In the Company of Others (12 page)

‘What is this Mass rock business?’ he asked.

‘I’ve been meaning to find out,’ she said. ‘Help me remember to ask.’

‘And who will help me remember to help you?’

‘Please try.’

‘Righto. What happened to Balfour’s place, do you know? Might be something to see before we leave.’

‘Keep reading,’ she said.

12 May 1862

While one may despise the Oppressor, one clings to his language—it is spoken everywhere the print of his Boot is made—Keegan says the English is for ‘mekkin war & the Irish for mekkin love.’ Keegan has been twelve years widowed & I see him cast his eye about at the Women—he tells a rough joke on occasion which makes the old women laugh & the young hide their faces behind their hands.

He is correct in asserting that I should be handier at the doctoring if I chose to speak Irish with the people—though twas Mother’s milk to me until seventeen or more, I carry no blood memory of it—to have spoken it in America would have marked me as a simpleton. Keegan’s own English is good & he speaks enough Irish to have assisted in finding a Name for the place & to interpret when we stir about the Region—he is indispensable among the workmen.

A is a bright thing who wishes to teach us in the Evening—we point like dunces to this & that—the packed earth floor, the hearth, the chickens, the cooking pots—& she gives us the Irish in return. At the same time she is learning a bit of English from us, all of which turns the speech of this narrow household into a stew of befuddlement, causing Laughter to break out like measles & excite the Chickens.

Candle
Baby
Finger
May
coinneal
Leanbh
miar
Bealtaine

She brought very few personal items when she came to us, save for her most prized possession—her mother’s old three-legged milking stool. She sits on it before the fire conducting her language lessons, happy to have something to give beyond earnest common labor.

When I speak with Keegan about independence, he says tis a speabhraidi, a pipedream. I hope to soon turn him from this lazy-minded notion—it is a blasphemy.

John Mitchel said it for me—‘England is truly a great public criminal. England! All England! She must be punished; that punishment will as I believe come upon her by & through Ireland; & so Ireland will be avenged.’

Many casualties in the recent battle of Shiloh, well above ten thousand either side. It seems to me this war is not over human flesh but Greed as is the case in every armed conflict. God help the brothers who war against one another.

1 June

A fine, soft rain throughout the day—in America I had forgotten how often it rains in the Eire—gratifying nonetheless to be making the Rounds & seeing so many lift their Caps as we pass—Adam was given two apples by the children at O’Leary’s cabin, so well do they love my Mount & the fact that their Sister has a good home with the doctor & his wife.

Such a day is a Pleasure when one is haunted so gravely by the many one sees of Suffering.

Have hired on Danny Moore who is deft with the stump & gets about smartly on his crutch—though unskilled, he seems fitted for the plaster work & will apprentice to James Murray, a man of parts—I have given him a wage above that of other unskilled plasterers—he has given in turn his vow not to speak of it to the men as it would incite ill feeling—his mother came on foot to thank me—she & C having a fine tea together.

Will go down to the Dublin Apothecary Monday next, with further intentions of seeing our Solicitor & having a new coat with hood & warm lining fashioned for C—A shall also have something warm for her back—she is small & thin as a reed as are all her family from long years of poor nourishment.

Have today agreed with C how we shall divide our Estate as one never knows when one’s Call may come. Having no child of our own, I will name my orphaned nephew & namesake, Padraigin, as heir to Catharmore—he shows good sense in business affairs & is thrifty as a Scot. He has visited once at my decree—quite silent & cold as a trout but perhaps overstrained by travel undertaken on roads nearly in ruin—I would fain do for him what Uncle did for me. Only one of my brothers living & he in good fettle with fat cows & sufficient Bogland & a hale daughter to care for his needs. C’s widowed niece & her many offspring benefit in our lifetime rather than when we are laid in the Grave.

Without further delay of bad wether, we shall move our modest household into the manor no later than year’s end. Keegan will turn his cottage over to an ageing sister & lodge in a small room adjoining the Surgery.

C proposes that A should have the care of our lamps when in the house—she is deft at trimming wicks to produce a sweet flame & washing the chimneys without breakage. She will also have sole care of the laundry, the carrying out of ashes, emptying of slop jars & other general chores. A is pleased at the prospect of expanding her duties.

He came awake from Fintan O’Donnell’s complicated life and noted the simplicity of his own—Pud’s chin rested on his bare foot. Made him miss the Old Gentleman. He could say anything to Barnabas, read him the Romantic poets or discourse on the politics of the day; his good dog inevitably listened with grave interest. An elegant soul.

4 June

Balfour treats his servants the way slaves are said to be treated in the southlands of America. I doctered a southern slave on two occasions in Philadelphia—a striking figure of a black man with a voice as deep as that of a church organ & attired nearly as well as his Master in a vest of striped satin with a woollen frock coat & dove colored breeches—I recall that he carried a pocket watch & suffered from tumors of the mouth which we were able to address with some success—he oversaw the business dealings of a planter in the Carolinas & had a nobel manner about him.

Yesterday treated the head wound of a lad who was kicked by a horse while mucking Balfour’s stables—I learned that he was badly beaten twice when Balfour was in a drunken rage—He broke down in a fit of sobbing & pled with me not to tell it abroad else he be more fiercely treated & sent off the place. Having come from England with his father, now deceased, he would have no Family to turn to nor any place to lay his head.

From my experience in America & in my own Country, tis clear that Alcohol has wrought more misery than can be reckoned—it is as merciless as any plague in the taking of both lives & souls.

The caffeine was wearing thin. He trooped to the bed, Pud at his heels, and crawled beneath the duvet.

As he punched up his pillow, Pud stared at him, unblinking. Needless to say, there would be no balm in Gilead. None.

‘On or off?’ he asked his reading wife.

‘Why don’t we just cut to the chase?’

He patted a spot by his feet; Pud leaped onto the bed, nailed the proffered territory, lay down, sighed.

‘Only one problem,’ he said.

‘What’s that?’

‘We don’t know where this might lead.’

She turned a page, laughing. ‘Since when do we know where anything might lead?’

‘You have a point,’ he said.

Fifteen

Showered, shaved, and dressed for dinner, he opened the journal to his bookmark.

Fair

Having cured a sty on the eye of my own milch cow, the word has spread like brush fire—for everything from cow beetle to the infected teat, they are at me for treatment. No bastes, I tell them, no bastes! Old Rose McFee is determined I should deliver her calf.

Fair days—the men working at a pace—we shall take occupancy of Catharmore by early August or I’m damned.

I mark here Keegan’s report—that Balfour has twice made foul comments to the men about Aoife.

‘You’re all dressed.’ She limped from the bathroom on her crutch, steaming like a clam in the Darling Robe.

‘Why don’t you go visit in the library? Just come back in a half hour or so and give me a hand down the stairs.’ She leaned to him and fussed with the silk handkerchief in his jacket pocket, and he stood for any further improvements.

‘You’re looking very sexy,’ she said.

Until she came into his life, such a thing as looking sexy had never occurred to him—the notion would have seemed absurd.

There he’d been, tied up at the dock for better than sixty years, the waves occasionally swamping his boat, but safe at harbor, nonetheless. Then she’d moved next door and in no time at all he was unmoored completely. He was terrified of being dashed on the rocks, or adrift on the deep with no way to read the stars of his frightening passion—he was the old man ’way out at sea, in the thrall of a woman who found him romantic and clever. St. Matthew had asked, Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit unto his stature? Ha. He had grown ten feet tall in the first months of his fumbling courtship.

‘I mean it,’ she said, kissing him for a fare-thee-well. She drew away and laughed. ‘You’re blushing.’

‘Tight collar.’

‘I haven’t wanted to say anything, but you’re a little out of control with your diet.’

‘I’ll watch it.’ He hated watching it, but she was right.

‘Thirty minutes, then? Don’t forget me.’

‘No chance.’

Pud accompanied him downstairs, shoe in mouth. On the landing, he peered out to the garden—the rain had ended, thanks be to God.

In the library, Pete O’Malley, looking sour and wearing a tie patterned with fishing lures.

‘How did it go today at the river?’

‘Was supposed to fair off by noon,’ said Pete, ‘but not a stir.’

He sat in a wing chair. ‘Where did the poker club do their damage?’

‘Lough Key. Hardly any rain at Key. Caught enough fish to sink a freighter—they could go commercial.’

‘They’re that good?’

‘Maniacs, those women. Cast a line, hook a trout, cast a line, hook a salmon ...’ Pete swirled his drink, drained the glass. ‘I’m havin’ th’ Irish T-bone this evenin’. Medium rare.’

‘Come on. It’s the poker club’s night to shine.’

Pete looked repentent. ‘You’re right. I’ll have th’ T-bone tomorrow evenin’.’

‘That’s the spirit.’

Pud sat at his feet, unblinking. ‘Give it up, buddy. I’ll catch you tomorrow.’ Seducing aromas from the kitchen. Gray flakes of burned turf rising in the draft.

‘Maybe I should get a dog,’ said Pete.

‘You can tell dogs anything, and they’ll still love you.’

‘If I told a dog everything, that dog would be gone in a heartbeat. Guess it’s different with clergy, not much to tell.’

He laughed. ‘Guess you don’t know much about clergy.’

Pete adjusted his tie, eyed the stair hall. ‘We’re out of here Friday before sunup.’

‘Sorry to hear it.’

‘A pretty good life at ol’ Broughadoon. Like Ireland used to be. Anyway, I’ll be goin’ home to a Manx cat my wife left when she moved out, an’ a parrot named Roscoe that sings Beatles tunes.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘Serious as a heart attack. Ol’ Roscoe lives at the office; my secretary treats him like Michael Collins resurrected. He’s been on th’ telly three times.’

‘What’s his specialty?’

‘Yellow Submarine. Want to see his picture?’

Pete pulled a cell phone from his jacket pocket, glowered at it, fiddled with it, handed it over. ‘Roscoe.’

A photo of a parrot looking grouchy. ‘Amazing, ’ he said. ‘No grandkids?’

‘It’s hard to get grandkids these days, have you noticed? My daughter has a pig that sleeps on her bed, my son has a wire-haired terrier—that’s all she wrote in that department.’

‘What do you do in Dublin?’

‘Insurance. Family company founded by my great-granddad in nineteen aught nine.’

‘Aught. Haven’t heard that in a while.’

‘I’ve been seein’ a lot of it on my bottom line. Too much stress in th’ business today—I remember what my dad used to say, he owned a cattle operation on the side—stress toughens th’ meat and sours th’ milk.’

‘I’ll buy that.’

Pete looked at him intently. ‘You’re a lucky man.’

‘Can’t say I believe in luck, but why do you think so?’

‘Your wife, she’s a great lady.’

‘She is. Thanks. Puts up with me.’

‘That’s bloody hard to find—somebody to put up with you—in spite of your mess.’

‘Putting up with somebody’s mess works both ways.’

‘I couldn’t put up with my wife’s mess—I don’t blame her for walkin’ out.’

A burst of laughter from the dining room; they were finishing the table setups. Something electric was in the air—something to do with Anna’s surprise, no doubt.

‘I have bad luck with women. But, hey, if I didn’t have bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all.’ Pete manufactured a laugh.

He knew the feeling. Balding, overweight, and stuck in a remote parish at the age of forty, he had resigned himself to the fact that it was all over for him in the marriage department. What he couldn’t know was that twenty years later, a children’s book author with great legs would move next door.

‘You know what it’ll take to save my marriage? ’ asked Pete.

‘What’s that?’

‘A bloody miracle.’

They heard the poker club coming along the stair hall. He saw the hopeful look on Pete’s face, saw him close it down and try the sour look again.

‘Refill,’ said Pete, getting up and heading to the honesty bar.

In the dining room, newly starched linens; candles and garden roses on tables and sideboard; doors open to the summer evening. A pretty good life at ol’ Broughadoon—definitely.

Though the anglers were full of praise for the club’s fishing skills, they were quick to point out that ghillies and decent weather must nonetheless be given their due.

‘What
ever
,’ said Debbie. ‘
Slainte!
’

Glasses lifted all around. ‘
Slainte!
’

He gazed with his wife at the lough, silvered in the gathering dusk. ‘Maureen calls this the moth hour,’ she said, half dreaming. ‘The moth hour ...’

‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said. ‘I haven’t committed anything to memory in quite a while. You’ve inspired me; I’d like to memorize a poem. Maybe Patrick Kav’na. It would be a souvenir we don’t have to pack, and would last us as long as our wits hold out.’

‘Which we pray will be a very long time,’ she said.

Decked in his butler’s garb, Seamus on his night off from Catharmore was standing in for Bella on her own night off.

‘Fresh peach tart this evening, in a rosemary cornmeal crust . . .’

Seamus paused for effect.

‘. . . or Blackberry Semifreddo—ripe blackberries blended with fresh mint, verbena, homemade ricotta, and local sweet cream, frozen in a nest of dark chocolate.’

‘Now,
that’s
poetry,’ he told his wife.

He remembered being seven years old and working along the creek with Peggy in the blazing Mississippi sun. The handles on their tin buckets creaked; heat shimmered off the water.

Pick a berry, slap a chigger, pick a berry . . .

‘We gon’ be eat up,’ said Peggy.

‘I’m done eat up.’

‘I’m
already eat-
en up,’ she corrected in the voice that never sounded like Peggy. When he was old enough to know better, he realized she never corrected
herself
, not one time, it was always him she was after with the English lesson.

‘You gon’ beat me, you keep pickin’ so fast,’ she said.

‘I ain’t gon’ beat you, ’cause I be eatin’ all I pick after I get to right here.’ He tapped the bucket three-fourths of the way to the top.

‘Peoples say don’ eat while you pickin’. If you does, when you eats yo’ cobbler this evenin’, it won’t taste half as good.’

‘How come?’

‘’cause you done spoiled th’ taste in yo’ mouf out here on th’ creek.’

He looked up and rolled his eyeballs as far back in his head as they would go. That’s what he thought about that dumb notion.

Peggy laughed pretty hard; he liked to make Peggy laugh. ‘You
know
what
you
is,’ she said.

He did know. He was th’ aggravatin’est little weasel she ever seen . . .

‘The peach tart,’ said Cynthia.

‘The thing with blackberries,’ he told Seamus.

‘’t is a grand evening you’ll be havin’ in th’ library with your coffee.’

Cynthia adjusted her glasses and peered at their server. ‘You’re looking quite distinguished, I must say.’

‘’t is th’ candlelight—it softens th’ shine on my butler’s oul’ duds. We’ll bury you in it, Seamus, says Mrs. Conor. Aye, says I, for you’ll outlive me and all th’ rest.’

‘What would you know about the Mass rock?’ he asked. ‘Where is it located? O’Donnell speaks of it in the journal.’

‘You’ll have to ask Anna or Liam. I saw it years ago, but can’t remember whether it’s right or left of th’ lake path.’

When Seamus walked away he saw it coming.

‘Cream. Cheese. Chocolate,’ said his wife, reciting a litany of his offenses.

‘Righto. And mint, verbena, and fresh berries. Six of one, half dozen of the other.’

She raised an eyebrow.

‘Now, Kav’na. Look at all the fish I’m having. Very good for the diabetic. And all the fresh vegetables.
Locally grown
,’ he said, losing the battle.

The anglers’ table was engrossed in recitation of one sort or another.

Tom raised his glass to the room. ‘May the most we wish for be the least we get.’

‘Hear, hear!
Slainte!
’

‘Oh, give me grace to catch a fish,’ said Pete, ‘so big that even I, when talkin’ of it afterwards, may have no need to lie.’

‘
Slainte!
’

‘
Slainte
here,
slainte
there,’ said his wife, definitely in the spirit of things.

‘To look for a moment on th’
serious
side . . .’ said Debbie.

‘As if there isn’t enough of that in the world,’ said Hugh.

‘. . . I have a question—what is
work
? I mean in th’ true
philosophical
sense.’

‘The true philosophical sense.’ Hugh looked blank. ‘Beats me. I haven’t hit a lick at a snake in three, maybe four weeks.’

He pitched in his two cents’ worth. ‘According to your man Oscar Wilde, work is the curse of the drinking classes.’

‘The answer is simple,’ said Moira. ‘
Work
is for people who
don’t know how to fish
.’

Laughter all around.

Pete raised his glass. ‘No offense to you, Tim. In your callin’, you’re fishin’ twenty-four/seven.’

‘Righto,’ said Hugh. ‘You’re off th’ hook in a manner of speaking.’

‘I’ve got a great idea,’ said Pete. ‘How about we all get together again next year, same time, same station? I’ll bring Roscoe.’

The door from the kitchen swung open—Maureen and Anna, flushed from the heat of the Aga, entered with William, who brought up the rear.

‘Hullo, everyone,’ said Anna. ‘We’re just going in to arrange the chairs. Enjoy your dessert, and please come along when you hear the bell.’

‘Need any help with th’ liftin’?’ asked Pete.

‘We’ve three strong backs for ’t,’ said William. ‘’t is your job to lift th’ fork.’

‘Th’ bane of my days,’ he heard Anna say as the trio walked up the hall. ‘I can do nothing with it this evening, nothing at all.’

And there was William saying, ‘’t is beautiful hair ye got from y’r own mother, Anna Conor. Stop aitin’ y’r face about it.’

At the sound of the bell, they left their tables and trooped to the library, happy to see the small fire poked up and lamps gleaming against the dusk.