By the Lake (38 page)

“Monica is an attractive, intelligent woman,” Kate said carefully. “If she has found someone she’s happy with she’ll have a better life than bringing up four children on her own. I hope they’ll both be happy.”

“They’re welcome to it,” he said vigorously, as if offering poison.

The plum trees blossomed, then the apple came and the white brilliance of the pear tree. May came in wet and windy. The rich green of the grass in the shelter of the hedges travelled out over the whole fields. Weeds had to be pulled from the ridges, the vegetable garden turned and weeded. Foxgloves appeared on the banks of the lane and the scent of the wild mint was stronger along the shore. Each night the black cat took to leaving the house before it was closed and returned soundlessly or noisily with her prey through the open window in the early light. All the hives were working. The spaces between the branches of the trees along the shore filled with leaves and were now a great broken wall of green. In the clear spaces through which the water showed it looked like sky, until the eye travelled to the farther shore.

When the lambing was long over, Kate came on a ewe, a late lamb of the year before, not much more than a lamb herself, with a new lamb that was completely black. She had been checking the sheep and had come up with the worst of all counts: there was one missing. She listened for cries or bleating but
there were none. The leaves stirred in a hum of insects and loud birds. A frenzy of gulls came from the lake. Crows were squabbling somewhere else, blackbirds set up derisory rackets in the whitethorns. She searched along the drains and hedges in growing anxiety at each empty field. She was about to turn back to the house for help when she came on the young ewe high on a bank in a small clearing between briar and whitethorn. She was chewing away in contentment and watchfulness, the perfectly formed black lamb by her side. The ewe put her face momentarily down to check the lamb’s scent and then looked possessively back at Kate. The place the ewe had found on the bank was both a sun trap and a sheltered lawn. They were a picture of happiness.

Not until evening did the young ewe leave the safety of the bank, but she stayed clear of the flock for another day. The little black lamb and the ewe were always together and a little apart from the flock.

An evening after rain Ruttledge ran the whole flock into the shed for an overdue dosing. With the dosing pack and a can of green aerosol spray he went through them quickly, even impatiently, as his clothes were soaking from the wet wool. When he let them back out into the fields there were the usual cries of the separated lambs and mothers searching for one another, but one ewe continued to cry and came right up to the bars of the gate after the rest had all found one another. As soon as he recognized her as the ewe with the late lamb he caught his breath and started to curse. After searching here and there, he found the lamb lifeless in the straw of the shed. The small lamb had been knocked in the milling about as he seized the ewes and trampled underfoot.

“I have bad news. The black lamb is dead.”

“What happened?” She went still.

“I dosed them for fluke. I was late and in a hurry. I didn’t think how small the lamb was. I should have thought.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Nine times out of ten he would have been all right. It was bad luck he fell. I could have picked him out and put him safe.”

“That’s easy to know now.”

“At least it was a male. We couldn’t have kept the lamb.”

In the silence they could hear the loud calling of the mother at the back of the house.

“One good thing. They are not like us. She’ll have completely forgotten him in another day. Tomorrow it will be as if he never existed.”

In spite of the knowledge that it was indulgent and wasteful, they were not able to ward off a lowering cloud. It was as if the black lamb reached back to other feelings of loss and disappointment and gathered them into an ache that was out of all proportion to the small loss.

Jamesie came without knocking, calling out softly, “All work, no play—finding it much easier; take a break.” He was halfway across the room to the big armchair beneath the window with his head held low when he stopped. “What’s up?” he asked.

“We had a bit of bad luck.”

“What sort?”

“There was a late black lamb,” they said.

“You can quit that,” he said. “These things happen. Anybody with livestock is going to have deadstock. There’s no use dwelling. You have to put all these things behind you. Otherwise you might as well throw it all up now and admit that you’re no good.”

As he spoke, the black lamb became an instant of beauty, safe by the side of the young ewe on the bank in the sun, and was gone. The beauty of that instant in the sun could only be kept now in the mind.

Jamesie himself had come to the house on a troubling errand of his own. In earlier years Jim and Lucy and the children had often visited the Ruttledges but in more recent years the visits
had ceased. This had come about naturally, without incident or unpleasantness, in the ebb and flow of human relations: standing invitations had remained in place without being taken up by either side.

Now Jim and the family were coming from Dublin at the weekend. The child Margaret had seen Ruttledge cooking steaks on the iron grill the Shah had made for the old fireplace in the front room. They wanted to know if they could come over to the house and if Ruttledge would cook meat on the fire. Jamesie was so unsettled that he rose to leave even as he made the request. Ruttledge forced him back down into the chair by the shoulders.

“We’ll have a feast.”

“Too much. Too much,” he protested.

“It’d be better if they can come on Saturday. The Shah is always here on Sunday.”

“They can come either day. It makes no differ. They are coming for the whole weekend and are staying in the Central. The house is too small.”

They talked of the pleasant times they all had together when the children were small, and he grew easier. They walked him down to the lake. As the heron rose to lead him out along the shore, out of pride he protested again. “I didn’t want to ask but Mary said ‘Have they ever refused you anything?’ That’s all the more reason not to ask, I told her. It’s Lucy that wants to come over. Jim wouldn’t care. It’s she that wants it more than the children.”

“What does it matter who wants. Isn’t it a great excuse? We’ll have a feast. It’ll be as good as Johnny coming from England. Unless we hear differently we’ll expect you all at two o’clock on Saturday.”

“Too much. Too much,” he protested.

“You were like an angel coming today,” Kate said. “I was a bit down.”

“No good, Kate. No good and I thought you didn’t believe,” he countered sharply.

“There are lay angels,” she said.

“No wings. Can’t fly,” he called out as he cycled after the disappearing heron.

Ruttledge recognized Bill Evans’s loud knocking on the porch but not his step or walk. There was no sound of the stick on the floor, no swishing from the big wellingtons. When he reached the doorway he stood transformed. He had a new haircut, was cleanly and expertly shaven. He was wearing a fine new wool suit, a white shirt, a dark tie with white spots, and new black shoes that creaked.

“You’re shining.”

“Not too bad anyhow,” he grinned as he shuffled towards the white rocking chair.

The sharp features were refined by hardship, but the eyes had learned nothing, not seeing any further than what they looked at.

“I’ve never seen you better. Where did you get all the finery?”

“In the town,” he answered readily. “Father Conroy got them. I’m leaving yous. I’m going to the town to live.”

“How did that come about?”

“Father Conroy,” he said.

Automatically, Ruttledge reached for the small ration of cigarettes, set the kettle to boil and got sweet cake from a tin.

“Have you nothing better than tea today?”

“You’re right, Bill. It’s a special day. There’s whiskey and brandy.”

“Brandy,” he said.

He had already lit one of the cigarettes and was inhaling slow deep breaths, releasing each breath haltingly. Ruttledge poured a careful measure of brandy. Bill Evans downed it in a single gulp and demanded more. Another small measure was poured and a token measure poured into a second glass. “That’s all, Bill,” Ruttledge said firmly. “We can’t have you staggering around when the priest calls.”

“I’ll be topping,” he argued.

“I hope you’ll be very happy in the town,” Ruttledge raised his own glass.

“Good luck, Joe. And may you never go without.”

“What do you think you’ll do in the town?”

“I’ll do lots,” he said, and then a stubborn look crossed his face. He would say no more.

“What’s happened to your old clothes?”

“They’re above in the house.”

“Will you be taking them with you?”

“No,” he laughed. “You’re getting as newsy as Jamesie.”

“Will you come back out to see us at all?” Ruttledge asked as he walked him to the gate.

“I’ll not,” he laughed again as if the very idea was ridiculous. “Everything is in the town.”

“Don’t forget to say goodbye to the missus for me,” Bill Evans said when they reached the alder tree.

“She’ll be sorry to have missed you,” Ruttledge said. “I’ll not say goodbye to you myself as I’m sure to see you in the town.”

“Don’t forget the fags when you come.”

“I’ll not forget.”

In his new shoes and clothes he walked slowly and never looked back. The branches along the lake had long become intertwined overhead, and as they were now in full leaf the lane had turned into a green tunnel shot through with points of light.
From time to time, in his slow walk uphill through this green shade, he stood and rested as if he was still carrying the buckets.

In the evening the priest’s car drove past the porch and turned under the unfinished shed to roll back down to a stop outside the porch door. Ruttledge went at once to greet him. Inside, he accepted a chair but would not take tea or coffee.

“Is Herself away?” he asked.

“No. She’s outside somewhere.”

They talked of grass and the weather and cattle.

“Of course I saw you on Monaghan Day,” Ruttledge said. “I heard you got great prices.”

“Prices were never as high since,” he said. “I made the mistake of buying in some that day,” and he went on to explain how he had seen Ruttledge but had a rule never to greet anybody in the mart or he would spend his whole day greeting and speaking. “There are people in the parish who complain that I shouldn’t be in the mart at all. They’d turn you into some sort of doleful statue if they could.”

“What do you think of that?”

“It’s obvious what I think,” he said bluntly. “I suppose you know or guess the errand I’m on?”

“He was down here a few hours ago, all dressed up, and told me you’d bought him the clothes.”

“I didn’t buy them for him. I got help in that,” the priest said with surprising distaste. “I did pay for them but not with my own money.”

“I hope he’ll be happy in the town,” Ruttledge said.

“We all hope he’ll be happy,” he said with a hint of aggression as he rose. “Whether he will or not is another matter. Sometimes I think it may be better to let these mistakes run their course. Attempting to rectify them at a late stage may bring in more trouble than leaving them alone. We shall see.”

“I’m glad he’s having his chance no matter what happens,” Ruttledge said. “What else did any of us have?”

The priest looked at Ruttledge in plain disagreement but was unwilling to argue or to linger. “I’m not going to be very welcome up there. They are losing quite a bit of money, the State pays them every week as well as their man.”

“I doubt if I’d be any support,” Ruttledge smiled grimly.

“None.”

“What are they going to do for water?”

“Can’t they make it?” the priest said without humour as he turned away.

Preparations were made for the Saturday. The house was scrubbed and aired, shopping done in the town, the best steaks bought, heads of lettuce picked from the glass house. The iron grill was cleaned and set in place between the bars of the grate. The vases around the house were filled with fresh flowers. In the centre of the table was a bowl of white roses. A bottle of red wine was opened.