and with each wave he is carried further from those points of her eyes until he is seeing them across aeons of distance, two barely visible specks of light. It is his own death he is swimming in and the feeling of unearthly ease, of buoyancy, lulls him like a massaging hand, irresistibly. He thinks, I can return or stay here. And his will expands then like a rearing horse, mighty, more than irresistible and bears him back. She is sleeping still, with her eyes now fully closed.
Meanwhile the winter is beginning, the dry cold wind from the Azores whipping spray along the promenade, dispersing hillocks and ripples of sand over the austere tiled pathway. He leaves her around twelve, ignoring the wind. The sun is shining independently of it and but for the cold biting into the cheekbones, eyelids and fingers one could imagine the promenade crowded with its quota of summer strollers. It is empty though, as if the weak sun shines only for him. He grips his overcoat tightly around him and imagines that he feels neither wind nor cold but that just what he sees is real—the bright sunshine, like a blessing, clear and even sharper than in heat, over the pier, the iron chairs, the strand and sea, the canvas whipping round the few remaining bathing shelters. He thinks sunshine and emptiness are his element and so familiar seems the scene that he almost misses the one obtrusive shape—the girl standing in the shadow the bathing hut throws towards the sea.
He saw her from behind and then she vanished, or seemed to. He walked by the tottering structure of painted canvas and saw her again, in a discoloured fawn coat, looking at the sea. From her stillness and her pose, the way her fawn coat merged with the sand and then her head and shoulders glowed against the lime-grey sea, he knew that she had seen him. He stopped and heard the silence of his absent footsteps against the tiles. He looked at the sea with her, its washing exhausted, spent. She was in the damp part of the sand and her boots were sunk. Her hands were in the pockets of her coat and there were threads hanging from them and round the calves of her boots the stitching was split. The canvas flapped, and the palm leaves. He knew that she would turn, that her face would not surprise him. She turned and looked at him. Her eyes were resentful and hopeless. They were blue. Could he have known at that distance or could the sea have suggested the colour to him? But then even the sea was lime-grey. He knows she is one of the last of the summer prostitutes, perhaps even the last. She looks as redundant as the bathing hut or the hotel signs. He decides immediately to give her money, if not warmth.
‘They’ve all gone, have they?’ His voice surprises him in the silence.
‘Who’ve all gone?’
Her accent is local. Perhaps he has been wrong. He stumbles for words. ‘The starlings.’
She is shifting her feet in the damp sand as if she wants it to flurry, to be dry, to call the summer back.
‘That sand is damp. Come up.’
‘No, you come down.’ And a humorous flicker crosses her face. ‘The gentleman always does.’
He must climb over the railings and leap. She smiles, waiting for it. Does she notice his honeymoon shoes, scuffed after months of walking, his tweed suit now shapeless round his knees? Has she seen him walking, his aimlessness not too different from hers? She must have. He jumps and sinks to his laces in the sand. She walks to him, faintly smiling, takes his arm and leads him down the beach without a word.
5
‘WOULD UNA HAVE talked to him incessantly about the Hungarian policy and Arthur Griffith, about Sinn Fein and shoneenism, telling him that if he enlisted he was just as guilty as any Protestant on a horse? I don’t think so. She would have embodied the nation aggrieved, reclining on the bed, pillows propped around her, every long dramatic pause saying more than any tirade could have; theatrical pose and political history were inseparable for her. He would be by the window, listening. I espied them both in that pose years later, in a different room. By then he was in uniform, a dull smoky khaki, the colour of gorse. Her colour. He showed no extraordinary intelligence, not in the normal sense anyway, while she had a fast, quick mind that always outdid itself. He would have let her words seep through him, like old wine through a muslin cloth which comes out slowly, but purely, all the sediment removed. So when he later took his part among the minor heroes, she could claim he was her creation, she could put the point of his conversion in that hotel of yours. There was more, she would tell us, than Rene being born—’
She shifted in her cane chair and smiled.
‘Irish, now, there’s what I mean, Una could half speak it, a ridiculous blas she had when I remember her, but by then maybe she had forgotten most of it. Her father being an early Gaelic Leaguer, who knows she could even have gone to the school of the unruly stammerer, what was it called, St Enda’s, and read the motto daily, I Care Not Though I Were to Live But One Day and One Night if Only My Fame and My Deeds Live After Me. And he though he couldn’t speak a word then yet he knew it later, became dutifully impeccable, sent dispatches in both languages on the back of cigarette packets and devised a code in it which Eoin MacNeill even couldn’t crack. Now why? He didn’t love her, couldn’t have, later anyway from what I remember of them, he saw her only on flying visits from his flying column and maybe at Christmas, holy days. So why did he take those parts of her, reproduce them so meticulously, make his own mirror of them, graft them on to his own person so perfectly that when the end came she could claim he was her creation? And if you want an answer and if you want the music of things in their proper place all you can look to is the story. She made those claims of hers in retrospect, when he was already being embalmed in the oil and the scent of the great losers, and she put the point of his conversion there, in that hotel of yours. But then she was part of the story too, she was his entry to it, both of them making it as they were telling and Rene being born—’
BUT MICHAEL HAS pulled his boots out of the sand and has walked along the beach with the girl whose name, he discovers, is June. She is an alert and a nervous talker, she reveals large tracts of herself to him immediately and yet leaves him with the impression that beyond these tracts it would be indelicate to probe. Her teeth are small, her face is small, somewhat drawn, with large brown eyes and sallow cheeks leading to a dimpled chin. Her face has none of the definition that would give it beauty but can in certain lights be beautiful, depending on its mood and pallor. When not beautiful it could best be described as drawn and he will find, in fact, that her face is in continual motion between one aspect and the other. They walk along the strand between the dunlins and oyster-catchers and they talk about their lives. She talks of her boarding house, not along the promenade like his hotel, but in the smaller streets where the promenade becomes a road and the line of the palms ends and the spa has not yet begun. She spills out tracts of herself as if to put him at ease, punctuated now and then by a light laugh and a dry cough. She has been six months in the town, she tells him, and her sojourn in it seems as disembodied as his. But she knows more about it, she mentions names and streets and places he has never heard of, and leaves him feeling even more foreign, only native to the palms, the promenade, the pier. She talks of the war and the sea and of what she calls her ‘present state’. The phrase leaves him wondering about her past one and since her accent is good and her words are redolent of governesses, a somehow childish innocence with an adult pretension towards exactitude, he wonders whether before her ‘present state’ she was a teacher of some kind. He feels there is something Quaker about her, in the plainness of her clothes and her air of Protestant rigour. And yet walking beside him she is as disembodied as he, as will-less, and he is given the impression of limitless time waiting to be spent. An air of decided sensuality emanates from the fawn coat, from the body it covers, which seems a little forlorn, like a boat stranded and waiting for the tide it knows will come and seep round its hull. He walks with her, wondering could he carry his own needs as honestly as she does hers. He talks of the war, the sea, the town, of everything but those private areas of his life which he knows, glancing at her whimsical brown
