By the Lake (18 page)

A loud knocking came from the porch with the sound of Bill Evans’s stick on the floor, the heavy brushing of his Wellingtons
in the slow walk. “God bless all here,” his glance flitted from face to face until it fastened on the lighted table and stuck. His eyes wolfed the table.

“It’s not often we see you twice in the same day,” Kate said. Margaret left Jamesie to stand close to Mary. The black cat raced from the room.

“I hadn’t much to do above and I battered down to see how you were all getting along with the hay.”

“We have it all safe. You’re too late,” Jamesie said ironically.

“You’ll eat something?”

“Begod I will, Kate, quick,” he said, and when he was seated in the rocking chair with a large plate of sandwiches by his side, he said grandly, “You’re all very welcome to this side of the lake.”

“We are all very glad to be here,” they answered, suppressing their laughter.

“Did ye cut up there yet?” Jamesie teased.

“No.” Bill Evans felt at a disadvantage. “The meadows aren’t ready yet.”

“Anybody who hasn’t his meadows cut this evening is lost.”

“You were always a sight for blowing, Jamesie,” he said.

“That’s right, Bill. Give it to him,” Mary said.

“I’m well able to put him in order. I’ve been watching his capers for years,” he said, and Jamesie responded with a light cheer.

“Bill is going to the town soon,” Ruttledge said.

“Every Thursday. The bus will be coming to the gate,” he boasted.

“Good man, Bill,” Jamesie said agreeably.

“A whiskey, Joe, before I go,” he demanded.

“You’re not used to it, Bill,” Ruttledge said, but poured him a moderate whiskey, adding plenty of water.

He downed it in one swallow. “Another, Joe.”

“No, Bill. It would only get you into trouble,” he said, and
walked him to the gate. He had no buckets and turned straight uphill, the stick reaching out in the crab-like, sideways walk.

The night air was sweet with cut grass and meadowsweet and the wild woodbine. A bird moved in some high branch and was still. The clear yellow outlines of the stacked bales were sharp in the ghostly meadow under the big moon and the towering shapes of the trees. Headlights of a passing car from across the lake were caught like little moons in the windows of the porch as it travelled towards Shruhaun. They had all risen to leave when he got back to the house.

“You must be tired. We’ll run you round the lake in the car.”

“No. We’ll walk. We had a powerful evening. Who wouldn’t want to walk on a night the like of that?” Jamesie said.

“The night is perfect but it’s been too long a day. Sit in the car.”

Ruttledge knew not to take the words at face value. They were glad to sit in the car and be driven, Mary and Margaret holding the two dogs in their arms. Jamesie’s head started to droop towards his chest as they drove.

Kate’s intuition was right that there was something on the Shah’s mind. He praised the cleaned meadows and the stacked bales when he rolled up to the house in the big car at his usual time on Sunday, but his mind was elsewhere. He could hardly wait to unburden himself.

Clearing his throat loudly he announced, “I’m thinking of retiring,” as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe his own words.

“There’s nothing wrong with you, is there?” Ruttledge was equally surprised.

“No,” he laughed defensively.

“Why do you want to retire?”

“There comes a time. There are some old cunts going around who think they’ll never disappear. I wouldn’t want to be one of those.”

The silence of the room was strange. To think of the Shah as retired was as difficult for the Ruttledges as it was for himself but Ruttledge knew that it would have been carefully considered and thought through.

“What would you do with the business?”

“I’d sell.”

“Who would you sell it to?”

“Whoever’d buy. Whoever’d come up with the washers. That’s no six marker.”

“What would happen to Frank?”

“Frank will have to do like the rest of us. Well, what do you think?” he asked out of a silence that had grown uncomfortably long.

“Wouldn’t you miss it? It has been most of your life. What would you do with yourself?”

“I’d have plenty to do,” he bristled. “I wouldn’t mind having nothing to do.”

“You shouldn’t rush into anything, that’s all I’d worry about. You should wait till you’re sure.”

“We’ll not rush. That’s one thing we’ll not be doing anyhow,” he laughed, his confidence returning.

“What will happen to those men in your cottages?”

“Nothing will change in their direction. They’ll come to no harm. The cottages will stay as they are. Well, what do you think about it all, Kate?”

“It’s a big move. What does Captain here think?” and at the
sound of his name the sheepdog left the sofa and went to Kate. His master appeared reassured and pleased as a child by both the move and the words.

“He knows who to go to. He’s no fool.”

“Bones!” she said playfully, and the dog barked.

“Have you discussed this with anybody else?” Ruttledge asked.

“No. I mentioned a few words to that woman down in the hotel—but no, I didn’t go over it with anybody.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your health?”

“Not that I know of but the mileage is up.”

“I find it hard to get used to the idea.”

“I find it hard to get used to it myself,” he admitted with rueful humour. “The time comes though when we all have to move over.”

“Why don’t we leave it for a while? If you feel the same in a few weeks we can talk,” Ruttledge said.

“That’s what we’ll do,” he said with obvious relief. “It’s been on my mind for a good while now. It’ll not go away.”

“I think you should give Frank Dolan his chance at it if you decide to sell. He’s worked for you all his life.”

“Will he be able for it? Will he have the washers?”

“We can go into all that when you make up your mind for certain.”

They walked the fields. They looked at the stacked bales in the shaved meadows, already a rich yellow in the sun, and at the cattle and the sheep. They stood on the high hill over the inner lake and watched a heron cross from the wooded island to Gloria Bog. The day was so still that not even a breath of wind ruffled the sedge that was pale as wheat in the sun. The birch trees stood like green flowers until the pale sea merged with the far blue of the mountain.

“That distant blue means good weather.”

“Talking of that blue and that neighbour of yours, I hear he’s going to take the plunge again.”

“The mountains so lovely and blue in the distance?” Ruttledge echoed. “He’s been plunging ever since I came about the place.”

“This time it’s going to be in the church with all the blessings and a big reception afterwards in the hotel. I’m told yous all are going to be invited.”

“Who is the lucky woman?”

“Some fool of a widow from up the country, Meath or Westmeath, with a grown family and a big farm of land. A fine, fresh woman, I’m informed.”

“Where did he find her?”

“In the best of places: the Knock Marriage Bureau.”

“Where the Virgin appeared to the children?”

“That’ll do you now but you’d think the priests and nuns would have something better to do than running a bucking shop,” he was shaking, wiping the tears away with small fists.

“Where did you hear this?”

“From that woman who owns the hotel. It’s all booked. I warned her she better get her money beforehand.”

“Are you sure you’re not making this up?”

“Not a word,” he shook silently. “There’s no fool like an old fool.”

The mower, the tedder, the baler were put away for the year. An old buckrake the Shah had given Ruttledge years before was taken out. With its ungainly weight of solid metal and the sharply pointed steel pins it looked and was antique but was perfect for drawing in the square bales.

As soon as Ruttledge entered the street with the big buckrake on the tractor he saw that Jamesie’s shed was already almost half full. Margaret came leading the mule by the bridle up from the meadows, six bales stacked on the small cart with the rubber
wheels, Jamesie following behind. The brown hens paraded proudly around in the dust inside the netting wire. The box of pansies glowed on the windowsill beside the geraniums. Mary stood at the door.

“You should have told me you had started. I’d have come over,” Ruttledge said.

“We were doing nothing and started to jog along on our own. We hadn’t a thing else to do.”

They unloaded and stacked the few bales, untackled the mule and let him loose in his field.

“If he had manners he could run with the cows,” Jamesie said. “Since he hasn’t any manners he has to stay on his own. The very same as with people who can’t hold their drink.”

In the house Jamesie called for the bottle of Powers and derided Ruttledge when he refused whiskey.

“It’s too early. I couldn’t look at it now.”

“I’d drink it any hour of the day or night and thrive,” he boasted.

“Of course you would,” Mary echoed sarcastically as she poured him a whiskey.

“Have you any news?”

“No news. Came looking for news.”

“You came to the wrong place. We are waiting for news.”

Margaret laughed sharply at the repetitive foolishness of the play but instead of continuing the banter Ruttledge said, “I have big news,” and the room went still. “Very big news.”

“What? What?” Jamesie cried. “You’re only acting. You have no news!”

“I have very big news,” Ruttledge repeated.

News was the sustenance of Jamesie’s interest in everything that lived and moved around his life. Years before it had been arranged that they would come over to the Ruttledges’ for an evening, which was unusual in itself because of his dislike of formal arrangements. Early in the day, Ruttledge had gone into the
town to get provisions for the evening and ran into Jamesie by accident. They went into Luke’s and chatted pleasantly for a half an hour or so.

“I’ll not say goodbye as I’ll be seeing you this evening,” Ruttledge said casually as they parted.

“You won’t,” Jamesie answered bluntly.

“Why? Is there something wrong?” Ruttledge asked in alarm.

“Not a thing wrong but you’ll have no more news this evening. I have all your news for a while,” he answered simply.

Ruttledge didn’t quite believe it until the evening disappeared without sight of Jamesie or Mary.

Now Jamesie could not bear Ruttledge’s mischievous withholding.

“You have no news. You are only acting the fool,” he accused.

“You may be acting the fool but he isn’t,” Mary said.

“I’m telling you he has no news. There hasn’t been news around here in years.”

“John Quinn is getting married again,” Ruttledge laid it out like a trump card on a green table.

“You’re lying. Who told you? Somebody’s been packing you.”

“The Shah told us.”

“How does he know? He’s in the town.”

“The Shah’s not lying. He wouldn’t care one way or another. He thinks all who marry are fools.”

“He could be right there,” Mary said.

“Missus Maguire who owns the Central told him. They are great friends.”

“I know. I know. He drives her to Mass every Sunday. They are like an old married pair.”

“The wedding breakfast is already booked for the Central. We are all going to be invited.”

Jamesie was silent a long time before deciding that Ruttledge wasn’t playing or lying, and then instead of saying anything he cheered.

“Where did John find the omadhaun of a woman who’ll have him?” Mary asked.

“Out of the Knock Marriage Bureau.”

“He could have. It gets better and better,” Jamesie said. “There’s notices up on the church door about the Bureau. John would try anything. He’s been getting and sending a sight of letters in the post. He’s been going places lately.” Jamesie rubbed his hands together in glee as if he believed it for the first time.

“One thing sure is that John Quinn isn’t paying for a wedding reception for half the country,” Mary said.

“Maybe the wife is paying. Maybe she has money.”

“Then she’s even a bigger fool.”

“And it could all turn out a pack of lies,” Jamesie said.

“We better make a start at the bales unless we intend to get married ourselves,” Ruttledge said.

The buckrake could be lowered or raised with the lift at will and it was easy to sling the bales on to the long spears. As the bales rose in the shed, Jamesie and Mary stayed behind and Ruttledge worked the meadows on his own. Sometimes Margaret rode with him between his knees and steered the big tractor. The bales rose towards the roof of the shed in stairs. In some ways the heaviest work fell to Mary. She took the bales from Ruttledge and then lifted them to Jamesie higher up, who took the binder twine in his enormous hands and swung them lightly into place. With the man’s cap turned back to front to keep the hayseed and dust from her hair, she looked wonderfully boyish whenever she smiled, but by evening she was visibly wilting. When Ruttledge suggested that she had more than enough done for the day and he and Jamesie would be able to finish on their own, she would not hear of giving up.