A Man Over Forty (20 page)

They rowed into the island, and went ashore on a little beach. A mallard duck, with her brood pedalling anxiously behind her, fled from a coign in the rocks, and a pair of ringed plover flitted away, piping their complaint. The sun grew warmer, and Palladis took off his short waterproof coat. The gillie brought a satchel from the boat, and Palladis divided a parcel of sandwiches and opened two bottles of beer. The air was sweet with the mingled scents of gorse and may; the melancholy gillie began to sneeze. He sneezed six or seven times in rapid succession, and blew his streaming nose on a dirty handkerchief.

‘You've a bad cold,' said Palladis.

‘I have that,' said the gillie, ‘and I can't get rid of it.'

He looked morosely at his cracked Wellington boots, and said, ‘It's the fault of these bloody boots. They've been wet on me all winter.'

There was a jungle of growth on the little island, hawthorn and birch and alder, rank heather and sedges, and bluebells at the edge of the shingle. Palladis walked round the shore and frightened a pair of tufted duck, rose a heron, alarmed a redshank, and listened to a warbler singing behind a screen of dripping may. Blackheaded gulls were hawking a hatch of fly, and a moorhen clucked among the reeds.

Now the whole countryside floated in brilliance, and far blue hills rose behind the ramparts of nearer brown. Green fields were emerald-bright beyond the sapphire water of the lough, and whitewashed houses in a blanched innocence shared the idyllic landscapes with immaculate neighbours. To the eastward retreating clouds still obscured a segment of the sky and darkened the land, and in the west a little flocculence was creeping up; but the zenith was unflawed cerulean and the water a shimmering calm. Palladis sat on a rock, lighted a cigarette, and waited for the wind's return.

It occurred to him, without hurt to his conscience, that for five weeks – or perhaps it was six – he had lived in contented idleness; and that, of course, was the benison of Ireland. Great parts of it, especially in the west, were still free from the nagging, protestant sense of opportunity – opportunity to be snatched at, opportunities one dare not miss – which had ruined the temper of the world and turned western civilization into feverish competition for a place on the treadmill. Here, without reproach or self-reproach, one could do nothing, or next to nothing, for week after week and feel at home with undemanding days.

That he was living on the income of unearned privilege he readily admitted; and did not let it worry him. Though, he reminded himself, he must buy Michael Dooley a new pair of boots. Privilege was a shrinking property, even in Ireland, and to draw a rent from it had become rare indeed. Even Ireland was threatened now by prosperity and industry: the Germans and the Japanese were moving in, and prospectors were piercing its ancient turf in search of oil. If privilege survived, it would be of a different sort and lie in other hands.

It was the erection of an oil derrick, in a field immediately below the north window of his cousin's drawing-room, that had brought Palladis to her country. His cousin Honoria thought it spoiled her view, but the local authorities were unimpressed by so trivial a complaint, and her lawyer in Dublin, after writing ‘This is a serious matter and requires the most careful consideration', had gone fishing. In her distress she had written to Palladis, whose acumen and good sense she gready admired, and soon after his arrival work on the borehole had ceased.

This was not due to his intervention. The geologist who occupied the ground had apparently lost interest in his original project, and was now intent on digging in another field, which lay immediately south of the house. To Palladis it seemed probable that his new effort would be as unsuccessful as the first, and in due course Honoria would be left in peace again. He had counselled inactivity and patience, and Honoria seemed willing to accept his advice so long as he stayed to repeat it every few days.

Palladis was fond of his cousin, and her house was not uncomfortable. As week succeeded week he felt increasingly at home, and was unperturbed by the weather; which had been wet, cold, and windy. The fishing had disappointed him, for the river seemed to be in permanent spate, and there had been no hatch of May-fly to rouse the big trout in the lough; but he had lived long enough to know that fishing was often disappointing, and a change for the better might come at any moment.

The bright appearance of the lough was altering already. The little clouds in the west had risen higher, a light wind had ploughed blue furrows in the shimmering calm. He called to Michael Dooley and they pushed out the boat.

‘We'll go back along the shore,' said Dooley, ‘where you rose that trout. You got a bit of encouragement there, and that's what we don't often get.'

His pessimism vanished when, within twenty minutes, Palladis caught a good trout of a pound and a half. ‘I told you so,' he exclaimed. ‘I knew there'd be one waiting for you here. And there's more to come. Do you go on fishing, and I'll put you over them.'

The wind was freshening again, but Dooley rowed vigorously now – pausing occasionally to blow his nose over the side of the boat with a fine dismissive gesture – and Palladis caught three more fish, the last a two-pounder.

‘Didn't I tell you?' said Dooley. ‘They're coming bigger all the time, and you'll get a proper one off this next point.'

A point of land ran out to three sharp-edged rocks, as rough as cockscombs, on the farthest of which the water was breaking white; and beyond it there was white lace on the waves. They were beyond the outermost rock before Palladis struck at a rising fish, and a moment later a trout as big as a grilse came arching like a dolphin from the crest of a wave and ran away with twenty yards of line before turning in a wide loop to windward.

‘You'll have to follow him,' said Palladis. ‘I'm almost down to my backing.'

Dooley turned into the wind – the nose of the boat rose and plunged under a curtain of spray – and rowed with short, hard
strokes to keep pace with the fish. Palladis recovered line, but lost it again when the trout turned right-handed and made another run.

‘A giant of a fish!' said Dooley, dribbling with excitement. ‘I seen it myself. A great warrior too. But we'll get him yet.'

‘Pull on your right oar.'

‘I can pull all day!'

They were now in deeper water, rolling steeply, and the angle of Palladis' line grew steeper as the fish sounded.

‘Steady,' he cried, ‘steady! – Oh, for God's sake stop!'

But he spoke too late. Bending and heaving at the oars, Dooley's enthusiasm could not be checked, and his left oar struck the line which, now almost vertical, was taut as a fiddle-string – and like a broken fiddle-string flew suddenly loose above the waves.

‘Is he gone?'

‘He is,' said Palladis, and controlled his anger when he saw the gaping dismay on Dooley's face.

‘He must have turned like a bloody woodcock!'

‘He went down to the bottom.'

‘It's there I should be myself.'

They sat silent in the rolling boat, and Dooley, catching the wind-tossed line, handed it in till he saw that the cast had been broken at the eye of the fly.

‘The biggest trout I ever saw,' he said sorrowfully; and then, with decision, pulled in the oars and motioned to Palladis to come forward while he took the stern-seat.

‘It's going to rain again,' said Palladis. ‘I think we might go home now.'

‘Not till we've had a try for another fish,' said Dooley, ‘and I know a good place on the far shore.' He started the outboard motor, and turned the boat to windward again. He opened the throttle and they thudded against the waves, and plunged through them, under a continuous spray that was presently thickened by rain. Palladis sat with his back to the wind, but Dooley faced the storm without flinching, and under his ragged souwester his long, melancholy face, glistening wet, looked as resolute as if some noble purpose had made it firm.
Palladis resigned himself to discomfort until such time as Dooley might decide that honour had been satisfied.

It was three hours later when they pulled the boat up on a stony beach near the village of Kilcoy. Palladis had caught two more fish – a small one and another two-pounder – and the lough was now so rough as to be dangerous for a less skilful boatman. But Dooley was still morose, and while he was taking down Palladis' rod said gruffly, ‘You'll be thankful that this day's past and done with.'

‘We've got half a dozen fish, and you'll have a drink before going home,' said Palladis. They climbed into the old Land-Rover that his cousin had lent him, and in the village street stopped at O'Hara's Bar. It was dark inside, and almost as damp as under the dropping sky, for a dozen men holding dark glasses of porter stood, still as posts, in wet and sombre clothes that leaked the surplus of the rain they held on the sodden floor. But when Palladis had paid for two glasses of whisky, and two more, the scene grew animated, for Michael Dooley, after sneezing violently for a long time, had begun to tell the story of their misadventure with wild and splendid imagery, and in a voice as fraught with tragedy as the Chorus in a Greek theatre bringing dire news from far Cithaeron. Palladis left before he had finished, and drove to Turk's Court, his cousin's house.

Through tall gates that were never closed – because the hinges had collapsed – he passed a small, empty lodge and drove slowly up a rutted drive that bisected a copse of enormous rhododendrons. The road divided to enclose a circular lawn on which a marble statue of Diana the Huntress, with two leashed greyhounds, stood in the centre of a rose-bed, and by-passed the house to reach a cobbled stableyard.

The house was late Georgian, a large pale building whose architect seemed to have planned it by enlightened guesswork rather than acceptance of established patterns and proportions. It was too tall for its breadth, and the main door, approached by a double flight of steps, led to a stone-paved hall on the first floor. But it had an air of distinction, its dignity was genuine though impromptu, and in comparison with the stables it was not ostentatiously big.

Palladis left the Land-Rover in what had been the coachhouse, and went in by the kitchen door. Two women – Mrs Moloney who was middle-aged and pink of cheek, Nelly Kate who was young and rosy – welcomed him with exclamations of lively dismay when they saw how wet he was; helped him take off his outer clothes; and admired his basket of fish. He went up to his room, and lay for a long while in a hot bath of peat-brown water. He dressed, and went to look for his cousin, whom he found in the small sitting-room that faced south.

She was a tall woman, with a good athletic figure – though she took no exercise – who looked younger than her years despite a sprinkle of grey in her fair, thickly curling hair. She had a round, cheerful face, with a generous mouth – shaped by much laughter – and fine grey eyes. She was taking teasels out of a poodle's ear – a big dog with a lamb's cut – when he went in; and looking up, said sharply, ‘That horrid suit! I hate green tweed. Why do you wear it?'

‘I must get some use out of it before I give it away. I'm going to give it to Michael Dooley when I go. And he needs a new pair of boots.'

‘He's quite well-off, though you wouldn't think so. But he has to support a poor, hard-working bookmaker.'

‘He's a good boatman, till he gets excited.'

‘You stayed out far too long, in weather like this. Did you get anything?'

‘Half a dozen, and lost a big one.'

‘You need a drink. Give me a glass of sherry, and help yourself.'

‘What sort of day have you had?'

‘O'Halloran's back. He came to see me, and talked about the Firbolgs.'

‘Do you think he's mad?'

‘No, not in comparison with some quite ordinary people I know. He was asking me about the little stream that starts halfway up Slieve Bloom and goes underground. He says it must run under the house.'

‘Does it?'

‘I don't know. He thought I might have some old maps,'

‘What else have you done?'

‘I went for a walk, while it was fine. I posted your letters – and I was given a telegram for you. Now what did I do with it? I didn't open it.'

She found it beside a bowl of newly cut and rather rain-beaten roses, and Palladis read: ‘In full flight from intolerable situation. Meet me Dublin at Hibernian Hotel tomorrow or soon as possible. Trust you to find secure refuge for me somewhere in civilization's last stronghold. Now as never before I rely on your help and friendship. Ned.'

He showed it to Honoria, who read it twice and said, ‘Goodness, what does it mean?'

‘Probably less than it says. He's inclined to overstatement. Like Michael Dooley he gets excited, and plunges into bright waves of language as Michael plunges into a head sea.'

‘Who does?'

‘Balintore. It's from my old friend, my master and employer, Edward Balintore.'

‘I thought you said he was cured.'

‘I said he was a lot better.'

‘Well, he's had a relapse.'

‘That's possible. I wonder what's happened.'

‘The last time you saw him was six weeks ago in London, and about a week after you came here you had a postcard from Florence —'

‘A conservatively chosen picture of Donatello's St George.'

‘On which he said, “The sun is shining on the Boboli Gardens, you ought to be here with us.” But you've heard nothing since?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Who was the other half of “us”?'

‘I don't think I should tell you.'

‘Oh, come on! You've told me about his breakdown – about Jamaica and New York – about his second wife, and modern art, and the girl who was a secretary – what was her name?'

‘Polly Newton.'

‘Did he take her to Italy?'