Long Lankin: Stories (7 page)

—All right, Liza, so I’m drunk. So what?

—So nothing. I said nothing. Your tie is crooked.

His hands went to the limp black bow at his neck, and went away again.

—It’s coming apart, he said. The knot is coming apart.

—Yes.

He held her eyes for a moment, and looked away. He said:

—You have a sobering effect, Liza. How do you live with yourself?

—You always pretend to be drunker than you are and then you blame me. That’s all.

—You know, I met a woman upstairs and thought it was you. She was laughing and I thought it was you. Imagine.

He put his hands into the pockets of his jacket and looked at the room. The couple had stopped dancing, and were standing motionless now in the middle of the floor, their arms around each other as though they had forgotten to disentangle them. Mor said:

—What are they waiting for? Why don’t they go home?

—You hate them, Liza said. Don’t you?

—Who?

—All of them. All these people — our friends.

He looked at her, his eyebrows lifted.

—No. I’m sorry for them — for us. Look at it. The new Ireland. Sitting around at the end of a party wondering why we’re not happy. Trying to find what it is we’ve lost.

—O Mor, don’t start all that.

He smiled at her, and murmured:

—No.

David put his head around the door, and when he saw them he smiled and shot at them with a finger and thumb. He crossed the room with exaggerated stealth, looking over his shoulder at imaginary pursuers. He stopped near them and asked from the corner of his mouth:

—They get him yet?

—Who? said Liza, smiling at his performance.

Mor frowned at him, and shook his head, but David pretended not to notice.

—Why, your murderer, of course.

Liza’s mouth fell open, the glass shook in her hand, and then was still. David went on:

—You mean you didn’t know about it? O come on now, Liza, I thought you and Mor had arranged it. You know —we’ve got everything at our party including a murderer loose in the grounds with the cops chasing him. You didn’t know, Liza?

—Shut up, David.

—O excuse me, said David, grinning, and coughed behind his hand. Liza turned to him.

—David, what is this joke all about? Seriously now.

—Well Liz, it’s no joke. Some tinker stabbed his girlfriend six times in the heart tonight. The guards had him cornered here when the rain came on. The way I heard it they left some green recruit to watch for him while they all trooped back to Celbridge for their raincoats. Anyway, they say he’s somewhere in the grounds, but knowing the boys he’s probably in England by now. Come over to the window and you can see the lights. It’s all very exciting.

Liza took a drink and laid down her glass. She said quietly, without raising her head:

—Why didn’t you tell me, Mor?

—I forgot.

—You forgot.

—Yes. I forgot.

David looked from one of them to the other, grinning sardonically. He said:

—Perhaps, Liza, he didn’t want to frighten you?

Mor turned and looked at David, his lips a thin pale line.

—You have a loud mouth, David.

He moved away from them, then paused and said:

—And uncurl your lip when you talk to me. Or I might be tempted to wipe that sneer off your face.

The smile faded, and David said coldly:

—No offence meant, Mor.

—And none taken.

—Then why are you so angry?

Mor laughed, a short, cold sound.

—I haven’t been angry in years.

He stalked away, and in silence they watched him go. Then Liza laughed nervously and said:

—Take no notice of him, David. He’s a bit drunk. You know.

David shrugged his shoulders and smiled at her.

—I must go home.

In the hall Liza helped him into his coat. He said lightly:

—Why don’t you come over to the house and visit me some day? The old bachelor life gets very dreary.

She glanced at him with a small sly smile.

—For what? she asked.

He pursed his lips and turned to the door. With is hand on the lock he said stiffly:

—I’m … I’m very fond of you, Liza.

She laughed, and looked down at her dress in confusion.

—Of me? O you’re not.

—I am, Liza.

—You shouldn’t say things like that. Good night, David.

But neither moved. They stood and gazed at each other, and Liza’s breath quickened. She moved swiftly to the door and pulled it open, and a blast of wind came in to disturb the hall. She stepped out on the porch with him. The oaks were lashing their branches together, and they had voices that cried and groaned. Black rain was falling, and in the light from the door the lawn was a dark, ugly sea. She opened her mouth to speak, closed it, then turned away from him and said:

—Call me.

She stood very still and looked out at the darkness, and the damp wind lifted her hair. David moved to touch her, and dropped his hand. He said:

—I’ll call you tomorrow.

—No. Not tomorrow.

—When?

—I must go, David.

With her head bent she turned and hurried back along the hall.

All the guests had left the drawing room, and Mor sat alone in a high, winged chair, a glass in his hand and a bottle beside him on a low table. His tie had at last come undone, and his eyes were faintly glazed. Liza went to the couch and straightened a cushion. From the floor she gathered up a cigarette end and an overturned glass. He watched her, his chin on his breast. He said thickly:

—What’s wrong with you?

—Nothing. Have they all gone?

—I suppose so.

She went to the tall window beside his chair and drew back the curtains. The wind pounded the side of the house, and between gusts the rain whispered softly on the glass. Down past the black, invisible fields, little lights were moving. She said:

—I wonder why he killed her.

—They say he wanted to marry her and she wouldn’t have him. I think she was maybe a man-eater. A tart. He killed her. Happens every day, these days.

There was silence but for the wind and rain beating, and the faint sighing of the trees. Mor said:

—I suppose David made his usual pass?

She moved her shoulders, and he grinned up at her, showing his teeth. She said:

—He asked if … he asked me to go with him. Tonight. He asked would I go with him.

—Did he, now? And why didn’t you?

She did not answer. He poured himself another drink.

—I know how David’s mind works, he said. He thinks I don’t deserve you. He’s wrong, though — God help me.

—You have a nasty mind.

—Yes. Though he must have been encouraged when I took the job. That sent me down a little farther.

He looked at her where she stood in the shadows watching the night. He frowned and asked:

—Do you despise me too?

—For taking the job? Why should I? Are you ashamed?

—No, no. Your father is very good to do so much for me. Yes, I’m ashamed.

—Why?

—Don’t act, Liza.

—It was your decision. If you had kept on writing I would have stood by you. We would have managed. Daddy could have —

She bit her lip, and Mor laughed.

—Go on, he said. Daddy could have kept us. You’re right. Kind, generous daddy would have come along with his money-bags to sour our lives. Where’s the use in talking. Me a writer? I’d be laughed out of the county. The bar in the Grosvenor Arms would collapse after a week of the laughing. Did you hear how mad Mor knocked up old man Fitz’s daughter and moved into the big house and now says he’s writing a book? Did you ever hear the likes? No, Liza. This place produced me and will destroy me if I try to break free. All this crowd understands is the price of a heifer and the size of the new car and the holiday in Spain and those godblasted dogs howling for blood. No.

She said quietly:

—If you hated these people so much, why did you marry into them?

—Because, Liza my dear, I didn’t know I was marrying into them.

There was a long silence, then Liza spoke:

—It wasn’t my fault he died, she said, sadly defiant.

Mor turned away from her in the chair and threw up his hands.

—Always, he said. Always it comes to your mind. Blaming me.

She did not speak, and he leaned towards her, whispering:

—Blaming me.

She joined her hands before her and sighed, holding her eyes fixed on the dark gleam of the glass before her. He said:

—Well why don’t you just trot along now after old David there. Sure maybe he can give you a better one. One that will live longer and make you happy.

She swung about to face him. Her eyes blazed, and she said:

—All right then, Mor, if you want a fight you’ll get one.

For a moment they stared at each other, and her anger went away. She turned back to the window.

—Well? Mor asked, and the word rang in the silence. She lifted her shoulders slowly, allowed them to fall. Mor nodded.

—Yes, he said. We’ve had it all before.

He stood up unsteadily, pressing his fingers on the arm of the chair for support. He went and stood beside her at the window. She said:

—They’re still searching. Look at the lights.

Side by side they stood and watched the tiny flashes move here and there in the dark. Suddenly she said:

—If he got to the stables he could come in through the side door. If he did I’d hide him.

He stared at her, and feeling his eyes on her she set her mouth firmly and said:

—I would, I’d hide him. And then in the morning I’d get him out and bring him to Dublin and put him on the boat for England, for Liverpool or some place.

She reached out blindly and took his hand. There were tears on her face, they fell, each gathering to itself a little light and flashing in the darkness of the window.

—We could do that if he came, couldn’t we, Mor? It wouldn’t be a bad thing to do. It wouldn’t be a crime, I mean, would it? Out there in the dark with the rain and everything and thinking about all the things — thinking and thinking. It wouldn’t be wrong to help him, Mor?

He took her in his arms and held her head on his shoulder. She was trembling.

—No, he said softly. It wouldn’t be a bad thing.

She began to sob quietly, and he lifted her head and smiled at her.

—Don’t cry, Liza. There now.

The door-bell rang, and her eyes filled with apprehension. Without a word she moved past him and left the room.

Mor stood and looked about him. Long ago when he first saw this room he had thought it beautiful, and now it was one of the few things left which had not faded. The shaded lamps took from the warm walls of lilac a soft, full light, it touched everything, the chairs, the worn carpet, with gentle fingers. On the table beside him a half-eaten sandwich lay beside his bottle. There was an olive transfixed on a wooden pin. Muted voices came in from the hall, and outside in the fields a shout flared like a flame in the dark and then was blown away. Mor lifted his glass, and when the amber liquid moved, all the soft light of the room seemed to shift with it. He felt something touch him. It was as though all the things he had ever lost had now come back to press upon his heart with a vast sadness. He stared at the table, at the little objects, the bread and the bottle, the olive dead on its pin.

Liza came back, her hands joined before her, and the knuckles white. She stopped in the middle of the room and looked blankly about her, as if she were dazed.

—What is it? he asked. Who was at the door?

—A guard.

—What did he want?

—What?

—What did he want? The guard.

—O, the guard. He wanted to use the ’phone.

She looked at him, and blinked rapidly twice.

—They found him, she said. He hanged himself in the long meadow.

She examined the room once again with vague eyes, then she sighed, and went away. He sat down to finish his drink, and after a time went out and climbed the stairs.

Liza was lying in bed, the lamp beside her throwing a cruel light over her drawn face. He sat beside her and watched her. Her eyes were open, staring up into the dimness. In the silence there was the sound of the rain against the window. She said, so softly he barely heard her:

—We missed so much.

He leaned down and kissed her forehead. She did not move. He put his hand over her breast, feeling the nipple cold and small through the silk of her nightgown.

—Liza.

She turned away from him, and when she spoke her voice was muffled by the sheets.

—Bring me a glass of water, Morris. My mouth is dry.

He moved away from her, and switched off the light. He went down the stairs in the darkness, the air cold and stale against his face. On quiet feet he returned to the drawing room and poured another, last drink. Then he went and stood at the dark window, and listened to the wind blowing in the trees.

Summer Voices

 … Shalt thou hope. His truth shall compass thee with a shield. Thou shalt not be afraid of the terror of the night, of the arrow that flies in the day, of the business that walks in the dark, of invasion or of the noonday devil.

The old voice droned on, and the boy wondered at the words. He looked through the window at the countryside, the fields floating in the summer heat. On Hallowe’en people must stay indoors for fear of the devils that fly in the darkness. Once he had heard them crying, those dark spirits, and she said it was only the wind. But to think of the wind in the black trees out on the marsh was almost as bad as imagining devils. And late that night from the window of his bedroom he saw huge shadows of leaves dancing on the side of the house, and the circle of light from the street lamp shivering where it fell on the road.

—Are you going to ask her?

—What?

The little girl frowned at him and leaned close to his ear, her curls falling about her face. She whispered:

—Ssh, will you. Are you going to ask her can we go? He said seven days and the tide will be up in an hour. Go on and ask her.

He nodded.