haymaking before the real harvest came on. Most of
the harvesters were intoxicated and raised a terrible hubbub in the
restaurant while taking their food.
Micky’s Jim, who was very drunk, sat on one chair in the dingy
dining-room, placed his feet on another chair, and with his back pressed
against the limewashed wall sank into a deep slumber. The rest of the
party sat round a rude table, much hacked with knives, and had tea,
bread, and rancid butter for their meal. A slatternly servant, a native
of Donegal, served all customers; the mistress of the house, a tall,
thin woman, with a long nose sharp as a knife and eyes cruel enough to
match the nose, cooked the food. The tea was made in a large pot,
continually on the boil. When a bowl of tea (there were no cups) was
lifted out a similar amount of water was put in to replace it and a
three fingerful of tea was added. The man of the house, a stout little
fellow with a red nose, took up his position behind the bar and sold
whisky with lightning rapidity. Now and again he gave a glass of whisky
free of cost to some of the harvesters who weren’t drinking very
heavily. Those who got free drinks usually bought several glasses of
liquor afterwards and became the most drunken men in the house.
After a long sleep Micky’s Jim awoke and called for a bowl of tea.
Followed all the way by the shrill voice of her mistress, who was always
scolding somebody, the servant girl carried the tea to Jim, and the
youth drank a mouthful of it while rubbing one hand vigorously across
his eyes in order to drive the sleep away from them.
“This tay is as long drawn as the face of yer mistress,” grumbled Jim,
and the servant giggled. “I’m forgettin’ all about Dermod Flynn too,”
Jim continued, turning to Norah Ryan, who sat on the chair next him. “I
must go out and look for him. He was to meet me at the quay, and I’m
sure that he’ll be on the wait for me there now.”
“Poor Dermod!” said Norah in answer to Jim. “Maybe he’ll get lost out on
the lone streets, seein’ that he is all be himself.”
“Him to get lost!” exclaimed Jim. “Catch Dermod Flynn doin’ anything as
foolish as that! He’s the cute rogue is Dermod!”
The tables and chairs in the eating-room were now cleared away and
someone suggested getting up a dance. The harvestmen ceased swearing and
began thumping their hobnailed boots on the floor; Willie the Duck
played on a fiddle, which he had procured years before for a few
shillings in a Glasgow rag-market, and in the space of a minute all the
women, including old Maire a Glan, who looked sixty if a day, ranged on
the floor preparatory to dancing a six-hand reel. On seeing this, the
red-nosed landlord jumped over the counter and commenced to swear at the
musician.
“The curse of Moses be on ye!” he roared. “There’ll be no dancin’ here.
Thumpin’ on the floor, ye gallivantin’ fools! If ye want dancin’ go out
to the quay and dance. Dance into the Foyle or into hell if ye like,
but don’t dance here! Come now, stop it at once!”
“It’s such a roarin’ tune,” said Maire a Glan, interrupting him.
“It is that,” answered the man, “but it needs a lighter foot than yours
to do it justice, decent woman. There was a time when me meself could
caper to that; aye, indeed.... But what am I talkin’ about? There’ll be
no dancin’ here.”
“Just one wee short one?” said a girl. Willie the Duck played with
redoubled enthusiasm.
“No, nor half a one,” said the proprietor, tapping absently on the floor
with his foot. “God’s curse on ye all! D’ye want to bring down the house
over me head?... ‘The Movin’ Bogs of Allen’ that’s playin’, isn’t it? A
good tune it, surely. But stop it! stop it!” roared the red-nosed man,
cutting a caper, half a step and half a kick in front of the fiddler. “I
don’t want your damned dancin’, I can’t stand it. God have mercy on me!
Sure I’m wantin’ to foot it meself!”
II
But the dancing was in full swing now, despite the vehemence of the
proprietor. He looked round helplessly, and finding that his wife was
already dancing with old Eamon Doherty he seized hold of the servant
girl and whirled her into the midst of the party with a loud whoop that
surprised himself even as much as it surprised the Donegal dancers.
Micky’s Jim was dancing with Norah Ryan and pressing her tightly to his
body. The youth’s breath smelt of whisky and his movements were violent
and irregular.
“Ye’re hurtin’ me, Jim,” said the girl, and he lifted her in his arms
and carried her to a seat.
“Now are ye better?” he asked, not at all unkindly. “Will I get ye a
glass of cordial?”
“Don’t bother about cordial,” said the girl; “but go out and look for
Dermod Flynn. Ye said that ye’d go out a good while ago.”
“Why are ye so anxious about him, girsha?” asked Jim. “One would think
that he was a brother of yours. Maybe indeed----”
He paused, looked round, then without another word he rose, went out
into the street’ and took his way to the wharf, and there, when he could
not find Dermod Flynn after a few minutes’ search, he sat down on a
capstan, lit his pipe and puffed huge clouds of smoke up into the air.
“Now I wonder why that Norah Ryan is so anxious about Dermod Flynn?” he
muttered. “Man! it’s hard to know, for these women are all alike.... By
Cripes, she’s a fine built bit of a lassie. So is old Oiney Dinchy’s
daughter ... Frosses and Glenmornan for women and fighters!... And the
best fighters don’t always get the best women. Now, that Norah Ryan will
have nothin’ at all to do with me as far as I can see; it’s Dermod Flynn
that she wants.... I’ll have to look round for another wench, and girsha
Oiney Dinchy (Oiney Dinchy’s daughter) is a soncy slip of a cutty.”
When Dermod Flynn came along Jim had to look at him very closely before
realising that this was the youth whom he had known in Glenmornan two
summers before. Dermod stood sturdily on his legs; his shoulders were
broad, his back straight, and his well-formed chest betokened great
strength even now at the age of fourteen. A bundle dangled on his arm;
one knee was out through his trousers, and he carried a hazel stick in
his hand.
“Patrick’s Dermod!” exclaimed Jim, a glance of glad recognition coming
into his eyes when he had stared for a moment at Flynn. “By Cripes!
ye’ve grown to be a big healthy bucko since last I saw ye.”
Dermod flushed with pleasure. Jim began to ply him with questions about
his work in Tyrone, his masters, whether they were good or bad,
and--above all--if he had ever had a fight since he left home.
Dermod assured him that he had had many a hard, gruelling fight; knocked
down a man twice his size with one blow of his fist and blackened the
eyes of a youth who was head and shoulders taller than himself.
“And who have ye with ye, Jim?” he asked. “Any of the Glenmornan
people?”
“Lots,” answered Jim. “Willie the Duck, Eamon Doherty, Judy Farrel,
Maire a Glan, Norah Ryan--but she’s not from Glenmornan, she’s a Frosses
girsha.”
He looked sharply at Dermod as he spoke.
“She was at Glenmornan school with me,” said Flynn. “Where is she now?”
“There’s a dance goin’ on in the Donegal House; that’s where we had our
bit and sup, and she’s shaking her feet on the floor there.”
“Can we go there and see the dancers?”
“There’s not much time now,” said Jim. “And there’s the boat, that big
one nearest us, that we’re goin’ on this very night. She’s a rotten tub
and we’ll be very sick goin’ round the Mulls of Cantyre.”
“Will we?”
“What I mean is that ye and all the rest of the men and women will be
sick. I was never sea-sick in my life.”
“When is it going away?”
“In about half an hour from now.”
“How long will it take us to get across?” asked Dermod. “Ten hours?”
“God look on yer wit!” exclaimed Jim. “If there’s a fog on the Clyde it
will maybe take three days--maybe more. Ye can never know what a boat’s
goin’ to do. Ye can no more trust it than ye can trust a woman.”