by Alice Taylor
“It was the first sermon I ever heard that applied to Kilmeen. I’m tired of hearing about Cana and these places.
We don’t live there, we live here, and we want sermons about how to live here.”
“Everyone might not agree with you,” Fr Tim told him.
“I heard that,” Peter smiled, “and you beat down the opposition.”
“Not a very priestly thing to do. There’ll be repercussions without a doubt.”
As he was leaving the field, David Twomey caught up with him.
“Well, how’s the champ?” he greeted Tim, his dark attractive face full of amusement.
“I’d say that the champ is in the height of trouble,” Tim told him.
“Could be a bit sticky for a while, but it should be all right.”
“I’m not so sure. Fr Burke will annihilate me. I’m bound to be shifted if I’m not kicked out all together.”
“Tim, don’t lose your sense of proportion. You only gave the man a few belts, you didn’t kill him, for God’s sake,” David protested, “and if anyone had it coming he had. He’s been knocking people about all his life. He was such a bloody bear that nobody could get the better of him.”
“No strategy or technique,” Tim analysed; “would never do in the ring.”
“We must start a boxing club,” David said enthusiastically.
“Oh, for God’s sake, not you, too.”
“Who else got the brainwave?” he asked.
“Davy Shine,” Tim answered.
“Good man, Davy Shine. There is no substitute for running with the ball when you get it.”
“I could be running faster than I expected.”
“Come on down with me for the tea,” David invited.
“You’re not fit company for yourself.”
“That’s more of the problem,” Tim told him.
“How do you mean?”
“I’ll tell you when we get down to Kate,” he said.
They were sitting around the table in Kate’s kitchen with garden fragrances floating in the open door and window. Any other day Tim would have enjoyed looking out into the garden, but now his mind was in turmoil.
“This is so embarrassing,” he told them, “but I had better fill you in.”
“Fr Tim, you’re actually blushing. What’s going on with you?” Kate asked.
“It’s a case of what’s going on between the two of us is the problem,” he told her.
“What!”
“There is no easy way of putting this,” he told her. “Matt Conway suggests that you and I have something going on between us on the quiet.”
An amused grin spread over Kate’s face.
“God, Fr Tim, I’m flattered that a handsome lad like you would set his cap at an old married lady like me.”
“It’s no joke, Kate,” he warned. “If this gets out, I’m in more trouble.”
“Tim, you’ve got all this out of perspective. Matt Conway is capable of saying anything,” David told him, “and nobody would take any notice of him.”
“I don’t know whether I’m coming or going after this morning,” Tim admitted.
“I’ll check out the rumour with Sarah,” Kate told him, “just to put your mind at rest. She always know what’s going on, and in the mean while don’t be looking for trouble. It might all blow over. But if you had told me about giving that sermon, I’d have told you not to.”
“There are things, Kate, that are just wrong no matter what way you look at it, and burning good hay is one of them. I was not going to let it pass,” he said.
“Better for you if you had,” she told him.
“Well, Kate, he didn’t,” David interjected, “and I think that he was right. Sometimes the Church has to grasp the nettle. Now let’s drop this stupid subject and discuss the match. We won today. Let’s enjoy the victory, not anticipate a storm that might never come.”
When Tim opened his front door later, there was a note on the mat from Fr Burke instructing him to be up at the presbytery on Wednesday morning after mass. The storm was not going to blow over; it was about to reach gale force. But the PP was going to keep him in suspense for two days.
Chapter Nine
WHEN THE DINNER was over and she had tidied away, Martha looked around with satisfaction. She liked a spotless kitchen with everything in its place. Untidy people annoyed her, and she had long ago decided that those who lived in confusion usually finished up confused. When she thought of confusion a picture of Mark’s studio always came to mind, because there was no denying but that he lived in a muddle. How he produced anything out of that jumble was beyond belief. Her mother never interfered with him, but then Agnes was easygoing and it did not seem to bother her; and she was so proud of him now that he was doing well.
It was strange the way Rodney Jackson had come back into their lives after all those years. Since those childhood visits to his aunts, they had not seen him again until eight years ago. When he had come then, this extremely tall, good-looking American had created quite a stir in Kilmeen, and since then he had returned regularly, much to the interest of the female population of the village. This Rodney Jackson had a strange idea that Mark was something special, and the price he had paid Mark for all those pictures that were hanging in David Twomey’s school was amazing. But then, the Miss Jacksons had been into that kind of thing as well. They had looked after Mark well when they were alive, and even now that they were dead he was still benefiting. Mark had always got the good end of the stick!
As children she and Mark had never been close and this gap had widened in recent years. Ned and himself had been close friends, and Kate and himself had been buddies for years. As children Peter and Nora had loved him because he was almost of their world, and when his pictures were hung in their school and impressed all their friends, they hero-worshipped him. If ever Martha criticised Mark, they all sprang to his defence. It annoyed her intensely the way that he was inevitably on the opposite side to her whenever there was a conflict of opinions in Mossgrove.
She was now about to walk back to her old home to discuss with Mark and Agnes whether she could have the use of their land to supplement the loss of the river meadow hay. Agnes and Mark wouldn’t mind, but she disliked being in the position of having to ask. She had expected that they might have offered, but it probably had never crossed their minds. She knew that they had not sold off the meadows as yet this year, so she was going to pay them whatever they had earned last year. She was not coming to them cap in hand, as Jack would term it.
It was such a lovely day that she decided to take the short cut through the fields instead of going around by the longer road. The only people using this short cut were themselves and the Shines, but the path was well worn as Nora and Peter were always back and forth to Mark and Agnes. As she walked along the hilly field behind the house, she saw Matt Conway leaning on his stake over Yalla Hole, looking across. The sight of him and the black circles in the meadow rekindled her anger. So he thought that she was of no consequence and that she did not rate very much because she was a woman and not a Phelan? Even though it had prevented him from making a nusiance of himself during the last eight years, his reasoning irked her. He might discover that she was of more consequence than he thought.
It had surprised her greatly that Fr Brady had brought up the subject of the hay burning at mass on Sunday. She would not have thought that he had the courage. He was too good-looking for his own good, but apparently there was more to him than a handsome exterior. When Lizzie had passed that smart remark behind her back in the post office, she had ignored her, but it was no wonder that there were rumours going around about himself and Kate. If he had been an overweight, plain-looking man like Fr Burke, there would have been no gossip. She knew Kate well enough to know that Kate would not dream of having a fling on the side. Besides, she had been long enough setting her cap at David Twomey before they finally got things sorted out. It just went to show that people could get any kind of a rumour going. S
till, it amused her that do-gooding Kate could be the victim of wagging tongues. She followed the path at the bottom of the field down into the small wood overlooking the river. The trees were like huge umbrellas screening out the sun, and she was glad to walk along in the cool green shadows. She had often played here as a child, solitary games with imaginary people who lived under the trees. As a teenager this had been her refuge when she had found it difficult to be one of the crowd. If Mark and herself were different from each other, they were also different from other people. But whereas Mark was tolerant of people, she, for the most part, found them slightly irritating. To go her own way and do her own thing had always been her choice.
She might never have got married if Ned had not come to the house most nights with Mark, and slowly she had found herself looking forward to seeing him. Once she had decided that Ned was the one she wanted, she went about achieving her aim with single-minded determination. They had been very happy together. Ned had never opposed her because when he did she made life so uncomfortable that he soon fell into line. Although her father had died when she was young, she had seen him getting his own way and Agnes agreeing for the sake of a quiet life. She had been determined that she would be the one in control if she ever got married.
Leaving the river behind, she climbed up the steep path using the tree trunks as hand rails. How quiet it was in here with only the birds and the occasional rustle in the undergrowth. She came out of the wood into the field below her old home, and as she followed the winding path she thought over what she was going to say to her mother and Mark.
The house was an extraordinary colour. How Agnes could have let Mark put that amazing yellow on the house and that crazy red on the door she could never understand. Agnes opened the door with a welcoming smile on her face. When Martha thought about it, which was seldom, she wondered how a pretty, small-boned little person like Agnes could be the mother of herself and Mark. She had once heard old Molly Conway say that “all the oddness came from the Lehanes”. That old lady had been a bad-minded cow!
“Martha, it’s great to see you; you seldom call by at this time of day,” Agnes greeted her.
“I have a reason,” Martha told her. “Is Mark here?”
“He’s out in the back painting. I don’t like to disturb him when he’s stuck into something,” Agnes said gently.
“Won’t do him any harm,” Martha told her, going to the back door and out into the garden.
Martha could just see Mark’s back through the high flowers down at the bottom of the garden. She wound her way down through Agnes’ idea of a garden towards him. What a mix up, she thought as she viewed the potato stalks, cabbage, rhubarb and flowers all growing through each other. How can anyone tolerate a garden like this? Her father had had such law and order here in his day, but her mother had let it go higgley-piggley and all over the place. She watched Mark for a little while. He was completely engrossed in what he was doing and had not heard her coming. On the canvas a butterfly was taking shape, and then she noticed that there was one flitting around a bush just in front of him. How could he stand here so still, just watching a butterfly?
“Mark,” she said sharply, “I want to talk to you and mother about something.”
He remained standing with his back to her, and she could sense his annoyance at the interruption, but when he turned towards her, his face was expressionless.
“Butterflies are so delicate,” he told her mildly, laying his brush and palette on the low hedge. “We’ll go in and have a cup of tea together.”
“I have no time for tea,” she told him.
“Well, I have,” he said evenly, following her up the garden.
Agnes had the cups on the table and was making the tea as they came into the kitchen. This kitchen has become more cluttered over the years, Martha thought as she viewed her mother’s sewing machine in the corner with half-finished work draped over it, knitting needles stuck in a ball of wool on the windowsill and sketches finished and unfinished propped up in different corners.
“This place could do with a good tidying,” she told them.
“Don’t even think about it,” Mark smiled. “Agnes and I know where to lay our hands on everything.”
“You’re two of a kind,” she told them.
“That’s why we live in such harmony,” Mark told her.
“Nothing allowed to interfere with your creative talent, you mean,” Martha told him.
“The creative muse is disturbed by discord,” Mark smiled, “so we don’t upset each other.”
“Aren’t you so lucky that you can keep it all outside the door. Some of us don’t have that choice.”
“Well, I suppose with neighbours like the Conways it isn’t that easy,” Mark agreed.
“It’s as a result of them that I’m here,” Martha told him.
Agnes, having poured the tea, had put the teapot back by the fire and joined them at the table.
“You know that Mark and I will do anything we can to help,” she told Martha, handing around a plate of scones.
“If that’s the case, why have you not offered the meadows here to us?” Martha demanded.
“But we have …” Mark began and stopped at a warning glance from Agnes, but Martha had seen the exchange of looks and cut in.
“How do you mean, you have?”
“Well, Peter was here after the fire and we told him,” Mark said decidedly.
“You did what?” Martha demanded.
“Oh, for goodness sake, Martha! Peter was here that night and, of course, we offered him the meadows.”
“But that decision is not Peter’s to make,” Martha told him.
“Don’t be ridiculous, what decision was there? We have uncut meadows and you need hay, so there was no decision involved, just plain common sense,” Mark said.
“You should not have discussed this with Peter behind my back. He is not in charge of Mossgrove, and I’m having problems enough with him without you two making it worse.”
“Did you ever think, Martha, that you might be making a problem out of nothing?” Mark asked her.
“It’s none of your business. I will pay you for the meadows, the same as you got from the Nolans last year.”
“You will not,” Agnes put in firmly. “We don’t need the money. Family is family, and there is no way that Mark and I would charge you and Peter for the use of land that will probably be his anyway.”
“How do you mean, his anyway?” Martha exclaimed.
“Are you going to hand this land over to Peter?”
“More than likely, unless I get a sudden urge in my declining years and take unto myself a wife, which I don’t plan to do,” Mark smiled.
“So you would give the land to my son and not to me?” Martha demanded.
“We’ll see,” Agnes put in quietly, “and anyway, it’s nothing that’s going to be done today or tomorrow.”
“Well, when it is being done, I think that you would do well to remember that a daughter and sister is closer than a grandson or a nephew,” she told them.
“We will,” Agnes agreed, but she knew that her mother was just placating her for the moment.
“Cutting the meadows here is going to be a lot of extra work,” Mark said.
“There are enough of them there to do it,” she asserted.
“Well, you know that Jack will insist on doing all the cutting,” Mark told her, “and he really is pushing on a bit for that.”
“Jack does as Jack wants,” she told him, “and that’s it.”
“If there was a tractor on the farm,” Mark suggested, “he would hand over a lot of the work to Peter and Davy, and if you are working the two places, they would really need one.”
“And, of course,” she said acidly, “Peter has not been talking to you about it.”
“Well, he did mention it, and I must say that I agree with him,” Mark admitted.
“Needless to mention you agree with him! But then it’s not going to cost you anythi
ng to agree with him, is it?”
“I’d be glad to help,” he told her.
“Keep out of my family,” she warned him.
“But is it only the cost that’s the problem?” Mark persisted.
“Well, of course, it’s only the cost,” she told him in an annoyed voice.
“But, Martha, you’re not short of a bob,” he said.
“Well, if I’m not, I’ve some other use for it,” she retorted.
“Like what?” he persisted.
“You’ll find out in due course.”
“Interesting,” he smiled benignly. “You are always interesting, Martha.”
“And I wonder where Peter brings it from?” she snapped.
As she walked home across the fields, she thought back over the conversation. Peter getting her home farm without any consultation with her was a bit high-handed of Mark and Agnes, and she knew by the way they reacted that the decision had already been made. It was a small farm compared to Mossgrove, but it was very good land that had never been properly farmed since her father died. Mark didn’t have a clue about farming! If Peter put his mind to it, there was a good living there. It was a disquieting thought.
Just as she turned in the last gap for home, a movement down by the wood caught her eye. A man was walking along in the shadow of the trees. He must have come out of the wood, which meant that he had been just below her path, hidden behind the trees in the undergrowth. As he turned to cross over the ditch, he looked in her direction. It was Matt Conway.
Chapter Ten
TIM BRADY HAD never intended to be a priest. One of a family of five boys, he enjoyed dancing, football and girls. He and his brothers helped out after school in the family pub where they argued and fought over hours on and off, arguments usually settled by their mother, who was an expert on calming troubled waters. Being the youngest, he was constantly accused of getting special treatment as his mother’s pet. His father was a quiet man who opted for leaving the decisions to his wife, and it was only when things tended to get out of hand that he was called in to voice his opinion. As he generally backed up his wife, the boys had discovered early in life that it was their mother who had to be convinced if they wanted to do anything that needed parental consent.
