Jenny Ibsen was divorced from her husband Stanley Smith,
a dealer in English watercolours. Damp meadows and ruined
castles bored her. She sought the excitement of inner city
living.
鈥淚鈥檝e seen an apartment in Salford Quays,鈥
she informed Stanley as they lunched at The Bell in Hinton
Charterhouse.
鈥淪alford! Jenny, darling! It鈥檚 a revolting place
- chimney stacks鈥he Manchester Ship Canal鈥hose
dreadful Lowry pictures鈥︹
Stanley had found some William Turner sketches of Venice
in a monastery in the Alban Hills outside Rome. Christies
had placed them in New York for a substantial sum.
鈥淭his is for you, darling.鈥 he smiled, as he
passed her Christies鈥 cheque.
He was letting her go, unable to quench her melancholy.
He never dared to hope he might keep her. Like a bee, she
hopped from flower to flower.
鈥淭hat white face, that slender figure鈥︹
he had said when they met - 鈥渟uch rich hair鈥︹
鈥淭hose eyes - sea-green鈥ad鈥estless鈥︹
he thought now as he sunk a bottle of Sancerre in the ice
bucket and watched her open the envelope, 鈥渙nly Rossetti
could paint her.鈥
He cut a sliver of trout and watched her hair change from
brown to red in the winter sunlight that blazed through
the restaurant window. Their marriage had flared like a
forest fire then spluttered like a gutted candle. His business
of buying and selling watercolours had prospered.
鈥淚 have a good eye, Jenny, it鈥檚 brought me
some good pictures and - for a while - an interesting wife,鈥
Stanley observed bleakly.
鈥淚 hate your sodding pictures,鈥 blurted Jenny
and slipped the cheque into her handbag.
Niall Doherty noticed the pale face in a group gathered
at the Dolce Vita restaurant on Whitworth Street. Salford
University were hosting a lunch for participants in their
Spring series of lectures on Victorian Architecture. Doherty,
from Donegal, thought the course would be a change from
refreshers in Georgian Dublin. Jenny came to relieve her
boredom.
鈥淪o where do you practise?鈥 he asked at the
bar.
鈥淚 don鈥檛.鈥
鈥淵ou don鈥檛! So why are you here?鈥
鈥淚 like buildings. Is that a problem for you?鈥
鈥淲hy would buildings be a problem for an architect?
Wouldn鈥檛 that be wild strange?鈥
Her face seemed familiar: that bone structure, those green
eyes鈥
鈥淐an we sit together?鈥
鈥淚 suppose so.鈥
On the marble table, in a slender glass vase, stood a white
lily, its stamen scarlet. A waiter brought water and a bottle
of Verdicchio - the wine straw pale. He plunged it into
a bucket of crunching ice.
鈥淵ou know, I thought I recognised you. But - and this
is wild silly - I was in the City Gallery this morning,
gawping at the Pre-Raphaelites - Burne Jones and Rossetti鈥nd
that鈥檚 it鈥ou鈥檙e there in the pictures鈥hat鈥檚
wild! Some wine?鈥
She ignored the compliment but noticed how his fingers left
a smear on the frosty bottle - long, delicate fingers.
鈥沦濒补颈苍迟别!鈥
Their glasses clinked. The wine reminded her of hazelnuts.
He had a chiselled face, weathered; calculating grey eyes.
Quite a nice voice.
鈥淎re you Irish?鈥
鈥淚ndeed I am.鈥
鈥淲hy do you keep saying wild? - you鈥檝e said
it three times.
鈥淲ild鈥? It鈥檚 where I come from - Donegal
- everything is wild there?鈥
鈥淒o you have a wild name?鈥
鈥淭hey call me Niall the Mason - Niall Doherty to you.鈥
鈥淲hy the mason? Do you belong to some sinister society?鈥
鈥淣ot at all! It鈥檚 my nickname. Where I live
everyone is called Doherty. My father was a builder so I鈥檓
one of the Masons: there鈥檚 a wild lot of us. And you鈥?
What do they call you?鈥
鈥淛enny - Jenny Ibsen... "
A boy brought Parma ham, melon, slabs of bread. Jenny fingered
her glass and watched Niall twist pepper from a long wooden
mill.
鈥淎re you from Northern Ireland?鈥
鈥淯lster - yes. County Donegal. North geographically,
south politically.鈥
鈥淥h鈥ou mean Eire鈥?鈥
鈥淣o, I mean Ireland.鈥
鈥溾here all the trouble is?鈥
Niall spied a flush spread on her white cheeks, caught her
scent.
鈥淲hat鈥檚 Ireland like?鈥 she asked, when
he offered more wine.
鈥淕eorge Moore said: 鈥極ne of Ireland鈥檚
many tricks is to fade away to a little speck down on the
horizon of our lives, and then to return suddenly in tremendous
bulk, frightening us.鈥 I always quote him when asked
that question. That鈥檚 what I think Ireland鈥檚
like 鈥 wild frightening! 鈥 Slainte!鈥
鈥淗ow can you remember that quotation? I don鈥檛
think of England like that. I never remember things - only
people鈥pecial people.鈥
鈥淐ome to Donegal and then you鈥檒l remember. That鈥檚
the difference between us: the English never remember and
the Irish never forget!鈥
鈥淚 want to go.鈥
鈥淲丑别苍?鈥
鈥淣辞飞.鈥
Five years before, at an auction in Carndonagh, Niall the
Mason acquired two acres of rocky hillside on the shore
road out of Malin Town. Inspired by the tombs in Newgrange
- dazzled with light at the summer solstice - he built a
house hidden in the boulders. Windows slit a stone structure
and captured brightness. It was his parable for living -
light penetrating darkness.
鈥淚s it you have the house in the rocks above the shore?鈥
queried Mary White Paddy in the post office at Malin as
she banged stamps on his letters.
鈥淚 do - just鈥
鈥淥nes about here call yon 鈥楢rd na Si鈥.
鈥淭he fairy height?鈥
鈥淎ye, fairies is right!鈥
Here, above the mysteries of Trawbreaga Bay, he created
houses and bridges for Dublin and London and San Francisco.
Here, he led Jenny Ibsen.
It was spring when she came. Stanley Smith was delighted.
He thought Donegal better suited to the melancholic nature
of his still loved ex-wife than Salford Quays.
鈥淲hy Inishowen, darling?鈥 he asked on the phone.
鈥淚鈥檓 told it鈥檚 a wild frightening kind
of place.鈥
Yellow gorse tumbled down the glen. It pricked her hand.
The blood surprised her. On Knockglass, she watched a cow
lick afterbirth from her calf. She climbed Knockamany and
smelt breezes lathered with turf smoke. From Dunargus, she
gazed across Trawbreaga to Doagh, her eyes drawn beyond
the Swilly to Fanad. On the White Strand, she contemplated
half a moon trickle light on the Atlantic and heard the
tide swish through dark stones. Outside Doc鈥檚 pub
at Malin Head the eyes of three lighthouses winked at her
- Tory, Inistrahull and Islay. In the mornings she witnessed
a heron stretch and rise squawking from the shore.
The house at 鈥楢rd na Si鈥 was spacious. A living
area with range and open fire overlooked the bay through
a long series of glass doors. The moods of sky and sea filled
this space. The architect allowed his visitor freedom, making
no demands, social or sexual. He considered Jenny Ibsen
a decoration, another shaft of light to illumine a world
in need of design. He let her float, watching, waiting.
Snow came to Inishowen early in March. It skirted Trawbreaga
but clung to the peaks of Slieve Snacht, Crockaughrim and
Crocknagalcossagh.
鈥淭hat鈥檚 a grand sight,鈥 proclaimed Niall,
arms outstretched like a priest, 鈥渢he hills about
the bay鈥 necklace of pearls, just. I doubt a man
could go to his work on a day like that. Jenny, would you
ever come to Cloncha with me?鈥
At the gate of the ruined church they heard the yelp of
Barnacle geese and watched as the birds passed in formation,
then wheeled like an army under orders before gliding down
into the snow-covered field beyond the wall. In the valley
between Cloncha church and the hills, silver mist wrapped
the whin bushes in shrouds. Through the brittle air came
the barking of a dog, the bleating of sheep. Jenny blew
on her fingers, raising balloons of breath. Niall, led her
warily along the icy concrete that led to the church and
cross. Silver drops trembled on skeletons of fuchsia and
glittered in the low sunlight. Above them a jet escaped
clouds and trailed a line of vapour through blue sky.
鈥淭here was a monastery here from the seventh century,鈥
explained Niall, 鈥渢hanks to your to your man Colmcille.
Before that, a church was built in the time of Patrick.
Look at the cross - St Boden鈥檚 cross they call it
- tall and slender with a fine head - a bit like yourself鈥
Those patterns of fretwork and double ribbons. Wild intricate,
isn鈥檛 it?鈥
鈥淲hat鈥檚 that?鈥 asked Jenny inside the
roofless church.
鈥淭hat鈥檚 Manus MacOristin鈥檚 grave slab
- see his sword. My namesakes - the O鈥橠ohertys - gave
land to the Scots in the early fourteen hundreds - 鈥檛was
a reward for helping us get control of Inishowen鈥
wild mix of folk are buried hereabouts鈥 And look -
d鈥檡e see his hurley stick and ball?鈥
鈥淟ooks like hockey to me鈥 Are there more graves
outside?鈥
鈥淥f course.鈥
鈥淚 like graveyards.鈥
鈥淐loncha?鈥 asked Stanley on the mobile that
night, 鈥渨here鈥檚 Cloncha?鈥
鈥淚t鈥檚 an old church. Inishowen is awash in early
Christian sites鈥tanding stones鈥ing forts鈥igh
crosses鈥︹
鈥淚s that your kind of thing, darling? I mean - you鈥檙e
not getting religion, Jenny鈥re you?鈥
鈥淥h piss off, Stanley!鈥
Niall was speaking on his mobile when she came in for breakfast.
鈥淭hey have problems in Naas. I need to go down. I
doubt you鈥檒l manage a day or two on your own?鈥
She drove to Cloncha in her Toyota. The snow had gone.
In Culdaff, weekend litter blew along the street. Cattle
stood in the fields, flanks smeared with mud. At the church
she searched the graves.鈥淗ello, Horatio,鈥 she
whispered and crouched, shivering, above a flat grave stone.
She took a pencil and pad from her pocket and began to copy:
鈥業n memory of Horatio Nelson, late mid-shipman of
HMS Endymion - an amiable youth who breathed his last at
Malin Hall in the eighteenth year of his age. Could friendship
have prolonged his days he had lived. Born at Chorlton-cum-Hardy
in the county of Lancashire. Died January 17th 1811. Nomenque
est indelible nostris.鈥
A breeze disturbed her. Drops of water fell from the hedge
and spattered the page. She saw the fuchsia bend, heard
whistling in the church. Hailstones stung her cheek. Clutching
her notebook she ran along the path, bombarded with balls
of ice. Breathless, she sat in the car listening to the
rat-a-tat-tat on the roof, her breath clouding the windscreen.
Had he lived, her son Guy would have been eighteen this
month - the same age as Horatio. A sense of utter loss engulfed
her as she drove back to Ard na Si, battered by wind.
Niall was worried about the change of weather as he drove
across Glentogher and into Carndonagh. Jenny had exulted
in the Donegal spring and the sudden snow. These rainy days,
when cloud enveloped the peninsula and the world dripped,
were another aspect of Inishowen. This was bleak winter,
when the wind whipped the Atlantic white, when sometimes
the light died for days and the birds were silent. Why had
he not asked for her mobile number? She must be out somewhere.
Not at Malin Head he hoped鈥
鈥淭hank God!鈥 he breathed when he saw the Toyota
parked between the rocks.
The door was open, wind scattering papers about the hallway.
鈥淛enny! He yelled. No reply. Her bed was made. The
kitchen was tidy. A bunch of lilies stood in the middle
of the table, white petals spread wide, scarlet stamens
ablaze. But no Jenny.
The sky was black, threatening rain. The ground squelched
as he ran to the shore. The tide was on the turn heading
out for the Bar Mouth. A flock of gulls rose screeching
from the strand. He turned towards Malin Head. Two hundred
meters away he saw a car. A figure ran towards him.
鈥淛enny!鈥 he roared.
But it was a man in a long coat.
鈥淐ome quickly for Christ鈥檚 sake鈥, gasped
James Duffy, the vet.
She was lying in shallow water, her black dress caught in
an outcrop of rocks. Yellow wrack tangled her red hair and
filled her mouth. Her face shone white like moonlight -
Ophelia drowned with flowers. Niall stooped towards her
pulse.
鈥淗old on, Niall,鈥 said Duffy putting a hand
to his shoulder, 鈥渟he鈥檚 been dead this hour
past. It鈥檚 a wonder the tide hasn鈥檛 taken her!鈥
There was no note. Perversely, as happens in Donegal, the
sky cleared. A rainbow bridged the bay with mauve and saffron.
Niall went to move the Toyota. He lifted her mobile and
saw there was a text message. It read: 鈥楥an we meet
on Guy鈥檚 birthday? Stanley.鈥
