Salley Gardens
September 1921. Two young people from different worlds meet on the boat train to Dublin
19 September 1921: 08.30: Boyle Railway Station, County Roscommon
La trajno alvenas al la stacidomo ĉe Boyle, Aunt Edith announces, in a voice as slow as our train. “Can you guess what that means, Eliza?”
I reluctantly lower The War of the Worlds and look out of the window. We are pulling into yet another station. “The train is approaching …Boyle?”
Her face lights up. “Very nearly!” she says. “It’s actually “arriving at’ but that’s the beauty of Esperanto. It communicates general meaning rather than getting hung up on fussy specifics.”
We have been wandering across Ireland for an hour, picking up everyone heading for Dublin and beyond. That’s half the country it would seem. At each stop the platform is full of new passengers. Most are dressed in their Sunday best and surrounded by multiple family members seeing them off.
Despite the crowds, our carriage is empty — as first class so often is these days. Aunt Edith chatters about our Christmas recital. She wants me to sing the Yeats setting of Down By The Salley Gardens and has been trying to locate the sheet music.
“There’s a shop on Stephen Street called Charlie Byrne,” she says, scribbling down its address. “They seem to have every kind of music. What time is your ferry?”
“Nine in the evening,” I say sleepily.
“Then you’ll have plenty of time to go there. Now when you get out of the station…”
I try to listen carefully but we had a very early start. My eyes close.
When I awake the train is slowing. “We are coming into Carrick, dear,” says Aunt Edith. I peer out through the window, but heavy rain makes everything a smudgy blur.
We stumble to a stop. Far down the platform doors fly open down. A new huddle forms but a small breakaway posse emerges from the mist. It is lead by two older gentleman, both under two black umbrellas.
The men stride purposefully towards our carriage. One is what appears to be the station master. His umbrella is thrust above him like a military flag. “What do they want?” whispers Aunt Edith. “They look like they are coming to make an arrest.”
Trailing behind them is a young man in a cap, pushing a trolley. Following him is a crocodile of three children.
“Let me take your luggage for you, Sonny,” said the station master.
“I’m grand, thanks’.
“You need to protect that shoulder, young man. Was it with the butt of the rifle he bashed you with ?”
This drew a sharp look from Danny’s father but the station master ploughed on. “A bad business!” he said. “But what we’ve come to expect from those brutes! Tell me Judge — ”
“Not the time or the place,” said the man everyone called Judge. “Could you please find my son a seat a little away from the crowd?”
“Of course. I’m going to put him in the first class carriage.”
“He only has a third class ticket.”
“Don’t worry about that, Judge.” said the station master, with a ludicrous wink. “We give first class treatment to those who have served their country.”
The Judge stared straight ahead, his stern face discouraging further conversation.
They halted in front of the carriage door. Two women looked out, one young, the other much older. Their clothes and general demeanour instantly label their religion and social standing.
The station master turned to Danny’s father. “Do you want me to move them?” he said.
“No,” said the Judge. “It’s safer leave to leave them there. Besides, I’m sure they’ve paid for their tickets.”
The older woman rolled down the window. The station master moved forward. “Good morning, ladies,” he said, peering into the carriage. His eyes lingered on the four empty seats. “So sorry to disturb you.”
“Not at all. Can we help you?”
“Perhaps you can,” said the station master smoothly. “You see the train is awful busy this morning. Everyone is off to Dublin!”
“It would seem so.”
“So I was wondering whether you could you squeeze another passenger into your carriage?”
The oily voice and fixed smile warned the women of a subtle threat. “Of course,” said Aunt Edith. “It would be our pleasure.”
The young man shuffled forward, dragging his battered old case behind him. “Sorry to barge in,” he said, clambering into the carriage. “I’m Danny.” He laughed nervously, blushing a deep crimson. “And I’m a bit wet.”
Aunt and niece exchanged a glance. Should they formally introduce themselves. Surely rude not to?
“Very pleased to meet you, Danny. My name is Edith Carson.”
“Good morning, Miss Carson. Very nice to meet you, like”
“And this is my niece, Eliza. “
“Good Morning Miss — ”
“Please call me Eliza.”
“Right you are,” said Danny, touching and removing his sodden cap in one movement. Behind him, the two menacing men dissolved into the background as the children pressed forward.
Danny hovered uncertainly, like a wet dog that has retrieved a stick from a filthy pond.
“Play for us, Danny! You promised!
“And toffees, Danny. You said we’d get toffees.”
“Okay, so,” said Danny, wincing momentarily as he lifted his case up on to the rack. Then he reached down pulled out a tin whistle from a leather satchel. The children gasped and clapped their hands.
Turning back to face the ladies, Danny blushed again. “I promise the childer I’d play for them before we left. Is that alright?”
Aunt Edith’s jaw momentarily dropped. ”That would be splendid,” she said.
Raising the flute to his lips, Danny hurtled through a ninety second medley of traditional tunes. Then, abruptly ending his performance with a bow, the young man dipped his back into the satchel. It emerged with a fisftul of shiny wrapped sweets.
“Two each,” he said, extending his hand through the window.
The first whistle blew and the children drew back from the door, clutching their prizes. Mary-Theresa, the oldest, suddenly froze. “When are you coming back, Danny? Is it for Christmas?”
“I’ll try Mary,” he said, reaching through the window to touch her face. All three children reached up to him grab him.“Be good for Daddy.”
The second whistle blew
Kieran McGovern is the author of Love by Design (Macmillan). The complete story Salley Gardens is available on request. The Yeats poem is here.
