Elegy For April

Quirke, eh? Fathers and daughters, fathers and sons. So many difficulties, so many pains.” He glanced behind him again. “What do you think, Phoebe? You must have some thoughts on that subject?”

She looked back into his eyes, which were regarding her so merrily. He was, she saw now, quite mad. Why had she not realized it before? “Do you know where April is?” she asked him.

He put a hand on the back of his seat and leaned his chin on it, pulling his mouth far down at the corners, making a show of weighing up the question. “It’s hard to answer that,” he said. “There are too many variables, as the mathematicians say.”

“Latimer, I can’t just keep driving,” Quirke said. “Tell me where it is we’re going.”

“To-Howth,” Latimer said. He nodded. “Yes, good old Howth Head- Oops! Didn’t you see that man on the bicycle, Quirke?” He twisted about to look out of the back window. “He’s shaking his fist at you.” He laughed. “Yes, Howth,” he said again, resettling himself comfortably, “that’s where we’re bound. My father used to take us out there, April and me, on the tram. In fact, we could have taken the tram today, I suppose, made a jaunt of it- it’s the last line still operating, after all- but it might have made for awkwardness in the end. Imagine how the other passengers would have stared when I produced”- he reached inside his overcoat and brought out a large, black pistol with a long barrel-”this.” He held it upright by the butt, turning it this way and that as if for them to admire it. “It’s a Webley,” he said. “Ser vice revolver. Bit of a blunderbuss, I’ll grant you, but effective, I’m sure. I have it from my father, who took it off a dying British officer on Easter Monday 1916, or so he always said. He used to let me play with it when I was a lad, and would tell me about all the Black and Tans he had plugged with it. Then he had to go and turn it on himself.” He paused, and looked at Quirke, and turned his head and glanced at Phoebe, too, smiling again, almost mischievously. “Oh, yes,” he said lightly, “that’s another strand of the Latimer Legend that my mother and my uncle between them have managed to keep secret all these years. A heart attack, they said, and somehow got the coroner to back them up. Not such a large lie, when you think of it, seeing that he shot himself in the chest. Yes, anyone else would have put the gun to his temple, or even in his mouth, but not my Pa- too vain, didn’t want to spoil his broth-of-a-boy good looks.” He chuckled. “You’re lucky to be a foundling, Quirke. I’m sure you feel terribly sorry for yourself, having no Daddy that you know of, but you’re lucky, take it from me.”

They were in North Strand now, and before they came to the bridge they had to stop at traffic lights. Latimer laid the gun across his lap, with his finger crooked around the trigger and the barrel pointed in the general direction of Quirke’s liver. “For God’s sake, Latimer,” Quirke said under his breath.

Phoebe’s palms were damp. She tried not to look at the little man with the gun, tried not to see him, feeling like an infant hiding its eyes and thinking itself invisible.

“I’ve no doubt,” Latimer said, “that you’re both feverishly scheming in your minds to think of some way of getting out of here, maybe at traffic lights like this, or maybe if you see a Guard on the road and pull over and shout, officer, officer, he’s got a gun! I hope, I really do hope, that you won’t attempt anything like that.- Ah, there’s the green light. On, James, and don’t spare the horses!”

Quirke caught Phoebe’s eye in the driving mirror. They both looked away quickly, as if in embarrassment.

They passed through Clontarf, and then they were on the coast road. The tide was out, and wading birds were picking their way about the mudflats under a low, mauve sky that threatened snow; a cormorant was perched on a rock, its wings spread wide to dry. On Bull Island the sand grass was a vivid green. Everything is perfectly normal, Phoebe thought, the world out there just going about its ordinary business, while I am here.

“You couldn’t leave it alone, Quirke, could you?” Latimer said. “You had to interfere; you had to bring in that detective and all the rest of it. And now here you are, you and your inconvenient daughter, trapped in this very expensive car by a madman with a gun. The things that happen, eh?”

“What did happen, Latimer?” Quirke said. “Tell us. It was you that she got Ojukwu to call, wasn’t it, that night, when she was bleeding and knew she was dying. What did you do? Did you go round there? Did you try to help her?”

Latimer, the gun still resting negligently in his lap, had turned sideways in the seat now in order to look out past Quirke at the seascape going by. He seemed not to have been listening. “How did you know?” he asked. “How did you know it was me?”

“You were seen at the flat,” Quirke said. “The old lady there, the one who lives upstairs.”

“Ah.”

“She remembered your mustache.”

“Not so unusual for a brother to call on his sister now and then, surely?”

“Perhaps she didn’t know you were her brother.”

Latimer nodded. He seemed calm, reflective. “Yes,” he said, taking up Quirke’s earlier question, “Mr. Ojukwu telephoned to tell me that my sister had performed an abortion on herself and was hemorrhaging badly. What she was thinking of I don’t know. She has a doctor, after all, she should have had more sense. And why didn’t she call me in the first place? It’s not as if we had any secrets from each other. Although I suppose she would have felt a certain reluctance, sitting there in that house of shame in a swamp of her own blood with her black lover boy in attendance.”

“What did you do?” Quirke asked again.

Latimer, with one hand on the pistol, slipped the other inside the breast-flap of his coat and put on a Napoleonic frown, pretending to work hard at remembering. “First of all, I told Sambo to make himself scarce, if he knew what was good for him. He didn’t need telling twice, believe me. Gone like a shadow into the night, he was. I should have brought Big Bertha here”- he hefted the gun-”and shot the fellow, as my father would have done, but I missed that opportunity. Anyway, I was distracted, trying to patch up my unfortunate sister. She was very poorly, as you can imagine. She’d made a surprisingly awful hash of things, given her training and experience. But there you are, people will dabble in specialisms they know nothing about.”

“When did she die?” Quirke asked, keeping his eyes on the road ahead.

There was a pause. Latimer, still looking out at the sea, frowned, and twisted up his mouth at one side, still making a pretense of racking his memory. “We made a great effort, both of us. A wonderful girl, April. Wonderfully strong. In the end, though, not strong enough. I think perhaps she wanted not to be saved. I can understand that.” He shifted on the seat, grimacing, as if something had suddenly begun to pain him mildly. “I told you, didn’t I, Quirke, that you knew nothing about families- I said it to you, I said, you’ve no experience of such things. The closeness of people in a family. April and I were close, you know. Oh, very close. When we were little we used to say that we’d marry each other when we grew up. Yes, we’d marry, we agreed, and get away from Pa.” He sighed, almost dreamily, and laid his head back on the seat. “Fathers and sons, Quirke,” he said again, “fathers and daughters. He loved us very much, our Pa, first me, and then April. What games he used to play with us, under the sheets. He was so handsome, so- dashing, as the English say. He was pleased as Punch when April came along; he had so wanted a girl, and now he had one. He was growing tired of me, you see, I knew that. I tried to warn April, when I thought she was old enough to understand. I said to her, He’s fed up with me, and besides, you’re a girl, he’ll go for you, now. But she was too young, too innocent. She was six or seven, I think, when Pa turned his affections on her.” He paused. When he spoke again his voice had changed, had become distant. “I used to hear her in the night, crying, waiting for him to come creeping along and slide into bed with her. She was so small, so young.” Latimer started up. “Really, Quirke, for Heaven’s sake!” he cried. “That light was red! You’ll kill the lot of us if you keep on like this- where did you learn to drive?”

Phoebe closed her eyes. She thought of April sitting on the bench in Stephen’s Green that day, smoking, remembering, and then the way she laughed when the gulls came swooping down, flailing and screeching.

“I tried to tell our dear Ma what was going on. Of course, she couldn’t take it in. I don’t blame her; it was simply beyond her comprehension.” He nodded to himself. “Yes, beyond her. So then, since there was no help there, I had to take action myself. What age was I? I must have been- what?-fifteen? Why did I leave it so long? Fright, I suppose, and that awful… that awful embarrassment, that shame. Children blame themselves in these cases, you know, and feel they must keep silent. But April, my poor April- I couldn’t let it go on. So I plucked up my courage and went to Uncle Bill”- he turned to Phoebe-”that’s William Latimer, the Minister. I went to him and told him what was going on. At first he wouldn’t believe it, of course-w ho would, after all?- but in the end he had to. Then I went to Pa and told him what I had done, and said that Uncle Bill was going to go to the Guards, though I have to say I’m not sure he would have, thinking what a scandal there would be; Little Willie, as Pa used to call him, was already well on his way up the greasy pole and had no intention of sliding down again. It didn’t matter. The fact that I had told someone- anyone-