by Alice Taylor
When he came to the bottom of the next field, he got the whiff of burning hay. Dear God, he prayed silently, let it be only some of them. But when he rounded the corner of the hilly field above the glen, he saw that his prayers were not going to be answered. Every wynd was on fire, some of them already reduced to smouldering black circles.
He stood there rooted to the ground in horror. His wonderful golden hay all gone up in smoke. What a bloody waste! That lunatic across the river must be gone off his head. It was a long time since he had been as drastic as this, although things like this had happened before. Jack remembered these same meadows flattened by a herd of cows before they had even been cut and, another time, some sheep dead and dying there after dogs had been set on them. All terrible at the time, but he had got over it. He tried to reason himself into accepting this loss, but despite his best efforts there was a lump of despair in the pit of his stomach. When was all this going to end? He took off his cap and wiped the tears that he felt on his cheeks, uncertain if they were tears of anguish or anger.
“Jack, I know it’s terrible, but we’ll get over it.” Nora, coming up beside him in the darkness, put her arms around him.
“I suppose I’m a foolish old man, Nora, to be crying over hay,” he said ruefully.
“You are not, Jack; it’s because you were so delighted to have it all saved ready for the barn.”
“Well, we’ll have a gap in the barn after this.”
“Come on down to the rest of them,” she said, taking his hand.
“Who’s down there?” he asked.
“Peter, Davy, Mom and Uncle Mark,” she said. “It was Uncle Mark called us, after waking Davy, who was the nearest.”
They could hear Davy holding forth as they approached.
“We should go over and burn him out. If we put up with this, he’ll come again.”
“You’re right,” Peter agreed angrily. “We can’t take this lying down. The mad bastard could burn us out.”
“Take it easy, lads,” Mark intercepted gently. In the half-light he looked like a biblical figure with his long hair and beard and flowing clothes.
“Aisy, is it?” Davy demanded. “How could you take it aisy and look at all that it front of you?”
Jack knew exactly how Davy felt, but Mark was a peaceful soul. They all continued to air different points of view, but he scarcely heard them he was so wrapped up in his inner misery. After a few minutes, he became aware that one voice was silent. Martha was saying nothing. He looked around and saw her face in the grey light that was now filling the meadow. She was oblivious to the voices around her, and her eyes were fastened on Conways’.
Her face was rigid with suppressed rage, and it struck Jack then that there was no need for any of them to get even with the Conways, because Martha was going to deal with it, and that when she did there would be no turning back. Something in her expression put a cold finger around his heart.
Silence descended and they continued to stand there until the last wynd smouldered to the ground, as if they could not move until the flames died down. We are a bit like mourners at a funeral, Jack thought, waiting until the last sod goes over the coffin. Then it was Martha who spoke.
“We are going back up to the house to have a warm breakfast or we’ll all get our death of cold standing here.”
She strode up the field without a backward glance.
They trailed after her. Mark was between Peter and Davy, trying to calm them down, but he was fighting an uphill battle as they were swearing vengeance. Nora and Jack brought up the rear with Nora holding his hand to comfort him. As he walked up the field, he thought of Nellie and felt that in some way she was very close to them this morning.
They were glad to come into the warm kitchen. Martha put on the kettle and laid the table without a word, stirred up the porridge on the Aga and pushed a tray of bacon into the oven. Then she looked at Jack wordlessly, went to the parlour and came down with a bottle wrapped in brown paper. She poured some of the contents into a mug and added sugar and water from the boiling kettle.
“Drink that,” she instructed.
He was glad when it scorched down into his stomach and got the blood warming in his veins.
“You needed that,” Davy told him. “You looked like a fellow headed for the big brown box until you got that inside your shirt.”
“God bless you, Davy, but you’re gifted in your choice of words,” Jack told him.
“Sit down and have the breakfast,” Martha instructed.
When they were all seated around the table, they were silent for a few moments, busy getting warm food inside of them.
Then Peter voiced what they were all thinking.
“Well, what are we going to do?” he asked.
“Maybe the proper thing is to report it to the Guards,” Mark suggested.
“Waste of time,” Davy maintained. “Hours of questioning, measuring and checking times, and by the way, Mark, what time did you notice that we were on fire?”
“About half two I’d say. I was painting and I happened to glance out the window. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing down the glen. I might as well have stayed at home for all the good it did. There was nothing to be done.”
“No,” Jack agreed, “once dry hay gets going there is nothing can stop it, and anyway no cow would touch it after the smoke.”
“Conway must have been watching from under some bush across the river having a great laugh at our expense,” Peter said bitterly. “We can’t let him get away with it.”
“We should burn him out,” Davy decided.
“But what about Danny and Mrs Conway?” Nora protested. “They would suffer then, and I’d say that they have an awful time with him.”
“How do you know?” Peter demanded.
“Well, she looks so sad,” Nora told him, “and Danny is always looking after her.”
“If he was any good, he’d have that old bastard shot or knifed by now,” Peter declared.
“Peter, don’t say things like that,” Mark protested. “Nora is right: we can’t harm the rest of them.”
“So you think that the Guards are the only solution?”
Peter asked. “I don’t have much faith in doing it that way, because he’ll deny everything and we have no proof. They never got him for any of the other stunts he pulled.”
The argument went back and forth around the table, with Peter and Davy wanting to take the law into their own hands and Mark and Nora urging restraint. Jack was too tired to argue, and no solution would bring back his fine fields of hay. Martha said nothing, and Jack watched her out of the corner of his eye. She was holding her powder until they all had argued themselves to a standstill. He knew that she had decided on her plan of action down in the meadow as she stared across the river at Conways’.
She rose from the table, and all eyes swung towards her.
“We will do nothing. The time is not right. And don’t any of you two do anything stupid,” she warned Peter and Davy. “Now it’s time to milk the cows.” With that she started to clear the breakfast things off the table to growls of protest from Peter and Davy.
“I’ll bring the cows,” Jack told them, moving out of the kitchen.
The day passed slowly, and Jack was relieved when evening came and he made his weary way home. It seemed like months since he had walked up here last night with a satisfied mind. It would be good to sit by the fire and have a snooze. The hens and ducks were locked up for the night, and he was glad to go into the kitchen and find the fire lighting. Sarah was a great neighbour. It was a wonder she did not stay on to discuss the fire, but she had probably figured that he needed time to himself after the upset. As he lit his pipe for a relaxing smoke, he decided that after a little rest he would go out and do a bit of gardening. It might do him good.
He must have dozed off for a while until he heard a heavy footstep on the path outside. When he saw Matt Conway passing the window, a suppressed anger that had been smouldering since that
morning roared through him. He reached back and pulled out his shotgun that he used for shooting rabbits and the odd pheasant from the press beside him. When Matt Conway opened the door, he was looking into the barrel.
“Easy, old man,” he growled, showing no semblance of fear. “I’m not going to do you any harm.”
“You’ve done enough harm for one day,” Jack told him in a voice trembling with anger. “Get out of here or I’ll spatter your brains all over that wall.”
“Don’t do anything stupid, old man,” Conway warned.
“If I finish up dead, you’ll finish up in jail.”
“I’m sorely tempted,” Jack told him, “but you’re not worth it. Just don’t move one inch further into this kitchen. What do you want?”
“I want my meadows back.”
“They’re not your meadows. Will you ever get that into your thick skull?”
“They’re mine by right.”
“That they’re not,” Jack said, “and how come that now all of a sudden you’re stepping up the pressure to get them back when you’ve done nothing with the last eight years?”
“She’s of no consequence. She’s not a Phelan. It would be no good to get them off her, but the young fellow is back now, another Phelan just like the grandfather before him. I’m going to get them back off him.”
“That you’re not,” Jack told him with determination.
“I can do worse than last night,” Conway threatened.
“Two can play that game,” Jack told him.
“Some people are better at it, and some of the things I have in mind will make the meadows look like a very cheap price to pay.” Conway smiled, and then he was gone, closing the door quietly behind him. Jack felt the blood thumping through his head. Ease down, he told himself, or you’ll get a stroke or a heart attack or some other shagging thing.
Half an hour later when Kate came in, he was still sitting with the gun across his knees.
“Jack, what are you doing with the gun?” she demanded in amazement.
“God, Kate, am I glad to see you,” he told her. The very sight of her was a comfort to him. She was the daughter he never had and they understood each other completely. Dark and vivacious as a child, she had grown into an attractive, vibrant woman with a down-to-earth common sense that brought things into perspective. She was just what he needed now.
“I heard about the fire — the whole countryside is talking about it, of course — but what’s with the gun?” she asked, taking it off his knees and replacing it in the press.
“Sit down there, Kate, until I tell the whole story.”
She drew up a chair beside him and he told her from the very beginning: from the actual saving of the hay and how good he had felt about it, right up to Matt Conway’s visit. He filled in all the details because he wanted to get them all clear in his own mind and talking to Kate was almost like talking to himself.
“This could get nasty,” she breathed.
“It could indeed,” he agreed. “I’ll have to tell them below about he coming here and the threats. That’ll drive Peter and Davy mad altogether.”
“Martha is right, they’ll have to be very careful not to get drawn into anything that they can’t get out of,” Kate said.
“You’re right,” Jack agreed, “but in another way I’m nearly more nervous of her.”
“If Martha moves, she will be deadly, silent, and she won’t get caught,” Kate told him.
“I know, but I’m still a bit uneasy about her,” Jack said.
“Well, don’t be,” Kate advised. “Martha and I don’t always see eye to eye, but on this occasion I think that she has what it takes. So you stop worrying now, Jack, and after the tea the two of us will go down to Mossgrove, and you can tell them about your caller so that they can keep their ears and eyes open.”
“What a way to live,” Jack sighed.
“Now, Jack, will you stop worrying,” Kate scolded.
“It’s bad for you, and now that I’m here, I’ll check the old ticker and the blood pressure. Wouldn’t it suit Matt Conway fine if you died of natural causes?”
“By God, there is no way I’d give him the satisfaction.”
“That’s more like it now, Jack,” Kate told him smiling.
“You’re the most balanced head we have in Mossgrove, so you must keep going.”
As they sat having tea, Jack could feel himself relaxing.
Kate always had this effect on him. As district nurse she probably came up against some traumatic situations. When you deal with birth and death as part of your job, it probably gives you a fairly balanced view of life, Jack decided.
“How is David?” he asked her.
“Grand,” she answered, her face lighting up into a smile.
“Himself and Fr Tim have taken the under-age team over to Ross for the final.”
“They get on well together,” he ventured.
“Do you know something, Jack, they’re like brothers.
They like the same books, go fishing together and get great satisfaction out of training the teams. Fr Tim is such fun. He makes a great difference to both our lives.”
It made him sad to think that such friendship was soon going to get a knock on the head. Kate was continuing, “Fr Tim was dismayed that a farmer would actually burn hay. He has this reverence for the produce of the earth. He thinks that the harvest is the manifestation of ‘Give us this day our daily bread’.”
“You can tell him from me,” Jack told her, “that it’s a long time since Matt Conway said the Our Father, and if he does it’s his own daily bread he is thinking about, not ours.”
Chapter Seven
KATE OPENED THE letter with the American stamp and smiled in delight.
“Rodney Jackson is coming,” she told David, whose dark head was visible above the paper.
“Good,” he said vaguely.
“Isn’t it great?” she insisted.
“Very,” he mumbled
“Very what?” she demanded
“Very interesting,” he said.
“What’s interesting?” Kate asked.
“Whatever you said,” he answered.
“What did I say?” she demanded.
“You have me now,” he admitted, lowering the paper and grinning across at her.
“You’re not a morning person,” Kate told him, “and I should have learnt after eight years that at breakfast I’m talking to myself.”
“Let’s start again,” David told her folding the newspaper and putting it away. “It was something about Rodney Jackson, wasn’t it?”
“You got it! Some part of your brain must have been ticking over. He’s coming for a few weeks.”
“That will give Lizzy and Julia something to keep them occupied,” David declared.
“He creates a great stir every time he comes, doesn’t he,” Kate said with relish, “and it’s the last thing that he wants to do.”
“Well, he does stand out a bit in the crowd, but I suppose with his height it’s understandable, and then he doesn’t dress like a local farmer.”
“And the funny thing is,” Kate said, “that he’d love to fit in so well that he wouldn’t be noticed.”
“Well, tell him this time to put on a pair of wellingtons and a torn jumper and not to shave for a week.”
“Could you imagine him?” Kate laughed.
“No,” David admitted, “but no matter what he did, he’d never look as if he were born in Kilmeen. You only acquire his look after years of the good life.”
“And he sure looks good,” Kate said in an affected American drawl.
“And most women in Kilmeen would agree with you,” David told her.
“If I weren’t so happy with my lot,” Kate smiled, “I’d be throwing my hat into the ring too.”
“One good man is enough for any woman,” David told her, rising from his chair and ruffling her hair as he slipped on his tweed jacket. She reached up her arms and drew his head down and they kis
sed long and lingeringly.
“A day doesn’t begin any better than this.” David smiled down at her lovingly.
“You might not be too attentive to conversation in the morning,” Kate told him, “but you’re all switched on in other departments.”
“You smell so good,” David told her, burying his face in her hair.
Suddenly the door burst open and Fr Brady shot in waving a letter.
“We’re playing Ross in the final on Sunday …” and then he stopped short and smiled at them. “Isn’t that a great way to begin the day?”
“Nearly as good as morning prayers,” David laughed, “but I’d best get down to the school and get the young in off the street before Fr Burke complains again that they are making too much noise.”
“Never happy unless he is complaining,” Fr Brady assured him.
“I’ll see you for training at lunchtime, and were you saying that the final is fixed for Sunday?”
“Oh, that’s right,” Fr Brady told him.
“That will sort out the men from the boys, as Jack would say,” David declared, going out the door and blowing a kiss to Kate over his shoulder.
“Sit down and have a cup of tea with me, Fr Tim,” Kate invited him.
“Delighted to,” he told her, “but stay where you are and I’ll get a cup myself.”
“Well, how are things?” she asked as she poured.
“Oh, the usual,” he told her, “himself complaining and me trying to turn a deaf ear.”
“Nothing changes,” she sighed.
“Sometimes I get fed up with it, to be honest,” he told her seriously, “and I wonder will I ever be able to stick it.”
