Wandering in Exile Read Online Free PDF Page A

in his attention and softly murmured into song, low enough so the barman wouldn’t object:
    No saviour from on high delivers, no faith have we in prince or peer.
Our own right hand the chains must shiver, chains of hatred, greed and fear.
E’er the thieves will out with their booty, and to all give a happier lot.
Each at his forge must do their duty, and we’ll strike the iron while it’s hot.
So comrades, come rally, and the last fight let us face.
The Internationale, unites the human race.
So comrades, come rally, and the last fight let us face.
The Internationale, unites the human race.
    “Fair play to you, you still have it in you,” Jerry acknowledged.
    He’d just have one and get out before Magee had him there all night. He wasn’t the worst of them but if he got hold of you, you’d have to listen to his whole life story, again.
    “Good man, Jerry,” Magee acknowledged as the pints were placed before them. “It’s good to see that not everyone has turned their back on the Brotherhood.”
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    He’d been nursing his drink for an hour and now drained it and pulled the fresh pint toward him. He only spent the wet afternoons in the pub and he couldn’t even afford that on his pension. A free pint was straight from providence and let him avoid his damp, empty room for a while yet.
    On a fine day he’d sit in the Green; there was no place else for the likes of him to go. He liked it there among the flowers and the men that died for freedom. And when it was time to go, he always took his leave of them, statue by statue. There’d never be a statue to him or any of the others. Their war was not something the people wanted to remember—when they lined up behind their priests and let the fascists overrun the world.
    “Did I ever tell that I was out in Spain with Frank Ryan?”
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    He asked the same question every time they met. Jerry glanced at his watch before answering. “You must’ve been awful young.”
    “I was just a gossoon of nineteen. Can you believe that? Can you picture any of these young fecks today going off to fight for the rights of the working man?”
    “You said a mouthful there, Pat.”
    The old man looked delighted with himself and raised his fresh pint. “Here’s to the lads: Charlie Donnelly and Eamon McGrotty, Bill Henry and Liam Tumilson, Bill Beattie and Frank. We were all at Jarama, you know? That’s where the lads were all killed and Frank got wounded.”
    “And yourself?” Jerry asked for the umpteenth time.
    “Do you see that?” The old man raised his trouser leg, exposing a long white scar from his knee to his ankle. “That’s what I got up near Suicide Hill. They had to carry me out of there and that’s what saved my life.”
    “Well, here’s to you and all of them.” Jerry raised his pint and took a long swig. It was his first today. He didn’t go at it so much anymore. He wasn’t able for it. Besides, he and Jacinta liked to sit out, when the weather was fine, and enjoy a few glasses of wine in the glassed-in room where his mother used to grow her tomatoes. They’d all died, but Jacinta had planted flowers and things.
    She seemed to have gotten over Danny’s leaving fairly well. She still said she missed him all the time but she was putting on the brave face. He knew she was trying so he took every chance to just sit and talk with her. The worst was over and now it was time for the two of them to sit back and enjoy a bit of life. There was no point in worrying about all of the terrible things that went on in the world. They couldn’t do anything about them, anyway, but they could share a little peace and quiet between them. They deserved that after all they had been through.
    Magee was getting lost in his memories so Jerry left him alone. He didn’t really care about all of that anymore. It had never gotten him anywhere. He was doing all right for himself now. His pay wasn’t great but the benefits made up for it—stuffed envelopes from grateful