The Waterfall at Innishker

by Sinead Amirak

August 2022

Time distorts memory. The seventy years since I last trod this path have shrunk the distance from the old farmhouse to the base of the waterfall.

            I wasn’t sure I would ever see the old place again. Over the years, there have been times when I thought I should return, but life gets in the way, and there was no pressing reason to be in this part of the country. Maggie and I have our life in Dublin: our friends are there, our church community, everything we know. But after getting my diagnosis, my way of thinking changed, and it seemed important to come back. It’s hard to explain, even to myself. But Maggie understood.

            “Ach, why not? Why wouldn’t we go?” she said. “It’s not so far, and the roads are better these days…” But we both knew why not. The unsaid stood between us. Even now, faced with my mortality, we leave a lot unspoken. Maggie knew some of it, but not the whole story. I didn’t even know it all myself when we made plans to rent a cottage down by the coast.

            It’s a five-hour drive from our townhouse on the outskirts of the city to the place where I was born: Innishker, a small village that hangs onto the westernmost Irish coastline, ever in danger of falling into the wild Atlantic. The drive started well, but as our journey progressed, the roads narrowed from dual carriageway, to winding country lanes, to single-track paths. Rhododendrons tugged at the wing mirrors and brambles thwarted our progress, while my city-girl, Maggie, cursed the satnav for its unwise choice of route.

“Dear God, I hope we don’t meet anyone coming the other way. What’ll we do if I have to reverse all the way back?” Maggie was a nervous driver at the best of times, but of course, we met no-one.

            The rental apartment was a modern affair: a white painted new build, all modern angles and glass walls. It was one of several identical structures clustered around an asphalt track that scarred the dramatic Connemara coastline. A far cry from the stone farmhouse of my memory. That house has gone now. The farm was never economic, and the land was abandoned decades ago. Tourism is the predominant industry here now.

            Today, I’m taking the old path. It hasn’t changed. I found the place where the footpath leaves the road easily enough. Sadie, our golden retriever, getting on in years herself, bounced ahead with newfound enthusiasm, until I called her back with a whistle. Maggie has stayed at the rental. She says yesterday’s drive has worn her out, but we both know she is giving me space to do this alone. Nearly sixty years of marriage does this to people. Not everything needs saying.

            The first part is gentle enough, both physically and mentally. I cross the first stile with ease, Sadie ducking under the fence and racing on ahead. I have a map, and I’ve downloaded the walking app on my phone, but I won’t need it. The mountains have remained unchanged for millennia. A few decades won’t have altered the granite rock faces. Besides, there is little reception here. I stride out across the first boggy field.

August 1952

“Go home, will ye, Mikey? Don’t be following me the whole time.” Jimmy didn’t want me around. That much was clear. That summer he’d been different. Until now, we’d been thick as thieves, partners in crime, the two of us inseparable. Where Jimmy went, little Mikey wouldn’t be far behind. People said I was Jimmy’s shadow. And where little Mikey went, Kit would be by his side. Kit was a working dog: a black and white collie sheepdog belonging to my father, but Kit attached himself to me whenever Da didn’t need him out in the fields. Kit and I spent our long summer days exploring the coastline and the mountains that dominated our skyline, sharing snacks and drinking from the same mountain streams. It was always Kit and Mikey, with Jimmy leading the way, six years older and six years braver.

            “What is it, Jimmy? I want to come with you. Where are you going?”

            “None of your business. I don’t need a baby brother tagging along.”

Jimmy had been acting strange recently. I couldn’t work it out. I knew he was growing up, but I was still his brother, surely? How could he have things to do without me? He was a man now, sixteen years of age, out of school for two years and helping Da on the farm, but he’d still include me in his adventures. Now, suddenly, it seemed he couldn’t stand the sight of me. Hearing the commotion, Ma came out of the kitchen.

“Give him some space, Michael, love. He’s growing up. Let him be. Come away inside. You can help me peel the spuds for tea.”

            I didn’t want to be inside with Ma. I blinked back tears, disgusted with myself, determined not to be the baby that Jimmy thought I was.

            “It’s alright, Ma. I’ll take Kit out to Da.” I knew I should help my mother, but I was angry with Jimmy. How dare he tell me where I can go? Does he own the mountainside? I could see my brother heading toward the stream where we’d often swim. Why would he not want me with him?

            I followed at a distance, my hand on Kit’s head, instructing him to stay close. I was a cowboy in the wild west, trailing my enemies, my trusty hound by my side. Jimmy and I had sat enthralled at the pictures in town only last week. Distracted, I allowed myself to get too close to my quarry, but Jimmy hadn’t noticed. He was crossing the stream at the base of the waterfall now. This was a place Ma told us not to go. The rocks were sharp and slippery, and if you didn’t watch your step, you could do yourself a mischief. Da was furious the day Jimmy took me up there and I came home with a gash in my knee, bawling my eyes out. Doctor McGuigan had to come out and stitch me up on the kitchen table. After that, we mostly stuck to the flat bed of the stream nearer the house.

But not always. Across the stream, beyond the waterfall, was an old ruin of a house. The roof was gone, and the walls had crumbled to only a few feet high in places. It had been abandoned these last hundred years or so. The Great Potato Famine had decimated the community, and empty decaying houses dotted the landscape. It was a place Jimmy and I liked to play. Just don’t tell Ma.

            I watched as Jimmy crossed the treacherous stream below the waterfall and hauled himself onto the opposite bank. He disappeared inside the stone shack. I was about to follow when he emerged and scurried back to the water’s edge. I had only just enough time to duck down out of sight, grabbing Kit close to me, when he passed me and ran back towards home.

I couldn’t imagine what he had been doing there. Once Jimmy was out of sight, I let Kit loose and carefully waded across the riverbed. Kit decided he was in deep enough and bounded back to the safety of the bank. Determined to find out Jimmy’s secret, I strode on, up to my thighs in icy mountain water, cursing Jimmy and pushing away thoughts of the row I’d get when I got home. I was at the point of hauling myself up the deep riverbank when I saw a figure approaching across the mountainside. Hidden by the deep gulley, they hadn’t seen me. I signalled to Kit to ‘get down,’ hoping he would take my lead. Obediently, he lay flat, watching and waiting for my next instruction. I turned back and was surprised to see that the figure was a girl. As she got closer, I could make out her fitted dress. Not the hand-me-down, make-do-and-mend garb of most of the girls around here. I knew her. It was Mary-Agnes, the schoolmaster’s daughter. She’d often come and help him teach the younger ones. She’d been a pupil herself until last year. I liked her. She was a pretty girl, with blond curls and a slight lisp. She’d blush quick enough, and drop her eyes, when she spoke to you. I couldn’t understand what she was doing out here, in her nice dress and all. I was about to jump up and call out when a thought stopped me. She wouldn’t want me to know she was here. I watched as Mary-Agnes stepped inside the stone house, emerging only a moment later, smiling and clasping a piece of paper in her hand. She sat on the collapsed wall and read, beaming all the while. She pulled a pencil out of her skirt and started writing, leaning on a flat rock. I watched as she disappeared back inside, then re-appeared and skipped back across the bog towards the village. Tempted as I was to go into the house there and then, it was getting late, and Da would need Kit on the farm. I decided to go home.

The rest of that summer, Jimmy became more distant, ever more reluctant to spend time with me, and treating me with disdain whenever our paths crossed. I spent the summer avoiding him, helping Da on the farm and exploring the mountains with Kit.

            A few weeks later, my relationship with Jimmy fractured permanently. I hadn’t intended to follow him. I was doing my own thing as usual, and on that day, my travels took me up to the waterfall. It was one of the few warm days we get in this part of the world, and Kit and I were making the most of the sun. We’d been down to the sea, then followed the stream inland.

I was a Cherokee Chief, avoiding being trailed by staying off the land, my home-made quiver on my back, bow and arrow in hand. Kit was, unknowingly, playing the roles of my tribe and my enemy alternately. He wasn’t doing too well at staying off the land and in the water, but I guess dogs are not the best actors, even Kit. As we approached the waterfall, I knew my enemies would be upon me, as I would be forced onto dry land. I had to choose: the easy path, or the difficult one, up the steep bank. I chose the harder path, planning to hide out in the ruined house. A good vantage point for a shoot-out with the imaginary enemy. As I approached the house, an animalistic wail met my ears. I jumped, my first thought being of the banshees that were said to hide in the old dwellings of the famine victims. But then my thoughts turned to the farm, and I thought it must be one of Da’s lambs, caught inside. I raced to the doorway.

In a second, I took in the sight that will stay with me to my dying day: pale white legs, stockings rucked by slim ankles, a lace petticoat, and the bare buttocks of my brother. Before I could look away, Mary-Agnes’ big brown eyes locked with mine, her cheeks flushed. I turned and ran.

August 2022

My legs are aching now as I approach the ruin. The distance may have been less that I remembered, but the energy boost from my morning steroid tablets is wearing off. As she packed me off this morning, Maggie had reminded me that I’m not as young as I was, and to take it steady. The trouble is, in my head I’m still that ten-year-old boy, but my legs don’t agree.

I’m at the waterfall. The local council has erected a wooden footbridge across the stream. It’s now a designated footpath for walkers. The views are spectacular, and the bridge perfectly placed for amateur photography and what the youngsters call ‘selfies.’ No-one from the council remembers the events of seventy years ago.

The ruined house is just as I recall. I haven’t been back here since that day, because of what came after.

September 1952

I don’t know if Mary-Agnes told Jimmy that I had seen them. I never mentioned it. Jimmy continued to be distant. Even Ma and Da were losing patience with him. He was never around when Da needed him, and more and more often, it was falling to me to help. This was not in my life plan. Even at ten, I knew farming wasn’t my future. The schoolmaster had told me that if I continued to do well, he’d put me up for a scholarship, which would mean going to the Christian Brothers School in town, rather than leaving school at fourteen. Jimmy had never been interested in schoolwork, knowing he’d have a farm left to him - another difference between us.

It all came to a head one evening. Jimmy had been missing all day and Da had needed help. I had done what I could, but I was ten years of age and not strong enough for many tasks.

            “Where have you been?” Our usually mild-tempered Da was in a frothing fury. I could hear the shouting as I stayed hidden in the room upstairs. I heard Jimmy reply, defiance in his voice, but the words weren’t clear. Then Ma’s voice, attempting to pacify the two stags, as they clashed horns in the yard. Kit stayed with me, and I stroked his head, calming myself, wishing it would all just stop. That night, I went to sleep without tea, while the argument raged downstairs.

            It was dark when I woke. I could hear Jimmy moving around our room.

            “What are you doing?” I asked.

            “None of your business. And keep your mouth shut to Ma and Da.” I nodded in the darkness. A few moments later, he was gone. I heard the kitchen door being pulled shut. Racing to the window, in the moonless night, I could barely see him walking away.

It was a week before they found his body. No-one had thought to look up by the waterfall. Everyone assumed he had gone into town, maybe caught a train to Galway. The row with Da had come out soon enough. Ma and Da each blamed themselves. I never told them I had seen him leave. He’d asked me not to. I didn’t talk about the ruined house. I had pushed that out of my mind, buried it deep.

The verdict was accidental death. No-one was sure if he had meant to kill himself. Sure, it’s a mortal sin, and he was to be buried in the churchyard, so the word was never said. He died of head injuries, they said. He must have slipped in the dark and cut his head on the sharp rocks. No-one asked why he was up that way. I tortured myself with the thought that I could have saved him, if only I’d followed.

We moved away soon after that. My parents sold the farm and Da took a job in Dublin, in the print factory. Ma never recovered. She died soon after we moved. I was twelve.

I heard later that Mary-Agnes went away to a finishing school in London, which was something of a surprise, as I’d thought she had her future in the village school.

August 2022

I’m at the derelict house now. Brambles have grown up inside. Charred wood and ashes are evidence of previous visitors. I look at this place that was once so familiar to me. I’m not sure what I am looking for. I reach up into the chimney. My hand meets an obstruction. I grab it and something falls: a tumble of blacked bird’s nest and, among the debris, a rusty biscuit tin. I sit on the collapsed wall and catch my breath, my lungs reminding me of my age. I ease open the rusted lid. Inside there are two scrolls of paper, each tied with a ribbon. I hesitate, realising what I have found. Shrugging off my inhibitions, I tell myself Jimmy wouldn’t mind.

            I unroll the larger scroll. A sheaf of letters curl in my hand. I see Jimmy’s unformed hand, a pencilled scrawl, and shake my head fondly at his poor level of literacy. Another hand, in beautiful ink copperplate, responds.

I don’t read the letters. It feels too intrusive. I bundle them back up. As I pick up the second scroll, something falls from its centre. I peer at it. It is a hand knitted baby bootee. The wool has faded and is so delicate I think it might fall apart in my hand. My fingers shake as I untie the second ribbon. There are only two letters in this scroll, both in Mary-Agnes’ handwriting.

The first was brief.

            “Jimmy, you didn’t come. I need to see you. I waited all night. I don’t know what to do. All my love forever, your Mary-Agnes.”

The second was just as short.

“5th July 1953. My darling Jimmy, I know you can’t read this, but writing it down helps. I imagine you are looking down on us now. I named him James. They wouldn’t let me keep him. Forever yours, Mary-Agnes.”

I roll the fragile paper and tuck the bootee inside the scrolled sheets. I tie the ribbon and push the rusted lid back on the tin. I feel a tear form in the corner of my eye: for Jimmy, for Mary-Agnes, for Ma. And for my unknown nephew.

I push the tin back into the chimney breast and call to Sadie. For a moment, I am surprised to feel her smooth silk ears beneath my hand. I’d half expected the coarse hair of Kit’s dark pelt.

Maggie will be waiting for me. She’ll worry. I head back to the wooden bridge.