Coming Home

Rory Lester stood on a Dublin sidewalk in the summer of 1926 and stared at the façade of a pub. He was twenty-five years old and had just completed his residence training as a Doctor in London. He was on his way to his first post as a doctor in Ballybunion, County Kerry on the west coast of Ireland. From what he heard it was a small town surrounded by farmland that catered to a summer crowd that came for the beaches and the Ballybunion golf course. The town had been without a doctor for a year. His training in England had obligated him to work for at least three years for the National Health in England but he had been granted a dispensation, as there was a shortage of doctors in rural Ireland.

He sighed before he took a deep breath and walked into the pub. It was late morning and the pub wasn't yet open for business.

"We're not open yet," the man working behind the bar said.

"I was hoping to speak to the proprietor," Rory replied.

"You're looking at him. I'm not hiring."

"I'm not looking for a job," Rory said. He took another deep breath. "Did you own this pub eight years ago, just before the War for Independence?"

"Aye, what's it to ya?"

Rory was starting to perspire. He hadn't felt this nervous in years. Being back in Dublin even just overnight while he was passing through was bringing back memories he would just as soon forget.

"About eight years ago this place was busted up pretty bad and looted."

"I won't soon forget it."

"I…I've come to apologize and make restitution."

He laid an envelope on the bar. The proprietor pulled a club out from under the bar and held it at the ready.

"You were one of those little bastards. Didn't ever occur to you I was serving the English soldiers to get information for our side?"

"I don't know what I thought then," Rory stood his ground. "I was a stupid mixed up kid. I managed to get myself shot for my troubles. I've been away ever since. I just wanted to say I was sorry and pay you for some of the damages."

The fight went out of the man and he put the club away. His shoulders sagged slightly and he sighed. He picked up the envelope and looked at the pound notes inside. There was at least two hundred pounds. He suspected it was the younger man's entire life savings.

"What's done is done lad. He pushed the envelope back to Rory. I won't take your money. It was a long time ago. Have a seat."

The proprietor drew out two Guinness from the tap and pushed one over to Rory.

"I heard most of the group that had busted the place up have since been killed. The police said one of them had disappeared if I remember right. Where have you been?"

"I wouldn't know what happened to any of them. I had friends that helped me get away from that life. I went to England and attended medical school," Rory replied. "I'm on my way to a rural post in Ireland as the town doctor. I was a minor before I left. The police are no longer interested in me. I'm just passing through."

"I'll be damned," the proprietor said. "Now for sure I won't take your money. You keep it. You're going to need it more than I."

After he finished his drink at the pub Rory headed back over to Mrs. Branson's where he had left his bags. His memories were raw and felt as though they had him by the throat and were choking him as he walked. He'd been good at school when he was a lad. School had always seemed like a refuge from his mother's bouts of drinking. When she wasn't drinking she had been the kindest mother imaginable and spoiled him rotten. Then she would make a trip to the broom closet and the insults would start. She raved about his father and what a sainted man he had been dying for the cause. She wanted to hear nothing about his schooling and insisted repeatedly he join the rebels from the time he was fourteen.

Rory had resisted her and stayed in school. He had wanted to apply to the university in Dublin but she screamed so much when he had mentioned it, he gave up the idea. He'd been angry and full of hate. Hate for the English, hate for his mother and when he had finally admitted it, hate for himself. He hadn't been able to find a job after high school. His father's name preceded him wherever he went and every door had been shut in his face. He'd started hanging out on the streets and soon fell in with a group that was looting stores that served the English troops. They claimed to be undermining the English presence and associated themselves with the rebels. What they had really been were a band of crooks who were using the unrest to line their own pockets.

His initiation into the group had been to plan an attack. He'd seen the soldiers going in and out of the pub and hidden across the street to watch the place for two days. The patrols had gone by late afternoon on both days and the barkeep didn't show up till almost noon. The older men who ran the group didn't accompany the younger boys on their raids. "Safer that way," they had claimed. "You young ones all look alike. You won't be recognized." When Rory was first in England and working on the Drake farm he had realized the true statement was "You do the work and we'll take the profits."

The raid had gone as planned. They had smashed the pub windows and broken up the tables and chairs. The boys had each grabbed a case of whiskey and were about to make their escape when a patrol had come down the street.

"Shite," he had called to the others. "They've changed the time of the patrol."

They had dashed outside with the whiskey. When the soldiers had called for them to halt, the boys had thrown rocks and bricks. Some had even thrown the bottles of whiskey. Once the first few shots were fired the boys had scattered. Rory had run as fast as he could through back gardens and lanes. He had heard the soldiers chasing him. Finally he had ducked through an over grown culvert that was dry in the summer. When he had finally stopped running he felt a burning sensation in his side. He had staggered back towards home with no coherent thought to what he was going to do when he got there. He had heard voices coming from the garden at Mrs. Branson's. He had always remembered the cookies she always seemed to have in her apron pocket when he was little. He had veered into the garden and into his future.

He remembered every second of the exchange with Sybil. He could still hear his mother's words calling her every despicable name she could think of. He remembered all of it right up until he had passed out from the pain. That evening after Sybil had shoveled his supper into him and his mother hadn't shown up he lay in bed and cried him self to sleep. He couldn't remember his mother showing up once during the entire time of his recovery. Mrs. Branson had changed his bandages and Tom had stopped by to see him everyday. Sybil had been kind and caring and had arranged for him to go to England away from everything that had made up his life in Ireland so far. His mother had shown up with a bag with his clothing before he left, but she had only stayed a few minutes before she was off. She had reeked of whiskey and stale smoke. There was no way to know where she had been for the last two weeks. He had just turned seventeen years old.

Rory walked up the back lane, through the garden and into the kitchen at Mrs. Branson's. She was sitting at the kitchen table working on sewing she had taken in.

"How was your walk?" she inquired. "Did you see the sights?"

"Enough of them to be glad I left," Rory replied.

"I can't say it was a bad thing," Mrs. Branson replied. "Your time away did you wonders."

"Everything before doesn't even seem real somehow. Did you find out anything about where my mother disappeared to?"

"No one seems to know a thing. She's been gone four years now. You know, she didn't start with the drink until after your father died."

"I don't remember a time when she didn't. My two eldest sisters wrote to me after I broke with her. They were both mad at me and couldn't understand why I had done it. I chucked their letters in with the cow pat where they belonged."

"Oh Rory, I'm sorry to hear that. What about the other sisters? There are two more aren't there?"

"Yes, I'm the youngest of five. The others are all quite a bit older than me. The last I heard of them one was in Limerick and the other somewhere in Dublin. They're both married or at least they were. I might look up Emerald tomorrow before I get the train. She's the next oldest to me. She's eight years older."

"You do what you think is right," Mrs. Branson said. "You've done without their help and interference this long."

Rory only nodded.

"Do you have a place arranged in Ballybunion?" Mrs. Branson inquired to change the topic.

"The post comes with a cottage. I'm hoping there is enough space for a few chickens and a vegetable garden. I don't expect to be earning too much. I'll have to make do. Besides I've missed the farm these last two years while I did my surgical residency."

"Did you get to visit the Drake's before you left?"

"Lord Grantham held a shoot and I was invited. I managed to get over to the farm for a bit."

"Who'd have thought a peer would take you in like that and treat you as one of their own."

"They told everyone I was a relative of Tom's from Ireland studying in London. All their snooty friends thought I was related to some wealthy family."

"If that don't beat all," Mrs. Branson said. "How did you handle that lot?"

"Did what Tom taught me. I beat them at their own game. When they mentioned anything about Ireland, I had the facts, stated my case politely and gave them no room to argue."

"That would be my son."

In fact Rory had learned the lesson so well from Tom he had joined the debate team at the university when he first attended. He could debate the issues with the best of them. It was a useful skill even in medicine as he had learned how to talk even the most difficult patient around to his way of thinking.

Tom had taught him a number of valuable lessons that should have come from a father if Rory had had one. Tom had pointed out the differences in hygiene between ranks. Introduced him to deodorant paste and given him numerous tips on grooming and keeping his cloths looking their best. As well he had taught him to drive and been a good listener whenever Rory needed it. At the same time he had a firm hand and wouldn't take any guff when Rory had been younger. Rory had thanked his lucky stars numerous times for the Bransons coming into his life.

"I still can't thank Tom and Sybil enough for all they did for me," Rory said. "They even postponed Tom taking the job with Sybil's American relatives so they could stay in London until I had completed my training."

"They were doing what they thought was right. Sybil has a soft heart. You would never know it under that fancy accent and formal front she puts on, but she does."

"She's spoiled me for other girls," Rory said with a laugh. "Every time I meet one, I compare her to Sybil. Although I didn't have much time for them these last few years."

"Now don't go setting the bar too high or you'll never meet one. That girl still can't bake a decent looking pie to save her life."

Rory just laughed.

"I don't think Tom cares."

"No but her mother-in-law does."

Rory just shook his head as he got up to start making the tea.