land … These truths must be borne in mind in connection with the rapid increase in numbers, power and wealth of the Jews in Dublin.
21. Glenmalure
The field behind the house at Kilranelagh was full of sheep. On one side, penned tightly and bleating noisily, were the grubby, thick-woolled ewes waiting to be sheared; on the other were the newly shorn, bewildered by their sudden weightlessness, their gleaming white coats flecked here and there with blood. It was the day after Stefan Gillespie’s return from Danzig, but nothing, not even Tom’s excitement, could stand in the way of the shearing. The Farrell brothers would be there from the break of day, when the sheep were brought in from the fields, until the last one was clipped, late that afternoon. Stefan and his father carried ewe after struggling ewe from the pens to the thudding Lister engine that drove the shearing heads. The smell of diesel mixed with the smell of the animals. Their clothes reeked of sticky lanolin and sheep shit. Now the sun was almost overhead. Half the flock had been clipped and they would soon stop for dinner. Stefan looked up to wipe the sweat from his eyes. He saw the bent figure of Emmet Brady walking through the field towards him, leaning on his stick. It was four months since they had first talked about Tom. The threat from Father Carey and the Church had been brooding over the farm all that time. It was never quite forgotten, but for a time the business of life had pushed it away.
Stefan and the solicitor walked away from the noise of the shearing, saying nothing. David Gillespie watched them as he carried on his work.
‘I’m sorry, I’m not a very welcome guest, Stefan,’ said Brady finally.
‘I thought after all this time — ’
‘They won’t let it go. You have the choice you had before, to go along with it and send Tom to his uncle and aunt’s, or they’ll take it to court. I think they’ll move quite quickly now. And they have their reasons for that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They’ll want to ensure it goes before a particular judge. No one ought to be able to guarantee that, of course, but let’s just say it will happen.’
‘And why’s that so important?’
‘The man is Alexander Phelan. I’ve looked very hard at what’s been happening in the last few years, in cases like this. Phelan sat on one in 1934. A woman had custody of her children taken away from her. She was a Protestant. The Catholic husband was in hospital and dying. There’d been a falling out and the husband accused the woman of interfering in the children’s religious upbringing. Not much evidence, other than his word, but Phelan refused to accept her assurances that she would continue to bring the children up as Catholics. He said he was duty bound to secure the fulfilment of any agreement that was made before a mixed marriage, because of the special position of the Catholic Church in the state. And because, and these are the words he used, “the state itself pays homage to that Church”.’
They walked on in silence again, looking up towards Baltinglass Hill.
‘When we first talked after Christmas, I gave you the bleakest picture, Stefan, but I believed that with the right barrister we could fight this. The more I’ve seen of what’s going on the less sure I am. It’s even bleaker now.’
‘It still feels like this should be impossible, Mr Brady — ’
‘It should be. But you need to think hard before taking this on.’
‘Are we back to me accepting it and being grateful I still see him?’
‘I only know you have to tread carefully.’
The old man stopped.
‘There is another option.’
Stefan shook his head in weary disbelief.
‘You mean convert? Are we back to that?’
‘No, I mean leave the jurisdiction.’
Stefan turned back to the shearing, watching as his father struggled with a recalcitrant ewe. Then he looked round again, up to Baltinglass Hill.
‘That’s the best our Free State can offer us? Leaving the country?’
‘Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.’
As he turned to face Brady once more he didn’t need to answer.
‘If it’s the decision you’re going to make in the end, make it now. They can’t pursue you for something that won’t stand up in a court in England, but if we go to trial and lose, taking Tom out of the country when he’s a ward of court is a different matter. You could end up in gaol yourself.’
The green John Deere tractor was chugging up the field towards them. Helena drove and Tom perched on the trailer behind her, with a basket of sandwiches and cans of hot, sweet tea. Tess the sheepdog ran alongside, barking.
‘Dinner! It’s the dinner!’ Tom’s voice was shrill and happy above all the other noise.
That evening Stefan and his father were milking in the dark parlour that smelt of fresh hay and the warm breath of cows and the smoke from David Gillespie’s pipe and the urine and disinfectant swirling in the open concrete drain. Stefan sat on one stool, his fingers squeezing milk into the galvanised bucket beneath an udder. On the other side of the cow, out of sight, his father’s fingers pulled at the teats of another one. For a moment the only sounds were the rhythmic spurting of milk into the buckets and the mouths of the cows pulling the hay from the hay racks.
‘Did Mr Rosen pay you well?’
‘What?’
‘I’d say there was more to it than putting your woman on a boat.’
‘Maybe a bit more.’
‘Your mother was listening to the German news on the radio.’
‘You’d think she’d know better. They didn’t mention me then?’
They couldn’t see each other, but he felt the look of disapproval on his father’s face. Stefan didn’t want hard conversations; he wanted to think.
‘I’m not asking you to tell me what happened in Danzig, Stefan.’
‘I’ve told you, Pa, not much. It’s over. It doesn’t matter now.’
‘Other things aren’t over, are they?’
‘Is this a conversation Ma told you to have?’
‘That’s the way she is. We’ve all been avoiding it, haven’t we?’
Stefan didn’t answer. After a few seconds his father continued.
‘Lawyers are going to cost money.’
‘I know.’
‘What we’ve got is yours and Tom’s. I hope you know that too.’
‘Perhaps it won’t come to that.’
‘It’s going to come to something, Stefan.’
‘I’ve a bit set aside.’
He was still sidestepping. David Gillespie couldn’t see the shrug, but he knew it was there.
‘Emmet Brady’s not so sure you can win, is he?’
‘Is that Ma’s question?’
‘The question’s do we give the money to the lawyers, or do you take it and start again, somewhere else? Wasn’t Mr Brady saying the same thing? It doesn’t mean there mightn’t be a day you could come back home again.’
It was the first time the words had been spoken. For David, however hard they were, they were easier
