By the Lake

by John McGahern

  “I suppose Margaret was spoiled. She’d have been given everything she ever wanted but that was about to all change when John Quinn came with his team of horses to do their spring ploughing. Many girls better looking than Margaret wanted John Quinn but they didn’t have limestone fields and a house and place to walk into.

  “Her father was against him from the first, though John Quinn was dripping with sweetness. He was in dread that everything he had built about the beehive was about to be trampled underfoot. Mary the mother, though, was all for John Quinn from the very first and the place was hers.”

  “What could they have done anyhow? Margaret was wild about John Quinn. All they could have done was shut the door against their only child and the poor things weren’t about to do that,” Mary said.

  “All around the lake were invited to the wedding. Even Mary here went and she hadn’t long left school at the time. No expense was spared. All kinds of meat and drink were brought in. It was all the talk around the lake for weeks ahead of the wedding. There was going to be music. Packie Donnelly from the crossroads was alive then and he was the best fiddle player we ever had about the lake. He got a cousin of his own to come from Drumreilly, Peter Kelly, who was a smasher on the melodeon. Poor Tom Murphy was coming as well from Aughoo. He was a martyr for the drink but could make a tin whistle talk. On the wedding morning, when it was seen that the day was going to be without rain, a long trestle table was set up under the chestnut tree in the yard.”

  “Margaret went to the church with the father and mother in the pony and trap,” Mary said. “I saw them going. She was wearing a beautiful dress of blue silk that fell to her ankles the mother had made, as good as any dressmaker. She wore a blue hat with white flowers and white shoes. John Quinn was in a brand new grey suit with a white flower in the buttonhole. He was full of himself and he was shining.”

  “He had Stratton the tailor scourged for fittings for that grey suit. Stratton would never make anything for him again. Probably he was never paid for the suit after all the fittings,” Jamesie said. “As soon as John Quinn got into the trap to drive with Margaret and the mother and father back from the church to the house, he took the reins from Tom Sweeney. In that sweet false voice, he said that Tom had done more than his share up to now and it was his time to sit back and put his feet up and take his ease. What could poor Tom Sweeney say? John Quinn took up the place of two people in the trap. Then he got the whip and waved it to the people who passed along the road and then whipped the fat brown pony till it galloped. Tom Sweeney used to talk to that pony. ‘What hurry is on you? We’ll be home as it is far too soon. She’s not used to that treatment.’ He might as well have been talking to the wind for all the heed John Quinn paid.

  “A few neighbouring women and children had stayed behind preparing the house and setting tables. They had scattered the whole yard with flowers and they must have been surprised to see the wedding trap come into the yard ahead of everybody, the pony lathered in sweat, Tom Sweeney ready to cry. By the time the crowd arrived he had untackled the pony and given her water and was rubbing her down, with him still in his good clothes.

  “Then the crowd gathered from the church. They all were waiting for the bridegroom to carry the bride across the doorstep into the empty house and for the feast and the music to begin, but John Quinn had another surprise in store. ‘Now Margaret, before we go into the house there’s a little thing I want to show you over here on the shore.’ Everybody was around them in the yard and the words could be heard clear. ‘We’ll go in. There’s nothing to see in the lake that we haven’t seen before.’

  “He opened the gate and though she was a big enough girl he picked her up and carried her like she was a feather. I remember seeing one of the white shoes fall off her foot on to the grass. I think someone picked it up and brought it back to the house. ‘It won’t take a minute. Excuse us, good friends and neighbours, for there’s just this little thing we have to do first that won’t hold up things at all.’ You know how sweet and humble he talks.

  “Everybody thought that John Quinn was only acting the fool and they kept on talking and laughing and chatting away. ‘It wouldn’t be John if he didn’t do things different. He’s a holy terror. It wouldn’t be John if things happened like for everybody else,’ and they began to wonder what strange thing he had to show Margaret over on the shore. He was not known then as he is known now.

  “They reached the top of the slope where the rock field slopes down to the shore. There’s little earth and in places the rock is bare. In dry spells the grass there turns red on that part of the shore.

  “They stood for a while in full view. Though the yard had turned quiet as a church what they were saying couldn’t be heard. They were too far off. John Quinn put the blanket he had brought down on the rock. Margaret looked as if she was trying to break away but he could have held her with one hand. It was over before anybody rightly knew. He lifted the blue dress up over her head and put her down on the blanket. The screech she let out would put your heart crossways. John Quinn stood between her and the house while he was fixing his trousers and belt. He must have been afraid she’d try to break back on her own but she just lay there on the ground. In the end he had to lift her and straighten her dress and carry her in his arms. The mother and father stood there like a pair of ghosts. Not a word was spoken.

  “Once the rush to get away started, you never saw the like. A few went up to the old pair before leaving but most just cut for the road. What could they say? It was clear that Margaret didn’t even want to face back to the house after what had happened. By the time he carried her into the yard the whole place had emptied. There might never have been a wedding except for the scattered flowers and the long trestle table weighted down with all sorts of food and drink under the chestnut tree. The musicians were the last to leave without playing a note. Poor Tom Sweeney walked them all the way out to the gate at the road without uttering a word. He tried to give them a fistful of money but none of them would take as much as a penny. When he kept pressing the money, all Packie Donnelly—who was as decent a man as you’d find as well as a great fiddle player—all Packie did was to put his arm round poor Tom’s shoulder and hold him tight to show that they understood everything and wanted nothing and that no fault or blame was attached in their minds to him. In those sort of cases sympathy is nearly the hardest thing of all to take and Tom Sweeney who hadn’t said a word up to then started bawling like a child. What could they do but look at one another and say how things could turn out all right yet in the end and hurry away? It’s a terrible thing to see an old man bawling. People always say that things will turn out all right in the end when there’s never a chance of them turning out right.”

  “He must have been out of his mind.”

  “Not one little bit out of his mind, Kate.”

  “How could he have done what he did otherwise?”

  “There’s a method in everything John Quinn does. It’s all thought out. In those days when a man married into a place he had little shout. He was expected to take a back seat. Some were not much more than servants. From the minute John Quinn took the reins into his hands on the way from the church till he brought Margaret as far as the rock, he was showing who was going to be boss and that everything was going to be under him from that day out.”

  “You’d think he’d be ashamed, if nothing else.”

  “Not one little bit. He’d glory that it was in full view. It was said he didn’t let Margaret wear knickers in the house so that he could do her there and then whenever he wanted, against the table or the wall and all the better if it was in front of the old pair.

  “They lasted no time. They faded away. Tom Sweeney never let a morsel of food pass his lips for weeks before he died. Margaret had the eight children, and then she got bad. One morning Johnny was out with the gun he saw her walking in her nightdress in her bare feet in the dew before it was fully light to see if the coolness would ease the pain. In the end the schoolchi
ldren didn’t want to pass the gate on their way to school because they were frightened by her cries. When they laugh over his cavortings and carry-on, they should not forget the full story,” Jamesie said.

  “He can’t be blamed for her death?”

  “No. It could have happened anyway. The place had been a little paradise. The animals would nearly talk to you they were that well looked after. Tom Sweeney grew every sort of vegetable—beans, peas, lettuce, parsnips, you name them—he had hives; the apple trees were pruned into shapes like bowls or cups and he was a master thatcher. He grew his own straw and thatched a seventh of the roof every year. The seven years could be seen side by side in the different shades of the straw in the thatch, from golden brown to what was nearly black with rain. John Quinn planted nothing but potatoes and cabbage and maybe turnips. He put a tin roof over the thatch and sold the bees and the hives. I don’t think he ever put a spade in the vegetable garden. The fruit trees went wild. There were several cats around the place. They used to line up in a row when Tom Sweeney was milking. I’m afraid the cats got short shrift. Anything not drawing to John Quinn’s mill wasn’t going to last long about a place.

  “In fairness he was good enough with the children. He turned himself into a middling cook after the mother died and had always a big pot of something tasty bubbling by the fire. The children were all strong and good-looking, wonderful workers, and John showered them with praise so that they’d try to outdo one another. Naturally he didn’t forget himself either when he was handing the praise around and he learned to sew and to cobble.

  “At the time there were terrible beatings in the schools. Some of the teachers were savages. People were afraid to speak out but John Quinn wasn’t afraid. There was a Missus Kilboy who was a terror with the cane. She’d swipe you round the legs as well as murder your hands; and if you tried to cover your legs with your arms, the arms and back would get it as well.

  “None of the children ever forgot his appearance at the school. He knocked very politely before lifting the latch and coming into the classroom, the heavy hobnailed boots loud on the hollow boards. His voice was dripping with politeness. ‘Excuse me now, children, for interrupting your lessons but I have just a few little words to say to your mistress here that won’t take long.’

  “Naturally the children were delighted and sat up in the desks, all full of ears. ‘Sorry to be taking time away from the lessons, Mistress, but my two little girls came home crying from school yesterday evening. Their hands were so swollen they weren’t able to hold their spoons to eat the dinner. They were still crying when it was time for them to go to their bed. You might have noticed now, Mistress, that they weren’t at school today.’

  “What could she say? John Quinn had her cornered. The children were drinking in every word. John Quinn’s voice couldn’t have been sweeter. He was like a cat purring over a saucer of milk.

  “ ‘Now, Mistress, if this ever happens again I’m afraid it’ll go a lot further than this and it could be that when the courts are finished with the case you could be looking for another position. That’d be a pity to happen in a small place like this where everybody is happy and getting on well together. It can bring in bad feelings between people. And sometimes these are hard to forget. Now my pair of little girls are coming back to school tomorrow and nothing like that must ever happen again. Don’t as much as lay a hand on those little girls. That’s all I have to say for now. I won’t take another minute away from the good lessons.’

  “As he went with the hobnailed boots back down the hollow boards between the rows of desks, he spoke to the children. ‘Excuse me now, children, for interrupting your lessons but I had a few little important words that had to be said to your mistress. Now go back to your books and work hard and pay heed to everything your mistress tells because that’s how you’ll learn to get on well in the world and be happy and make your poor parents happy. Excuse me now, children. I’ll not take another minute from your lessons.’

  “Missus Kilboy hadn’t said a single word throughout. As soon as John Quinn left she went to the Master’s room and they both went out into the porch where the children couldn’t see or hear. They were a long time in the porch and when Missus Kilboy came back the children could see she had been crying.

  “None of the Quinns were ever beaten after that but they weren’t given much attention or schooling either. The teachers were afraid of John Quinn and that was their way of dealing. He came back to the school more than once to complain that his children were being overlooked and cold-shouldered but there was nothing he could prove. Let nobody try to best the guards or the doctors or teachers. They have their own ways of getting back at you.

  “It didn’t seem to hold any of the Quinn children back. They were strong for their years and as soon as they got to fourteen or sixteen they all hit for England. They got on the best there. A few of them are said to be millionaires and they all think the world of John Quinn. Many more normal parents aren’t thought nearly as well of or as honoured by their children.

  “He didn’t bother much with women while he had the children. He was too busy and too well known around, and to go into a houseful of small children with John Quinn at the head of affairs wasn’t much of a draw for any woman. When the children were thinning out he started. He got them from newspapers and magazines and agencies. He got women from all over. You’d be surprised at how many poor people are going round the world in search of a companion and John Quinn was the boy to find them: ‘Gentleman Farmer with Lakeside Residence’ was his calling card. I seen severals. There were no beauties but they say he got money from some of them and I saw them buy a world of groceries for the house while John waited next door in the pub with his bottle of stout.

  “Missus O’Brien he definitely sold. He had her for several months until he tired of her and a replacement no doubt was lined up. She was a great housekeeper who had worked for a rich family in the North. They thought a sight of her and keep in touch with her to this very day. She was a little bit innocent, that’s all that was wrong with her. She’d believe anything you’d tell her and she adored John Quinn. However he engineered it, he got her to marry Tom O’Brien, who was hardworking and looking for a woman, and money changed hands. They were wonderfully happy and still are. In no time she had the place shining, with hens and geese about the yard, and they got a bathroom and washing machines and the whole show. John Quinn wasn’t one bit pleased it turned out so well—he’s like your dog—and felt he should have got more money. Those rich people she worked for visit her every year and take her and Tom O’Brien out to a big meal and drinks in the Central in town.

  “The strange thing is that she is still as sweet as ever on John Quinn. A few months back Tom O’Brien was in hospital and in no time John Quinn was around. She was delighted to see him and had the welcome of the world. John was in his element, being fed royal, his eye out for whatever else was going. It was the neighbours who ran him, warning him not to darken the place again till Tom got out of hospital. She wasn’t one bit pleased when she got to know what happened. If anything was to happen to Tom he’d be in there like a shot in the morning and as sure as day she’d have him.”

  “Would the priest not have some say?”

  “None. Early on he called to the house but he was wasting his breath. Nobody could best John Quinn. He delights in taking every woman he has up into the front seat of the church, genuflecting and allowing her into the seat first, kneeling in adoration. You’d have to die at the performance. Then as soon as Mass is over he takes the woman up to the candleshrine. They light two small candles. The two of them together light a third candle and then set the candle on the spikes between their own two candles. The third candle is for a wish, ‘Always wish for something good and happy for yourself, Maura. There’s no use in a star falling and no one seeing it and no one making a wish. Always wish something for yourself.’ You’d nearly die. If John Quinn was ever an actor our Johnny and even Patrick Ryan would be only trotting a
fter him. And the ladies lap it up—good-o.”

  “And that’s the sort of church you’re trying to get me to return to,” Ruttledge said.

  “The fellow doesn’t go to church for religion,” Mary said dismissively. “He only goes to see shows like John Quinn. It’d be a poor lookout if people were to follow him to church.”

  Jamesie enjoyed the chastisement, but then countered, “We go to the door of the church anyhow, which is more than can be said for some others present whose names will not be mentioned,” he intoned loftily.

  “Why did John Quinn marry if he could have all those other women without benefit of ceremony?”

  “I’m surprised at you asking. There could be only one reason. He thought she had money. Maybe as well he was finding it that bit harder to get women. Like the rest of us he’s getting no younger. His name as well was probably going ahead of him. He was getting too well known.”