The Dancers Dancing

  Imprint Information

  First published in 1999 by Blackstaff Press

  This edition published in 2011 by

  Blackstaff Press

  4c Heron Wharf, Sydenham Business Park

  Belfast BT3 9LE

  © Eílís Ní Dhuibhne, 1999, 2007

  © ‘On Reading The Dancers Dancing’, Declan Kiberd, 2007

  All rights reserved

  Eílís Ní Dhuibhne has asserted her right under the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as

  the author of this work.

  Cover design by Dunbar Design

  Produced by Blackstaff Press

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available

  from the British Library

  EPUB ISBN 978-0-85640-874-8

  MOBI ISBN 978-0-85640-875-5

  www.blackstaffpress.com

  Dedication

  For Bo, Ragnar and Olaf

  ‘Inversnaid’

  This darksome burn, horseback brown,

  His rollrock highroad roaring down,

  In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam

  Flutes and low to the lake falls home.

  A windpuff-bonnet of fawn-froth

  Turns and twindles over the broth

  Of a pool so pitchblack, fell-frowning,

  It rounds and rounds despair to drowning.

  Degged with dew, dappled with dew

  Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through,

  Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern,

  And the beadbony ash that sits over the burn.

  What would the world be, once bereft

  Of wet and wildness? Let them be left,

  O let them be left, wildness and wet;

  Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.

  GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS

  The map

  Imagine you are in an airplane, flying at twenty thousand feet. The landscape spreads beneath like a chequered tablecloth thrown across a languid body. From this vantage point, no curve is apparent. It is flat earth – pan flat, plan flat, platter flat to the edges, its green and gold patches stained at intervals by lumps of mountain, brownish purple clots of varicose vein in the smooth skin of land. Patterns of fields, rough squares and rectangles, are hatched in with grey stone. The white spots, sometimes slipping disconcertingly out of focus, are sheep.

  You see what the early map-makers imagined – Giraldus Cambrensis or Abraham Ortelius, Francis Jobson, Richard Bartlett – those whose outrageous ambition it was to visualise and draw on a two-dimensional surface of wood or parchment or vellum or paper or whatever was to hand baronies, counties, countries, continents. Their minds’ eyes flew as high as this, and higher: hundreds of thousands of feet above the earth while their bodies remained glued to land. And then the eyes descended, bringing with them the diminished, distorted images from their imagined flight, back to earth, back to the drawing board. This is it, their maps said. This is the earth, the place you live in. This is what it looks like really! See you! Look!

  Sea and land, hill and hollow, lake and river. Blue spots and brown spots, green patch, dark line. And more, more. Other details, tiny but plain, not like the symbols you find on modern maps but resembling the illustrations of the earlier, more licentious cartographers who, after strenuous efforts to be scientifically objective, often gave in at the end to a childish and thoroughly understandable desire to decorate. When the lines of latitude and longitude were in place, the tables and compasses painted in the corner, they set to work with brush and paint: little men plough and hunt; wolves and bears and – yes! – unicorns and griffins gambol in the forests. Dolphins and whales frolic in the gorgeous ocean. And these are the best, the truest, maps: at once guide and picture, instrument and toy, as they valiantly attempt the all-but-impossible, as they try to show the woods and the trees, the whole world and all the people in it.

  The burn. A narrow bold blue-black line meandering in the nervous way of mapped rivers from one edge – the brown triangle hills – to the monoblue sea. From your superior angle you see it all, every inch of it, from its source on the side of a low hill, along its eager early course to where it flattens, broad and whorish, drunken and listless and loses itself in the sea.

  You see it, and the little people on its banks. Little dolls, little stick shapes, at gates and in yards. A straggle of tiny children winding along a navy-blue lane. A field full of footballers.

  You can’t see their faces from where you are. You can’t hear their names. You can’t see those who are secreted in the boxes. Inside is what you can’t see, maker of maps. Behind or below, before or after. And yet you can see plenty. The burn on its endless journey, endlessly beginning and endlessly ending, endlessly moving and endlessly unchanging. And the figures on their little journeys, back and forth and up and down and in and out, until they move out of the picture altogether, over the edge, into the infinity of after the story.

  You see the woods and the trees and the sea and the river, and it is a pretty picture. What Ptolemy saw. Mercator. Bartlett. What we see before the plane hurtles down. What the holiday agents and the people advertising summer camps present on the covers of their brochures. What you can’t see is what it is better not to see: the sap and the clay and the weeds and the mess. The chthonic puddle and muddle of brain and heart and kitchen and sewer and vein and sinew and ink and stamp and sugar and stew and cloth and stitch and swill and beer and lemonade and tea and soap and nerve and memory and energy and pine and weep and laugh and sneer and say nothing and say something and in between, in between, in between, that is the truth and that is the story.

  Every picture tells a story.

  A truism. Half true like all truisms. Half false.

  The rest of the story is in the mud. Clear as muddy old mud.

  Washing

  Four girls sit on rocks in the middle of the stream: a dark plump girl; a girl whose hair burgeons from her head in a mane of light; another with long white legs and short black shorts, clipped jet hair; a willowy branch of a girl, blonde. The sun shines through green leaves, glancing off the chestnut water and all the hair. Both hair and water pick up the sun and play with it, respond with similar glimmers and flashes, darks and dimples of light.

  The girls hunker on the clumps of lichened stone and lean into the water. They bend over the water, and over them bend great elm trees, some oaks. The stream is running through a garden, passing under a barbed-wire fence at one side, flowing out under an arch in a stone wall at the other. It is an old country garden, shady, overgrown, rich with greenery and secrets, rich with growth, both planned and unplanned: roses along the wall, delicate creamy pink rambling roses; woodbine twined around the trees; a jungle of nasturtiums tumbling over one bank of the stream. On the other bank grow leggy cabbages, fat onions, and a row of blackcurrant bushes.

  Foam floats down the stream on the chestnut water, the thick clotted foam of mountain streams. It is mingling with white sudsy foam. The girls are washing their clothes in the river. They dip in socks and knickers, blouses and T-shirts, rub them with pink toilet soap, and rinse them out in the brown boggy water.

  The gurgling of the river mixes with their giggles and the murmur of their voices. One of them sings a song, the kind of song ten-year-old girls sing as a party piece. The voice rises from the stream. ‘Will I be pretty? Will I be rich? Here’s what she said to me.’ They all join in, cheerfully: ‘Che sera sera! Whatever will be will be. The future’s not ours to see. Che sera sera. What will be will be!’

  The girls are from Derry and Dublin. The future, even of the song, is not theirs to see. But by now their future is their past, an open book, a closed chapter, water under the br
idge.

  All Irish they speak too

  ‘Tubber is so beautiful!’ Elizabeth, Orla’s mother, said to Orla and to everybody else within earshot. Elizabeth is not from Tubber but she had adopted it as her own, with enthusiasm. ‘It is only fantastic. It is really the most beautiful place in the world, I’m not telling you a word of a lie! And it’s all Irish they speak there too.’

  The pearl in Tubber’s crown. Not only west, not only beautiful, but all Irish as well – not half Irish, not a quarter Irish. All. The Crillys go there on holiday every year and speak all English.

  Tubber is one of the maps Orla has held in her head since babyhood. There is another. That is the map of Dublin. Two sides of the Crilly coin: the good and the bad, the tourist west and the dull east, the rare Irish and the common English, the heathery rocky lovely and the bricky breezeblock ugly, the desirable rural idyll and the unchosen urban reality. Holiday and work. Past and present.

  The unchronicled jouissance of summer bus journeys when you’re young

  The bus is parked in the centre of a ring of houses behind the school. The ring is in Dublin and is called Oldchurch Crescent, and on it the back gate of the school is situated. This gate is kept locked. It has to be, because the residents of Oldchurch Crescent object to the very existence of schoolchildren, and refuse to allow the dry and deadly silence that habitually pervades their precious crescent to be sullied by the playful patter of juvenile feet or the sweet music of youthful voices. And at this time and this place their view is considered perfectly acceptable; it accords with a widespread, if not universal, belief that children are merely substandard grown-ups, to be ignored or whipped into adulthood, but never tolerated on their own terms. And so all the children and their parents and, needless to add, their teachers (two of whom reside there anyway) bow to the wishes of the delicate denizens of Oldchurch Crescent. Even the one child who lives or tries to live – attempts to survive – there herself, namely Nuala Marie Blanaid Hanafin, has to walk all the way around to the front gate half a mile away every morning to go to school, although the majestic back gate stands just a few steps from her own hall door.

  The crescent is quiet and still, as always, when Orla and her mother arrive there. The sun shines down on it, but in a diffident, pale yellow, respectable way, more like a moon than a sun. The prim houses turn their silent doors, their curtained windows, to the road and to Orla, their façades as forbidding as the cracked sad faces of ancient shabby ladies born in another century. And, indeed, for the most part it is such people who inhabit the houses. So Nuala Marie Blanaid informed Orla once. Almost everyone on Oldchurch Crescent is about eighty years of age.

  Even the wallflowers in the horribly symmetrical gardens look as if they were planted for Queen Victoria’s coronation, and perhaps they were. This is Rathmines, one of Dublin’s oldest and once – but not any more, not quite – most respectable suburbs.

  The bus is plonked right in the middle of the crescent, a desecration, like a giant plastic frog in the middle of an exquisite marble fountain. Why? Maybe there was more room for it there than around at the front of the school. Or maybe Sean O’Brien, the teacher who is organising the trip to the Gaeltacht, just did not know the unwritten rule of Oldchurch Crescent. He comes from Drumcondra, a place that happens to look like Rathmines but might as well be in another world.

  All the children and their mothers went to the front gate first, and then had had to walk all the way around to the back, dragging bulging suitcases along the footpath.

  It is July 1972.

  Mothers are standing around the bus now. They are making signs to their children ensconsed inside, waving their hands and twisting their lips into what they hope are lip-legible words. Have you got your anorak? Have you packed your toothbrush?

  All superfluous and, if not, too late. But the mothers cannot pull themselves back from the bus; they are drawn to it as if it were a giant magnet and they fragile helpless safety pins. For most of them it is the first real parting from their children. They all know the experience of going to the Gaeltacht will be beneficial. It will make the children independent, it will knock the corners off them. It will also improve their Irish so they will have a good basis for Secondary, one up on the children whose parents have not sent them to the Gaeltacht. And besides all that it is great value, a cheap holiday in the fresh cold air of the West of Ireland, that will see the children through the best part of the long summer holidays and give them, the mothers, a chance to draw their breath. Only August then to put in and then they’ll all be back at school and usefully occupied once again. It is a godsend, the Irish college.

  But the mothers are also scared stiff that this is the last time they will ever lay eyes on their children in this world. The bus might crash and tumble down a bank into an abyss or into a lake or a river or a quarry. You often heard things like that on the news. A bus carrying eighty schoolchildren crashed this afternoon. There were no survivors. Usually these crashes happen in far-off lands, in Spain or France or England. But still ... And even if the bus made it safely there and back, the children might get knocked down, individually, in the Gaeltacht, or they might have an accident with farm machinery, or fall into something: a slurry pit, a quarry, the Atlantic Ocean.

  The mothers are thus excited and terrified to exactly the same degree. And this mixture of emotion textures their faces. It keeps them lingering, uselessly, at the windows of the bus, gesturing frantically at the children, who wish they would go away, who wish they would stop embarrassing them and leave them in peace to start eating the sweets and drinking the lemonade they have purchased for the journey.

  The bus stands in Oldchurch Crescent for ages and ages and ages and ages, the way buses and so many things do, when you are thirteen. Waiting. The driver is busy for an hour packing the suitcases into the boot of the bus. He is a snail, he is a sloth, he is a tortoise in a blue peaked cap. It is unbelievable that it could take so long to put away fifty cases.

  The man who is organising the trip, Sean O’Brien, is no Ronnie Delaney either. There he stands, inept and slow, by the door of the bus, checking names off a list. Aisling Brosnan, is Aisling Brosnan here? Aisling? Brosnan?

  A tall thin man he is, with floppy thick blond hair and thick square black-framed glasses that make each eye look like a television screen. Edgy and jagged, every five minutes his anxious face breaks into a transforming smile, a smile that cheers Orla’s sinking impatient resentful heart when she sees it, a smile that is the sun breaking through a November cloudcap like a streaking spoonful of fiery honey mixed with hope and laughter. Yes. And this happens often, the honey flames, all it takes to inspire it is a mother shoving a child up the step into the bus, and him able to tick one more name off his interminable list.

  Orla gets on and squishes along the aisle until she finds an empty seat. She sits at the window and places her plastic bag at her feet, inhaling the curious oxygen-deficient touring-coach smell and hoping it will not make her sick, as it usually does. She is in luck: the very next person to get on is Aisling, whom Orla hopes is her best friend. Aisling has little option but to sit beside her. And then Sandra Darcy arrives, Sandra Darcy who used to be Orla’s best friend before Orla decided that she wasn’t, and she has to sit behind them on her own and wait for someone else to join her. They all keep their fingers crossed that it won’t be someone awful like Monica Murphy or Noeleen Talbot, but they know it probably will be: everyone else will have their own best friend to sit beside.

  Sandra and Orla and Aisling are the only threesome. A threesome because no mutual commitment could be made between any pair of them, even though they all like one another well enough.

  Their good luck holds. The seat beside Sandra remains empty. So Sandra has space to spare for her duffel bag and her anorak, and she allows Orla and Aisling to put theirs on her seat as well, which saves them having to take things down from the rack every five minutes, like everyone else on the bus.

  Orla is thirteen and two months a
nd Aisling is twelve and a half and Sandra is almost fourteen: two Pisces and a Gemini. It annoys Orla that Aisling is a Pisces like Sandra, the artistic sign, while she is a Gemini, a sign with no special qualities except for a tendency to duplicity. But Sandra has many disadvantages to outweigh that one good quality, so it does not matter too much.

  Aisling has no disadvantages, in Orla’s eyes. She has very curling auburn hair, frothing around her tiny face like a lion’s mane, tumbling so far down her back that she can sit on its edges. She is slim enough almost to satisfy the very stringent standards of the time as to female size, and her clothes are always correct for the year and place and her age. Just now, they consist of medium-blue Levi’s, a white-and-lemon striped T-shirt, an anorak in a clear lovely innocent yellow, new, bought especially for the holiday. That is Aisling. She has the best of everything, and is perfect in every way. This she does not realise herself, but Orla noticed it long ago. It is for these reasons that Orla has to have Aisling as a friend.

  Orla is fattish. To be precise, since judgements in this area can be so subjective, she is five foot four in height and weighs ten stone twelve pounds, i.e. almost eleven stone, in her vest, pants and bare feet, in the morning before breakfast. She has a round pretty face to compensate, if anything could, and straight brown hair that can shine like a river, even though it hangs dull as a plank when it is in need of a wash. She would have been so pretty if only, if only ... ! The fat, and the clothes, and the background ... So many ifs.

  Her fat bottom bulges inside her green corduroy trousers. And peeping out from their green hems are shoes Elizabeth bought in Clover’s for ten shillings, which have a dainty little heel and a white pearl buckle in front, very attractive, but which are a very peculiar colour for shoes, namely tangerine. The surface even has the dimpled, slightly repulsive texture of orange peel. Of course Aisling said ‘Very patriotic!’ when she saw them. Orla had anticipated this and didn’t mind it, much.