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    The Fourth Man
    The Fourth Man
    The Fourth Man
    Ebook321 pages5 hours

    The Fourth Man

    By Philip Matthews

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    About this ebook

    The novel is about the sentimental education of an Irish writer, Richard Butler. Given the limited possibilities of the biographical novel, the experiences of Butler are conveyed by means of sixteen episodes that concentrate on the key incidents in his life between child-hood and his early-thirties. These sixteen episodes are arranged in four sections of four episodes each. The sections are not titled but they concern, in turn, the family, the group, the social, and the individual, the final section indicating the meaning of the title of the work: the moral imperative that we achieve (what can best be called for now) individuality.
    THE FOURTH MAN is an attempt to achieve a sense on one hand of the fragmentary nature of modern life, the experience of disconnection and decentred-ness, yet on the other hand, the intense aura of significance that accompanies certain key experiences in this alienated life, and how by reflection on these intense moments some sense can be made of our lives by tracing the implicit connections between these moments.
    A number of narrative techniques have been used to achieve this end, ranging from first and third person narration, variable focus on Butler, rhetorical devices like figuration, reinforcement and connotation, and a variety of settings in Ireland, England and Europe. It is hoped that THE FOURTH MAN succeeds in conveying the early life of Richard Butler in a convincing way, and that it also provides for the reader an example of how we ought to interpret the moments of illumination that occur in all our lives.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPhilip Matthews
    Release dateJan 25, 2014
    ISBN9781311401595
    The Fourth Man
    Author

    Philip Matthews

    Writer's life, hidden, frugal, self-absorbed, no TV or social media, a few good friends - but the inner life, ahhhhh. Recommend it to anyone.

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      Book preview

      The Fourth Man - Philip Matthews

      THE FOURTH MAN

      PHILIP MATTHEWS

      Copyright Philip Matthews 2014

      Smashwords Edition

      ISBN 9781311401595

      EPISODES

      I

      1 Apple

      2 Friday Afternoon

      3 Passion

      4 Edge

      II

      5 Dancing in the Dark

      6 Bona Festa

      7 In the Land of the Prodigal

      8 Return

      III

      9 Snow

      10 True Love

      11 Masque

      12 Strict Neutrality

      IV

      13 Inertia

      14 Chance Meeting

      15 Űber etwas, űber irgend etwas

      16 Rehearsals

      PART ONE

      1 THE APPLE

      The tiff that was the cause of the fight between Jimmy Sullivan and Richard Butler occurred quite suddenly during one of their childish games. Antipathies in their natures predisposed them to it.

      But by the time Gussie Hanrahan had found a quiet spot in the lane behind Richard’s house and had arranged the rules of the fight, both had forgotten the reason for it. The result was that while Gussie performed his role as referee with gusto – as leader, by age, of the group of boys he was used to assuming it during times of conflict – Richard stood to one side of him, arms slack by his side, faintly embarrassed by the prospect of action, for it was his nature to be passionate of mind and word and, beyond necessity, thoroughly inactive in the world. Jimmy, who faced Richard from Gussie’s right side, managed to put a good face on it, a ferocious one; for though he was more puzzled than embarrassed by the prospect of a fight, a memory of the emotion of the tiff remained in him to give authority to his grimace and flexed arms.

      The remaining boys in the group stood in a semicircle, with the wall to complete the rough ring, and displayed various degrees of interest in the proceedings.

      Just when Gussie thought he had worked everyone, including himself, up to the proper pitch, Richard’s younger brother appeared at the backdoor to their house and in all innocence shouted to tell him that mother was home. By reaction Richard made his excuses and ran the short distance to the door and up the garden to the house. His mother had just laid down a large shopping bag and was smiling in relief. In the matter of fact voice she used with the two boys, which mingled mockery and pleasure, she complained lightly of the weight of the bag and wondered why they didn’t arrange to come and meet her and help her with it. As she had made this suggestion many times before the boys merely smiled, their eyes flickering from her face to the bag on the table. She caught these glances, and laughed. She produced two large red apples and handed one to each of them. Richard took his and bit into it immediately, his hand tremoring with tension. A warm feeling of anticipation flushed his body as the thought struck him that now his mother was home from her shopping, tea would soon be ready. But then his father should be home and they would sit around the table together, as they did every evening.

      He heard Gussie’s impatient voice calling him. He quickly thanked his mother for the apple and dashed up the garden path. She automatically called after him to care he didn’t dirty himself. His brother chose to sit on the grass in the garden and eat his apple in the sunshine.

      Almost half the apple was eaten by the time he rejoined his friends. Jimmy was still stanced, ready for the fight. Gussie grasped Richard’s shoulder impatiently and squared him up against Jimmy. Seeing the apple, he pulled it from his hand and told him to fight now. Then he released Richard, stood back and shouted ‘Go!’

      Jimmy hit Richard one panicky punch low down in the solar plexus. Richard’s eyes glazed as he staggered back to the wall. Jimmy stood watching him, hoping the fight was over and he had won. Some of the audience complained that the punch had been a foul and appealed to Gussie to do something about it.

      But Gussie was busy gorging the apple. (Except for the core, for he believed that apple seeds were poisonous.)

      He took one final look of satisfaction as the butt before throwing it away. As he licked the last of the juice from his lips he took note of the situation and cried ‘Foul!’ then he announced it was time for tea and led the gang up the lane in the general directions of their homes.

      2 FRIDAY AFTERNOON

      Brother Desmond made a quick flourish, of relief, on the board with the chalk as he scratched the figure two: the last piece finally unravelled from the jigsaw of the equation for the benefit of his pupils. Then he turned on his heels and walked quickly to the window and looked out. The day had remained calm and bright: early spring. On the third floor of the new wing: Dublin stretched away below him to the west, a grey waste of low slate roofs extending as far as the reddish bulk of the brewery. Very few trees were to be seen, but luckily those few were directly below, bordering the playground: plane trees, squat in this temperate climate, buds clearly seen at this height.

      Brother Desmond sighed. The city still puzzled him, even after twelve years. Perhaps it really frightened him.

      He spun on his heels, soutane swishing through the air. Some of the boys had finished copying the equation into their exercise books and were gazing docilely before them. Brother Desmond scanned the forty boys. When he came to the big, straw-headed boy at the back, he paused. Instinct told him that this strong, gangling youth would very soon become rebellious. He could see it growing in his eyes as a kind of terror.

      It was the age they were at: twelve going on thirteen. Brother Desmond didn’t know why. At least, he didn’t think he did. He could not remember himself at that age. Living in the country had perhaps made a difference. What he remembered most clearly from his teens were the evenings on the playing fields, a hurly in his aching hands, staring at the bright sky with the euphoria of exhaustion.

      And then there was Corrigan. Nothing but the foulest filth issued from that slack, reptilian mouth of his. With him there would be trouble of another sort. Already he had had to move him three times since Christmas. He couldn’t punish him, for he couldn’t draw attention to the boy’s peculiarities. He had spoken to Brother Robinson, the Head Brother, about him, and had been told to try to understand the lad’s tastes. Understand? Tastes? That hadn’t helped at all.

      Most of the boys had finished copying the equation by now. Brother Desmond glanced across at the electric clock over the door. Five to three. He would wait one more minute. He knew who would be the last in finishing: Purcell. Grime ingrained into his neck and his skin glazed as a result of an unhealthy diet. His stupidity was a goad, though Brother Desmond knew it was really apathy. Twice already this term he had thrashed him, stung beyond endurance by the youth’s inability to answer even the most elementary question.

      He turned back to the window and gazed up at the puffs of cloud approaching from the southwest. Against his will, the desire for the open country surged in him. Dark woods and bright meadows: the lowing of the milch cows in the evening light. Sometimes the structures of the abstract knowledge he imparted day after day escaped him and he was left hollow and vertiginous. Then he would remember his father’s voice out in the byre, encouraging the cows or bullying the dog, and he would crave the simplicity of childhood.

      ‘Now.’ He spoke the word to the world at large beyond the high window, though intending it to draw his class’s attention. All but a few had transcribed the equation. He went to the board and began to rub out the figures, starting at the top and working his way slowly down. He was conscious of both punishing the slower boys and yet of teasing them. He did not have to look around to know that they were now scribbling feverishly. Charitably, he left x = 2 untouched.

      He turned to the class and buried his hands in the folds of his soutane. ‘Now,’ he said in his baritone southern accent. ‘For Monday do the first six questions on page twenty six. The example I have given will show you how they are to be done.’

      Higgins, one of the seen-to-be-bright boys occupying the front desks, immediately raised his hand and piped ingratiatingly: ‘Please, Brother, could you go over it again? I don’t fully understand it.’

      Brother Desmond gave him the hard eye. ‘What don’t you understand?’ he said, unwillingly warming to the boy. When Higgins opened his mouth to speak, his eyes bright because of the attention he was receiving, Brother Desmond cut him off by saying: ‘Well, go up to the board and do the first question.’

      Higgins blanched, but then he manfully took hold of himself and carried the thick algebra book to the board. Fussy, conscious of being in everyone’s sight, he picked a fresh stick of chalk from the runnel under the board. To the unbounded delight of the class it broke as he laboriously wrote the first figure. However, he solved the problem without any trouble, which didn’t surprise Brother Desmond.

      ‘Sit down, Higgins.’ The boy slipped happily back to his desk.

      It was ten past three.

      ‘Open your history books.’ He went to his desk and lifted out a pile of exercise books, ignoring the scramble as the class searched schoolbag, case, even paper bag, for the appropriate book. He sat down, watching them sternly, and waited until quiet had settled once again on the room.

      ‘O’Callaghan,’ he barked suddenly. A red-headed boy with a long freckled face started and leaped to his feet.

      ‘Yes, Brother?’

      ‘When was the battle of the Yellow Ford fought?’

      O’Callaghan blushed a bright crimson and began to twist his fingers. Everyone in the class knew why the question had been asked. Every period began with this tension as corrected work was given back. They knew there could be some very grim post-mortems.

      The boy gulped and tugged the lapel of his blazer. ‘1593?’ It was a question. He had written 1596 in the test on Wednesday.

      ‘Butler,’ Brother Desmond snapped. ‘Tell him.’

      Butler wasn’t paying attention. He had been gazing out the window. Nevertheless, he got slowly to his feet and said in a dry voice, while yet half erect: ‘1598.’

      Brother Desmond was aggrieved that Butler knew the answer. It was a kind of victory for him.

      ‘Right. Sit down, both of you.’

      O’Callaghan disappeared as though a trapdoor had been sprung under him.

      Brother Desmond stared at his class for a while, then he spoke sarcastically, for he was as weary as they:

      ‘For Irishmen, you know precious little about the most tragic period of your history. Most of you, and not only O’Callaghan, got the dates wrong. One of you, who remains nameless, even included the massacre of Drogheda in the wars of the Ulster Princes.’ He paused. ‘It is not good enough. I think I would be justified in punishing three quarters of you for the slovenly work done on Wednesday. Instead, I give you fair warning that I will set a paper on the same subject on Monday and that I expect you all to write perfect answers. Do you understand?’ Forty heads nodded. ‘You have the weekend to study your books... Remember, I will make no allowance.’ He paused again, letting his words sink in. He felt the rising tension in the room. They know what to expect, he thought with a certain finality.

      ‘The sooner you understand that the man who does not know his nation’s history cannot claim his place among his people the better.’

      He brought his open hands down on to his desk with hollow thuds.

      ‘Now, move up three to a desk and I will read the chapter to you.’

      The cloud of apprehension evaporated as quickly as it had formed. The boys at the back came forward and squeezed into the front desks, so that the class crowded up close to him.

      Half-three. Fifteen minutes to go.

      A flash of movement caught his eyes. Caden and his sweets.

      Brother Desmond opened his dog-eared history book and looked down at the woodcut of Hugh O’Neill:

      Tomorrow they played the Brothers of O’Connells on the playing fields at Dolphin’s Barn. He could hear the hard leather ball strike the ash and hear the cries thin and urgent in the open under the bright spring sky.

      3 PASSION

      The three of us had been away, rambling, talking and poking about, not quite sure of the object of our escapade, through a wood at the edge of the city on one of those long summer evenings when the sun sets over a period of hours in a blaze of white light.

      They were evenings of grace, when the inhabitants of the city – well, my parents, at any rate – would sit out in their gardens and enjoy the relief of the cool air and the security of a cloudless sky, it being a rare thing. Though if the flies became too much of a nuisance, or my mother grew apprehensive of the bees that buzzed very audibly among the roses and chrysanthemums, they would go indoors and sit in the front of the house, where the sun never shone at all, and watch the bright sky with greater ease.

      But for my part, I was in my early teens then, I could not be easy. As an evening such as this came on, and the compress of the heat of the day was dissipated, I would become restless. Something in the outside world seemed to call to me and I would well up inside and go to meet it.

      It was usual for the three of us, Ben Scott, Tommy Hagan and myself, to venture out of the old suburb in which we lived and make our way through Harold’s Cross and Terenure, our eyes always on the mountains before us, at least mine were, until we came to this wood, when, realising the impossibility of reaching the foothills in the time we had available, we would decide to wander through it. The evenings, long as they were, were not endless.

      But the mountains were always my secret objective. I knew that there, high in the clear air, I would find peace. Tommy, as I had come to recognise, would go where-ever he was led; he would always desire for himself what others desired for him. He would go far in the world, and he did, for he could take a hint like nobody else I knew. Ben, on the other hand, was a different case. He was older than Tommy or I, going on seventeen at the time of this particular incident, and much taller; almost a different species in fact. Where Tommy and I were slim and brown headed, he was heavy boned and blond, with a pink, pockmarked face. And where his expression was one of strained attention, accentuated by a slight cast in his right eye, Tommy’s was one of watchfulness, knowing already in his fourteen years that most of the important things occur on the edge of vision, where the masks begin to dissolve. My expression, if photographs of the time are of any use, seems to have been one of apprehension, a form of watchfulness also, although defensive and lacking in ingenuity.

      Tommy had joined my class at school a year previously, coming with his family to Dublin from somewhere in Munster, his father, a civil servant, having been promoted.

      We came out of the wood and stood at the edge of a rough meadow that sloped down to a ruined boundary wall. It had been part of an estate once upon a time. We stood there, bits of stick in our hands, which we had used to slice through the lower branches of the trees, staring non-plussed at the evening, realising perhaps that it was almost at an end and that our duty, or so it appeared to us in our disappointment, had been done and that we could go home and look forward to tomorrow as a new day.

      It was Tommy – of course – who spotted the girls. They were sitting in a corner of the meadow, close to the wall, their heads barely showing above the tall grass. And once he had told us, our attention was riveted to the spot where they lay. The evening turned about and the light which had been fading flared and intensified on our eyes as we peered down towards them, so that we were obliged to squint. Ben took two steps ahead into the long grass and halted, gazing down. Then he turned and beckoned us abruptly with his hand, his face deeply shadowed in the light, his eyes glistening and odd, the cast no doubt creating this impression. Tommy moved quickly enough, but I hesitated. Behind Ben’s authoritative gesture I sensed bravado. He had lost his mother six years before and it was said that his family had become wild as a result, his older brothers being the example to prove this observation. Ben, the mother’s favourite, was thought to be more restrained and considerate – hence the reason for his being allowed to be my friend. But I had always doubted the sincerity of his consideration, sensing that it sprang from helplessness; for why else would a youth of his age seek friends among us who were nearly three years his junior. I was afraid of him, because of his helplessness: he was also more inclined to discuss things with Tommy than with me, because, as he said a number of times, I looked at him too intently while he spoke. Perhaps he was conscious of the cast in his eye; perhaps he thought I indulged him, as my parents did. He never realise that I was afraid of him and was trying hard to anticipate him, though what I was to expect I didn’t know, much less what to do in defence.

      Ben set off down the meadow, making a great deal of noise, followed by Tommy, who picked his way carefully through the flattened grass in his wake. Throwing my piece of stick away, I trailed behind, looking about me, wondering what had happened to the evening – everything had been thrust at a distance and had become strangely merciless. The sky was greatly enlarged, the colours drained from it so as to leave only the harsh white light.

      Ahead of me, Ben called to the girls in a casual voice that tried to embrace. One of the girls squealed, and I knew instinctively that they had seen us coming out of the wood and were lying there waiting for us. Why had they not stood up and come forward to meet us, I wondered, or at least moved away? We had never approached girls before in this manner, though we had often passed groups of girls in the wood or the public park nearby, when we had given them no more than a searching glance. Besides, what sort of girls were they to sit alone like this in the dusk?

      When I reached the spot where they sat, Ben was standing over them, pushing his stick into the ground and pulling it out with effort, his large hands embracing the top of the stick. Tommy stood a little to one side of him. He rested his stick on the ground, holding it with one hand while the other was jammed in his trouser pocket.

      Ben was laughing, his nose high in the air as he averted his face, hoping no doubt that they would not see the cast. The girls too were laughing, plucking at the long grass as they did. Tommy smiled, and smiled.

      For my part, I was terrified by the sight of them. They were so restless: laughing, fidgeting and pulling unconsciously at the grass. One of them, seeing me, pointed at me and cried:

      ‘Here he comes, Paddy Last!’ and shrieked with laughter, in which the three remaining girls joined.

      ‘Paddy Last,’ Ben repeated, his mouth twisting slightly as he grinned.

      Tommy bent forward, Ben blocked his vision, and smiled, his eyes twinkling.

      ‘And what are four girls doing sitting in a lonely place like this?’ Ben asked rhetorically.

      ‘We’re waiting for the last bus,’ the oldest girl replied.

      The four girls screamed with laughter and made eyes at each other. Ben, imitating his religious teacher, smiled a smile at the horizon before looking directly at the girl who had spoken.

      ‘Where do you live?’ he asked her, this time speaking in his normal voice, though it was edged with strain.

      ‘What do you want to know for?’ the girl retorted, speaking to him alone and scrutinising him. Ben continued to watch her, but did not reply. He clenched his stick, which was stuck deep in the soil.

      Finally, with a toss of her lank, dark hair, the girl replied, ‘Kimmage.’

      Ben sighed and pulled the stick out of the ground. Then he went and sat beside her, his legs crossed under him. Tommy, moving with alacrity, hunkered down in such a position as not to align himself with anybody, girl or boy.

      I remained standing, looking at the girl who was nearest to me. In awe I saw that she was gazing up at me. Though I was sure she was older than me, sixteen or seventeen, she did not seem much taller than me. She had a thin face, pale, with a small pointed nose above compressed lips. Her eyes were a dull blue and wore a dazed expression. She had on a hand-knitted cardigan of green wool that was faded in comparison with the translucence of the olive green buttons that held it fastened about her. The collar of her dress was turned out over the cardigan; it emerged again at her waist and was spread out over her legs and feet. Though it was freshly washed, it had not been ironed.

      Timidly I sat down beside her and said ‘Hello’ lamely.

      She nodded to me, biting her lower lip as she did. She was pulling frantically at the grass beside her.

      In the small space of time between joining the group and sitting down with them, the world had taken several more violent turns before me. In the twilight the landscape had finally come to rest at an immense distance from me, even the white light had ebbed appreciably; but most of all I felt as though I was suspended naked in a place as dark as it was light, for the darkness was pierced by light, and the brightness throbbed with shadow. And I was glad of it, content with it, for all I had to do now was reach out and touch the hand that rested on the grass beside me, and things would remain as they were and I would not be frightened. But the hand jerked away when I touched it. I said something which I knew instinctively would reassure her, though what the words were I did not know. Again I grasped the hand, and this time it remained in mine, quiet and unmoving, as I wanted it to be. Then I squeezed the hand, and feeling the response, hesitant as it was, I was filled with peace.

      When I focused back on to the world, I saw that Ben was lying over the girl he was with, kissing her. She had her hand in his hair; the other was out of sight, trapped by her side, I assumed, by the weight of his body. His stick lay to one side, where he had tossed it.

      Tommy was hunkered down, leaning on his stick, facing the two remaining girls, who talked quietly together. He appeared to be unmoved by it all.

      Suddenly Ben’s girl pulled away from him and sat up. She looked at him for what seemed a long time, amused by his confusion. Then she pushed his arm away and stood up and brushed her dress down.

      ‘Home, girls,’ she said loudly, ‘we’re keeping these children from their beds.’

      In the twilight her face seemed drawn and worn: she must have been in her twenties. When she turned I could see that the back of her dress was hopelessly creased; it struck me as being absurd that a girl could dress like that in public. I wanted to laugh at her, but the sight of Ben’s face stopped me. What pain there was in it!

      I released the hand of the girl beside me. Mutely, she scrambled to her feet and joined the other girl. I was vaguely embarrassed to see her standing there, separated from me.

      As the girls moved away through the grass, the big girl shouted back: ‘Mind you go straight home to your mammies now. And don’t get lost in the dark.’

      Two of the girls linked her on either side, the remaining girl, the one I had sat with, linked the girl on the right. Abreast, they marched through the grass towards the boundary wall, singing at the top of their voices.

      We watched them go, at least I did, and I’m sure Ben did, for he was so attentive as he looked in their direction and rubbed his lips together. I suspect Tommy watched us, or the sky; but whatever he did for those five minutes, he did not look after those girls as we did. After all, what was the use?

      When they had finally disappeared, through a gap in the wall, and their singing had become a murmur, Ben turned

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