In the Company of Others (7 page)

BOOK: In the Company of Others
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‘Cynthia says send th’ shirt you wore on th’ plane and your personals; she wants her wee bit in the top drawer, she says.’

‘The fishermen got away early, I take it?’

‘Oh, they did. An’ th’ ladies an’ their ghillies will be out all day to the Lung Valley, so ’t was a big fry this mornin’. Everybody was speakin’ of th’ terrible thing that happened to your lovely wife—please God, it shouldn’t ruin her holiday.’

He deposited Cynthia’s offering in the basket and rummaged on the floor of the armoire for his own bit.

‘Mr. O’Malley was searchin’ everywhere this mornin’ for ’is orange pullover with a hood, but surely nobody would steal such as that, he says. I thought mebbe he sent it down with ’is laundry an’ Bella folded it with th’ family wash, but ’t was no pullover to be found. Mr. O’Malley calls it ’is lucky fishin’ shirt, so we’re all on th’ hunt for ’t.’

‘And I’ve been tearing up jack looking for my cell phone.’

He delivered the Mobile Library and Snack Hamper to the patient, found Liam, took him up on his offer, listened to a tutorial on the idiosyncrasies of the vehicle, collected the keys, had serious second thoughts.

Then again, why not? It was a beautiful morning, cool as mid-May in Carolina, and what did he have to lose? He and Walter had talked about Katherine needing a backup driver, just in case. One thing was clear—he did not want Walter to be the backup driver. When Walter looked away from the road, as was his wont, the car veered in the direction of his gaze.

William sat by the fire studying
The Sligo Champion
, Cynthia was absorbed in the journal. A true library, he thought.

‘You’re looking fit this morning, William.’

‘Same as y’rself, Rev’rend. I hear you’ll be takin’ a turn in m’ oul’ clunker—she was a beauty in her day.’

‘I’ve decided to step up to the plate and drive like an Irishman.’ He jangled the keys.

‘Ye are an Irishman,’ said William.

He kept forgetting that.

‘’t is a grand, soft day for runnin’ about. Might I go with ye, then?’

‘Why, yes. Of course.’

‘’t isn’t th’ automatic Yanks are after drivin’, she’s a stick.’

‘I drive a stick at home.’

William collected his cane, buttoned his cardigan. ‘Your missus says she’s comin’ along with th’ ankle.’

‘She is. Dr. Feeney had a look this morning. She just needs to stay off the foot.’

‘We’re ruined entirely by such as that—jumpin’ out of cupboards at defenseless women an’ all. Anna, she’ll make it up to ye some way.’

‘No need. I’ll just say goodbye to my wife and we’ll be off.’

He wasn’t so sure about this.

‘Okay, Kav’na. I’m out of here to practice driving on the wrong side. Do you need to practice with your crutches before I go? You can’t sit there forever without moving around.’

Through the open window, the distant sound of a bleating sheep. She looked up in the dreamy way she had when her mind was elsewhere. ‘It’ll be three times in a half century I’ve raced around on the wicked things; I’ll be fine, just set them closer.’

He set them closer, leaned down, and kissed her. ‘Stay off that historic ankle.’

Anna came in from the entrance hall with a trug of purple iris. ‘Da,’ she said, anxious, ‘are you off somewhere?’

‘I’m goin’ with th’ rev’rend to help with ’is drivin’.’

‘I need all the help I can get,’ he told Anna.

‘Are you sure, Reverend?’

‘If somebody around here would just call me Tim,’ he said, mocking the wistful.

‘I’ve never—’

‘I know—you’ve never called a clergyman by his first name.’

‘Yes. I mean, no. Never.’

‘Try it,’ he said.

‘’tis th’ Protestants don’t mind th’ first name,’ declared William.

She took a deep breath, smiled her engaging smile. ‘Tim.’

‘See there?’

‘Put on your ones an’ twos an’ come with us,’ said William.

‘No, Da, I’ve got my work to do. Go and enjoy yourself.’

She pressed his hand, he smelled the faint scent of iris. ‘Have a good time, then, and come back safe, please God.’

They crunched over the gravel to a faded green vehicle unlike anything he’d ever seen, and clambered in. William sat with his cane between his knees, expectant.

He fumbled with the ignition, stepped on the brake, pushed in the clutch, fired the engine.

A cacophony of shrieks and moans, and they were off.

He glanced in disbelief at William, who was laughing, and tried to wrench the stick out of first gear into second, but could not; it might have been set in concrete.

‘You got t’
torment
th’ bugger!’ William shouted over the roar and babble.

‘Pull back on ’t, ’t will squawk like ye’re strip-pin’ it. Are ye heavy on th’ clutch? Bear down!’

He bore down and wrestled the stick into second. Perspiration blew from all pores. Then, the gear grooved into its sweet spot and they were out of the car park and into the narrow lane.

Green fields furled away on either side of the track, the broad lake gleamed on their right. He got a deep breath, looked at William, laughed.

‘Runnin’ like a top!’ shouted his passenger.

The intense green of Ireland had become a cliché, he supposed, with all credit going to the goodness of rain. But it was composed of more, he reckoned, than a plenitude of moisture— something supernal was ever rising from the core of this ancient land carved by glaciers.

A goulash of gear rattled on the backseat—hubcaps, spare tires, a jumble of waders and Wellingtons, a jar of nails, a couple of salmon nets.

‘Any morning traffic in the lane—to speak of?’

‘Maybe th’ lad as tends th’ deer comin’ in, maybe not. Can’t say.’

‘What about the steering?’ The wheel was behaving like a loose tooth.

‘’t is a lazy wheel, ye’ll have to show it what’s what.’

He should have taken a swing around the car park before setting off. When bombarded by other people’s agendas for his time and energy, he lost entirely what feeble mind he possessed. But that was all spilled milk and no use bawling; he was doing this thing.

Somewhere toward the end of the hedgerows, he did what he feared—ran too close to the masquerade of moss and ivy and struck the stone beneath. There was the horrific sound of scraping metal, as the side mirror was ripped from its hinges.

He killed the engine. The jet lag which he’d largely ignored, together with the upheaval of last night, crashed in. He had no strength even for humiliation.

‘I’ll replace it,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Ah, now, every dog’s a pup ’til he hunts. ’t is no matter. Crank ’er up an’ keep goin’.’

He cranked her up. Stuck the smashed and dangling mirror back on its thingamajig. Wrestled the stick into reverse. Backed away from the wall.

‘Hold it!’ shouted William. ‘Ye’ll be knockin’ off th’ taillamp. All right, now, pull ahead.’

He crossed himself. He pulled ahead. They were off.

Somehow—he didn’t know how—the whole equation started to work once they clamored past what Aengus Malone called the landlord walls.

‘I’m going out to the highway,’ he said, ‘if it’s all right with you.’

‘Go out!’ said the old man. In the strong morning light, William’s hair was a blaze of white fire.

‘Left or right?’ he asked.

‘Left!’

Once they hit asphalt, the rattle and bang of the thing had a kind of music, after all. The noise was similar to the effect of taps on a shoe—letting a man know he was alive, and breathing, and going where he had to go.

‘Hallelujah,’ he said.

‘Ah-men,’ said William. ‘An’ there’s a pub down th’ way.’

‘Not for me, thanks.’

‘Ah, no, for me,’ said William. ‘’t is a long month of Sundays since I drank a pint with th’ sun up.’

Roughly three miles on the wrong side, and so far, so good, he thought, as they topped the hill and pulled onto the gravel of the roadside pub.

They sat at the bar with the morning sun warming their backs through the open door.

‘I was a livin’ terror,’ said William.

‘I’d fight a bear if there be one about. ’t was a monstrous thing reared up in me as a lad. It frightened even m’self, an’ scared th’ wits out of th’ boys I roughed about with. When it came on, ’t would send ’em runnin’ home to their oul’ mothers.

‘I felt all th’ rage of Ireland in me, fierce to come out. I’d have been a happier man if it’d come out in farmin’ th’ land, or somethin’ more peaceable. My oul’ da used to say a bit he got from your man Virgil:
If I can’t move heaven, I’ll raise hell
.

‘An Irishman in those days had no chance of movin’ heaven, so a number of us tried the other device.

‘Back then, young an’ old still collected at th’ crossroads in these wild regions, to talk an’ joke and play th’ fiddle—but me, I’d go there to fight. I’d hardly a shoe to me foot those days, but all th’ while, th’ name of William Donavan was goin’ round th’ townlands an’ villages ’til th’ whole of Sligo knew it. Now an’ again, I was smokin’ grapevine an’ dinin’ off seaweed, but I earned a quid or two—an’ every man I fought, Irish or no, I pictured in m’ mind as English. ’t was the
incentive
, m’ father called it, an’ bedad, if it didn’t work most of th’ time.

‘’t was all a savage piece of business, Rev’rend, an’ a miracle I’m sittin’ here in your face today with these ears modeled off a cauliflower.

‘I was seventeen yares old when they promoted a fight as they had in th’ early times, though ’t was by then against th’ law to fight in such a brute manner. They went up an’ down th’ roads from Ballysadare to Curry, talkin’ it up. ’t was to be three rounds—one with swords, one bare-knuckle, one with th’ cudgels, as they did in th’ former century. My oul’ father called it
cum gladiis et fustibus
, he spoke the odd bit of Latin learned from my grandfather.’

William took a draught of his Guinness.

‘I’d handled a sword a good bit an’ it came easy enough. First round I made a deep cut to ’is left buttock an’ drew th’ blood they were lookin’ for; second, I done ’im up with my bare fists in three minutes. Third was th’ cudgels, an’ th’ most violent brawl a man could ever hope to see, m’self included. ’t was like I stepped out of me flesh, walked out of it like an oul’ overcoat and was fightin’ on th’ side of the angels. If it came to th’ worst, I said, ’t would be my own way of dyin’ for Ireland.

‘He dealt me a crushin’ blow to th’ ribs, I heard ’em snap like twigs, an’ th’ breath went out of me altogether. But I managed to deal him a blow to th’ knee. Smashed ’is kneecap, I remember th’ sound of it, an’ down he went.

‘Mother of God, I only did such as that th’ once, I niver did it again to any man. At th’ end, they were cheerin’ an’ liftin’ me up, a great bag of wicked pain an’ bleedin’ flesh, an’ ’t was William Donavan who won th’ match.

‘That one got th’ name abroad, an’ a cunnin’ man from Enniskillen to manage th’ all of it. It put a head on me, th’ uproar an’ blather—I was thinkin’ m’self next in line to th’ great John L. Sullivan. ’t was Sullivan who said when he started boxin’, he felt he could knock out any man livin’, an’ so did I.’

William hauled forth a handkerchief, gave his nose a fierce blow. ‘Th’ sinuses!’ he said. ‘From m’ nose bein’ broken th’ three times.

‘And here we went, then, to Bundoran, Long-ford, Roscommon, Ballina, Boyle, Carrick-on-Shannon—every place there was a man to fight, an’ th’ Irish were fightin’ men. Then there was Collooney—an’ ’t was in Collooney I met th’ woman I proposed to marry.’ William’s blue eyes were bright, as with fever.

‘William,’ said the bartender, ‘introduce me to th’ father.’

’t is no father, ’t is th’ Rev’rend Timothy Kav’na from th’ States. Meet Jack Kennedy.’

‘A pleasure,’ said the bartender.

‘Named for the Irish Jack who became our President?’

‘Ah, no, we’ve Jack Kennedys by th’ legions. Throw a cap in th’ air, ’t will come down on a Jack Kennedy one way or another. I hear you had a bit of noise at Broughadoon last night, some fellow in your cupboards.’

‘The bad news is th’ quickest to go round,’ said William. ‘How’d you hear such?’

‘From th’ Gards who came by for a bit of late supper. Any harm done?’

‘Only to th’ rev’rend’s lovely wife. Havin’ a man jump in y’r face at a late hour is harm enough, I’d say.’

‘Sorry to hear it. He’ll not be back, is my guess. I take it you’re stayin’ down the way, then.’

‘My wife and I are at Broughadoon for a week or two, yes.’

‘Fishin’, are you?’

‘No fishing.’

‘He’s learnin’ to drive on th’ wrong side of the road,’ said William.

Jack Kennedy had himself a laugh. ‘And how’s it goin’?’

‘Only one side mirror so far,’ he said.

‘Remember the old days, William, when you walked up and back from the lodge to have y’rself a smoke?’

‘Aye, an’ when a man had to step outside with his fag in a hard rain, I quit tobacco altogether. ’

‘’t was th’ smokin’ and drinkin’ laws gave us th’ hardest blow,’ said Jack. ‘For m’ father who opened this place, ’t was the telly as corrupted the pub system by keepin’ customers at home, and so we put the telly in the pubs an’ that helped bring ’em back, don’t you know, an’ things were lookin’ up—then along comes the punishin’ limits on drinkin’, an’ while they’re at it, they take away th’ smokin’ inside.’ Jack threw up his hands. ‘’t is one heavy blade after another.’

‘Saints above, Jack, you’re exaggeratin’ th’ truth.’

‘Th’ truth, William, cannot be exaggerated.’

‘’t is savin’ lives, if you read th’ papers. We’ll live longer to cheat th’ devil.’

Jack laughed. ‘You’ve a point, William, you’ve a point. An’ never let it be said Jack Kennedy has th’ tight fist. Your drinks are on th’ house.’

‘Ye never stood me a drink in me life.’

‘You never came in with a rev’rend before, nor a man havin’ a Diet Coke when he could have himself a pint.’

They were pulling out of the car park when he saw the bicycle moving along the highway at considerable speed. He braked for the bike to pass. Orange pullover, hood up. Rider sitting tall on the seat. Dark glasses. He waited for a time, staring after the southbound cyclist, then pulled onto the highway, confused for a moment about the side of the road he should occupy.

BOOK: In the Company of Others
12.4Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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