Peeling Oranges by James Lawless Read Free Book Online Page A

by water.’ Martha was not nervous. She was making up for lost opportunities. Patrick Foley was a new opportunity. Her only complaint was a pain in her ears caused by the air pressure which the sucking of several hard sweets failed to allay. The crew informed them that they were the first honeymoon couple to travel on a DeHavilland Dragon . They wished them a long and fruitful marriage in a new and free Ireland. The captain greeted them and wore a grin from ear to ear. My mother wondered had he been on something, but Patrick told her that it was just the Aer Lingus smile, that it went with the job, just like in the diplomatic world, the good characteristics of Ireland had to be presented:
    ‘But you don’t smile that much; you look so serious at times,’ M said to me. ‘I present our case in words,’ I replied. ‘The smile is in the words.’
    ***
    In Madrid, the embassy provided Patrick with a car – a model T Ford. They drove to Galicia. Patrick spoke a lot about the renaissance in the arts and culture in Spain during the time of the Second Republic. It was not unlike the Irish renaissance, he said. Madrid, like Dublin, was abuzz with artistic activity. He admired Lorca’s poetry and plays but was uncomfortable about the Spaniard’s homosexuality. (‘The body condemns the soul,’ he wrote, on hearing of Lorca’s murder later on). In spite of this, he records ‘secretly devouring Dalí’s nudes’.
    ***
    Patrick Foley was not above arrogance:
    ‘Remember G,’ I said to M, ‘he is an example of one who would gain from a European influence, that is presuming he has a mind to broaden, and it could be done without jeopardising his own national viewpoints.’
    ‘G has a mind,’ she countered, ‘no matter where he is.’
    ***
    They visited Santiago de Compostela where the remains of Saint James the Apostle are supposed to be interred, transported there on scallop shells according to the legend. They watched as the giant thurible in the Cathedral was raised on ropes by several men. It overpowered my mother and Patrick with its incense. People applauded as it was hoisted.
    My mother was sceptical. ‘Why do they need it so big?’
    Patrick confesses to being unable to avoid a smile. ‘To fumigate all the unclean,’ he said.
    They went to a bullfight in La Coruña. My mother vomited:
    ‘Just think of it,’ she said afterwards, ‘six bulls tortured and killed like that in a drawnout rigmarole. And I used to feel that putting the animals through all that roaring in the slaughterhouse in Camden Row was cruel. At least their suffering there was shortlived.’
    Patrick adds: I tried to explain the symbolism of it all. I told her that it was a duel between man and beast, and that sometimes the man lost. But all she said was, ‘It’s not man and beast, but the beast in man.’
    ***
    In Vigo they met Leopold Kerney, Patrick’s superior, who was taking a holiday with his family. From there they took a boat to the island of Cies where the sun shone with great intensity. They bathed in the clear water, and my mother made love to Patrick Foley on the fine, silver sand. At least she thought she did:
    Patrick records:
    We were like gods on the island. The sea, the sky, the sun, the sand, the air, were so pure. ‘Can you hear the earth working?’ I said to M. ‘I’m more worried about something else working,’ she answered. I looked at her for a moment. She smiled impishly. She thinks it will all come right. There was no hurt intended. She doesn’t realise how easily such statements can wound. ‘In the beginning,’ I said, ‘the world was covered in ice. Ireland was joined to Europe until the ice broke.’
    ‘You’re making me shiver with all this talk about ice.’
    ‘Our earliest inhabitants…’ I said.
    ‘Do you like my hair?’ she said.
    ‘You aren’t listening.’
    ‘The sun is shining.’
    She caught her hair up. ‘Do you like it like this?’
    Once more I had to smile. ‘It looks like honey