A Man Over Forty (24 page)

‘Give her a glass too,' said O'Halloran, and with a bow to her explained, ‘We're about to drink a toast.
Arriba España
!'

‘I'm with you, whatever it means,' she said, and with red, impatient fingers combed her thick, untidy hair: She was a tall woman, boldly handsome, with a look of gipsy blood, and she drank her whisky in two gulps, throwing it decisively into a welcoming throat. ‘If it's Mr Balintore you're drinking to, he's been a good friend of ours, and a great fisherman he is too.'

‘You know him, then?'

‘Do I know him, you say? There isn't a soul here doesn't know him except yourself. But you see no one, living like a hermit in the mine, working day and night to find rocks of gold, and God send you'll see the glint of it any day now. But Mr Balintore's been here these weeks past, and taking more fish out of the lough, and buying more pints of porter, than any visitor we've had in living memory.'

‘I think,' said Balintore, ‘we must have another round, and it's my turn now. More whisky, Willy. Whisky for everyone.'

When he first recognized O'Halloran, surprise had winded him as if in a brawl he had been hit on the mark. Indeed, there was something more than surprise in the blow; but he had been given a chance to recover. O'Halloran appeared to be friendly. Even boisterously friendly. And Balintore had recovered his breath.

He addressed his audience with a semblance of confidence: ‘Here among people who, I'm glad to think, I can now call my friends, I'm bound to say that I've not only had a great surprise today, but a surprise that's given me uncommon pleasure. For in days gone by Mr O'Halloran, whom I used to know as
Dan O'Connell, was a great hero among those of us who went to Spain to fight for – well, the preservation – yes, the preservation of law and order – and, of course, the Catholic faith.'

From the chorus of villagers there came a warmly approving murmur of applause, and Mrs Thorn loudly exclaimed, ‘Isn't Tim O'Halloran the hero of us all? Isn't it he that's going to bring back riches and prosperity to us all, from spouting wells of petroleum and great hoards of gold nuggets like the kingdom of Tara in its splendour? And then, be Jasus, we'll be rid of the landlords for ever, and to hell with them all! Not that I haven't a great respect for Madame O'Turk, Mr Palladis, for she's a lady in her own right, as anyone can see, and a friend to the poor as she's proved herself many a time, so there isn't a person here that wouldn't lay down his life for her, and if he hesitated even for a moment it's me would be at his backside to kick him on. But to hell with the landlords in spite of that, and praise to Tim O'Halloran for opening up the goldfields of old and loosing great floods of petroleum, to bring back to us all the wealth that Ireland knew when Ireland was the sacred crib of civilization, and the rest of the world no more than a bloody great swamp of darkness!'

‘And now,' said Palladis, ‘I think it's my turn to pay for a round. Whisky again, Willy.'

‘If all the English had been like you,' said Mrs Thorn, ‘we'd still be living cheek by jowl on the same pillow, and the nations of the world would be trembling like the tail of an old hen in the wind for fear of what we'd say to them. Oh, glory be to God for the taste of whisky! Look at the two of them now: Mr Balintore the greatest fisherman we've ever seen in Connaught, and Tim O'Halloran the jewel of Spain and Franco's darling! Look at them now, standing in each other's arms like Castor and Pollux who were the patrons of Ireland before the Christians came – may the Mother of God revive that great occasion! – they've the look of champions, haven't they now? Great champions of the sort we need.'

The amount of drink freely provided in a very short time –and the supply continued, for O'Halloran, Balintore, and Palladis still called for rounds in quick succession – had divided
the original company into three or four separate groups that, within the damp and murky friendliness of the bar, had each found its own topic of agreement or dissension, and was busily enlarging it. Other villagers, attracted by the warmth that was already emanating from the half-open door, had come in to form a subsidiary group: a lesser group that did not share the dignity and authority of those who had been witnesses of Balintore's meeting with O'Halloran, and were now their beneficiaries.

Balintore and O'Halloran stood apart from the rest, and though they were not – as Mrs Thom had proclaimed – in each other's arms, they were held together by a noose of reminiscence and a seemingly interminable exchange of question and explanation. Balintore had not seen O'Halloran since the days of their Spanish adventure, and O'Halloran knew nothing of Balintore's ascent to fame or notoriety. It was Palladis, bringing them another drink, who told the geologist that his old comrade-in-arms had become a person of widely recognized importance.

‘And here I've been wondering all the time how he could be masquerading as a rich English tourist,' said O'Halloran, ‘when I remember him flogging a spare shirt for a bottle of Fundador, and glad to get it!'

‘I shared it with you,' said Balintore.

‘You did that! And nowadays, if you're all that important, you'll be a rich man too?'

‘I'm comfortably off,' said Balintore, ‘but not rich.'

‘Any man who can call himself comfortable is rich beyond the dreams of avarice! Comfort, be God, is a state I've dreamed about, and lost sight of the moment I woke up. But you – you've got money to spare! – and it's God's own promise of fortune for us both that we've met this day. I'm sinking a goldmine here, in the field by Turk's Court, but with all the water that's been coming in like a flood in the last week or two I've had set-backs and disappointment, and I'm in need of more capital. Well, now, this is your opportunity to rival King Midas in wealth and splendour, for I'll give you a quarter-share in the mine for a down payment of £500!'

‘I should have to think rather carefully about that—'

‘Think carefully, you say! What's £500 to a man like you, that's famous throughout the land and comfortably off as well? It's me that's offering you great wealth in return for a paltry investment – and it isn't hesitation I look for, but glad acceptance of my offer!'

‘Some day, perhaps, I can come and look at your mine—'

‘Any day you like!'

‘Your glasses are dry,' said Mrs Thorn, brusquely accosting thom with her long black hair falling over her face again, ‘and a day when two great men meet together for the first time in a quarter of a century isn't a day when anyone should be standing in O'Hara's Bar with an empty glass in the heel of his hand.'

‘Another round!' said Balintore. ‘Thank you, Mrs Thorn, we must have another round. Where's Willy? – More whisky, Willy.'

In the outer part of the bar, near the half-open door, stood a burly man of phlegmatic appearance, who until now had swallowed his drink without emotion, and taken no part in either argument or discussion. But now, with a voice of great power and a fine, clear enunciation, he suddenly began to sing:

‘Some of them came from Kerry
,

And some of them came from Clare
,

From Dublin, Wicklow and Donegal

And the boys from old Kildare
…'

Several of those near him, caught by the rousing melody, joined him and swelled the tune:

‘
Some from the land beyond the sea
,

From Boston and New York
…'

And then the rollicking air took charge of all, and in a glorious evocation of long-past miseries and triumph their voices rose together:

‘
But the boys that beat the Black and Tans

Were the boys from the County Cork!'

By this time there was a little crowd of some forty or fifty women and children outside the bar, and Father Aloysius,
the parish priest, who happened to be passing, thought it his duty to come in and see what was attracting so much interest.

He was a broad-shouldered, well-fleshed man of genial appearance, with a resounding voice, and the song was cut short when, peering into the smoky gloom of the bar, he entered with the loud inquiry, ‘Now, now, then, and what's going on here to disrupt the calm of a decent Tuesday morning?'

‘Come in, Father, come in and take a drink with us,' said O'Halloran. ‘You're no friend of mine in the ordinary course of life, but this is a day for tolerance and compassion and great rejoicing. There's a gentleman here that's going to give me £500 to prosecute the great work I'm doing, and enlarge the working of the mine.'

‘Is he right in his head?' asked the priest.

‘Sounder than you, with your new latitudinarian notions,' said O'Halloran, and put a glass of whisky into the priest's hand.

‘You're a bad influence in the village,' said the priest, ‘and here's your very good health.'

‘That's more of the lax and libertarian sentiment that's ruining the Church,' said O'Halloran. ‘But I'm not quarrelling with you today—'

‘You'd better not,' said the priest. ‘I've been lenient with you for a long time, because you fought for the Faith in Spain and Italy, and were wounded in that cause—'

‘It's a cause that you've abandoned!' said O'Halloran. ‘The Church I fought for stood for a great intransigent cause, but your Church has come to terms with Moscow and Canterbury and the atheists of the modern world—'

‘It's a modern world we live in!'

‘It's a damnable and wicked world, and you shouldn't be tolerating it.'

‘Who are you to teach me my duty? A sinful man that doesn't come to Mass or Confession—'

‘I make my own Confession.'

‘You're no better than a black Protestant!'

‘Now Father, Father dear,' said Mrs Thom, ‘don't be taking
any notice of him, he's up in the air today with the promise of £500 from Mr Balintore—'

‘I made no such promise!' said Balintore.

‘Hush, hush,' said Mrs Thom. ‘Say nothing to infuriate him, or there'll be no holding him – he's a great champion, and you can do nothing with the like of them but keep out of their way – so come in behind the bar with me, and we'll have a drink in peace. And God's blessing on you, Father, for coming here today to lend the honour of your presence to a poor house that's been exalted by the meeting of two great men, and from that meeting there'll be great consequences for the whole village.'

The bar, by now, was full of a splendid, unco-ordinated uproar – the confined, dark, smoky air seemed taut as the air in a great drum – and the drum was being beaten by a score of competitive drum-sticks to produce a clamour that made no sense at all, but had a rhythm, a natural tide, an organic pulse of furious assertion and indignant denial.

Palladis, who had a large tolerance for strong waters, was interested in the vagaries of the human mind and its utterance when the censorship of normal disciplines had been relaxed by drink. For some time he went from group to group, listening with lively attention to all that was said; but when utterance became mere repetition – as presently it did – he looked at his watch, discovered it was long past lunch-time, and decided, for Honoria's sake, that it was time to go home.

With some difficulty he detached Balintore from a sombre but apparently enthralling discussion on the Council of Trent – initiated by Father Aloysius – and guided him through a turbulent throng to the door, and through another crowd on the pavement to the Land-Rover on the other side of the street. They got in, and Palladis pressed the starter. But the noise of the engine had the effect of a bugle calling obedient soldiers to the parade-ground; for as soon as it was heard, all those within O'Hara's Bar came hurrying out, and, being joined by the women and children on the pavement, surrounded the car with confused cries, disorderly singing, and a few urgent demands for a speech.

Moving very slowly, Palladis reached the end of the village
without accident; and by then the crowd had diminished. But when he began to drive a little faster, a boy of reckless temper and no great sense tried to run in front of him; and tripped and fell. To avoid him Palladis swerved abruptly to the right and crossed the road at an angle of sixty degrees. With a violent tug on the wheel he straightened his course, but skidded on a grass verge and slid into a deep ditch.

In a moment the crowd was at full strength again, and now many voices rose in commiseration and as many shouted contrary advice. Willing hands tried to heave and haul the Land-Rover on to the road, and others, equally willing, laboured to push it deeper into the ditch. With some difficulty Balintore and Palladis got out of the steeply tilted car, and there were loud exclamations of sympathy and horror when it was seen that both were bleeding freely from cuts on forehead or cheekbone. But Palladis quickly took charge, and organized a working party that succeeded, with some difficulty and a good deal of argument, in lifting and pulling the Land-Rover on to level ground.

The offside front wheel, however, had suffered a dislocation and was no longer parallel with its neighbour. The car could not be driven, but would have to be pushed or towed. And for this additional labour the villagers were more than willing; they were eager to help and prove their continuing goodwill.

Palladis and Balintore got in again, and as many as could lay a hand on the disabled car shoved and pulled it on a slow, irregular course to Turk's Court. Past the empty lodge and through the dark thicket of rhododendrons they went, and on to a curving arm of the drive. Those who were not pushing or pulling encouraged the others with loud cries and an occasional broken chorus; and the noise they made brought Honoria out to see what was happening.

She stood at the top of the double flight of steps, before the front door, and waited – not perturbed, exactly, for the voices of the villagers were too lively for a funeral party, or even for the escort of gravely injured men – but with some anxiety, and a frown of manifest displeasure.