Collected Short Stories (11 page)

‘Did you ever meet that husband of hers?'

‘I did, but I never exchanged many words with him. He had plenty of money but he squandered it foolishly. And to see her coming from Mass on Sunday, so light on her feet, and he with his coarse laugh, his heaviness, and his bulging waistcoat, I always wondered why she had married him.'

‘And not you – is that what you thought?'

‘Even if she had been single I couldn't have married her. I had nothing to marry on. It took all I earned to pay for my lodgings. But, anyway, the thought of marrying never entered my head. It wasn't that, Margaret: it was just that she was miserable and I wished, in what way I don't know, that she could be happy.'

‘What did she say when you told her you were leaving?'

‘She was sorry I was going. She pleaded with me to change my mind. And on my last day she gave me a fountain pen and asked me to write to her.'

‘And you wrote, of course?'

‘No, Margaret, she asked me to address the letter to the school.'

‘A woman can speak for a woman, John. This Doyle one was in love with you! God only knows what would have been the end of the story if you had remained on.'

‘I may not have met you.'

‘And would you have regretted that after what you have told me?'

‘Margaret, what are you saying? After forty years you don't doubt my love for you. I never used the pen she gave me. It's the one that's lying in its case in a drawer at home.'

‘You never used it! I always wondered why you never gave that pen away – you that's so generous, generous to a fault. It was a keepsake, I suppose. That's why you never parted with it. It reminds you of her.'

‘I once offered it to you. But you wouldn't use it. Its nib was too broad, you said.'

‘But you could have given it away.'

‘That never occurred to me. But I'll give it away when we get home. I could give it to some jumble sale or other.'

‘You're saying that now, because I have caught you out. You may hold on to it for another forty years for all I care.'

He shook his head, leaned forward, and patted the back of her hand. She shrugged away from him and took up her knitting.

‘The poor girl hadn't much of a life,' he went on. ‘She died, you might say, before she had begun to live. And her death …'

‘I don't want to hear another word about her!' and plucking at her needles she upset the ball of wool and it rolled off the seat on to the floor. He retrieved it and left it on her lap.

‘Their boat was found capsized. A sudden squall must have struck it. The mainsail, you see, had been tied – it said so in the papers … Her husband's body was washed ashore on one of the islands, but hers was never found … never found … It was probably carried down the river in flood and into the sea … To think she died like that, and she so young, so light on her feet, and so thoughtful of others … God have mercy on her.'

He leant back against the headrest and closed his eyes. His wife continued her knitting with grim speed, the train rattling loosely on its journey through the night.

‘What about Paddy, Kate? He'll be raging if we let him lie any longer and it such a brave morning.'

‘Och, let him rage away, Martha. He'll know his driver before night if he ploughs the field.'

‘ 'Deed that's the truth, and with an old mare that's done and dropping off her feet.'

‘He'll get sense when it's too late. And to hear him gabbling you'd think he was a young man and not the spent old thorn that he is. But what's the use of talking! Give him a call.'

Kate, seated on a stool, blew at the fire with the bellows, blew until the flames were spurting madly in and out between the brown sods. Martha waited until the noise of the blazing fire had ceased, and then rapped loudly at the room door off the kitchen. The knocking was answered by a husky voice.

Paddy was awake, sitting up in the bed, scratching his head with his two hands and blinking at the bare window in the room. His face was bony and unshaven, his moustache grey and straggly. Presently he threw aside the blankets and crawled out backwards on to the cold cement floor. He stood at the window. In the early hours of the morning it had rained, but now it was clear. A high wind had combed the white hair of the sky, and on the bare thorn at the side of the byre shivered swollen buds of rain. Across the cobbled street was his stubble field, bounded on one side by a hedge and a hill, and on the other sides by loose stones. Two newly-ploughed furrows ran down the centre and at the top of them lay his plough with a crow swaying nervously on one of the handles. Last evening when the notion took him he had commenced the ploughing, and today, with the help of God, he'd finish it. He thought of the rough feel of the handles, the throb of the coulter cutting the clay, and the warm sweaty smell from his labouring mare.

With difficulty he stretched himself to his full height, his bony joints creaking, and his lungs filling with the rain-washed air that came through the open window; he drew in great breaths of it, savouring it as he would savour the water from a spring well. As he was about to turn away, the crow rose up suddenly and flew off. At that moment Kate was crossing to the byre, one hand holding a can, and the other a stick. Paddy watched, trying to guess from her movements the kind of temper she was in this morning. But he noted nothing unusual about her. There was the same active walk, the black triangle of shawl dipping down her back, and the grey head with the man's cap on it. To look at her you wouldn't think she was drawing the pension for over six years. No, there wasn't another house in the whole island with three drawing the pension – not another house! We're a great stock and no mistake; a great pity none of us married!

Kate's voice pierced the air as she shouted at a contrary cow. Oh, a good kind woman, but a tartar when you stirred her. He'd hold his tongue this morning till he had the mare tackled and then they could barge away. Anyway what do women know about a man's job, with their milking cows, and feeding hens, and washing clothes? H'm! a field has to be ploughed and it takes a man to plough it.

When he came from the room Kate was just in from milking and Martha moved slowly about the table arranging the mugs and the farls of bread. Paddy stooped and took his clay-caked boots from below the table. He knew by the look of his sisters that he'd have to lace them himself this morning. It always caused him pain to stoop, but what matter, he'd soon be out in the quiet of the fields where no one would say a word to him.

They all sat at the table together, eating silently and with the slow deliberation that comes with the passing years. Now and again as Paddy softened his bread in the tea, Kate would give him a hard little look. It was coming, he knew it. If only they'd keep silent until he had finished. But it was coming; the air was heavy with stifled talk.

‘I suppose you'll do half the field today,' began Kate.

‘'Deed and I'll do it all,' he replied with a touch of hardness in his voice knowing he must be firm.

‘Now, Paddy, you should get Jamesy's boys over to help you,' said Martha pleadingly.

‘Them wee buttons of men! I'd have it done while they'd be thinkin' about it. I wouldn't have them about the place again, with their ordering this and ordering that, and their tea after their dinner, and wanting their pipes filled every minute with good tobacco. I can do it all myself with the help of God. All myself!' and with this he brought his mug down sharply on the table.

‘If you get another attack of the pains it's us'll have to suffer,' put in Kate, ‘attending you morning, noon and night. Have you lost your wits, man! It's too old you're getting and it'd be better if we sold the mare and let the two bits of fields.'

Paddy kept silent; it was better to let them fire away.

‘The mare's past her day,' Kate continued. ‘It's rest the poor things wants an' not pulling a plough with a done man behind it.'

‘Done, is it? There's work in me yet, and I can turn a furrow as straight as anyone in the island. Done! H'm, I've my work to be doing.'

He got up, threw his coat across his shoulder, and strode towards the door. His two sisters watched him go out, nodding their heads. ‘Ah, but that's a foolish, hard-headed man. There's no fool like an old fool!'

Paddy crossed to the stable and the mare nickered when she heard his foot on the cobbled street. Warm, hay-scented air met him as he opened the door. Against the wall stood the white mare. She cocked her ears and turned her head towards the light. She was big and fat with veins criss-crossing on her legs like dead ivy roots on the limbs of a tree. Her eyes were wet-shining and black, their upper lids fringed with long grey lashes. Paddy stroked her neck and ran his fingers through her yellow-grey mane.

A collar with the straw sticking out of it was soon buckled on, and with chains rattling from her sides he led her through the stone-slap into the field. He looked at the sky, at the sea with its patches of mist, and then smilingly went to his plough. Last evening the coulter was cutting too deep and he now adjusted it, giving it a final smack with the spanner that rang out clear in the morning air. The mare was sniffing the rain-wet grass under the hedge and she raised her head jerkily as he approached, sending a shower of cold drops from the bushes down his neck. He shivered, but spoke kindly to the beast as he led her to be tackled. In a few minutes all was ready, and gripping the handles in God's name, he ordered the horse forward, and his day's work began.

The two sisters eyed him from the window. His back was towards them. Above the small stone fence they could see his bent figure, his navy-blue trousers with a brown patch on the seat of them, his grey shirt sleeves, the tattered back of his waistcoat, and above his shabby hat the swaying quarters of the mare.

‘Did you ever see such a man since God made you! I declare to goodness he'll kill that mare,' said Martha.

‘It's himself he'll kill if he's not careful. Let me bold Paddy be laid up after this and ‘Tis the last field he'll plough, for I'll sell the mare, done beast and all as she is!' replied Kate, pressing her face closer to the window.

Paddy was unaware of their talk. His eyes were on the sock as it slid slowly through the soft earth and pushed the gleaming furrows to the side. He was living his life. What call had he for help! Was it sit by and look at Jamesy's boys ploughing the field, and the plough wobbling to and fro like you'd think they were learning to ride a bicycle.

‘Way up, girl,' he shouted to the mare, “way up, Maggie!' and his veins swelled on his arms as he leant on the handles. The breeze blowing up from the sea, the cold smell of the broken clay, and the soft hizzing noise of the plough, all soothed his mind and stirred him to new life.

As the day advanced the sun rose higher, but there was little heat from it, and frosty vapours still lingered about the rockheads and about the sparse hills. But slowly over the little field horse and plough still moved, moved like timeless creatures of the earth, while alongside, their shadows followed on the clay. Overhead and behind swarmed the gulls, screeching and darting for the worms, their flitting shadows falling coolly on Paddy's neck and on the back of the mare. At the end of the ridge he stopped to take a rest, surveying with pleasure the number of turned furrows, and wondering if his sisters were proud of him now. He looked up at the house: it was low and whitewashed, one end thatched and the other corrugated. There seemed to be no life about it except the smoke from the chimney and a crow plucking at the thatch. Soon it flew off with a few straws hanging from its bill. It's a pity he hadn't the gun now, he'd soon stop that thief; at nesting-time they wouldn't leave a roof above your head. But tomorrow he'd fix them. He spat on his hands and gripped the handles.

At two o'clock he saw Kate making down at the top of the field and he moved to the hedge. She brought him a few empty sacks to sit on; a good kind girl when you took her the right way. She had the real stuff in the eggpunch, too, nothing like it for a working man.

When he had taken his first swig of tea she said quietly, ‘It's time you were quitting, Paddy.'

He must be careful. ‘Did you see that devil of a crow on the thatch?'

‘I didn't, thank God. But I've heard it said that it's the sure sign of a death.'

‘Did you now?' he replied with a smile. ‘Isn't that queer, and me always thinking that it was the sign of new life and them nesting?'

It's no use trying to frighten him, she thought, no use talking to him; he'll learn his own lesson before morning. Up she got and went off.

‘Give the mare a handful of hay and a bucket of water,' he called after her.

He lay back, smoking his pipe at his ease, enjoying the look of the ribbed field and the familiar scene. To his right over the stone fence lay the bony rocks stretching their lanky legs into the sea; and now and again he could hear the hard rattle of the pebbles being sucked into the gullet of the waves. Opposite on a jutting headland rose the white column of the East Lighthouse, as lonely-looking as ever. There never was much stir on this side of the island anyway. It was a mile or more from the quay where the little sailing boats went twice a week to Ballycastle. But what little there was of land was good. As he looked down at the moist clay, pressing nail-marks in it with his toe, he pitied the people in the Lower End with their shingly fields and stunted crops. How the news would travel to them tonight about his ploughing! Every mouthful of talk would be about him and the old white mare. He puffed at his pipe vigorously and a sweet smile came over his wrinkled face. Then the shouts of the children coming from school made him aware of the passing time.

He must get up now for the sun would set early. He knocked out his pipe on the heel of his boot. When he made to rise he felt stiff in the shoulders, and a needle of pain jagged one of his legs making him give a silly little laugh. It's a bad thing to sit too long and the day flying. He walked awkwardly over to Maggie, and presently they were going slowly over the field again. The yellow-green bands at each side of the dark clay grew narrower and narrower as each new furrow was turned. Soon they would disappear. The sky was clear and the sun falling; the daylight might hold till he had finished.

The coulter crunched on a piece of delph and its white chips were mosaiced on the clay. ‘Man alive, but them's the careless women,' he said aloud. ‘If the mare cut her feet there'd be a quare how-d'ye-do!' At that moment Kate came out to the stone fence and gathered clothes that had been drying. She stood with one hand on her cheek, looking at the slow, almost imperceptible, movement of the plough. She turned, shooshed the hens from her feet, and went in slamming the door behind her.

Over the rock heads the sun was setting, flushing the clay with gold, and burnishing the mould-board and the buckles on the horse. Two more furrows and the work was done. He paused for a rest, and straightened himself with difficulty. His back ached and his head throbbed, but what he saw was soothing. On the side of a hill his three sheep were haloed in gold and their long shadows sloped away from them. It was a grand sight, praise be to God, a grand sight! He bent to the plough again, his legs feeling thick and heavy. ‘Go on, Maggie!' he ordered. ‘Two more furrows and we're done.'

The words whipped him to a new effort and he became light with excitement. One by one the gulls flew off and the western sky burned red. A cold breeze sharp with the smell of salt breathed in the furrows. And then he was finished; the furrows as straight as loom-threads and not a bit of ground missed. A great piece of work, thanks be to God; a great bit of work for an old man and an old mare. He put on his coat and unyoked her. She felt light and airy as he led her by the head across the cobbles. Gently he took the collar from her, the hot vapour rising into the chilled air, and with a dry sack wiped her sides and legs and neck. A great worker; none better in the whole island. He stroked her between the ears and smiled at the way she coaxingly tossed her head. He put her in the stable; later on he'd be back with a bucket of warm mash.

It was semi-dark when he turned his back on the stable and saw the orange rectangle of light in the kitchen window. It was cold, and he shivered and shrugged his shoulders as he stood listening at the door.

In the kitchen it was warm and bright. The turf was piled high, and Martha and Kate sat on opposite sides of the hearth, Kate knitting and Martha peeling potatoes. He drew a chair to the fire and sat down between them in silence. The needles clicked rapidly, and now and then a potato plopped into the bucket. He must get out his pipe; a nice way to receive a man after a day's ploughing. The needles stopped clicking and Kate put her hands on her lap and stared at him from behind her silver-rimmed spectacles. Paddy took no notice as he went slowly on cutting his plug and grinding it between his palms. Then he spat in the fire, and Kate retorted by prodding the sods with her toe, sending sparks up the chimney. The spit hissed in the strained silence. The kettle sang and he rose to feed the mare.