In the Company of Others (16 page)

‘Quaint,’ he said with distaste. Being a village parson had turned him off the word entirely—it was something tourists occasionally said not only of Mitford but of him when trooping through town like they owned the place.

She was still laughing.

‘Help yourself,’ he said.

She narrowed her eyes, looked at him approvingly. ‘It’s been ages since you let me paint you.’

‘You made me look like Churchill.’

She pulled a face.

‘Or maybe it was Mussolini.’

‘I could do much better now. What I’m after is that little quirky thing about your mouth, the one your mother had in pictures I’ve seen of her. It’s so fleeting—but I feel I could catch it now.’

Save for her, he would have jumped ship on all this. But he was in and he was glad; it felt right.

‘I’m excited about painting William—all those lovely wrinkles around his blue eyes, and that wicked scar on his temple. A fine nose, too—perhaps it was Roman before it was bashed in. Did the Romans come through Ireland?’

‘The Romans came through everywhere.’

‘William blames the Vikings for red hair, which he says isn’t Irish at all. It came from th’ bloody murderin’ Vikin’s, he says—from th’ numerous rapes an’ rampages that sullied th’ black hair of th’ Gaelic nation.’

‘There’s a view of history for you.’

She slapped her arm. ‘I see how Liam has taken to you, just like your parishioners in Mitford—even people who weren’t your parishioners. You attract that sort of thing like I attract midges. You never seem to mind.’

‘Maybe it’s some assurance to me that I exist, or have meaning—who knows? It’s always been that way.’

‘You’re like both father and priest to Liam, Anna says. That’s a lot to put on someone.’

‘Like you’re breath and life to me. That’s a lot to put on you.’

‘But I don’t mind it. Not ever. Besides, you try so hard to keep that need hidden. You seem afraid it will take something from me. But it doesn’t take anything away—it gives me something.

‘That’s what you do for people. It’s a wonderful gift, but it drains you. You see someone in need and take the plunge—that’s what God does, of course. But when you told Liam the police could jolly well come to you, I think you hit a home run.’

‘A first,’ he said, wry.

A young woman with an infant in her arms appeared on the narrow road, trailed by a border collie. The collie stopped, eyed them, barked. The woman lifted the tiny arm of the baby in a wagging salute to the couple at the chestnut tree, who waved back. He watched the trio disappear around a bend, praying for them as he had often done for the odd stranger or passerby, and even, on occasion, for the crew and passengers of a plane droning overhead. It was a private and instinctive thing, having little, or perhaps nothing to do with being a priest.

‘I love Ireland,’ she said.

‘You haven’t seen much of it.’

‘But I feel much of it, somehow. What if every day had a title, rather like the title of a poem—Psalm of Life or The Wild Swans at Coole, like that?’

‘Ah. So, what would today be titled?’

‘You go first.’

‘Free at Last.’

‘Perfect!’ she said. ‘You win.’

The mild zephyr that shook the blue flowers trifled with her hair. ‘I’m supposed to be painting Ben Bulben.’

‘Never mind. Legions have already done it, I’m sure. Getting down to brass tacks—shall I have Liam drive me to Sligo and rent a decent car?’

‘The world is full of decent cars,’ she said. ‘Let’s rattle around, we’ll remember it all’—she looked toward the Vauxhall—‘more vividly.’

‘Speaking of which, I just remembered ...’

‘Tell me.’

‘We didn’t go to the country on my motor scooter.’

‘When?’

‘When we were courting—the time the bull chased me and we ate the raspberry tart.’

‘Who said we went on your motor scooter?’

‘I was thinking about it a few minutes ago, about you clinging on behind me, and it seemed so real. What I remembered was my fantasy about us going on the motor scooter. We went in the car.’

‘I would never have gone on that motor scooter.’

‘Right,’ he said. ‘By the way, when I asked you about seeing Balfour’s place, how did you know what happened to it? You asked Anna?’

‘I skipped ahead to the end of the journal. Just for a peek.’ She slapped at a midge. ‘But I’ve decided to read it in proper order, roughly in sync with you.’

‘Do we want to keep reading it?’

‘We do,’ she said.

‘What if it was an inside job?’

‘Balfour’s place?’

He stood up, stretched. ‘The painting.’

‘I wasn’t going to talk about that anymore. But, yes, what if . . .’ She sat up. ‘I mean, why was Jack Slade at the fair when Bella was there, and why did he stab the fellow for talking out of turn to her? What business is she of his?’

‘Good question. The Garda probably asked that, too. Speaking of—what is it, anyway? Garda with an
a
at the end or Gardai with an
i
at the end?’

‘Beats me,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen it with two
i
’s at the end.’

‘Anyhow, let’s up and away, Kav’na.
Tempus fugit
.’ He checked his pant pockets, discovered the Connemara Black with its jagged barb—not a good thing to tote around in a pocket.

He helped her from the blanket; she looked curiously sober. ‘Are we nuts to stay?’

‘We’re a little nuts even if we don’t stay,’ he said. ‘So what’s the difference?’

‘Do we really want to visit a graveyard today?’

‘Probably not today. Besides, you already know the epitaph.’

‘Cast a cold eye,’ she said, collecting the picnic leavings and stowing them in the hamper.

Nineteen

The party was over—the caffeine had caught up with him.

He had fallen asleep around midnight, trekked to the bathroom at three, and woke himself snoring at four. Awake at his usual hour of five, he wrestled briefly with the notion of getting up and unpacking their book carton, then slept again and dreamed. He watched his hands break the whole-grain loaf—
look on the heart by sorrow broken, look on the tears by sinners shed
—smelled the sour yeast as crumbs scattered onto the fair linen. The dream wheeled to the stone arch of Sewanee’s Heaven’s Gate and the sight of an old school chum—he threw up his hand—but no, it was Dooley, his mortal flesh radiant in a patch of light. Dooley at Sewanee!—so he hadn’t gone down to Georgia with all those peaches and incinerating summers. A great happiness came to him, he called Dooley’s name and woke himself.

He wondered if he’d disturbed Cynthia, but no, Rip Van Winkle was having at it.

Disgusted with the whole affair, he threw off the covers and made himself useful—splashed his face, shot the insulin, prayed the Morning Office by the floor lamp Maureen installed, then took the leather-bound journal in his lap and opened it to the placement of his bookmark. A cumbersome piece of work, this, not for casual reading at the beach.

The bulb blazed like the headlight of an eighteen-wheeler; he could see the weave of the linen in the yellowed pages.

14 June 1862

Have returned from Dublin to find matters here in utter ruin.

Unable to write these last days for the sick shame & rage I suffer at the upheaval in both home & worksite. C exhorts me to allow the fury to subside before I act—I cannot believe it will ever subside.

In my absence Balfour came to our Cabin & sought to have his way with A. Keegan was fishing & C had been at the garden—she said she felt some dull heaviness on her heart & hurried to the Cabin where she found A weeping & backed into the chimney corner fearing for her life. Balfour drunken & demonic—threatened A with worse if she cried out—C brandished the poker at him, not watching her words & drove him off the place. A heavy blade to us all. At the Mass Rock again pleading God’s wisdom in how this unforgivable act should be avenged. I confess savoring the notion of putting him down with a single shot to his heart in which is housed a roiling nest of vile intentions. Have sent by Keegan an urgent letter of appeal to Father Dominic seeking prayer & counsel.

I remember my mother saying There’s nothing so bad it couldn’t be worse & thus Danny Moore has disobeyed my warning & betrayed our trust in his character. While I was away he told a stone mason of the higher wage he receives & the men went to pieces about it. Danny beaten & brutally kicked—theres one for yr bloody stump, they said—the worksite sundered by petty thefts.

A sullen & bellicose group now working away with no one confessing the blame. Keegan had broken up the violence toward Danny & suffered a crack which dislocated his jaw—though re-located it troubles him yet We have given the boot to two perpetrators—Keegan & I anxious for what unemployed men might do in retribution, even our own Irishmen in such a case. Have sent Danny off the job until further notice, not wishing to rush to judgment in a matter which concerns the wellbeing of seven people. His mother in complete agreement & as stricken by his action as by the loss of wages to their household. I take the matter as a grievous lesson for future dealings.

Some evictions going on east of us. When we think we have seen the last of this blasphemy the Enemy once again raises his head.

Holy Mother of God have Mercy on the Souls of all Your people in this Wild & Remote Region.

18 June 1862

Both Father Dominic & Caitlin advise me to do nothing. It is outside all convention that I refrain from avenging wound to my household. Balfour may forget the incident altogether, says Fr Dominic & C agrees.

As no possible good can come of confronting Balfour at this time, I am willing to receive counsel asked for.

Having disabused myself of the notion to put a bullet in Balfour—& confessed this impulse to Fr Dominic—I now harbor the continual image of slapping his face so violently as to send him reeling—in this waking dream, I have seen the snot & blood issue from his nose like a shot. He stumbles backward & falls onto the stone floor of the entrance to his stables thereby cracking his skull—& is dead within minutes. I am haunted by the face of his daughter appearing at the doorway as this murderous incident occurs.

Such grusome images so interfere with my Supplications that I am continually pleading God’s forgiveness. Seventy times seven is a hard lesson to be learned.

I seldom write here of those lost to Death under my care, for C & I have done all in our might to save them.

God have mercy on the soul of Connor Gleason age 46 without kith or kin to mourn his passing.

1 July

Blistering heat, no rain in near two weeks

I had begun to believe we were well rid of him but he came again today—the snake in the Garden. He was all hail fellow well met & I decided to leave it at that. There has been rumor of fever outbreak in cabins some distance from here though I have seen no vestige of it in this Region. This rumor breaks out on occasion like a case of measles. Balfour made it clear to me that he wanted no contagion brought on land contiguous to his. As I do not consider the fever an actual threat, I agreed that I would not treat patients here with any true sign of yellow fever.

As I looked at him on his unfortunate mount, I confess I was murdering him with my very eyes. He went away without getting down & without the usual foul jollity with our men. Twas as if he knew the violent cast of my thoughts & was in a scramble to be gone.

May God give us faith & strength to finish the race here.

4 August

Warm, humid, rain in afternoon

In gratitude for the completion of the house & stables & in honor of the coming Feast Day of the Blessed Virgin I sent funds to Fr Dominic for the repair of the Church roof & other pressing needs. I am greatly relieved to thus thank Almighty God for the new home to which we have moved these last days. Twill be comfortable indeed if we can improve the kitchen firebox which smokes the plaster far along the stair hall. A great dither for the women.

Following Mass on Thursday 14, Fr Dominic to come and give us a proper blessing. All neighbors hereabout invited to share in a Feast. We shall have a crowd numbering that of the Roman legions.

C scoured the countryside & found five able women to man the cooking with herself & Aoife—Keegan has got us a labor force to roast the pig, the sheep & goats. Irish whiskey & barrels of Guinness (Keegan and I in disagreement about # of barrels) will be offered & that’s the end of it. Although I am loth to do it given their recent behavior, have sent word to the workmen to attend with their wives & children. Danny Moore’s family eager to come. Twould be wrong to keep them away but have warned him that the men will not suffer him kindly. The incident he caused has taught him a sobering lesson. He came to me hat in hand, proposing to play the Fiddle for the occasion & offering further entertainment by his sisters who sing the old songs in harmony. I am reminded that such as soothes the savage breast may be balm to the recent fury.

Keegan & I abroad these last weeks checking the quality of livestock & fowl raised for us for this occasion. I look at a fat ewe to be roasted & it is coughing. Keegan, I say, tell Paddy O’Reilly we will not pay for his ewe, it is coughing like a man. That’s what sheep do, he says in his dry way—they cough.

He thinks I have been ruined by American living.

Keegan teaches me how to buy a pig. I tell him I do not need to know how to buy a pig as he will buy any pigs in future. He says it is good to know what to look for in man or beast.

He recommends the eyes be animated & the ears upright. He contends the neck must be thick & deep with a ‘graceful arch.’ Thin skin is wanted in a ‘lively’ shade of pink. The two raised for us meet these high standards & I regret the eating of them rather than the breeding—Padraig McFee will keep one of them on til frost & cure its meat for our table. In any case, I walk away feeling we have got our money’s worth from McFee.

Have had the notion of transplanting wild Lilies to the Mass Rock—I saw the scene vividly in a dream & smelled their scent.

I am at last able to keep this Journal well hid—each evening when I have done with scribbling it is put away where no one however clever might find it. I could not keep it so private at the Cabin.

Aoife stitching herself a Frock these last evenings. I see she is not wearing the shoes made upon her father’s last, as I hoped she might in our new surroundings. She vows she prefers the bare feet in nearly all wether.

She has somehow wormed her milking stool into the parlor where she sits with her cloth and needle. In dying light from the west window I observe her face—it is unusually pensive & I try to imagine her thoughts—thoughts perhaps of a suitor? or some jollity she shared with her sisters on their monthly visit? Perhaps she imagines herself in this new gown the color of ripe peaches mulled with cream—& conceives the way the lads will catch their breath in their throats & speak too loudly among themselves when she passes.

He raised his head and listened for a moment to Cynthia’s breathing, and the rattle of beech leaves beyond the window. In the deep shadow of their room were gleaming sheets of thick paper, heavy with images. She had stood the watercolors on the chest of drawers and leaned them against the wall to dry. In the afternoon, he’d twice pulled off the road for her to sketch the landscape—but she asked to go back to the horse chestnut, and the only subject making it to the top of the chest was the loaf-shaped outcrop of Beann Gulban.

9 August

Very warm day; full moon—war news from America deeply agitating

Keegan not himself these last weeks—whistling one minute & the next silent & gaping as if struck by a vision of The Blessed Virgin herself.

C suspects he is in love. I cannot imagine

Keegan in love.

C has written out the list of dishes to be served & I transcribe them here for my own good pleasure when in ould age I sit by the hearth enjoying the hospitality of beard & pipe. I shall be astonished to read of the great strength with which God equipped us to do all that has been wrought at Cathair Mohr.

I have asked for Roast Swan which many find delicious, but C will have none of it—I will not devour beauty, she says, twill bring doom upon us. Aye, Keegan says, siding with her, we have doom enough without looking for it. I remind them both that all is beautiful, even the fine pig we’ll be roasting, but I have lost this dubious battle.

She reminds me that since we arrived from Philadelphia well over two years past we have delivered forty-seven Infants into this sere & indifferent world, thirty of whom survive & flourish & will likely be among us at the Feast. Twill be a proper blessing to hear the laughter of children about the place.

Twenty roast Geese
Twenty roast Hens stuffed
One hundred Hens Eggs boiled hard
Forty loaves Bread
Two hundred Yeast Buns
Ten pounds Goat Cheese
Ten pounds Cow Butter

1 roast Pig
1 roast Mutton
2 goates
4 bushels Potatoes roast in ash
2 bushels Beans with pork hock
20 mix berry Pies
20 apple Pies
3 tubs bread pudding
20 gallons Goat Milk (from Aiden Marsh)