‘I felt all th’ rage of Ireland in me, fierce to come out. I’d have been a happier man if it’d come out in farmin’ th’ land, or somethin’ more peaceable. My oul’ da used to say a bit he got from your man Virgiclass="underline" If I can’t move heaven, I’ll raise hell.
‘An Irishman in those days had no chance of movin’ heaven, so a number of us tried the other device.
‘Back then, young an’ old still collected at th’ crossroads in these wild regions, to talk an’ joke and play th’ fiddle-but me, I’d go there to fight. I’d hardly a shoe to me foot those days, but all th’ while, th’ name of William Donavan was goin’ round th’ townlands an’ villages ’til th’ whole of Sligo knew it. Now an’ again, I was smokin’ grapevine an’ dinin’ off seaweed, but I earned a quid or two-an’ every man I fought, Irish or no, I pictured in m’ mind as English. ’t was the incentive, m’ father called it, an’ bedad, if it didn’t work most of th’ time.
‘’t was all a savage piece of business, Rev’rend, an’ a miracle I’m sittin’ here in your face today with these ears modeled off a cauliflower.
‘I was seventeen yares old when they promoted a fight as they had in th’ early times, though ’t was by then against th’ law to fight in such a brute manner. They went up an’ down th’ roads from Ballysadare to Curry, talkin’ it up. ’t was to be three rounds-one with swords, one bare-knuckle, one with th’ cudgels, as they did in th’ former century. My oul’ father called it cum gladiis et fustibus, he spoke the odd bit of Latin learned from my grandfather.’
William took a draught of his Guinness.
‘I’d handled a sword a good bit an’ it came easy enough. First round I made a deep cut to ’is left buttock an’ drew th’ blood they were lookin’ for; second, I done ’im up with my bare fists in three minutes. Third was th’ cudgels, an’ th’ most violent brawl a man could ever hope to see, m’self included. ’t was like I stepped out of me flesh, walked out of it like an oul’ overcoat and was fightin’ on th’ side of the angels. If it came to th’ worst, I said, ’t would be my own way of dyin’ for Ireland.
‘He dealt me a crushin’ blow to th’ ribs, I heard ’em snap like twigs, an’ th’ breath went out of me altogether. But I managed to deal him a blow to th’ knee. Smashed ’is kneecap, I remember th’ sound of it, an’ down he went.
‘Mother of God, I only did such as that th’ once, I niver did it again to any man. At th’ end, they were cheerin’ an’ liftin’ me up, a great bag of wicked pain an’ bleedin’ flesh, an’ ’t was William Donavan who won th’ match.
‘That one got th’ name abroad, an’ a cunnin’ man from Enniskillen to manage th’ all of it. It put a head on me, th’ uproar an’ blather-I was thinkin’ m’self next in line to th’ great John L. Sullivan. ’t was Sullivan who said when he started boxin’, he felt he could knock out any man livin’, an’ so did I.’
William hauled forth a handkerchief, gave his nose a fierce blow. ‘Th’ sinuses!’ he said. ‘From m’ nose bein’ broken th’ three times.
‘And here we went, then, to Bundoran, Long-ford, Roscommon, Ballina, Boyle, Carrick-on-Shannon-every place there was a man to fight, an’ th’ Irish were fightin’ men. Then there was Collooney-an’ ’t was in Collooney I met th’ woman I proposed to marry.’ William’s blue eyes were bright, as with fever.
‘William,’ said the bartender, ‘introduce me to th’ father.’
’t is no father, ’t is th’ Rev’rend Timothy Kav’na from th’ States. Meet Jack Kennedy.’
‘A pleasure,’ said the bartender.
‘Named for the Irish Jack who became our President?’
‘Ah, no, we’ve Jack Kennedys by th’ legions. Throw a cap in th’ air, ’t will come down on a Jack Kennedy one way or another. I hear you had a bit of noise at Broughadoon last night, some fellow in your cupboards.’
‘The bad news is th’ quickest to go round,’ said William. ‘How’d you hear such?’
‘From th’ Gards who came by for a bit of late supper. Any harm done?’
‘Only to th’ rev’rend’s lovely wife. Havin’ a man jump in y’r face at a late hour is harm enough, I’d say.’
‘Sorry to hear it. He’ll not be back, is my guess. I take it you’re stayin’ down the way, then.’
‘My wife and I are at Broughadoon for a week or two, yes.’
‘Fishin’, are you?’
‘No fishing.’
‘He’s learnin’ to drive on th’ wrong side of the road,’ said William.
Jack Kennedy had himself a laugh. ‘And how’s it goin’?’
‘Only one side mirror so far,’ he said.
‘Remember the old days, William, when you walked up and back from the lodge to have y’rself a smoke?’
‘Aye, an’ when a man had to step outside with his fag in a hard rain, I quit tobacco altogether. ’
‘’t was th’ smokin’ and drinkin’ laws gave us th’ hardest blow,’ said Jack. ‘For m’ father who opened this place, ’t was the telly as corrupted the pub system by keepin’ customers at home, and so we put the telly in the pubs an’ that helped bring ’em back, don’t you know, an’ things were lookin’ up-then along comes the punishin’ limits on drinkin’, an’ while they’re at it, they take away th’ smokin’ inside.’ Jack threw up his hands. ‘’t is one heavy blade after another.’
‘Saints above, Jack, you’re exaggeratin’ th’ truth.’
‘Th’ truth, William, cannot be exaggerated.’
‘’t is savin’ lives, if you read th’ papers. We’ll live longer to cheat th’ devil.’
Jack laughed. ‘You’ve a point, William, you’ve a point. An’ never let it be said Jack Kennedy has th’ tight fist. Your drinks are on th’ house.’
‘Ye never stood me a drink in me life.’
‘You never came in with a rev’rend before, nor a man havin’ a Diet Coke when he could have himself a pint.’
They were pulling out of the car park when he saw the bicycle moving along the highway at considerable speed. He braked for the bike to pass. Orange pullover, hood up. Rider sitting tall on the seat. Dark glasses. He waited for a time, staring after the southbound cyclist, then pulled onto the highway, confused for a moment about the side of the road he should occupy.
A couple of miles out, it dawned on him that this contraption would fly if you gave it its head. ‘Where’s the speedometer?’ he shouted.
William pointed.
He whistled. ‘Eighty miles an hour?’
‘’t is broke,’ said William. ‘More like forty.’
‘You said your father spoke Latin?’
‘Aye, a bit, and proud of it. My grandfather was a pupil in th’ last of th’ hedge schools where a lad got a proper education in th’ classics. Of course, ’t wasn’t in th’ hedges by then-’t was in a cow barn with th’ stalls mucked out. Many a potato farmer in th’ oul’ days could quote your man Virgil. As a lad, I knew off a line or two, m’self.’
‘Can you recite any of it?’
‘Don’t know as I can, but let me see, now.’ William closed his eyes, bowed his head, thumped his cane in a long meditation. ‘For th’ love of God, ’t is like scourin’ for a needle in a haystack.’
‘Don’t fret yourself,’ he said. ‘I can read Virgil in Broughadoon’s own library.’
‘Here it comes!’ shouted William. He threw his head back, eyes still closed.
‘In th’ dawnin’ spring,’ he orated over the clamor of the engine, ‘when icy streams trickle from snowy mountains, and crumblin’ clod breaks at th’ Zephyr’s touch, even then would I have my bull groan o’er th’ deep-driven plough, and th’ share glisten when rubbed by th’ furrow.’ William looked at him, nodded in triumph.
‘Well done, sir, very well done. The deep-driven plough. The glistening share. Very fine.’
‘An’ that’s th’ end of it. ’t would be squeezin’ water from a stone to give ye another word. Are ye poet-minded, then?’