Collected Stories (15 page)

It had all seemed so clear. But then he had not counted on his own temper. He was popular because of his gentleness, but how many concessions that involved! He was hesitating, good-natured, slow to see guile, slow to contradict. He felt he was constantly underestimating his own powers. He even felt he lacked spontaneity. He did not drink, smoked little, and saw dangers and losses everywhere. He blamed himself for avarice and cowardice. The story he liked best was about the country boy and the letter box. “Indeed, what a fool you think I am! Put me letther in a pump!”

He was in no danger of putting his letter in a pump or anywhere else for the matter of that. He had only one friend, a nurse in Vincent's Hospital, a wild, lighthearted, lightheaded girl. He was very fond of her and supposed that some day when he had money enough he would ask her to marry him; but not yet: and at the same time something that was both shyness and caution kept him from committing himself too far. Sometimes he planned excursions besides the usual weekly walk or visit to the pictures but somehow they seldom came to anything.

He no longer knew why he had come to the city, but it was not for the sake of the bed-sitting room in Rathmines, the oblong of dusty garden outside the window, the trams clanging up and down, the shelf full of second-hand books, or the occasional visit to the pictures. Half humorously, half despairingly, he would sometimes clutch his head in his hands and admit to himself that he had no notion of what he wanted. He would have liked to leave it all and go to Glasgow or New York as a laborer, not because he was romantic, but because he felt that only when he had to work with his hands for a living and was no longer sure of his bed would he find out what all his ideals and emotions meant and where he could fit them into the scheme of his life.

But no sooner did he set out for school next morning, striding slowly along the edge of the canal, watching the trees become green again and the tall claret-colored houses painted on the quiet surface of the water, than all his fancies took flight. Put his letter in a pump indeed! He would continue to be submissive and draw his salary and wonder how much he could save and when he would be able to buy a little house to bring his girl into; a nice thing to think of on a spring morning: a house of his own and a wife in the bed beside him. And his nature would continue to contract about him, every ideal, every generous impulse another mesh to draw his head down tighter to his knees till in ten years' time it would tie him hand and foot.

T
OM
, who was a curate in Wicklow, wrote and suggested that they might go home together for the long weekend, and on Saturday morning they set out in Tom's old Ford. It was Easter weather, pearly and cold. They stopped at several pubs on the way and Tom ordered whiskeys. Ned was feeling expansive and joined him. He had never quite grown used to his brother, partly because of old days when he felt that Tom was getting the education he should have got, partly because his ordination seemed to have shut him off from the rest of the family, and now it was as though he were trying to surmount it by his boisterous manner and affected bonhomie. He was like a man shouting to his comrades across a great distance. He was different from Ned; lighter in color of hair and skin; fat-headed, fresh-complexioned, deep-voiced, and autocratic; an irascible, humorous, friendly man who was well-liked by those he worked for. Ned, who was shy and all tied up within himself, envied him his way with men in garages and barmaids in hotels.

It was nightfall when they reached home. Their father was in his shirtsleeves at the gate waiting to greet them, and immediately their mother rushed out as well. The lamp was standing in the window and threw its light as far as the whitewashed gateposts. Little Brigid, the girl from up the hill who helped their mother now she was growing old, stood in the doorway in half-silhouette. When her eyes caught theirs she bent her head in confusion.

Nothing was changed in the tall, bare, whitewashed kitchen. The harness hung in the same place on the wall, the rosary on the same nail in the fireplace, by the stool where their mother usually sat; table under the window, churn against the back door, stair without banisters mounting straight to the attic door that yawned in the wall—all seemed as unchanging as the sea outside. Their mother sat on the stool, her hands on her knees, a colored shawl tied tightly about her head, like a gipsy woman with her battered yellow face and loud voice. Their father, fresh-complexioned like Tom, stocky and broken-bottomed, gazed out the front door, leaning with one hand on the dresser in the pose of an orator while Brigid wet the tea.

“I said ye'd be late,” their father proclaimed triumphantly, twisting his mustache. “Didn't I, woman? Didn't I say they'd be late?”

“He did, he did,” their mother assured them. “'Tis true for him.”

“Ah, I knew ye'd be making halts. But damn it, if I wasn't put astray by Thade Lahy's car going east!”

“And was that Thade Lahy's car?” their mother asked in a shocked tone.

“I told ye 'twas Thade Lahy's,” piped Brigid, plopping about in her long frieze gown and bare feet.

“Sure I should know it, woman,” old Tomas said with chagrin. “He must have gone into town without us noticing him.”

“Oye, and how did he do that?” asked their mother.

“Leave me alone now,” Tomas said despairingly. “I couldn't tell you, I could not tell you.”

“My goodness, I was sure that was the Master's car,” their mother said wonderingly, pulling distractedly at the tassels of her shawl.

“I'd know the rattle of Thade Lahy's car anywhere,” little Brigid said very proudly and quite unregarded.

It seemed to Ned that he was interrupting a conversation that had been going on since his last visit, and that the road outside and the sea beyond it, and every living thing that passed before them, formed a pantomime that was watched endlessly and passionately from the darkness of the little cottage.

“Wisha, I never asked if ye'd like a drop of something,” their father said with sudden vexation.

“Is it whiskey?” boomed Tom.

“Why? Would you sooner whiskey?”

“Can't you pour it out first and ask us after?” growled Tom.

“The whiskey, is it?”

“'Tis not. I didn't come all the ways to this place for what I can get better at home. You'd better have a bottle ready for me to take back.”

“Coleen will have it. Damn it, wasn't it only last night I said to Coleen that you'd likely want a bottle? Some way it struck me you would. Oh, he'll have it, he'll have it.”

“Didn't they catch that string of misery yet?” asked Tom with the cup to his lips.

“Ah, man alive, you'd want to be a greyhound to catch him. God Almighty, hadn't they fifty police after him last November, scouring the mountains from one end to the other and all they caught was a glimpse of the white of his ass. Ah, but the priest preached a terrible sermon against him—by name, Tom, by name!”

“Is old Murphy blowing about it still?” growled Tom.

“Oh, let me alone now!” Tomas threw his hands to heaven and strode to and fro in his excitement, his bucket-bottom wagging. Ned knew to his sorrow that his father could be prudent, silent, and calculating; he knew only too well the cock of the head, the narrowing of the eyes, but, like a child, the old man loved innocent excitement and revelled in scenes of the wildest passion, all about nothing. Like an old actor he turned everything to drama. “The like of it for abuse was never heard, never heard, never heard! How Coleen could ever raise his head again after it! And where the man got the words from! Tom, my treasure, my son, you'll never have the like.”

“I'd spare my breath to cool my porridge,” Tom replied scornfully. “I dare say you gave up your own still so?”

“I didn't, Tom, I didn't. The drop I make, 'twould harm no one. Only a drop for Christmas and Easter.”

The lamp was in its own place on the rear wall, and made a circle of brightness on the fresh lime wash. Their mother was leaning over the fire with joined hands, lost in thought. The front door was open and night thickening outside, the colored night of the west; and as they ate, their father walked to and fro in long ungainly strides, pausing each time at the door to give a glance up and down the road and at the fire to hoist his broken bottom to warm. Ned heard steps come up the road from the west. His father heard them too. He returned to the door and glued his hand to the jamb. Ned covered his eyes with his hands and felt that everything was as it had always been. He could hear the noise of the strand as a background to the voices.

“God be with you, Tomas,” the voice said.

“God and Mary be with you, Teig.” (In Irish they were speaking.) “What way are you?”

“Well, honor and praise be to God. 'Tis a fine night.”

“'Tis, 'tis, 'tis so indeed. A grand night, praise be to God.”

“Musha, who is it?” their mother asked, looking round.

“'Tis young Teig,” their father replied, looking after him.

“Shemus's young Teig?”

“'Tis, 'tis, 'tis.”

“But where would Shemus's young Teig be going at this hour of night? 'Tisn't to the shop?”

“No, woman, no, no, no. Up to the uncle's I suppose.”

“Is it Ned Willie's?”

“He's sleeping at Ned Willie's,” Brigid chimed in in her high-pitched voice, timid but triumphant. “'Tis since the young teacher came to them.”

There was no more to be said. Everything was explained and Ned smiled. The only unfamiliar voice, little Brigid's, seemed the most familiar of all.

T
OM
said first Mass next morning and the household, all but Brigid, went. They drove, and Tomas in high glee sat in front with Tom, waving his hand and shouting greetings at all they met. He was like a boy, so intense was his pleasure. The chapel was perched high above the road. Outside the morning was gray and beyond the windy edge of the cliff was the sea. The wind blew straight in, setting cloaks and pettieoats flying.

After dinner as the two boys were returning from a series of visits to the neighbors' houses their father rushed down the road to meet them, shaking them passionately by the hand and asking were they well. When they were seated in the kitchen he opened up the subject of his excitement.

“Well,” he said, “I arranged a grand little outing for ye tomorrow, thanks be to God,” and to identify further the source of his inspiration he searched at the back of his neck for the peak of his cap and raised it solemnly.

“Musha, what outing are you talking about?” their mother asked angrily.

“I arranged for us to go over the bay to your brother's.”

“And can't you leave the poor boys alone?” she bawled. “Haven't they only the one day? Isn't it for the rest they came?”

“Even so, even so, even so,” Tomas said with mounting passion. “Aren't their own cousins to lay eyes on them?”

“I was in Carriganassa for a week last summer,” said Tom.

“Yes, but I wasn't, and Ned wasn't. 'Tis only decent.”

“'Tisn't decency is worrying you at all but drink,” growled Tom.

“Oh!” gasped his father, fishing for the peak of his cap to swear with, “that I might be struck dead!”

“Be quiet, you old heathen!” crowed his wife. “That's the truth, Tom my pulse. Plenty of drink is what he wants where he won't be under my eye. Leave ye stop at home.”

“I can't stop at home, woman,” shouted Tomas. “Why do you be always picking at me? I must go whether they come or not. I must go, I must go, and that's all there is about it.”

“Why must you?” asked his wife.

“Because I warned Red Pat and Dempsey,” he stormed. “And the woman from the island is coming as well to see a daughter of hers that's married there. And what's more, I borrowed Cassidy's boat and he lent it at great inconvenience, and 'twould be very bad manners for me to throw his kindness back in his face. I must go.”

“Oh, we may as well all go,” said Tom.

It blew hard all night and Tomas, all anxiety, was out at break of day to watch the whitecaps on the water. While the boys were at breakfast he came in and, leaning his arms on the table with hands joined as though in prayer, he announced in a caressing voice that it was a beautiful day, thank God, a pet day with a moist gentle little bit of a breezheen that would only blow them over. His voice would have put a child to sleep, but his wife continued to nag and scold, and he stumped out again in a fury and sat on the wall with his back to the house and his legs crossed, chewing his pipe. He was dressed in his best clothes, a respectable blue tailcoat and pale frieze trousers with only one patch on the seat. He had turned his cap almost right way round so that the peak covered his right ear.

He was all over the boat like a boy. Dempsey, a haggard, pockmarked, melancholy man with a soprano voice of astounding penetration, took the tiller and Red Patrick the sail. Tomas clambered into the bows and stood there with one knee up, leaning forward like a figurehead. He knew the bay like a book. The island woman was perched on the ballast with her rosary in her hands and her shawl over her eyes to shut out the sight of the waves. The cumbrous old boat took the sail lightly enough and Ned leaned back on his elbows against the side, rejoicing in it all.

“She's laughing,” his father said delightedly when her bows ran white.

“Whose boat is that, Dempsey?” he asked, screwing up his eyes as another brown sail tilted ahead of them.

“'Tis the island boat,” shrieked Dempsey.

“'Tis not, Dempsey. 'Tis not indeed, my love. That's not the island boat.”

“Whose boat is it then?”

“It must be some boat from Carriganassa, Dempsey.”

“'Tis the island boat I tell you.”

“Ah, why will you be contradicting me, Dempsey, my treasure? 'Tis not the island boat. The island boat has a dark brown sail; 'tis only a month since 'twas tarred, and that's an old tarred sail, and what proves it out and out, Dempsey, the island-boat sail has a patch in the corner.”