By the Lake

by John McGahern

  “Nothing like that happened,” Ruttledge said. “He made a show of nobody.”

  “You’re not pulling wool over my eyes. He shouldn’t even have been let out. Did you get the loan or not? Yes or no?”

  “We didn’t.”

  “Aha, I knew it,” he said triumphantly. “I knew it the minute he stepped out of that wreckage of a Toyota. I have been watching him all my life. You can’t deny he didn’t go and make a hames of everything.” His intuition had grasped what had taken place.

  “He’s not used to dealing with banks or institutions. That’s all that was wrong.”

  “He should never have been let out. Is he able for the job?”

  “That’s unfair. Of course he’s able. He’s just not used to dealing with banks.”

  “You can say that again. I’m not going to be giving him forever.”

  “He won’t need forever. We’ll get that loan some other way,” Ruttledge said.

  “What do you think of all this, Kate?” the Shah demanded good-humouredly, and he began to relax. “That’s a most beautiful cake.”

  “I like Frank,” Kate said.

  “I’m glad there’s somebody that likes him,” he said.

  Ruttledge was getting cash for John Quinn’s wedding when Joe Eustace called him into the inner office in the bank. “I heard about the interview in Longford. The whole bank has. The telephones have been buzzing.”

  “Because of what happened?”

  “What else? Not every day a man goes into a bank with a loan secured and walks out an hour later having talked himself out of it—big.”

  “He was too straight, too honest.”

  “I hear he spoke straight out that he was going to do far less than the previous man. There’s no way the bank could run with that. We’d be accused of giving loans to people to stay in bed.”

  “There must be some way he can get a loan. He’s decent and intelligent. The bank is sure of its money.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” Joe Eustace said. “And I don’t see many ways. The only way I can see is for you to take out and guarantee the loan in his name.”

  “There must be some other way.”

  “I’ll ring around. I’ll ask about it. If we can come up with anything, we will,” Joe Eustace said in his helpful way.

  On the morning of the wedding, Bill Evans arrived at the house early. He was in his Sunday clothes, scrubbed and combed and polished. “Where’s the Missus?” he asked.

  “She’s getting ready. You’re a bit early,” Ruttledge said and handed him a packet of cigarettes.

  “Begod, it’s better to be early anyhow than rushing at the last minute,” he responded complacently and lit up a cigarette. “John Quinn getting married in the church. Who’d ever think to see the day. It’s a holy living terror.”

  “I suppose you’d hardly take the plunge if you were in John Quinn’s place?”

  “Begod I wouldn’t,” Bill laughed out loud. “I’d have far too much sense. I’d stay single and enjoy myself.”

  The dress Kate was wearing she hadn’t worn in years. The surprise must have showed.

  “Do I look all right?”

  “You look beautiful.”

  “Not too young?”

  “On the contrary. Bill came early.”

  “You look powerful, ma’am.”

  “You’re looking great yourself, Bill.”

  “We’ll have a great day.”

  Though they left early, Mary and Jamesie were already waiting out of sight at the corner of the lake. Mary wore a suit, Jamesie was in his Sunday clothes, and their excitement was such that it overflowed in grimaces and awkward movements. Jamesie shrugged his shoulders and pretended to hide, as if they had been caught in something shameful. Amid jokes and laughter, they squeezed into the car.

  “You’re a pure imposture, Jamesie,” Bill Evans said.

  “That’s right,” Mary encouraged. “Give it to him, Bill. Give it to him good-o.”

  “Good man, Bill. You’re dressed to kill. You’ll land a woman for yourself today,” Jamesie said.

  At the church they stood outside on the gravel to watch the other cars arrive. Jamesie was vivid with excitement, continually greeting people, and when Patrick Ryan drew up in an expensive car that dropped him at the church gate he was all eyes. “Could be the Reynolds that have those big diggers and earth removers.”

  “There’s no need for you to be so nosy,” Mary scolded. “You know poor Patrick always had that weakness,” and she kissed Patrick warmly when he joined them to ask if they had room in the car for going to the hotel.

  “We’ll make room. We’ll manage.”

  “Good man, Patrick. You won’t be left behind,” Jamesie thrust out his hand.

  “I’ll sit on the women’s knees if they can’t trust to mine,” he sallied amid laughter. “Bold Bill,” he took Bill Evans’s hand. “They’re all getting married but you and me,” but Bill Evans hardly heard. He was eyeing all the people arriving for the wedding as intently as a dealer measuring cattle, to ascertain how many cigarettes they were worth.

  John Quinn arrived in a cavalcade of big cars, all with English registrations belonging to his children, decorated with long fluttering white streamers. They had driven from their homes outside London across England and Wales to Holyhead, crossed on the car-ferry to Dublin and driven down to the Central Hotel in town, where they had rooms booked for a week.

  A hush fell on the people standing about on the white gravel as John Quinn emerged from the front car, a brand new Mercedes as large as the Shah’s. He stood erect as a man half his age and waved like a politician. Children emerged from the cars, small girls in First Communion dresses, boys in blue and grey suits. Not a single one of John Quinn’s children had stayed away. They all came to the wedding, bringing their wives and husbands and children. Gathered together outside the church door before making their way to the altar, they made a formidable and striking picture of youth and strength and solidarity. John Quinn was at their living centre, in a tailor-made pinstripe suit with a white rose in the buttonhole, thriving on the attention. Together they all filed into the church to await the bride. She came late. Only the whisperers at the church door saw her arrive, a handsome, determined-looking woman in her late fifties, wearing a stylish navy-blue costume and a veil with a spray of white lilies in her hair. In spite of her vigour and good looks the bride appeared vulnerable as she walked up the aisle on her white-haired brother’s arm past all the curious heads that turned, but she appeared to grow in confidence during the ceremony. Afterwards she looked excited and happy when confetti was thrown and the photographs were taken. Father Conroy moved from person to person on the gravel, shaking hands. Some who needed Masses said or owed him dues gave him money. When he reached Ruttledge, he caught his elbow and guided him over to the wall. They seldom saw one another but had remained friendly ever since that first visit.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said.

  “We were all invited—all the good neighbours around the lake. Naturally, I came. Are you going to the hotel?”

  “No. He has his own views on marriage as he has on most things. While I have him on my ground I’m taking the happy pair into the sacristy for tea and advice. I take every couple into the sacristy for tea and advice. I know most of them would like something stronger than tea after their ordeal, and the sort of advice I dole out is probably not what they are looking for. Advice and tea, though, is what they all get.” With that, he left Ruttledge, who soon afterwards saw him leading the newly married couple towards the sacristy door.

  They all piled into the car to drive to the hotel, the four men squeezed together into the back, Mary sitting with Kate in front. As they drove, Patrick Ryan began to tease Bill Evans about the food being prepared in the hotel kitchen. “I can smell it already. The chickens roasting …”

  “Stop it, Patrick,” Bill Evans called out as if in pain.

  “The skin brown, roasted bread crumbs wit
h little bits of onion in the stuffing, covered with brown gravy, small roast potatoes, fresh green peas …”

  “Stop torturing me, Patrick.” The cry was terrible.

  Patrick Ryan laughed carefully, lowly, maliciously, as if testing the air, but he did not continue. The rest of the car was silent. The hair stood up on the back of Ruttledge’s neck. The cry cut through the years to the evening he was questioning Bill Evans after he came starving to the house: “Stop torturing me.” It was the same unmistakable cry that had to be bowed to then as the silence in the car respected it now. Bill Evans could no more look forward than he could look back. He existed in a small closed circle of the present. Remembrance of things past and dreams of things to come were instruments of torture.

  A few people had come into the bar from the wedding. They waved or smiled to one another when glances met but kept to their separate tables. Many more wandered about the hotel corridors and gardens because the big dining room was still closed. Mary and Kate left the bar to go to the Ladies. When they returned to the table, it was clear they had come on something strange. In a conspiratorial whisper Mary spoke so low and so quickly that they had to interrupt her.

  “John Quinn has taken her upstairs.”

  “Where?”

  “To the son’s bedroom. He got Liam to give him the keys. No. She didn’t want to go. They say she didn’t know right what was happening but you can be sure she knows by now. Kate and me saw it with our eyes. They were all laughing like donkeys when he lifted her in his arms as if she was a child.”

  “Maybe she won’t allow … she won’t let him?”

  “O-ho,” Mary laughed. “He’ll do it with soft sweet-talking and if that doesn’t work, he’ll do it with strength. Only for Knock and the Church were mixed up it would have been done long before. It must have killed him to wait this long.”

  “Maybe she’s just dying for the hog,” Patrick Ryan said provocatively, coarsely.

  “On an occasion like this?” Kate asked coldly.

  “It’s better for herself if she wants it,” Jamesie said quietly. “Whether she likes it or not she’ll have to open the door.”

  “She’ll get the rod,” Bill Evans said suddenly.

  “Good man, Bill,” Mary said, and a quiet descended.

  A bell rang in the hotel corridors. Everybody rose from the tables, some finishing their drinks while standing.

  For a country wedding it was small but the tables were so cunningly arranged that they disguised how few were present. There was no long raised table and no flowers other than in vases. John Quinn and his bride and her party sat with his family at a single large table at the head of the room. There were no set places and people kept to their own small groups. As no priest was present there was some hesitation until the religious postman rose and recited grace with joined hands and closed eyes. The mushroom soup was home-made. Roast chicken was served with large bowls of floury potatoes and carrots and mashed turnips. There was plenty of crisp breadcrumb stuffing and a jug of brown gravy. Instead of the usual sherry trifle, a large slice of apple tart was served with fresh cream.

  Nobody ate more than Bill Evans and he didn’t speak from when the meal began until it ended other than to give abstracted monosyllabic answers to enquiries. Occasionally, he sat back and surveyed the room in dazed, contented wonderment, with his knife and fork held absently in his hands before setting to again.

  “Lord bless us, where is he putting it?” Jamesie asked from time to time in one of his loud stage whispers, but Bill Evans was paying no attention, completely absorbed in eating.

  “He’s stacking it in the bank. He’ll be drawing on it for weeks like yer otter,” Patrick Ryan said.

  Despite the good food, the real focus was on John Quinn’s bride. Whatever had happened or had not happened, all were agreed that she looked subdued by John Quinn’s side at the big table. When the choice of drinks was offered, it emerged that John Quinn’s children were hosting the meal, not the wife as had been rumoured. There was general relief and everybody drank more easily. The speeches were mercifully brief, John Quinn’s the longest, every word so predictable that it was heard in a conspiratorial silence, with the occasional wink or raised glass.

  When it ended, the speech was greeted by vociferous applause and at some tables a pounding of feet on the floorboards. John Quinn smiled and bowed and raised his wife by the arm to receive the applause, which prolonged the clapping and shouting and pounding. His wife seemed to be easier now and to have regained her composure, but she refused to be drawn into an embrace and held her distance in such a way that John Quinn was neither yielded to nor rejected.

  “Do you know what I’m thinking?” said Mary, who had been studying it all quietly. “That woman may be more than he bargained for.”

  “She’s going to have to start getting up very early in the morning if she’s going to best John Quinn,” Patrick Ryan said.

  The tables were cleared away for dancing. There were no musicians but the hotel had a jukebox with old dance tunes. The groom and his bride led the dancing in a slow waltz. Bill Evans was almost immobile with food and drink and sat staring out at the dancing through rings of cigarette smoke as impassively as a Chinaman.

  Mrs. Maguire was making the rounds of the wedding party, enquiring if everything had been to their satisfaction, and seeing the Ruttledges she sat and spoke with them. When she left, after talking with Jamesie and Mary, they decided that they were ready to leave. Patrick had already left their table. Away on the far side of the room they saw him in conversation with the bride’s brother.

  “Should we ask Patrick if he wants a lift?” Kate asked.

  “He’ll not want,” Jamesie said. “He’ll go round on everybody. He’ll have a world of lifts before the night is out.”

  “You know, that Missus Maguire is a great friendly manly woman. Herself and the Shah are great friends. It’d be a terror if the two went and got married,” Jamesie said jauntily as they drove out of the town.

  “They’re not daft like you and John Quinn,” Mary said sharply. “Isn’t that right, Bill?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Bill replied absently, freed of all concerns.

  “What would they be getting married for?”

  “We all know,” Jamesie rubbed his huge hands together.

  “You’re a disgrace!”

  “All make their way,” he sang.

  “I think people are sexual until they die,” said Kate, who was driving as she had hardly anything to drink.

  “God, Kate, you’re a caution,” Mary broke down in laughter.

  “She’s right,” Jamesie said. “You can see children jigging as soon as they can walk. The old crowd have it in their heads and if they have it anywhere else they are clever enough to keep it under cover.”

  “You see, you are only putting things in his head, Kate.”

  “We had a most interesting day. Will the bride sit or will she run?” Jamesie asked.

  “She’ll run if she has sense,” Kate said.

  Jamesie and Mary insisted on walking all the way into the house from the lake gate. “It’ll clear the heads,” Mary said.

  Bill Evans hadn’t said a word during the drive home. They drove him past their own gate to the top of the hill so that he had only a short walk down to the house.

  “How do you feel?” Ruttledge asked when he got him out of the car. “Will you be all right?”

  “Topping, topping,” he answered tiredly. “I feel all rolly-polly.”

  John Quinn’s marriage celebrations lasted a week. The bride waited until the big cars carrying John Quinn’s children passed through Dublin and Holyhead and were well on their way to their various homes around London. All that week she lived with John Quinn in the house by the lake but spent little time there other than the nights and the mornings.

  The cars would arrive early to take them away for the day. It was always late night or early morning before they were left back again. The days were spent over meal
s in hotels, in bars and visiting relatives. John Quinn’s wife found the atmosphere charming: such a large family, getting on so well together in the excitement their interest in one another generated; they, in turn, were delighted by the solid respectability of his new wife after the succession of ladies he had paraded over the years.

  To the relatives they visited John Quinn’s children brought offerings of whiskey and chocolates and fruit. Growing up so hard and poor, they had received small kindnesses from many of these people. Now they enjoyed returning these kindnesses in the ease of their prosperity and were too tactful to ruin it with loud display. Their conduct was a direct counter to their father’s behaviour.

  Many of the relatives would not have wanted John Quinn. He would have owed them money or have tried to take advantage of them in some other way. They were content to pretend to “Let it go with him. It’ll all sort itself out” for the sake of peace and the family. Alone, they kept him at an iron distance, but when he appeared with the children they allowed that distance to lapse.

  Most of these houses would know few visitors. Some would see no faces other than when they went into town to shop or look in on the cattle mart or attend Sunday Mass. Such a visit as John Quinn’s family would be a huge break and excitement in the sameness of the days. Even in the poorest houses, whiskey, set aside for such rare occasions, would be offered. Tea would be made. A hunt would be started to search out sweets or biscuits or some small delicacy for the children. In their fierce pride, John Quinn’s children, in turn, would have ensured that more was brought to the house in offerings and gifts than could be given back.

  The welcome disruption of the everyday the visit brought was nothing compared to the richness it provided for weeks and months. “A terror how old villains like John Quinn could have such decent good children while decent people are as likely as not to get children bringing nothing but trouble. Study how an old blackguard like that after burying two wives and having all sorts of other women could sail out at the end of his days and get a respectable, well-preserved, presentable woman from, of all places, Knock where the Virgin appeared, when men who would make far better husbands were left with two hands hanging. Some poor women can go badly astray when it comes to this love business.”