Evelyn climbed out slowly and removed an armful of clutter from the backseat. She wore a pink fleece and a quilted gilet. The wet wind lashed anything loose as she reloaded the boot.
Evelyn and Peter were on their way home from Cork. They’d been babysitting their grandchildren and had thought they’d pop in on their daughter for a cup of tea. They wouldn’t normally go this way. “You were lucky,” Evelyn said, “It was a last minute decision."
They were going all the way to Westport and didn’t seem overjoyed that I was going there too - I had only put the next town on my sign - but after a moment of silent deliberation, they agreed to take me. Neither was particularly talkative. They were friendly enough though when they spoke.
Headford was the town they’d picked me up in. I told them it was a strange sort of place, full of derelict buildings. I wondered why, chatting away, trying to get conversation going.
“Everyone’s left Ireland,” Peter said, “That’s what happens. All the young leave.”
I asked if any of their children had left. They nodded. They had a son in New York. He’d visited when he was 17, just for a week, then over the next few years he kept returning until eventually he moved there full time. He got a job as a porter for a grand hotel standing outside in the cold. It was very cold in the winter they said, but they laughed warmly as they told me.
Then one day at a barbecue, he met a family from Tipperary. They were starting a business doing flooring and things. They took him on. “They’ve been together 30 years now,” Evelyn said over her shoulder. There was a matter-of-fact pride in her voice. “They’ve been careful, not made any bad decisions. And they’ve not spent all their money. They’ve done well for themselves.” He and his wife had just bought a boat to go out on the Hudson. Evelyn made it all sound simple, but as many migrants could attest, it probably isn’t.
The rain had stopped, replaced by ragged clouds and light that gilded the fields and made the fuchsia burn in the hedgerows.
I asked about more about their son and his wife. Had they met in Ireland? No, they’d met in the States, but she was Irish too and half Puerto Rican. She was a writer, a novelist, they told me. She was quite successful.
They said they’d been with her during the auction of one of her books. Peter and Evelyn perked up, a sudden tinge of excitement emerging as they recalled the moment. She’d been upstairs in her study, hoping it would be bought for $20,000. They were downstairs with their son and everyone was nervous. There’s not much money in writing. Shouts came from upstairs and nervous looks were passed back and forth, maybe she’d not made it. There were more shouts, louder this time. It went on for nearly an hour. When she came downstairs she was crying. It had sold for a million dollars.
They said their son had taken the day off work but he’d have been back in the next day as normal. He wouldn’t have said a word about it.
The book was a huge success until it wasn’t. It sold three million copies worldwide and then got cancelled. Hard. Bookstores cancelled shows. Reviews, which had been glowing, suddenly turned vitriolic. It even sparked protests.
The issue was alleged appropriation. The story was about Mexican migrants and she was not a Mexican migrant. Some called it ‘trauma porn’. Many said it showed how the US publishing industry was too white and that it had to change. They said it was the most important book of our time for revealing that.
Peter and Evelyn didn’t tell me any of this. I read about it after. They just said she struggled with the bad reviews and the unwanted attention, all the misunderstanding. “Some people just have too much time,” Evelyn tutted, “They don’t realise the impact their words have, how hurtful they are.” Her daughter-in-law had received countless death threats online. Again they didn’t mention that.
Conversation moved on to New York and Peter and Evelyn told me they go out quite often. They liked the city, liked how entertaining it was. They go to lots of shows: the Nutcracker, River Dance, Phantom of the Opera. This year they saw Girl from the North Country, the musical set to Bob Dylan songs. They even met some of the actors as they came out afterwards.
“What were they like?” I asked.
“Oh they were lovely,” Peter replied, “Thrilled that we’d enjoyed the show.”
“That’s good to hear, that they were down to earth. I imagine movie actors would be very different,” I mused aloud. “Do people ever stop your daughter-in-law in the streets?” I was referring to the good part of her success, still unaware of the controversy surrounding it.
“Oh they will do now,” Peter continued with his gentle baritone and Evelyn picked up the sentence.
“She’s been on Oprah’s show a few times. In fact Oprah was one of the people who really stood by her when things were difficult. It was her book of the year. They’re very good friends now.”
“Wow,” I said.
“They were on holiday with her in Hawaii just before the fires,” Evelyn went on. Again there was no hint of boasting, just an honest sense of pride.
“What did your son say she was like?”
“Said she’s very nice. Very fussy apparently but down to earth. Washes the dishes and the like. Ay, but he would have gone back to work the next week and wouldn’t have told a soul where he’d been. He’s not like that, is he Peter?”
Peter agreed.
“Whenever he comes home he just lies on the floor in front of the tele.” They both chuckled.
“You’ve raised him well,” I said.
“Ohh he’s a good lad.”
Around us were lakes and rivers. The land was scraggy. Peter noted how all the hedgerows were unkempt. I asked why and he replied bluntly that it was too expensive to tidy them. It was beautiful nonetheless. Peter said he liked to fish. Salmon and trout mostly around there. A few years back the government tried to introduce permits to restrict fishing but people were furious. They marched saying that their ancestors had fished these waters so why couldn’t they? The government dropped it.
We came into Westport. It was a pretty town. The trout-brown river split an avenue of autumn trees, channelled by mottled walls. The houses were pretty and pink, blue and green with heavy stone doorways. We stopped by the town centre and I thanked them, asking if I could take a photograph. They agreed, a little reluctantly.
“Do you want my PIN number too?” Evelyn asked. I was confused then embarrassed but palmed it off with a laugh and they laughed back.
I took my bags, waved, and wandered down the hill.