By the Lake

by John McGahern

  He downed it in one swallow. “Another, Joe.”

  “No, Bill. It would only get you into trouble,” he said, and walked him to the gate. He had no buckets and turned straight uphill, the stick reaching out in the crab-like, sideways walk.

  The night air was sweet with cut grass and meadowsweet and the wild woodbine. A bird moved in some high branch and was still. The clear yellow outlines of the stacked bales were sharp in the ghostly meadow under the big moon and the towering shapes of the trees. Headlights of a passing car from across the lake were caught like little moons in the windows of the porch as it travelled towards Shruhaun. They had all risen to leave when he got back to the house.

  “You must be tired. We’ll run you round the lake in the car.”

  “No. We’ll walk. We had a powerful evening. Who wouldn’t want to walk on a night the like of that?” Jamesie said.

  “The night is perfect but it’s been too long a day. Sit in the car.”

  Ruttledge knew not to take the words at face value. They were glad to sit in the car and be driven, Mary and Margaret holding the two dogs in their arms. Jamesie’s head started to droop towards his chest as they drove.

  Kate’s intuition was right that there was something on the Shah’s mind. He praised the cleaned meadows and the stacked bales when he rolled up to the house in the big car at his usual time on Sunday, but his mind was elsewhere. He could hardly wait to unburden himself.

  Clearing his throat loudly he announced, “I’m thinking of retiring,” as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe his own words.

  “There’s nothing wrong with you, is there?” Ruttledge was equally surprised.

  “No,” he laughed defensively.

  “Why do you want to retire?”

  “There comes a time. There are some old cunts going around who think they’ll never disappear. I wouldn’t want to be one of those.”

  The silence of the room was strange. To think of the Shah as retired was as difficult for the Ruttledges as it was for himself but Ruttledge knew that it would have been carefully considered and thought through.

  “What would you do with the business?”

  “I’d sell.”

  “Who would you sell it to?”

  “Whoever’d buy. Whoever’d come up with the washers. That’s no six marker.”

  “What would happen to Frank?”

  “Frank will have to do like the rest of us. Well, what do you think?” he asked out of a silence that had grown uncomfortably long.

  “Wouldn’t you miss it? It has been most of your life. What would you do with yourself?”

  “I’d have plenty to do,” he bristled. “I wouldn’t mind having nothing to do.”

  “You shouldn’t rush into anything, that’s all I’d worry about. You should wait till you’re sure.”

  “We’ll not rush. That’s one thing we’ll not be doing anyhow,” he laughed, his confidence returning.

  “What will happen to those men in your cottages?”

  “Nothing will change in their direction. They’ll come to no harm. The cottages will stay as they are. Well, what do you think about it all, Kate?”

  “It’s a big move. What does Captain here think?” and at the sound of his name the sheepdog left the sofa and went to Kate. His master appeared reassured and pleased as a child by both the move and the words.

  “He knows who to go to. He’s no fool.”

  “Bones!” she said playfully, and the dog barked.

  “Have you discussed this with anybody else?” Ruttledge asked.

  “No. I mentioned a few words to that woman down in the hotel—but no, I didn’t go over it with anybody.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with your health?”

  “Not that I know of but the mileage is up.”

  “I find it hard to get used to the idea.”

  “I find it hard to get used to it myself,” he admitted with rueful humour. “The time comes though when we all have to move over.”

  “Why don’t we leave it for a while? If you feel the same in a few weeks we can talk,” Ruttledge said.

  “That’s what we’ll do,” he said with obvious relief. “It’s been on my mind for a good while now. It’ll not go away.”

  “I think you should give Frank Dolan his chance at it if you decide to sell. He’s worked for you all his life.”

  “Will he be able for it? Will he have the washers?”

  “We can go into all that when you make up your mind for certain.”

  They walked the fields. They looked at the stacked bales in the shaved meadows, already a rich yellow in the sun, and at the cattle and the sheep. They stood on the high hill over the inner lake and watched a heron cross from the wooded island to Gloria Bog. The day was so still that not even a breath of wind ruffled the sedge that was pale as wheat in the sun. The birch trees stood like green flowers until the pale sea merged with the far blue of the mountain.

  “That distant blue means good weather.”

  “Talking of that blue and that neighbour of yours, I hear he’s going to take the plunge again.”

  “The mountains so lovely and blue in the distance?” Ruttledge echoed. “He’s been plunging ever since I came about the place.”

  “This time it’s going to be in the church with all the blessings and a big reception afterwards in the hotel. I’m told yous all are going to be invited.”

  “Who is the lucky woman?”

  “Some fool of a widow from up the country, Meath or Westmeath, with a grown family and a big farm of land. A fine, fresh woman, I’m informed.”

  “Where did he find her?”

  “In the best of places: the Knock Marriage Bureau.”

  “Where the Virgin appeared to the children?”

  “That’ll do you now but you’d think the priests and nuns would have something better to do than running a bucking shop,” he was shaking, wiping the tears away with small fists.

  “Where did you hear this?”

  “From that woman who owns the hotel. It’s all booked. I warned her she better get her money beforehand.”

  “Are you sure you’re not making this up?”

  “Not a word,” he shook silently. “There’s no fool like an old fool.”

  The mower, the tedder, the baler were put away for the year. An old buckrake the Shah had given Ruttledge years before was taken out. With its ungainly weight of solid metal and the sharply pointed steel pins it looked and was antique but was perfect for drawing in the square bales.

  As soon as Ruttledge entered the street with the big buckrake on the tractor he saw that Jamesie’s shed was already almost half full. Margaret came leading the mule by the bridle up from the meadows, six bales stacked on the small cart with the rubber wheels, Jamesie following behind. The brown hens paraded proudly around in the dust inside the netting wire. The box of pansies glowed on the windowsill beside the geraniums. Mary stood at the door.

  “You should have told me you had started. I’d have come over,” Ruttledge said.

  “We were doing nothing and started to jog along on our own. We hadn’t a thing else to do.”

  They unloaded and stacked the few bales, untackled the mule and let him loose in his field.

  “If he had manners he could run with the cows,” Jamesie said. “Since he hasn’t any manners he has to stay on his own. The very same as with people who can’t hold their drink.”

  In the house Jamesie called for the bottle of Powers and derided Ruttledge when he refused whiskey.

  “It’s too early. I couldn’t look at it now.”

  “I’d drink it any hour of the day or night and thrive,” he boasted.

  “Of course you would,” Mary echoed sarcastically as she poured him a whiskey.

  “Have you any news?”

  “No news. Came looking for news.”

  “You came to the wrong place. We are waiting for news.”

  Margaret laughed sharply at the repetitive foolishness of the
play but instead of continuing the banter Ruttledge said, “I have big news,” and the room went still. “Very big news.”

  “What? What?” Jamesie cried. “You’re only acting. You have no news!”

  “I have very big news,” Ruttledge repeated.

  News was the sustenance of Jamesie’s interest in everything that lived and moved around his life. Years before it had been arranged that they would come over to the Ruttledges’ for an evening, which was unusual in itself because of his dislike of formal arrangements. Early in the day, Ruttledge had gone into the town to get provisions for the evening and ran into Jamesie by accident. They went into Luke’s and chatted pleasantly for a half an hour or so.

  “I’ll not say goodbye as I’ll be seeing you this evening,” Ruttledge said casually as they parted.

  “You won’t,” Jamesie answered bluntly.

  “Why? Is there something wrong?” Ruttledge asked in alarm.

  “Not a thing wrong but you’ll have no more news this evening. I have all your news for a while,” he answered simply.

  Ruttledge didn’t quite believe it until the evening disappeared without sight of Jamesie or Mary.

  Now Jamesie could not bear Ruttledge’s mischievous withholding.

  “You have no news. You are only acting the fool,” he accused.

  “You may be acting the fool but he isn’t,” Mary said.

  “I’m telling you he has no news. There hasn’t been news around here in years.”

  “John Quinn is getting married again,” Ruttledge laid it out like a trump card on a green table.

  “You’re lying. Who told you? Somebody’s been packing you.”

  “The Shah told us.”

  “How does he know? He’s in the town.”

  “The Shah’s not lying. He wouldn’t care one way or another. He thinks all who marry are fools.”

  “He could be right there,” Mary said.

  “Missus Maguire who owns the Central told him. They are great friends.”

  “I know. I know. He drives her to Mass every Sunday. They are like an old married pair.”

  “The wedding breakfast is already booked for the Central. We are all going to be invited.”

  Jamesie was silent a long time before deciding that Ruttledge wasn’t playing or lying, and then instead of saying anything he cheered.

  “Where did John find the omadhaun of a woman who’ll have him?” Mary asked.

  “Out of the Knock Marriage Bureau.”

  “He could have. It gets better and better,” Jamesie said. “There’s notices up on the church door about the Bureau. John would try anything. He’s been getting and sending a sight of letters in the post. He’s been going places lately.” Jamesie rubbed his hands together in glee as if he believed it for the first time.

  “One thing sure is that John Quinn isn’t paying for a wedding reception for half the country,” Mary said.

  “Maybe the wife is paying. Maybe she has money.”

  “Then she’s even a bigger fool.”

  “And it could all turn out a pack of lies,” Jamesie said.

  “We better make a start at the bales unless we intend to get married ourselves,” Ruttledge said.

  The buckrake could be lowered or raised with the lift at will and it was easy to sling the bales on to the long spears. As the bales rose in the shed, Jamesie and Mary stayed behind and Ruttledge worked the meadows on his own. Sometimes Margaret rode with him between his knees and steered the big tractor. The bales rose towards the roof of the shed in stairs. In some ways the heaviest work fell to Mary. She took the bales from Ruttledge and then lifted them to Jamesie higher up, who took the binder twine in his enormous hands and swung them lightly into place. With the man’s cap turned back to front to keep the hayseed and dust from her hair, she looked wonderfully boyish whenever she smiled, but by evening she was visibly wilting. When Ruttledge suggested that she had more than enough done for the day and he and Jamesie would be able to finish on their own, she would not hear of giving up.

  “What is it but another small while? I wonder what the poor old father would make out of the shed now if he ran and put his nose to the window?” she laughed.

  “He’d go out of his mind,” Jamesie said. “He’d think the world had gone mad.”

  “We may all be the father at the window yet,” Ruttledge said.

  “And that’s life!” Jamesie shouted down from the stifling heat of the hayshed.

  “I suppose when we are lying below in Shruhaun, Margaret will be talking about us the way we are talking about the father,” Mary said.

  “She’ll be talking nice and sweet to her young man. She’ll be saying they were decent enough people, God rest them, but they never went to school and they had no money and never learned manners but they weren’t too bad. They were decent old skins when it was all added up,” Jamesie said.

  “I will not,” Margaret stamped her foot.

  “That’s right, Margaret,” Mary said. “He’s had his own way for far too long. Joe here went to school and is an educated man, not like that comedian up on the hay who has enough to say for ten scholars.”

  Jamesie cheered the speech defensively and Ruttledge said, “Don’t you see where it got me, Mary?”

  “An important job with the government,” Jamesie shouted down, and they stood and laughed before swinging back to work.

  They were gathering in the last few stacks when a big green car drove in on the street. The car wasn’t a substantial statement, like the Shah’s heavy Mercedes, but it was a statement of sorts—brand-new, expensive, an open sun roof and silver wheels that looked like the spokes of the sun. Music was playing from speakers in the car.

  “Margaret’s holiday is over,” Mary turned to the child, who drew closer to Mary and looked apprehensive. The parents were the first to emerge from the car, Jim in casual golfing clothes and Lucy in a summer dress. The children looked subdued. They were at an awkward age and stood on the street without moving towards Margaret or she to them. For a still moment the scene appeared frozen in uncertainty, until Jamesie shouted out and with nimble quickness came down the rows of bales.

  “You’re welcome. Welcome.” He shook everybody by the hand, but did not kiss or embrace. In an instinctive move to harness his excitement, he swooped to lift the three grandchildren one by one and then pretended he was no longer able. “You are all growing up past me and this poor old fella is going down,” he pulled his doleful clown’s face so that they all laughed. By then he had regained his old watchful, humorous presence. In contrast, Mary’s face was mute with devotion as she waited to receive her son’s kiss as if it were a sacrament.

  “Is he still treating you badly, Mother?” her son joked.

  “Sleepy fox,” Jamesie cried but Mary remained silent.

  “How are you, Gran? Great to see you,” Lucy said effusively as the two women kissed.

  “You are as welcome as ever anybody could be,” Mary said, but all the uncertain pauses of her heart were audible in the simple string of words.

  “You’re welcome,” Ruttledge shook their hands in turn.

  “Helping Mom and Pop with the hay? The extended family. How is Kate?” Lucy asked with a breeziness that had the effect of a voice singing out of tune though well intentioned.

  “She is well. She’ll be sorry to have missed you. How was Florence?” Ruttledge asked.

  “Fantastic. Just fantastic,” Lucy said. “The experience of a lifetime.”

  “We were glad enough to get home,” her husband added quietly.

  “How did Margaret behave herself?” the mother asked, smiling forcefully down at the child.

  “Margaret was wonderful. She lifted us all in the meadows,” Ruttledge said, feeling out of place. “She gave us heart.”

  “It must be some weight off this man’s mind to get the hay in the shed. He used always go a bit bananas about this time of year,” their son laughed.

  “Pay no heed. I never heard. They’d all hav
e you circling if you paid them heed,” Jamesie answered jauntily while engaged with the three children who had been joined by Margaret and the pair of dogs. “They’d have you so that you wouldn’t know whether you were coming or going.”

  “He has an answer for everything. He’s a character,” Lucy said in glorious condescension.

  “A quare hawk,” her husband echoed, but defensively, uncertainly, and laughed.

  “A poor old fella. A decent poor skin. May the Lord have mercy on his soul,” the subject himself answered, still engaged with his grandchildren.

  The flurry and excitement of the arrival died away. The brown hens returned to their pecking in the dirt, raising a yellow eye sideways from time to time to inspect with comic gravity the strangely crowded street. From within the house one of the clocks began to strike an earlier hour. A blackbird landed with a frenzied clatter in the hedge beside the hayshed. Completely alone though a part of the crowd, Mary stood mutely gazing on her son and his wife as if in wonderment how so much time had disappeared and emerged again in such strange and substantial forms that were and were not her own. Across her face there seemed to pass many feelings and reflections: it was as if she ached to touch and gather in and make whole those scattered years of change. But how can time be gathered in and kissed? There is only flesh.

  To Ruttledge, Jim was a quiet, courteous man without the vividness or presence or the warmth of his parents. He had the habit of attention and his face was kind. It was as if he had been prematurely exhausted by the long journey he had made and discovered little sustenance on the new shores of Kildare Street and Mount Merrion. Already he had gone far but was unlikely to advance much further without luck. The people who could promote him to the highest rung would have to be interacted with, and could not be studied like a problem or a book.

  His wife would want his advancement and certainly she herself would be a hindrance to what she sought. When she first met the Ruttledges she expected them to be bowled over by her personality since they were already friendly with her parents-in-law. They found her exhausting. She drew all her life from what was outside herself, especially from the impression she imagined she was making on other people, and her dark good looks and sexual attractiveness helped this primal conceit. She accepted mere politeness as unqualified endorsements but was quick to dismiss anybody who allowed signs to show that they found her less than entrancing. Her sense of importance and confidence could only be kept alive by the large, closely bound family to which she belonged and to which her husband had been inexorably annexed.