Jamesie rapped the roof of the trailer in quiet satisfaction as they got into the car. “They’ll never see the lake again.”
To Jamesie everything they passed was of intense interest: the fields well kept, the neglected fields, the grazing cattle, ramshackle houses, houses that shone, houses in ruin. A long, slow-running commentary rose out of the avid looking. He praised where he could, but most people were allowed their space without praise or blame in a gesture of hands that assigned his life and theirs to their own parts in this inexhaustible journey.
As they passed the roofless Abbey at Shruhaun, he made the sign of the cross, quickly and hurriedly, like sprinkling water.
The bars in Shruhaun were closed but vans were delivering bread and newspapers to the side doors. He craned back to try to discover who was taking in the bread, frustrated by the vans. Once they reached the outskirts of the town he ordered Ruttledge to slow.
“I saw the day when every man around thought that woman was the light of heaven,” he said of a big woman crossing the street. “A pure wilderness of a woman now.”
“You’ll find the light of heaven hasn’t travelled far. It’s come to rest on some other young women.”
“Two detectives—in the alley—watching,” he sang out as the car and trailer went slowly past Jimmy Joe McKiernan’s bar.
“They’re always there.”
“Night and day.”
“And it’s a waste of time. Nobody they want is going to roll up to the front door.”
“I know. I know. I know full well. Everything goes on round the back,” he protested. “The world knows he led the big breakout from Long Kesh—didn’t he get his arm broke?—and a whole lot else but they can’t arrest him. They have to be seen to be watching, that’s all. Everything that is done they do in the North. They don’t care a straw as long as it doesn’t travel down here. All for show.”
“I think it’s wrong,” Ruttledge said. “There shouldn’t be two laws.”
“I have nothing against Jimmy Joe McKiernan. As plain and decent a man as there is in the town. He’s not for himself like all the others.”
“You don’t mind that he’d shoot you?”
“He’d do that only if he had to. He’d only do it if you stood in the way of the Cause. Jimmy Joe wouldn’t harm a fly unless it stood in his way.”
“I don’t see much difference between getting shot in a bad cause or a good.”
“You’re getting too precise, Mister Ruttledge. He’s not going to shoot you or me. We don’t count,” Jamesie was uncomfortable with the argument. “There’s not a soul stirring round Luke’s,” he said as they passed Luke Henry’s bar. Jamesie always wanted to flee unpleasantness and disagreement.
“We’ll have a drink in Luke’s on the way home,” Ruttledge said, recognizing his anxiety.
“Please God,” he said fervently, relieved. “The Empire of the Shah,” he said caressing the words as they came to the end of the town and saw the sheds and diesel signs and the cottages and the huge yard packed with the scrapped lorries and cars and tractors and machinery behind the high wire fence. “Does he know the end of his money?”
“He enjoys having money,” Ruttledge said, and then saw the small round figure in the arched entrance of the main shed, with his fist firmly fixed on his hip, the sheepdog sitting by his side. “He hasn’t a great deal of use for money. It’s just the having of it that gives him pleasure.”
“Lord bless us, he is up already with half the town still asleep. What is he going to do with it all?” Jamesie said in wonderment as soon as he spotted the round figure by the sheepdog.
“It’ll go to somebody or other. It has nowhere else to go,” Ruttledge said laughingly. “It was gathered from people and just goes back to other people.”
“I know you’re not a bit interested in his money and Kate doesn’t care,” Jamesie said cautiously. “I’d praise you both for that. There’s no worse sight than watching people wait to fill dead men’s shoes when they should be going about their own business.”
“I know, Jamesie. I know.”
Once they passed beyond the town he no longer knew any of the people who lived on the farms or in the roadside bungalows. His fascination did not lessen but he was silent now, looking to left and right, as if he was afraid he might miss something important along the way.
“Dromod,” he cried out when the stone station and the bar across the road came into view. “Every single summer. Meet Johnny off the train with Rowley’s car. Put him back on the train.”
“It’s a pretty station,” Ruttledge said.
“It’s all right. It’ll do,” he said dismissively. In itself it held no other interest.
On the wide road to Rooskey he was bewildered by the number of cars and trucks and the speed at which they passed. As they crossed the Shannon by the narrow bridge in Rooskey, he asked Ruttledge to slow again so that he could feast his eyes on the white pleasure-boats below.
“Foreigners and people from Dublin. Plenty of money. Drinks. Riding,” he rubbed his hands together in mock celebration of their moneyed pleasures.
“Would Lucy and Jim like to own one of those boats? They could afford—”
“No,” the very idea was disturbing. “No. She might but Jim wouldn’t want. No,” he said definitely, with relief. “They’d want to go out foreign. To Italy or somewhere. They’d have no taste for this place. They know too much about places like round here.”
They drove through bog and scrub. The floodwaters of the river lowlands had withdrawn to leave sedge as pale as ripe wheat. A match could strike it into sweeping flame. Then they started to climb. Far below, a narrow inlet of the Shannon sparkled. They passed a school and a church with a big bell sitting silent on the grass, white houses, old trees, and once they began the descent they entered the limestone fields and stone walls of Roscommon. Here and there slender ash trees stood alone among the grey stone walls and the sheep and cattle and the occasional field of horses. They went through sleepy villages, circled the spires and chimneys of Roscommon town on the ring road that took them past the cattle mart.
“At home you see nothing. See nothing,” Jamesie sighed, as people and places flew past.
As soon as they eased in behind the queue of cars and tractors drawing trailers outside the factory, he raised his wristwatch to the window light. “An hour and ten minutes since we left the house—five minutes quicker than last year. Do you mind the year the wheel came off the old trailer and we thought we’d never make it and the lambs roaring? Those men in the ESB van saved our lives. They lifted the trailer as if it was a feather. They were toppers and wouldn’t even take the price of a drink. All of them were in a tug-of-war team.”
“I remember. I don’t know what we’d have done.”
The queue moved slowly. Big lorries entered by a different gate. Occasionally, farmers left their cars and went to chat at the open windows of cars they knew. After a half-hour or so they reached the gate. Ruttledge told the man in the small wooden office the number of lambs in the trailer and was handed a docket and paper disks with the number 126. At the pens he reversed the trailer. Farmers helped run the frightened, huddled lambs from the trailer. The disks were fixed on the wool. It was all very quiet and orderly except for the bleating of the lambs. Ruttledge left Jamesie in the pens and went to park the car and trailer. He drove quite a distance out the road for home before he found a space. He took his time walking back. When he reached the pens, he found Jamesie agitated and wildly anxious. The lambs had been moving quickly and he was afraid Ruttledge wasn’t going to return in time.
“I thought you’d never get back.”
“I had to go a distance to park. There’s plenty of time.”
“Very little time. They’ll be going in any minute.”
They had several minutes more to wait and in that time his anxiety evaporated completely. A man in a white coat took and checked Ruttledge’s docket against the numbers and wrote him a receipt. When a pair o
f young men came to drive the lambs towards the chute, the whole flock turned and ran towards the men.
“Fucken pets,” they cried out in frustration as they pushed, hushed, kicked, lifted the lambs towards the final pens.
“Your lambs are getting a bad reference,” Jamesie said slyly, but Ruttledge by now had detached himself from the lambs, the way people have to separate themselves from whatever is hopeless and inevitable.
“They were well treated,” he answered. “They had no reason to fear people.”
“Too well treated, those men think,” Jamesie replied, watching Ruttledge carefully.
“Let them think away.”
They watched the final gate close on the lambs, where two more men without time to raise their heads were pushing lamb after lamb into a chute covered with hanging strips of thick black rubber, and then they turned away.
As they made their way to the offices, they saw an old red lorry unloading lambs directly into a pen on the factory floor. There was a constant hiss from the water hose as the white-clad workers moved about like ghosts in the clouds of steam and the clanging of metal and cries and shouts. Another old lorry drew up. The driver climbed down. With obvious surprise and anger he recognized the first lorry, and when he saw the driver he advanced on the other man. This was his territory.
The workers unloading the lambs, the men checking their numbers, the men driving the lambs through the pens stood rooted in their places. Violence seemed a hair’s breadth away. When they were only a few feet apart, he stopped. Both men were in their forties, small and burly, physically a fair match. Suddenly, the first driver started to sing.
“Take my hand. I’m a stranger in paradise. All lost in a wonderland.”
The other driver was taken aback at first, and then a slow, cunning smile spread across his face. He too knew the song and could sing.
“If I stand starry-eyed. That’s the danger in paradise. For mortals who stand beside an angel like you,” he began.
“I saw your face. And I ascended. Out of the commonplace into the rare.”
“Somewhere in space I hang suspended,” the other sang confidently now, and raised his hand, which was clasped and held.
“Until I know there’s a chance that you care,” they sang together as they danced round and round in their awkward boots with hands held high in front of the spellbound floor, and then stood to face one another.
“And tell him that he need be a stranger no more!” they roared, and stamped their feet like stags.
When they finished, the entire factory floor applauded. Waving, they climbed back into their separate cabs.
“You see nothing at home. Nothing,” Jamesie complained.
“You see the birds and the sky and the tracks of the animals,” Ruttledge said teasingly.
“Nothing. You see nothing. People are far more interesting. You see more in one day out than at home in a month.”
“I thought they were going to hammer one another.”
“The singing and dancing was a clever way out. I’d say there’d be less singing if it happened again. A clattering match or a tyre lever.”
“Johnny and Patrick Ryan were singing and dancing round the iron posts like that when Johnny was home.”
“Johnny and Patrick could sing better in their day than yon pair,” Jamesie said loyally. “I’d praise the pair though for not coming to blows anyhow.”
They went down a long corridor past offices into a room with a glass-viewing wall where a dozen or so farmers were gathered. At the end of the room a man and a girl sat in a high glass office. The hung lambs moved on a slow line, headless already, disembowelled, skinned. Men with power hoses washed each carcass down. The swirling steam softened and made ghostly the whole scene. They were then lifted on to a separate line where they were weighed and graded on a huge digital scale. Each farmer could tell his own lambs when the number showed in big electronic red digits above the scale. In the steam and water, the men in white rubber aprons and white rubber boots and white caps worked without pause in dance-like silence. They could have been athletes dressed as doctors or nurses in a great swirling hospital of the dead.
In the glass office the girl printed out the weights and grade as they appeared on the scale. She then spoke each farmer’s name and number into a microphone and handed down a printed slip through a small hatch in the glass. She called, “Ruttledge 126,” and he went and was handed his slip. The farmers were almost as silent as the workers moving within, all their attention fixed on the red digital numbers above the scale. Jamesie’s eyes never stopped moving from face to face to screen to carcass to the silent workers. He too was completely silent.
“They are very young, the workers,” Ruttledge said to one of the watchers at the glass wall.
“Like footballers. Few last more than a couple of years—the damp, all the lifting; it’s a young man’s game.”
“What do they do then?”
“What does anybody do who needs work?” the man smiled grimly. “Go on the buildings or to a different factory. Head for America or England or do without.”
At a busy inner office a woman tapped the details on the slip into a machine that produced an itemized account complete with deductions. She then wrote a cheque, had it countersigned by the only man in the office, and gave the cheque and account to Ruttledge in a brown envelope. The whole atmosphere was efficient and friendly and casual, the stream of men coming and going with their slips.
“Nearly all the women in that office are married,” said Jamesie, who had been busy looking at their hands while Ruttledge’s slip was being processed. “It’s a sight how the world is going. You drive in with a trailer of lambs and an hour later leave with them all in a cheque in your hip pocket,” he remarked as they drove away with the empty trailer.
Soon his eyes were feasting on the fields of short, rich grass in their walls of lichened limestone, the slender ash trees, a huge chestnut, some elevated strips of bare rock, like promontories in a sea of grass.
“A few fields of this land would be worth a whole farm around the lake.”
At an empty bar-and-grocery outside Roscommon town they had ham sandwiches with a creamy pint of stout. A woman sliced the ham and made up the sandwiches from a loaf so fresh the bread was warm. Jamesie was enjoying the strange bar and looking forward to the rest of the journey. Ruttledge was relieved the morning was over.
“Have you noticed how the journey home always seems to go faster?” he asked, when the pleasure boats came into view as they crossed the Shannon by the narrow bridge at Rooskey.
“Of course,” Jamesie answered readily. “You never know rightly what you are facing into when you’re setting out. You always know the way home.”
There was a space for the car and empty trailer outside Luke’s, and Jamesie practically danced into the bar in front of Ruttledge. Luke was sitting behind the counter, his chin resting on his joined hands. Except for a family of tinkers drinking quietly in a corner, the bar was empty. Jamesie went straight up to the counter.
“Are you vexed yet, Luke?” he demanded.
Luke leaned slightly forward to say in a mock, confidential voice, “I’m not vexed yet, Jamesie.”
“Why aren’t you vexed, Luke?”
“It’s not time yet.”
“When will it be time?”
Luke stared studiously at the electric clock among the wreaths of plastic flowers. “At two minutes to four I’ll be very vexed but I’ll expect you to be gone out of the town before then.”
“Good man, Luke! You never failed us yet,” Jamesie cried approval, and by now the tinker family had dropped their own quiet conversation. All their attention was fixed on the two men at the counter.
“A pair of Crested Tens and two pints of stout, Luke,” Ruttledge called.
“The man who made the money is buying,” Jamesie rubbed his hands vigorously together. Through the bar window they could see all the way across the street to where a man was laying out trays o
f potted plants on a long trestle table. Jamesie wandered over to talk to the tinkers.
“Mister and Missus McDonough. You are most welcome to the town,” he said expansively, holding out his hand. They were delighted. Neither seemed to mind that they lived closer to the town than he did and were in the bar and the town long before he arrived.
“Good health, Luke.”
“Good luck and a long life,” Luke said. “I see your friend has left you.”
“He’ll be back,” Ruttledge said.
Ruttledge picked a time when he was fairly sure of finding Frank Dolan alone to see if he was interested in taking over the Shah’s business. At six the scrapyard would be closed. The Shah would be enthroned at his table in the Central. The men who waited about the sheds and scrapyard all day would have retired to their cottages. The little shops were already closed or closing as he drove through the town.
He found Frank Dolan in the main shed. He was in one of the deep pits examining an old JCB, the sheepdog lying close to his head on the edge of the pit. Recognizing him at once, the dog ran forward.
“He knows, he knows,” Frank Dolan said of the sheepdog as he climbed the steps out of the deep pit. He was as besotted with the dog as his master was.
“If anybody else had walked up like that he’d have devoured them. In another hour there won’t be sight or light of him round the place. He’ll have disappeared to meet Himself coming from the Central. Isn’t that right?” he caught and roughed the dog playfully, who growled in turn and caught and held Frank Dolan by the wrist. When the dog released his hand, he wiped it with a cloth and offered Ruttledge a little finger in a gentle, comic apology for the oil-and-grease-stained hands.
The two men were friendly. They had known each other a long time without ever having been close. Frank’s grey eyes were humorous and sharply intelligent and over the years he had acquired a striking resemblance to his master, so much so that he was sometimes taken for his son by inexperienced commercial travellers. This was seen by both as highly compromising.
There was little similarity of feature but they had grown alike in the way they moved and stood and talked and listened. Through night classes and reading and the practical work of the shed, Frank had become knowledgeable and skilled. The Shah knew little about the newer machines; what he could do well was rough welding, meet customers he liked and buy and sell shrewdly. Each stayed well clear of the other’s territory.
By the Lake Page 16
