Walk the Blue Fields (3 page)

‘He’d probably ate the bloody sheep dog,’ Sinnott says, stretching out for the last roast potato.

‘What, exactly, does he do?’ the priest asks.

‘He’s shepherding, didn’t I say?’ says Miss Dunne.

‘No. I mean, what cure does he have?’

‘I don’t rightly know, Father. All I know is there’s people goes to him. I never go near him. If an’thing’s ailing me, I
go to Nail the bone-setter.’

‘A great man if you’ve a dish out in yer back,’ says Breen ‘Only you could be behind a greyhound.’

‘Or a fecking pony!’ says Sinnott. ‘I had to wait two hour after a lame piebald.’

There is laughter.

‘If you’ve an’thing ailing you, the Chinaman’s the man.’

‘It’s all talk. Sure what use could he be? Hasn’t a word of English. There’d be no way of telling him what’s ailing ya.’

‘Well, there’d be nothing to stop you telling him!’ Mike Brennan laughs.

‘You could point!’ says Miss Dunne.

‘You could drop your drawers, tell him which end of the parish you were reared in, and hope for the best,’ says Sinnott. ‘Sure he’s a Chink: ates dog and shites tay!’

‘Aisy!’ says Brennan with a frown. ‘There’s a man of the cloth here.’

‘Aye,’ says Sinnott with a grunt. ‘And we all know the white cloth is aisy stained.’

The laughter tumbles quickly into a fragile silence. Breen coughs. The aunt straightens her knife and fork once more.

‘It’s much you’d know about stains,’ says Miss Dunne, ‘and you wud five sisters ironing every crease out of your pyjamas.’

It’s a fair attempt at a rescue but Sinnott’s remark
smoulders
. The priest cuts into the lamb. Mike Brennan looks across the room where another man is making his way across the floor on crutches.

‘Speaking of bones,’ he says, ‘what happened to Donoghue?’

‘Got a kick of a heifer this morning,’ says Sinnott.

‘That’ll learn him to warm his hands. Was he wud the doctor?’

‘No. He wouldn’t go.’

‘You couldn’t get him to go,’ says Breen.

‘He must have had the sticks, so. Two things you should never keep in a house: crutches – and a pram.’

‘There’s the voice of experience!’ cries Miss Dunne.

‘Yez can laugh away but there was never a truer word. When Mary was in having the last, I took the pram up the yard and gave her the paraffin,’ says Brennan. ‘She ate me when she came home but wasn’t it nearly time? Sure the hens took to laying out in the Moses basket.’

‘Is it seven you have, or eight?’ says the aunt.

‘I’ve nine,’ says Brennan, searching his pockets for cigarettes. ‘And isn’t it a terrible thing, after all that, to have to go outside for a fag?’

Now that the main course is over, the anxiety of service dies down. The girls who come out to remove their dinner plates are different girls. Nothing’s been broken. No one has gone without. The desserts come out: almond tart with strawberries, sherry trifle, cream. They are just about to lift their spoons and pitch the next round of speech when Donal Jackson, at the head table, strikes his glass and stands. As soon as he stands, he falls back into his chair. The crowd turns towards him, falls silent. Ears prick. A
titter
falls loose in the room. The best man tries, again, to get to his feet. This time he manages to stand but he has to lean on the table, his hand flat on the cloth.

‘Hello everybody!’ he cries out. ‘Hello!’

The groom mumbles something about keeping the
bastarding
thing short. It is heard, without meaning to be heard, over the microphone.

‘Good day to yous all!’ the best man cries. ‘I hope ye’ve had your fill.’

He stops at this point, unsure of how to go on. He looks
down at the bride. He looks at his brother.

‘When my brother started courting Kate here, we all said he’d never pull as fine a bird.’ He looks at the tablecloth, the glasses, the silver salt and pepper shakers. ‘Now that we seen he’s done it, the only pity is she doesn’t have a
sister
!’ He pushes the tablecloth and the dishes move. Aglass of red wine tips over staining the white linen.

Sinnott looks hard at the priest and smiles, looks back at the best man.

‘If she had a sister we could have shared the land and –’

Lawlor quickly takes the microphone from his hand. He does so with all the grace of the gentleman he is and begins to thank everyone, most sincerely, for coming. He says he is glad that his only daughter has found a good husband. He says he did his best to raise her well and, although her mother cannot be here, he knows she is looking down on them and blessing this day. He praises the food, the wine, the service. He thanks the priest for the simple ceremony, the bridesmaids who bore witness, and all the groom’s people. He welcomes the groom to the family, and hopes he will treat his daughter well for the rest of her life. He can hope for nothing more, he says, and sits down.

The groom unfolds a piece of paper and thanks
everyone
again, in turn, mirroring his father-in-law’s speech. The bride sits quietly, surrounded by all the men making speeches. A waitress comes round with champagne but she wants none of it. As she sits there, with her hand caressing the stem of her glass, the priest remembers something. It is a clear, resurrected memory that makes him wish he was alone.

Applause rises when the cake comes out. The bride and groom stand and take hold of the knife. The blade is sunk deep into the bottom tier and the obligatory photograph is
taken. Soon after, the cake comes back, cut up on tiny plates, dusted with sugar. Tea is poured, coffee.

Miss Lawlor reaches out and stuffs a serviette into her handbag.

‘A souvenir,’ she says. ‘I must have a dozen now.’

Again, the priest is handed the microphone. He stands up and says grace without feeling any of the words. Lately, when he has prayed, his prayers have not been answered. Where is God? he has asked. Not, what is God? He does not mind not knowing God. His faith has not faltered – that’s what’s strange – but he wishes God would show himself. All he wants is a sign. Some nights he gets down on his knees when the housekeeper is gone and the
curtains
are pulled tight across the windows and prays to God to show him how to be a priest.

Everyone is asked to finish so the tables can be pushed back, the space cleared for dancing. People abandon the ballroom for the bar, the toilets, go out to the beer garden to smoke. At this point, the priest could leave. He could go up to those still sober enough to remember he said
goodbye
, and shake their hands. In his house, he knows a fire is set. All he has to do is go back and set a match to it. Sleep would tug at him and the day would end. But he must stay for the dance. He will stay to see the dance, then he will go.

The music begins with a slow waltz. ‘Could I Have this Dance for the Rest of My Life?’ As the groom is leading his bride onto the floor, the hem of her dress snags on the heel of her shoe. She stoops to fix it, blushing. She has taken off the veil so the back of her neck is naked, but for the pearls. When she straightens up, Jackson takes her in his arms. Willingly she seems to go. Lights catch the diamond in her engagement ring. The white shoes follow the course her husband makes around the floor. They circle once, and
once again, and then his brother comes out with the maid of honour. He seems light on his feet. The best man may be incapable of speech, but he can dance. The groomsman
follows
with his bridesmaid. They seem shy, unsure of
themselves
, of each other. After three waltzes, the music stops and the best man asks his brother if he can dance with the bride. The groom looks at him. Lawlor is standing at the edge of the dance-floor trying to catch the groom’s eye. He will have difficulty, the priest realises, staying out of this, even though he said he must. The groom hesitates but he consents and soon the maid of honour is exchanged for the bride.

The band picks up the pace, changing to a quickstep. The best man begins the jive. Years back, he won some type of jiving competition, and now he is determined to show his skill. He makes an arch of his arm, and the bride passes under, comes out behind him but she is not moving fast enough for his liking. He pushes the bride into a spin, but when he turns, to spin off her, his hand does not catch hers; instead it catches the string of pearls and when he spins, the string breaks.

The priest freezes as the pearls slip off the string. He watches how they hop off the polished floor and roll in his direction. One pearl hits the skirting board, rolls back past Miss Dunne’s outstretched hand. She lets out a sigh as it rolls back towards the priest’s chair. He puts his hand down and lifts it. It is warm in his hand, warm from her. This, more than anything else in the day, startles him.

The priest walks across the dance floor. The bride is standing there with her hands out. When he places the pearl in her hand, she looks into his eyes. There are tears there but she is too proud to blink and let one fall. If she blinked, he would take her hand and take her away from
this place. This, at least, is what he tells himself. It’s what she once wanted but two people hardly ever want the same thing at any given point in life. It is sometimes the hardest part of being human.

‘I am so sorry,’ he says.

He looks at the fragile lines in her open palms, at the pearls accumulating. He lifts his eyes back to her face. Lawlor is staring at him but Breen comes up and breaks it.

‘How many had you?’ Breen says.

‘How many?’ says the bride, shaking her head.

‘Aye,’ he says. ‘Have you any notion how many was on the string?’ Breen looks at her and changes. ‘Ah, don’t be crying, girl. Tis only a string. Tis aisy mended.’

Down at the ballroom door, the groom has caught the best man by the collar. The big hand is tight, the face white in temper.

‘You mad bollocks!’ he roars. ‘Could you not control yourself for the one fucken day!’

Lovely to be out in the avenue again, to leave that terrible music behind. The wind has died and now the trees are still. On a bough, a crow sits watchful. Down the street, a chimney throws white smoke against the sky. The newsagent has closed her door but in the betting shop, a TV light still flickers. The priest pauses at the window, sees there a girl, fast asleep with an open book. He would like to go in and wake her, to tell her that she will get a crick in her neck but he walks on down to the parochial house. As soon as his foot touches the deep gravel, he knows he
cannot
go inside. He turns back down the street, past the petrol pumps, and heads out the country road.

So, she is married. For a moment, he feels the possibility of all things new and then it vanishes. He passes the high walls of the convent, then the tubular steel fence of the mart. There’s no pavement now, just the bare road, a fringe of dead leaves under his feet. It is slippery, in places, and he tells himself he does not really know where he is going. He passes Jackson’s gate, the milk cartons left standing in the crate. Every now and then a beast in some field or shed lets out a roar. Many of the cattle in this parish will not be fed tonight. He walks without allowing any single thought to dominate his mind. After a few miles he can hear, under the road, the comforting noise of the river.

When he reaches the creamery, he turns down Hunter’s Lane. Here, the Blackstairs tower over the land, throwing the fields into strange, blue shadow. Hunting men come down here on Sundays, after mass. They’ve left dead fowl at the house: cock pheasants, ducks, a goose. The
housekeeper
has hung them, plucked them, served them up on the dinner table. The priest doesn’t like to think of this even though he’s taken pleasure in the meals, the gravy.

The lane ends where a house once stood, its derelict walls choked in ivy. At the marshy patch where the alders grow, there’s panic on the water, a flutter, and the wild ducks rise. The catkins shiver after them. The priest turns still and looks at the sky for the heron. Never once has he come this way without seeing her. It is asking much to see her again but suddenly she’s there, her slow wings
carrying
her in a placid curve against the sky.

Down at the river, the sleepy brown water runs on. The peace is deeper as always simply because it’s still there. On the water’s surface, the reflection of the far bank’s trees is corrugated. A single cloud floats on the sky, so pale and out of place, like a cloud left over from another day. He
remembers the snatch of bridal veil on the yews, puts his hand in his pocket and feels it there. He takes it out, lets it fall. Before it touches the water, he regrets it but he had his chance, and now his chance is gone.

There was a milky fog in the orchard the night she came up to the house. It was All Soul’s, and he was alone in the parlour with the fire blazing. Earlier that day he’d given last rites to a young man at the hospital, then he’d driven back to say evening Mass. It was one of those nights when he felt the impossibility of being alone. He was thinking of the young man, of how he himself was still young. The clock on the mantelpiece was loud. He threw more coal on the fire and paced the floor. She came to get a Mass card signed, for her mother. He asked her to come in, to sit with him. She had stayed, he felt, so as not to offend him. He never meant to touch her but when she stared into the fire, the priest looked at the white line on her scalp where the dark red hair was parted. He’d reached out simply to feel the heat of the fire on her hair. That was all he had meant to do but she had misunderstood the gesture and reached out to clasp his wrist.

Always, they met in out-of-the-way places: on the rough strand at Cahore or Blackwater, in the woods beyond the common paths of Avondale. Once, they ran into Miss Dunne on the strand. She was walking towards them and it was too late to turn away but just as they were about to meet, she turned towards the sea. She had not on that day nor ever since given any hint that she had seen them.

The seasons passed and winter came again. They got away, travelled north to The Silent Valley and stayed in a little guest-house near Newry town. That night, over
dinner
, she caressed the stem of her glass and told him she couldn’t stand it any longer. If he could not leave the
priesthood, she would not see him this way again. They had gone to a heritage park the next morning on the way home, walked backwards through the ages, from Viking yard and house through the crannógs, and wound up at a Neolithic tomb. There, they had stood at the edge of an artificial lake where a crude, wooden boat was half
submerged
. The water’s surface was thick with dandelion seed. Acold breeze hissed through the reeds but they were silent, locked in the knowledge that nothing again would ever be the same.