Creatures of the Earth (36 page)

‘Why don't we look for her while there's still light?'

They searched the road on both sides of the cottage. The ocean pounded relentlessly on the strand.

‘She might come yet through the window during the night.'

‘That would be happiness.'

Two days later, Mrs Waldron said, ‘Fats won't come back now. Something has happened to her.' The sense of loss was palpable. It was as if the dull ache of the surgeon's death had been sharpened to a blade. He was gone, and now the whole irrelevant playful heart of that time had gone too. They counted back the years that the cat had been part of their lives. She had been with them almost thirteen.

‘I sensed it at the time and now I know it. Fats marked thirteen years of intense happiness … years of amazing luck
… and they could not last. Yet we had all that … It's hard to imagine now. All that.'

Eileen returned to her work in Castlebar. Several times Mrs Waldron set out to walk, but each time found herself without heart to go further than the small harbour. She was ashamed of her own grief, the continual sense of absence instead of presence, glancing down at the stream and seeing only the bare stones by the pools.

Then one morning she woke up determined to walk the whole way out along the cliffs. The previous evening Eileen told her that she wanted to invite John Quinn to lunch the following Sunday. She looked forward with an excitement that was as much apprehension as curiosity, and knew that most of the weekend would go into planning the lunch.

She read all morning, made a light lunch and set out. ‘A mind lively and at ease can look out on nothing, and that nothing will always answer back.' Was her mind at ease? Love was ever watchful. But was there a final going out of the light, a turning of the face to the earth? The light would belong to others then. They would watch. They would walk in the light.

She climbed away from the harbour, at once meeting the stiff breeze from the ocean, and was so intent on her path that before she noticed him she was beside Tommy McHugh. His face glowed with pleasure, and he came forward with an outstretched hand.

‘You're welcome back. I was beginning to be afraid something had happened to you. There's not many of our kind left now.'

‘My daughter came back from France. And we've had many visitors,' she said almost by way of apology.

‘You're welcome back anyhow.'

‘Where's Shep today?' she asked after a pause.

‘It got so bad he'd do nothing I'd tell him. He was driving those sheep mad. So I took him … I took him and threw him – and threw him over the cliff, and I have peace ever since.'

She heard and didn't hear. She could see the petrified black-and-white shape blur in the air as it was flung out over the water. She had to get away quickly.

‘Well. I'm glad to see you too,' she said as she started to move away.

There was something about the abruptness of her leaving, her distracted air, that displeased Tommy McHugh. He followed her disappearing figure for a long time, then said in the singsong, confiding voice he had often used with the young collie when the two of them were sitting alone together above the ocean: ‘I don't believe any of that stuff about the daughter coming from France, or the visitors. I wouldn't entertain it for even one holy, eternal minute. Let me tell you something for nothing, lad. Let me tell it to you for now and for ever and for world without end, Amen, deliver us, lad, that yon old bird is on her sweet effing way out,' he declared to the absent collie in a voice that sang out that they alone among all the creatures of the earth would never have to go that way.

It is very quiet here. Nothing much ever happens. We have learned to tell the cries of the birds and the animals, the wing-beats of the swans crossing the house, the noises of the different motors that batter about on the roads. Not many people like this quiet. There's a constant craving for word of every sound and sighting and any small happening. Then, when something violent and shocking happens, nobody will speak at all after the first shock wave passes into belief. Eyes usually wild for every scrap of news and any idle word will turn away or search the ground.

When the Harkins returned with their three children to live in the town after Guard Harkin's heart attack on Achill, they were met with goodwill and welcome. The wedding of Kate Ruttledge to Guard Harkin, ten years before, had been the highlight of that summer. A young, vigorous man struck down without warning elicited natural sympathy. Concern circled idly round them – would Kate take up work again, would he find lighter work? – as if they were garden plants hit with blight or an early frost. The young guard, an established county footballer with Mayo when he came to the town, was tipped by many as a possible future all-star. We'd watched Kate grow up across the lake, go away to college in Dublin and come home again to work in Gannon's, the solicitors, turning into a dark beauty before our eyes. She was running Gannon's office at the time they met, and was liked by almost everybody. The excitement that ran through the town and near countryside
when Harkin declared for the local club was felt everywhere. Excitement grew to fever over the summer as he led the team from victory to victory, until he lifted high the beribboned silver cup in Carrick on the last Sunday in September. Nineteen long years of disappointment and defeat had been suddenly kicked away, and the whole town went wild for the best part of a week.

Kate, who had shown no interest in sport of any kind up till then, spent every Sunday of that rainy summer travelling to football matches all over the country. She'd seen Harkin prostrate on the field at Castlebar when Mayo lost in the Connacht Final, but everywhere else she attended was victory and triumph. She'd witnessed men and boys look long and deep into his face, lost in the circle and dream of his fame. She'd held her breath as she'd seen him ride the shoulders of running mobs bearing him in triumph from the pitches. There were times when he fell injured on the field, and she could hardly breathe until she saw him walk again when he was lifted to his feet.

On an October Sunday at the end of the football season Kate took him out to the farm above the lake to meet Maggie and James for the first time. They parked the car at the lake gate to walk the curving path through the fields above the water and down to the house in its shelter of trees. Girls didn't take men to their homes at the time unless they had made up their minds to marry. These visits were always tense and delicate because they were at once a statement of intent and a plea for approval. There was little Kate had ever been denied. Now all her desires and dreams were fixed on this one man. In her eyes he stood without blemish. These small fields above the lake were part of her life. Away from here she often walked them in her mind, and, without her noticing, this exercise had gradually replaced the earlier exercise of prayer. She was light, almost tearful with happiness as she closed the lake gate. Now she was leading her beloved through the actual fields to meet the two people who meant most to her in the world, and she felt as close to Harkin
and as certain of her choice as she was of her own life. The lake below them was like a mirror. The air was heavy and still. The yellow leaves of the thorns were scattered everywhere with the reds of the briars and the thick browns of the small oaks. Blackbirds and thrushes racketed in the hedges. A robin sang on a thorn.

‘What do you think of the place?' she asked as they crossed the hill to go down under the tall hedges to the house.

‘It's a bit backward and quiet,' he said. ‘The views, though, are great. They'd pay money to have this in the middle of a city.'

In the house the young guard was polite, even deferential, as he enquired about the fields and the lakes and the cattle. Her father, James, was quiet and attentive, asking in his turn about the sheep and cattle they kept on the Mayo farm the guard had grown up on. Maggie was herself as always, quietly there, large and easy, withdrawing only to make the sandwiches and tea. Whiskey was offered, but at that time Harkin did not drink. Already he felt comfortable in the house. It was a house where he felt he wasn't expected to be anything other than himself. There was a generous side to the guard's nature; among footballers he was known as an unselfish player. After they'd eaten, and he'd praised the tea and the sandwiches, he felt moved in some clouded way to give something of himself back for the simple courtesy he had been shown. The generous virtues are at times more ruinous than vices.

‘I don't expect to stay a guard for much longer,' he said. ‘I've already passed the sergeant's exam, and I expect to go much further.'

‘To get to be a sergeant is a big step,' James responded. ‘Not many get that far in a whole lifetime.'

‘I expect to be a super or an inspector at the very least. The Force is awash with old fools. It needs a big shake-up.'

The young guard went on to ridicule his immediate superiors and to expand his sense of self to very attentive listeners. When he finished the free run of untrammelled self-expression, he was taken aback by how much time had flown.

The old couple walked their daughter and the guard all the way out to the car at the lake gate.

‘What do you think?' James asked his wife anxiously as they made their slow way back to the house.

‘There's no use worrying,' Maggie said. ‘Kate will have her way. To go against him would only make her more determined.'

‘Kate isn't going to have an easy life. She needs somebody easier.'

Maggie pressed his shoulder as they walked. ‘When we married, and you came in here, everybody was against it. Yet it worked out all right.'

‘I can't help wishing she had found somebody easier. That poor young man is full of himself.'

‘There's no use wishing,' Maggie said. ‘We'll have to make the best fist of it we can.'

‘Still, we sent her to school. She has pleasant work, plenty of friends. I wish … I wish …' But Maggie did not encourage him to complete the wish.

All the people who lived around the lake were invited to the wedding. His people travelled from Mayo. They were tall and good-looking, forthright in their manner and very proud of Guard Harkin. Famous footballers came from all over the country and formed a guard of honour outside the church. Girls who had been to college with Kate in Dublin travelled from as far as New York and London to attend the wedding. The church was full. The whole town turned out. The crowds spilt into the church grounds and even on to the road, and the wedding was talked about long after the couple had gone to live in Athlone. Guards were transferred automatically once they married.

We saw little of them in the years that followed. Harkin's football career was at its height. He was much in the newspapers, and there were pictures of Kate by his side at the celebratory dinners and dances. In all the photos she looked glamorous and happy. For a while Kate had temporary work in Athlone, but
James told me that Harkin didn't like to see his wife working. They came for short visits in the winter and a few times appeared with Maggie and James at Sunday Mass where they were the centre of all eyes. At the church gate after Mass people would crowd round them to grasp their hands, and the talk of what Kate was wearing and how she looked and what a nice plain man Harkin was in spite of everything would sound around the place for days. They were admired and envied. Once Kate did come for a visit on her own and must have stayed two or three weeks. I was over helping James with cattle, and we came together into the house. She was wearing a blue dress and sitting with her elbows on the table looking out of the back window towards the old apple tree heavy with green cooking apples. She was far more like a young girl dreaming about her life than a settled married woman. Once she noticed me, she rose quickly and smiled and stretched out her hand. We were cousins as well as good neighbours.

I was told that Harkin was studying hard for the new sergeant's exam. The last time he passed but failed the interview. Now he was more determined than ever.

‘Kate says he finds it easier to study when he's on his own in the house,' Maggie said while James sat looking down at the floor without adding a single word.

That summer Mayo won the Connacht Championship and beat an Ulster team to reach the All-Ireland Final against Cork. James and Maggie were offered seats in the Hogan Stand, but used one excuse or another to get out of going. I walked round the lake to watch the match with them on television. Their near neighbour, Michael Doherty, had crossed the fields to watch the match as well. There was a long dry spell of weather that September. The Sunday was warm and golden. All the time I was in the house, the front door was left open on the yard. Outside the back window, the old Bramley was heavy again with cookers. Maggie poured us a large whiskey before the match began and filled our glasses at half-time. When it was
over, we all had tea and sandwiches. Mayo lost, but Harkin had played his heart out at centrefield. If Mayo had had even one more player like him, they'd have won. Once we thought we saw Kate's face in the rows of heads in the Hogan Stand. When I got up to leave, James took his hat and insisted on walking me all the way out to the lake gate. Michael Doherty stayed behind to chat with Maggie. We were going in different directions anyhow.

‘Thanks for the day, for everything. It would have crowned it had they won,' I said as we parted.

‘What's it but a game? We had the day. Thanks yourself for coming all the way over.' James waved, and I saw him wait at the gate until I passed out of sight behind the alders along the shore.

That game and year must have been close to the very best of the Harkins' life together. Kate was expecting their first child. In the new sergeant's exam he came first in the whole of Ireland. He was certain he'd be promoted before the next year was out. Maggie went early to Athlone to help Kate around the birth, and James went for the little girl's christening.

‘The little girl is a treasure,' Maggie told me when they got back. ‘Outside that, though, things could be better.'

‘How could that be? Aren't their whole lives in front of them? He's going to be a sergeant before long?' I asked though I wasn't all that surprised by what she said.

‘He's not so certain now. When he walked into the room for the interview, whom did he find sitting behind the table but the same officers who turned him down the first time.'

‘How could they turn him down after him coming first in the whole country?'

‘He says that if they're against you enough they'll turn you down no matter what. There were no older guards at the christening, just foolish young fellas who looked up to him as if he were God. Even if you have to come in first everywhere, you must learn to wait and bide your time along the way. A man can
only do so much; after that, it's people who do everything. When God made us, He didn't allow for us all to be first all the time.' The words were very strong coming from James.

I saw Maggie look hard at him as he spoke. When he caught her eye, he stopped; nothing more was said, and I asked nothing more. Harkin came with Kate and the child a few times to the farm that year but did not stay for long. They never appeared together at Mass. Another girl was born the following year. Maggie went to help Kate as before, but this time James refused to go to Athlone for the christening. Harkin was no longer playing football. A nagging knee injury had worsened, and he had no interest in continuing to play at club level. He joined a gun club with a new friend, Guard McCarthy. He also started to drink.

‘I couldn't wait to get away,' Maggie said when she came home. ‘I fear Kate knows now she has her work cut out.'

In spite of what she said, she went again to Athlone to help Kate with her third baby, a boy. It was a difficult birth, and Maggie was several weeks away. During this time, Michael Doherty crossed the fields nearly every night to sit with James for company. When Maggie was at home, he came to the house a number of nights each week but not as frequently as when she was away. Some weeks after Kate's son was born, he stopped in fear when he came into the yard to find the house in darkness. The door was open. He switched on the lights. The rooms were all empty. There was a low fire in the cooker. Outside he heard a dog barking in the fields and then a tractor running. He found the body lying by the transport box. The ground all around was trampled, but the cattle hadn't walked on the body. James had scattered the hay before falling. Each of the baler twines had been cut.

James had married into the place and he cared for the fields more than if they were his own. Not only were he and Maggie man and wife but they were each other's best friend. ‘I should never have been away. I should have been at home minding my own business,' Maggie complained bitterly for months and could not be consoled.

‘You shouldn't take it so hard. A boy has come in so that an old man can go out,' one of those foolish people who have a word for everything said.

‘He was not old to me,' she cried.

Harkin was in the newspapers again, but not the sports pages. He had been with his friend Guard McCarthy late one night when their patrol car was called to a disturbance at an itinerant encampment on the outskirts of the town. A huge fire of car tyres and burning branches lit up the vans and mobile homes, the cars and mounds of metal scrap. Stones and burning branches were thrown at the Garda car. They radioed for reinforcements before getting out.