That evening, while they were having supper, he said suddenly to Kate:
“I’ve been thinking, this while back, that I should make a will. No man knows when his hour is going to come and it’s best to put things in a way that there’ll be no quarrel over my few pounds after I’m gone.”
Patrick looked up suspiciously. His little eyes flashed. His neck became florid. His white eyebrows moved up and down. Then he said:
“It’s not of your death you should be thinking, but of getting a wife. If you had the guts of a man you’d look for a wife.”
Martin smiled faintly and went on talking to Kate. Kate’s eyes became small. She watched Martin like a bird.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, “this while back, that little Charley has been a great comfort to me since he came into the house. I’d like to think that maybe when he grew up and I’m gone he’d have something to think well of me for. So, I’m thinking of making a will.”
Then he arose from the table and went out. Kate put her apron to her eye, as if to wipe away a tear. But her eyes were dry and her face was flushed.
Patrick looked at the table with his mouth open. Then he caught up a piece of the bread that Kate had baked, crushed it between his fingers and growled:
“Do you call that bread? It’s like putty. I wouldn’t give it to a dog.”
He threw the bread at the child and said:
“Here. Catch that.”
Then he cursed and went out of the house. Kate showed no sign of resentment in her cold, hawk-like countenance.
Next day, while they were digging out the stones from the crag, Patrick said to his brother:
“Wake up, you fool Don’t loaf around. Is it thinking of your will you are? Did you make that will yet?”
“I’m thinking about it,” said Martin calmly. “I want to put it in a way that nobody can touch my money but the child. I have to think about it.”
“The curse of God on you,” said Patrick with great violence.
He dropped his crowbar and left the crag, He came home and shouted at his wife:
“Give me some money.”
She gave him a pound note.
“I want more,” he said.
“That’s all there is in the house,” she said quietly.
“I’ll have a look then,” he said.
He rushed into the bedroom and tried to open her trunk. She ran in after him and said:
“Leave that alone.”
“What have you in it?” he cried. “Why do you keep it locked?”
“It’s none of your business,” she said. “I gave you three hundred pounds when I came into the house. That’s all you bargained for.”
“Ha!” he cried. “You have money in it. You kept money from me. You are stealing the money of the house for your bastard child. You have taken my land. You got around my fool of a brother to leave you his money and now you -”
“Shut up,” she hissed at him, “or I’ll brain you.”
He rushed at her and felled her with a blow of his fist. Then he became terrified and fled from the house. When Martin returned from the crag, Kate was going about her work calmly. He noticed that she had a black bruise on her cheek. He asked her what had happened. She told him.
He smiled strangely and said:
“I’m going into the town.”
When he returned in the evening, he handed her a document.
“That’s the will,” he said. “In case God sends for me, Charley will have every penny I own. Look after that.”
She kissed his hand and brought the will to her trunk. Putting it in, her eyes glittered and she sat for a long time before the open trunk, sucking her lips and smiling.
Patrick returned drunk that night, but he went to bed quietly. Next day, when they were working on the crag, Martin said to him:
“I didn’t see you in the town yesterday.”
Patrick looked at him and said nothing.
“I went in to make that will I was talking about,” said Martin calmly.
Patrick remained silent.
“It’s all settled now,” continued Martin quietly, “so my mind is at peace.”
“Listen,” whispered Patrick savagely.
Martin looked at him.
“Watch yourself,” whispered Patrick.
They glared at one another. Their faces were white with hatred.
“I’m satisfied,” whispered Martin through his teeth.
After that they became silent and avoided each other. Kate assumed complete charge of the house. She ordered them about.
“The horse needs water,” she would say. “One of you go and bring her to the well.”
Again she would say:
“The cow is starving in that field. Change her, one of you, to the Red Meadow.”
She never called either of them by name, but spoke to them in common, as if they were strangers. It was she who treated with neighbours about cases of trespass and she paid the rates and the rent that came due in summer.
Neither of the brothers paid any attention to her. They watched one another ceaselessly. Their eyes became fixed.
Suddenly a wild hurricane came raging over the ocean. The sun, moon and stars were hidden day and night behind a wall of black clouds that belched rain upon the earth and clashing in their flight from the shrieking gale, set the firmament on fire and shook the cliffs with the thunderous echoes of their bursting. The sea rose to the summits of the cliffs and its foam was carried on the wind far into the land. Even the wild seagulls fled into the village and stood upon the gables of the houses and screamed in horror.
For three days the storm lasted. Then the wind died. The sun appeared. The sky grew clear. The waves began to fall, heaving like wounded animals, into the sea’s back. Rafts of curdled foam and torn weeds, speckled with jetsam, floundered to the shore. People came to look for wreckage.
In the evening Patrick said to his brother:
“Be ready at dawn. We are going in the boat to look for wreckage.”
Martin answered him:
“I’m satisfied.”
They both went to bed. Neither slept. Each kept rising in the night and going to the window to see if dawn had yet broken. Kate also lay awake. A cock crew an hour before dawn. At once both brothers began to put on their clothes hurriedly. Kate also arose and threw a coat over her nightdress:
Martin was the first to get to the kitchen. He cried in a loud voice:
“Are you ready now?”
Patrick came into the kitchen, followed by Kate.
“You had better take some bread, one of you,” she said. “You’ll be hungry before you get back.”
“We won’t need bread,” said Patrick. “Get the rope, you. Where is the rope?”
“I’ll get it,” said Martin, going out to the barn,
Patrick began to fumble in the pockets of his waistcoat.
“Why have you on your new waistcoat?” she said. “You have your new cap on too.”
“Mind your business,” he said. “Give me my old waistcoat.”
She brought it to him. He took it aside and took a knife from its pocket. He put it furtively into the pocket of the waistcoat he was wearing. She saw him, but said nothing. Her eyes became fixed.
Martin came in, carrying a coil of rope on his arm.
“Are you ready now?” he said.
Without speaking Patrick moved to the door.
“Wait,” said Kate, “till I sprinkle the Holy Water on you.”
They both went out without answering her. She picked up a little cruet of Holy Water that hung on a nail in the wall by the window. She ran out into the yard after them and shook Holy water on each of them with her forefinger. Neither of them blessed himself.
Then she returned to the house, went into the child’s room and stood by his little bed, watching him and listening to his breathing.
The brothers walked in silence through the village and along the rocky road over the crags to the shore. Their boat lay bo
ttom upwards within a fence of stones above the mound of boulders that lined the shore. They knocked down the fence at the prow and at the stern. Then they raised the prow. Martin crawled under the boat, raised it higher and rested his shoulders against the front seat. Patrick crawled in astern, put his shoulders against the third seat and straightened himself.
“Go ahead,” he said.
They moved off, carrying the boat on their shoulders. Its black, canvas-covered hulk, with their legs sticking from beneath, moving slowly over the rocks, made it look like a beetle. They brought it to the brink of the tide and stepping into the water, they laid it, mouth upwards, with a splashing sound, upon the waves. Patrick held it to the shore while Martin brought the oars and the rope. They put the oars on the thole-pins and threw the rope into the stern.
“Keep your hand on her,” said Patrick, about to step aboard.
“You hold her,” said Martin. “I’m going in the prow same as I always do.”
“No,” said Patrick in a whisper. “I’m going in the prow today.”
They looked at one another coldly. Their eyes were fixed.
“Go ahead,” said Martin. “It’s all the same to me.”
“Why so?” said Patrick through his teeth.
“Go ahead,” said Martin, “seeing you want to go in the prow.”
“It’s all the same to me too,” said Patrick softly. “I’ll go in the stern as I always do.”
“You’ll go where you said you’d go,” said Martin, “or I’ll stay on the rock.”
They glared at one another again. Then Patrick stepped into the boat, sat on the front seat and seized the oars. Martin pushed off the boat and jumped aboard. They began to row eastwards towards the cliffs.
The sea was still disturbed. Although its dark surface was unbroken, there were deep hollows between the waves that came rolling quickly to the shore. The light coracle bounded from wave to wave, bobbing like a little bird in flight against the wind.
The sun began to rise as they turned a promontory. The sea glittered. They rowed close to the cliffs that rose above them precipitously. There was a loud sound of birds coming forth to fish from their caverns. Seagulls soared about them. The sea was littered with refuse. Now and again, the fin of a shark cut the surface. Gannets swooped from on high and fell like bullets, with a thud, into the floating rafts of weeds.
Masses of weeds, shining in the sunlight, lay among the broken rocks at the base of the cliffs.
They rowed quickly, searching the sea and the shore for wreckage. They had rowed three miles when at last they saw a great beam floating near the shore in a raft of weeds.
“There’s a beam,” said Patrick. “Put a noose on the rope.”
Martin shipped his oars and made a noose with the end of the rope. He tied the other end to the central seat. They rowed towards the beam. The beam rushed back and forth, on the ebbing tide. There was a heavy swell. The great piece of timber sometimes raised its head aloft from the mass of floating weeds, like a great sea monster nosing at the air. They rowed around it, seeking a chance to encircle its snout with the noose as it rose upon a wave.
Martin hurled the noose three times without success. Then at last the beam came rushing at them, carried on a great receding wave and as Patrick wheeled the boat to avoid its crashing into them, it passed close to their quarter, with its barnacled snout raised up. Martin threw the noose. It caught. Patrick groaned and lay on his oars. The rope went taut. The boat shivered. The beam swung round, held by the taut noose and turned its snout to the boat’s stern. Martin caught his oars and began to row. They turned towards home, followed by the wallowing beam.
Its great weight swung the boat from side to side when the heavy swell came against it. Again it came rushing with upraised snout at the boat when the swell came with it. Rowing with all their force, they had to tack to and fro to avoid its crashing into them. The rope, tied to the vacant seat amidships, passed under Martin’s seat, and ran through a notch in the stern to the log, rasping against the wood. Now it lay buried in the water, slack, as the log was hurtled towards them by the sea. Now it hung taut above the waves, dripping with brine.
Now there were many fins of sharks following the boat, keeping pace. Overhead, seagulls soared on still wings, looking down, cackling.
Patrick watched the fins of the sharks with fixed eyes. His lips were drawn back from his clenched teeth. His white eyebrows were raised up on his wrinkled forehead. Suddenly he dropped his oars, took his knife from his pocket and opened it.
Martin’s back quivered. He dropped his oars and stood up, uttering a strange, wild shriek. He turned on his brother. Patrick was crouching in the prow, gripping the open knife. They rushed at one another. The boat swung round. The beam, carried on a tall wave, came crashing into it.
The brothers, just as they were about to grapple with one another, saw the beam, with upraised snout, looming over them. They raised their hands and uttered a cry of horror. The knife dropped from Patrick’s hands into the sea. They threw their arms around one another in an embrace, as the log fell, smashing them and the boat beneath its weight.
Clasped in one another’s arms, they began to sink.
The sharks’ fins came rushing through the water towards the wreck. Then they dived.
The brothers rose once, still clasping one another in a tight embrace. Then they were tugged sharply downwards and they rose no more.
A mass of weeds gathered around the wrecked boat, with the log, snout upwards, astride it, while seagulls soared all round, screaming.
Your Honour
Mr. Patrick Gilhooley came out of Sinnott’s riding-school in Park Gate Street at four o’clock in the afternoon. He had just taken his first lesson in horsemanship. He felt numb all over the body. Although he walked as usual, by pitching his flat feet out sideways like a motherly old cow, he felt sure that he walked like a cavalry officer, Therefore, in spite of his soreness and the memory of the smile he had seen on an impudent stable-boy’s face during the lesson, he felt very proud of himself. His yellow top-boots had creases above the ankles. His brown riding-breeches were made of the most expensive cord. His jazz pull-over was in the latest fashion. His smart bowler hat was perched at a daring angle. Phew! He felt a very fine and dashing fellow.
To the onlooker, of course, he looked perfectly ridiculous, with his flat feet and his undulating paunch, coming along like an advertisement for a cinema theatre.
Formerly he had been a small shopkeeper in a country village. His shop was a failure commercially because he spent all his time in political agitation. He was chairman of the local Rural District Council, and secretary to three different political organizations. At last, however, his hour struck. His second cousin, Mr. Christopher Mulligan, the solicitor, was appointed by the government as Commissioner to administrate the affairs of a public body, suppressed for corruption. Immediately Mr. Mulligan appointed all his cousins to fill subsidiary posts under the new, incorruptible administration. Mr. Gilhooley became Assistant Deputy Commissioner.
Before Mr. Gilhooley had walked fifty yards from the riding-school gate, he was accosted by a ruffian called the Cadger Byrne. Byrne was a very tiny man. He had a round, sallow face. His eyes were small, sharp and grey. His ears were diminutive and they protruded from the sides of his head instead of sloping in the usual manner. He was dressed in riding-breeches and gaiters. He had the manner and appearance of a disreputable racecourse tout. Exactly what he was.
“Pardon me, yer honour,” said Byrne, standing in front of Mr. Gilhooley, and touching his cap.
“Eh?” said Mr. Gilhooley, starting and halting abruptly.
Here it must be stated that the title “your honour” is the property of a certain class of persons, now becoming defunct, i.e. Irish country gentlemen. In his youth Mr. Gilhooley had been in the habit of touching his cap and saying “Good morning, yer honour,” when the local landowner rode into the village mounted on an enormous hunter stallion. The landowner was in the habi
t of reining in his stallion, calling to Mr. Gilhooley’s father, then proprietor of the village shop, and without taking the trouble to dismount or to look at Mr. Gilhooley’s father, he ordered perhaps a box of matches to be sent at once to Ballyhooley Manor. Recently Mr. Gilhooley loathed the title “Your honour.” All his political agitation had been directed against the class of persons who held that title. But now when he heard himself addressed by that title for the first time in his life, an extraordinary thrill of pleasure permeated his whole fat body.
The thrill of pleasure passed in a moment, giving way to a suspicion that he was being insulted. A sense of inferiority passed over him, causing a little shiver down his spine and a lump in his throat, just as when he committed some faux pas in the drawing-rooms to which he had recently been invited on account of his new position. He looked at Byrne shrewdly.
But Byrne’s upraised and expectant face was perfectly respectful. It bore that subservient smile which Mr. Gilhooley recognized and understood very well, formerly of course. Mr. Gilhooley became reassured. Undoubtedly the fellow mistook him, Mr. Gilhooley, for one of the old caste.
“What do you want?” said Mr. Gilhooley, stretching out his right boot with the toe upraised and staring at the toe, with a serious expression on his face.
He spoke sourly and rather arrogantly, but he was really very pleased.
“Would yer honour put in a good word for me?” said Byrne in a very fawning voice.
“How do you mean?” said Mr. Gilhooley, staring again. Since the man wanted something he had ceased to be pleased. “Where could I put in a good word for you?”
“In the stables, o’course, yer honour,” said Byrne, edging closer and looking at Mr. Gilhooley with an almost impertinent smile of intimacy on his face.
“What have I got to do with stables?” cried Mr. Gilhooley indignantly. He nodded his head backwards towards the riding-school and added ferociously: “D’ye think I’m employed in there?”
Byrne waggled his head from side to side knowingly and the smile on his face broadened.
“Now, yer honour,” he said, “sure ye know very well I didn’t mane that? Don’t I know a gentleman when I see wan? But, yer honour, what I’d be grateful to ye for is if ye’d put in a good word for me in yer own stables, yer honour.”
Irish Portraits Page 3
