‘I’m so sorry for all of it,’ said Anna. ‘Most guests would have been dreadfully upset by last night, and no power to boot. They’d be packin’ up this morning, sure enough. You’re a very kind man.’
He was often called kind, and never knew what to say in response. He certainly didn’t think he was very kind-curious more like it, interested enough in what was going on not to complain of discomfort within reason.
‘And then to have our dog sleeping under your bed. He’s done it only once before-adopted himself out to a schoolteacher on holiday from Cavan.’
‘I’m his first Yank, then.’
Anna smiled a little. ‘We got him from a shelter. They said he belonged to a very hard man; Pud doesn’t like the raised voice.’ She sighed, then straightened herself. ‘Still and all, I shall give you rhubarb every morning if that would make it up a bit.’
‘No need to make it up,’ he said, ‘but I’ll gladly take it.’
They sat at the breakfast table, waiting for Liam to bring out Cynthia’s fry.
‘How is Cynthia this morning?’
‘She slept well, and was singing a little before I came down.’ Where Christ is, Dorothy Sayers had said, cheerfulness will keep breaking in. A description, in toto, of the woman who shared his bed.
‘Do you think she might like to move rooms?’
‘She hasn’t mentioned it.’ Unloading drawers, schlepping their jumble-an aggravation he wasn’t up to.
‘We don’t have an extra room available, but one of the anglers may be willing to make an exchange. I could ask Pete, his room would give you a larger bath and a lovely writing table.’
‘Same view?’
‘Ah, no. Blocked by the beeches, I’m afraid. I’ve given you our prettiest room, really, with hardly a twig to obscure the scenery.’
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Unless you hear otherwise, we’ll stick where we are.’
‘Two of the travel club will be bunking together tomorrow to free up the room for your cousins. That was understood when the ladies booked.’
‘Musical chairs,’ he said.
‘Always.’ Anna ran her fingers through a reckless mass of red curls. ‘Forgive my appearance, Reverend, I’ve somehow not put the comb to my head this morning. It’s as much to keep as the garden.’
She was a beautiful, big-boned woman, intense and present to the moment, with eyes that appeared to take in a horde of details and sort them at lightning speed. Their eyes met as he lifted the cup and polished off his coffee-she looked worn, conflicted, and for a brief moment made no effort to conceal it. He felt there was something she wanted to say to him-four decades of counseling had honed a certain skill at sensing trial behind the forced smile, the hard jaw, the stiff upper lip.
‘I hope you won’t regret not getting about ’til the cousins arrive. There are so many grand places to see-Ben Bulben, of course, and the lovely Knocknarea walk to Queen Maeve’s grave, and Lissadell House and Inishmurray Island, and, oh, the Tubbercurry Fair coming…’
She went on, dutiful in limning the list. Even if they could get about, he lacked the grit to look at anything grand or affecting just now-the view of the lake was enough. He’d never been much of a tourist, and anyway, he’d seen a lot of Sligo on the previous trip. A day in the library would be a banquet of sorts, with a jog by the lake in the afternoon. He had no idea what to do about Walter and Katherine showing up full of vim and vigor, unscathed, as usual, by jet or any other lag. Bottom line, James Feeney was in possession of their immediate future. If Cynthia couldn’t ramble over hill and dale, neither would he.
He was leaving the dining room when Anna dropped a fork, which hit the wood floor, bounced, and skidded under a dish cupboard. He set the tray down.
‘I’ll get it,’ he said, dropping at once to his hands and knees.
‘No, no, please,’ she said. ‘Let me, please.’
‘I can see it, it’s right back…’ He tried to reach the thing, but it eluded him. ‘A broom,’ he said. Peggy had taught him the efficacy of the broom handle-useful for everything from removing spiderwebs in ceiling corners to adjusting a high-hanging picture on the wall. Anna supplied a broom.
He retrieved the fork, embarrassed that he couldn’t shoot to his feet like a young curate. Halfway up, he took the hand she offered.
‘There,’ she said, smiling.
‘There,’ he said, handing over the fork.
They burst into laughter, the nonsensical kind that felt good and didn’t strain anything in the process.
He was passing through the library with the breakfast tray, noting that the fire had been poked up.
‘Yoo hoo, darling, over here. Scooted down the stairs on me bum, then found an umbrella in the stair hall and used it as a cane.’
There she sat in a chair by the open window, looking up-for-anything. He was foolishly happy. ‘You heedless woman.’
He set the tray on the lamp table and rounded up one of the several footstools and placed the tray on it and shook out her napkin and draped it across her lap.
‘Wait,’ he said, ‘’til your doctor hears about this.’
‘I’ve just heard about it from Maureen.’ James Feeney strode in from the hall with a pair of crutches and propped them against the wall. ‘Good morning to all. We have here a very clever woman. Stays off her foot, as the doctor ordered, and still gets about like a field hare. Did you rest?’ Feeney asked his patient.
‘Well enough, thanks-the little pills are a godsend.’
‘Sorry to interrupt your breakfast, I’ll have a quick look if you don’t mind.’ Feeney squatted by the chair. ‘Have you ever used crutches?’
‘Yes, just recently. And before that, when I was ten years old. I painted one red and one yellow, and added green ribbons.’
‘A harbinger of things to come. I’m told you’re a famous children’s book illustrator.’ He examined her ankle. ‘Swollen, inflamed, stiff. All to be expected.’ He gave the ankle a slight turn. ‘How does that feel?’
‘Not bad.’
‘This?’
She flinched. ‘Ugh.’
‘When you were ten-was it your ankle that put you on crutches?’
‘Yes. The same one. Sprained badly.’
‘And your recent fracture. How did that happen?’
‘Missed a porch step,’ she said.
‘I broke my ankle entirely when I was nine. I was learning to fly with my older brother, Jack.’
‘Did you learn?’
‘Ah, no, but Jack did. Royal Air Force. We lost him in France.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Feeney cleared his throat. ‘Yes, well, I recommend you stay off it for at least ten days. You have history with this ankle and must treat it with due regard. Ten days should do the trick, but absolutely no hobbling about or you’ll put it in a worse muddle than we have here.
‘As for the other piece of business, I can’t recommend you go on the car trip. Sorry. ’t would be begging trouble, in my opinion.’ Feeney stood more slowly than he’d squatted. ‘Practice with the crutches before going full steam, if you will, I’m no good at mending bones. Reverend, if you’d give a thought to our bridge party tomorrow, I’d be delighted. You’ll make me a hero in the eyes of our hostess, not to mention the village priest.’
He looked at Cynthia-she would bail him out; she knew how he felt about bridge.
‘Oh, do go,’ she said. ‘I’ll be so happy staying here with the journal. I’m headed into the mysterious spread of an unidentified bacteria.’
‘You’ll regret it,’ he said to Feeney. ‘I’m no thumping good at it. Believe me.’
Feeney laughed. ‘Our hostess relishes a good slaughter now and then. I should know-I’ve been the poor pig more than once. Well, then, many thanks, Reverend. See you up there at one o’clock tomorrow.’ Feeney gave his hand a first-rate pump and turned to his patient. ‘And no more depending on the odd umbrella.’
The doctor was gone as quickly as he’d come.
‘Dadgum it, Kavanagh. See what you’ve done with your meddling?’
‘You don’t want to go?’
‘Do I enjoy playing bridge?’
‘Well, no. But think how interesting it will be to see the house, you can tell me everything. And of course, look how nice he’s being to us. You made him quite happy, I think.’
‘Seems to me he was happy enough to begin with.’
She asked a blessing she’d learned in childhood, tucked into her eggs, ignored his huff.
‘You won’t miss all the roaming about we’ve looked forward to for nine years?’
‘Eight,’ she said. ‘It’s actually the best of birthday presents, just staying here. No contracts to fulfill, no dear James on the phone gouging a calendar or gift book out of me. And my retired husband off on a wonderful adventure.’
‘That remains to be seen.’
‘I regret it, of course, for Walter and Katherine’s sake-all their best-laid plans upset.’ She looked at him, appealing. ‘I regret it for you, too. Are you terribly disappointed?’
‘Not in the least. Not even a little.’ He saw the pain in her face, the stress of last night. His wife was a better man than himself. ‘I’ll ring them in a few hours; it’s the middle of the night in New Jersey. There’ll be rooms to cancel, that sort of thing.’ Katherine had arranged all details of the car trip.
‘When this ankle business is over, we can visit the family castle and all the other places we’ve talked about-even Yeats’s grave.’ With a look of mock severity, she recited Yeats’s self-written epitaph. ‘Cast a cold eye on life, on death / Horseman, pass by.’
‘Whatever that means,’ he said.
Liam hurried in. ‘The ESB just arrived. We’ll have power before lunch, please God. And I’ve a grand idea, see what you think.’
‘Say on.’
‘We’ve an old estate wagon, a Vauxhall. William bought it before we converted to kilometers, makes th’ Rover look brand-new. You could practice drivin’ up and down th’ lane for a warm-up, then venture out to the highway-and if you scrape a fender, there’s nothing lost. ’t will be a piece of cake. Give it a thought, I’m at the power box if needed.’
‘What a terrific idea,’ exclaimed his wife. ‘You should do it, darling.’
Why was everyone after him to be doing? The notion that he might loll about was appalling, he supposed, and this after forty-plus years of running himself ragged. Apparently one must sustain an injury in order to loll unmolested by the well-meaning.
‘Are you out of your mind?’ he asked when Liam left the room.
‘Not yet, but I know you. You only think you want to spend a day in the library. You need to get out and about, Timothy, stir your bones. That’s what makes you tick.’
God help him-now he had no mind of his own.
‘All those years wearing out shoe leather on the streets of Mitford-it made you so happy to walk the beat, see your flock, mingle.’
On the other hand, the fellows in the pub had certainly enjoyed a good laugh over his fear of driving on the wrong side. ’t isn’t th’ wrong side, they howled, har, har.
‘We’ll see,’ he said. ‘And what about you for today?’
‘I’m sticking in this chair, where I can watch all the coming and going.’
‘In the thick of things.’
‘Correct.’
‘So much for Thomas à Kempis.’
‘If you’d please go up and get the journal and my sketchbook and watercolors, and the Patrick Kavanagh poems and the book on the hunger years… just bring the whole darned thing, I’ll be living out of it for a while.’
In the room, he looked for the cell phone and charger, pawing through the drawers, his suitcase, her suitcase, his jacket pockets, his shaving kit, aggravated by the amount of plunder they’d dragged over. He’d never be the one sailing through air terminals with a suitcase the size of a Whitman’s Sampler.
Had he even brought the blasted phone? He hardly used it, except for the occasional call home while doing errands in Wesley, but Katherine had insisted he must have it, along with the phone company’s international package.
He was not amused to find the charger cord stuffed into a sock.
‘There you are, Rev’rend!’
He looked up.
‘Maureen! And there you are!’ The open narrative of her face drew him in at once.
‘We’re glad to have you an’ Mrs. Kav’na.’ She set the laundry basket by the door and came to him with a bobbing gait and shook his hand. He liked the feel of her callused palm in his.
‘Maureen McKenna, Rev’rend.’
‘A pleasure to meet you.’
She put her hand over her mouth like a child, dubious. ‘Mrs. Kav’na says I’m to call her Cynthia?’
‘Absolutely, she likes that.’
‘M’ husband’s youngest brother married a Kav’na from Wexford, and my great-grandfather’s second wife was a Kav’na.’
‘Small world.’
She beamed. ‘Did you like my drawin’, Rev’rend?’
‘Very, very much.’
‘Maureen, she says, I’m drawin’ your inner beauty, an’ I says, all th’ beauty I’ve got is th’ inner. Then she puts th’ oul’ hump in m’ nose, an’ I say, can you erase that off, mebbe? Ah, no, she says, ’t is a lovely hump. ’t was th’ same as lookin’ in th’ mirror, that drawin’. She made me a gift of it this mornin’, ’t will go in a nice frame over th’ telly.’
Mere wisps of pale red hair remained on her head, like the Velveteen Rabbit in its age.
‘Did we meet when I was here ten years ago?’
‘Ah, no, ’t was th’ death of me poor husband, Tarry, that kept us away then.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘’t is a lonely washin’ that hasn’t a man’s shirt in it.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘But I’ve never missed a day since. I was with Anna from the first, when she started out alone to fix the oul’ place. ’t was a ruin, Rev’rend. She was slavin’ for Mrs. Conor up Catharmore by day, and us workin’ down here in th’ evenin’ like menfolk.
‘Then Herself gave Anna th’ boot an’ Liam, God bless ’im, came with her. They were married in th’ library with all th’ rubble an’ plaster lyin’ about an’ their guests lookin’ through th’ roof at th’ blue sky. I said, ’t was open to God an’ all ’is angels for pourin’ down blessin’s on us. Aye, an’ they’ve poured down through bad times an’ good, with Anna’s gift for pinchin’ th’ penny.’
Tears pooled in her eyes. ‘Troth, she’s a queen, Anna Conor. An’ look at me jabberin’ when I’m after collectin’ your laundry.’
She held out the basket as one might present the wafer, there was grace in the gesture.
‘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.
A couple of miles out, it dawned on him that this contraption would fly if you gave it its head. ‘Where’s the speedometer?’ he shouted.
William pointed.
He whistled. ‘Eighty miles an hour?’
‘’t is broke,’ said William. ‘More like forty.’
‘You said your father spoke Latin?’
‘Aye, a bit, and proud of it. My grandfather was a pupil in th’ last of th’ hedge schools where a lad got a proper education in th’ classics. Of course, ’t wasn’t in th’ hedges by then-’t was in a cow barn with th’ stalls mucked out. Many a potato farmer in th’ oul’ days could quote your man Virgil. As a lad, I knew off a line or two, m’self.’
‘Can you recite any of it?’
‘Don’t know as I can, but let me see, now.’ William closed his eyes, bowed his head, thumped his cane in a long meditation. ‘For th’ love of God, ’t is like scourin’ for a needle in a haystack.’
‘Don’t fret yourself,’ he said. ‘I can read Virgil in Broughadoon’s own library.’
‘Here it comes!’ shouted William. He threw his head back, eyes still closed.
‘In th’ dawnin’ spring,’ he orated over the clamor of the engine, ‘when icy streams trickle from snowy mountains, and crumblin’ clod breaks at th’ Zephyr’s touch, even then would I have my bull groan o’er th’ deep-driven plough, and th’ share glisten when rubbed by th’ furrow.’ William looked at him, nodded in triumph.
‘Well done, sir, very well done. The deep-driven plough. The glistening share. Very fine.’
‘An’ that’s th’ end of it. ’t would be squeezin’ water from a stone to give ye another word. Are ye poet-minded, then?’
‘Since I was a boy. I like the old fellows who wandered over hill and dale with their knapsacks. John Clare, Wordsworth, Cowper. My brother’s a poet.’ Speaking of Henry gave him an unexpected rush of pride, something like happiness.
He turned off the highway, into the long lane to Broughadoon.
‘Where does your brother keep ’imself?’
‘Outside Holly Springs, Mississippi. He’s retired from the railroad.’
‘I was after goin’ to America as a lad an’ ridin’ your railroad. I had a mind to see Texas, but too late now.’
‘Can’t do everything, William.’
‘Aye.’
‘Were you at Broughadoon when I was here ten years ago?’
‘Anna says I was off to visit my oul’ brother, John, who passed two years back. I’m th’ last of five, so.’
They were hitting the rain puddles pretty hard.
‘You were saying you met a woman in Collooney. ’
‘Th’ most beautiful woman you could imagine, if you was to imagine a woman.’
William was sullen for a time, gazing ahead.
‘I promised her I’d come back an’ marry her, ’t was what I wanted above all else, an’ she wanted it, too-so she said. But I was makin’ a name for m’self, an’ they were callin’ for me in Dublin an’ Wicklow an’ Waterford an’ all th’ rest.
‘’t was th’ agent after th’ Enniskillen chancer had th’ big dream, said he’d fashion me as th’ modern Gentleman Jim Corbett. So he takes me an’ m’ swelled head an’ we make th’ crossin’ from Dún Laoghaire to Angelsea, an’ board th’ train to London. I was feelin’ royal by then, struttin’ th’ streets in me first pair of dacent shoes and money janglin’ in every pocket.
‘But I should’ve stuck where I was, Rev’rend, for then they ran me up to Scotland for a full two yares, which is where I got th’ lovely nose I’m wearin’ an’ th’ scar on me forehead. Mother of God, th’ Scots were a brutal lot.
‘I was niver much of a drinker, I’d like ye to know. Love of th’ drink is th’ curse of th’ land-makes a man shoot at ’is landlord, an’ makes you miss ’im.
‘Instead of leakin’ me money away, I was savin’ for a cottage-on a hillock proud of a little bogland, where a man might raise a family. I remember I could see it plain as day-a bench by the door an’ a byre to th’ side, and a clock with weights an’ chains.
‘Wherever I was, I would go out in th’ night and look up at th’ great swarm of th’ Milky Way an’ talk to th’ heart of th’ girl in Collooney. Aye, an’ she would talk to me-not in a voice you could hear outright, but I felt th’ sweetness of it in my blood, an’ I’d tell her to wait for William Donavan. Wait for me, lass, I’d say, I’m comin’ back.’
‘And did you get back?’
‘Ah, no, not for seven yares.’ William gave him a fierce look. ‘She was married to another.’
They passed the cow barn with its single blue shutter.
‘I don’t know much, William, but I do know this: Talking to the stars will not get the job done with a woman. I can personally vouch for it.’
William’s face was dark with memory. ‘The oul’ termagant,’ he said.