Half the women of Carraroe would be sitting with his mother, just as half the men would be at the bar. Seosamh would feel like such a fool to be sitting with the women.
But if he went to condole with the old woman, then he could stop at the hostelry on his way back, for everyone would understand he would need bucking up after the ordeal. And once they heard where he had been, there would be no more talk about Joe Raftery’s being heartless about his own family. The men who bet on his father’s grey would buy him drinks.
Seosamh had watched the race, and he could not be his father’s son without knowing something about horses. He had been surprised the stocky grey had taken the Thorough bred, and could only attribute it to a hidden weakness of the horse that died. Or to gross mismanagement. Or … the chestnut had been stabled at Anraí’s over the night; hadn’t it? Plenty of time to do a damage to it, and who better than Seosamh’s ugly little father to know how?
Another swallow of the liquor gave him a warmth of inspiration, and it came to Seosamh that the grey horse of his father’s was his grey horse now. And so, for that matter, was all the stable, for he was Anraí’s only heir.
This put matters on a different footing and warmed the air of Seán’s cottage by at least ten degrees. Seosamh began to shift the gears of his thinking, from those suitable for a poor man to those suitable for one with funds.
It would be important to sell the grey horse quickly, while it still had its reputation as a miracle. The rest of the stock could wait for good prices, for he didn’t want anyone in the county to suspect it was a desperation sale, to cover certain debts.
As would happen, if the men of his regiment found out where he was. But in a few weeks the regiment was leaving for Afghanistan (which was one of the reasons he had chosen to depart from it), and Seosamh would then have a good padding of time and space.
The black stallion of his father’s he would keep, to ride—a gentleman’s horse.
But what, his next swallow asked him, if his father had left the property to his mother or in her care for her life? Jesus, but it was cold in here. Well, Seosamh had always been much bigger with his mother than his father, and no doubt she would be glad to put the lines in his hands.
In that case, however, it would really be the thing to do to go to the church, and then tomorrow he would ride to the stable beside her in the gig, very officially.
Resolved at last, Seosamh put his hands to the table so that he might rise. So cold was it that he scarcely felt the board beneath his fingers. He stood up.
And then sat back down again, for his balance was totally gone and so were the contents of the mug.
“Sorry, old woman,” he said aloud. “The cards fell out against you.” He folded his arms and lay his head upon them. Just before he fell asleep smiling, he remembered that on another night, drunk as this one, he had signed a sort of document for an Englishman named Grover. And Grover was gone and no one knew where. Perhaps the document was gone, too. Perhaps not. Seosamh’s mind was on this document when he did fall asleep, and he was not smiling.
It was the same evening, and James Blondell and Toby had returned from their small vigil with Áine and had stopped on the way home and had a drink with the men. They had gone in together, and Toby had downed his like a man in honor of his old teacher and (and this was what made Blondell very proud) the horse that had won the race. And Hermione had been sound about it, because she was sound at bottom, and had dismissed the importance of neither the dead man nor the dead horse, or even lectured about the unadvisability of putting drink in front of a young boy.
Dinner had been subdued, but very welcome after the trials of the day. He had glanced at his mail, including one more letter from Major Hous, and put it all aside unopened. Now Blondell took his humidor and smoking rack under his arm and donned a quilted robe with very worn elbows. Instead of going to his library with his treasures, however, he went up the stairs and unlocked the door of one of the unoccupied bedrooms.
In the drawer of the writing table he found the suspicious little sheets of paper and the larger, incriminating one.
He took a lucifer from the tall container on the rack and lifted out the amber glass ashtray. The document of Seosamh Ó Reachtaire he rolled into a cylinder, and he struck the lucifer against the roughstone inset on the rack. The light of the energetic match overcame the last rays of this longest day of the year and turned the window in front of him into a mirror.
In that mirror he saw himself lit from below: a sorcerer over his brews. A round-faced and thin-haired sorcerer, he qualified, who had drunk good port after dinner. He lit the cylinder and put it upright, torch fashion. As it burned down, he twisted it and turned it, and still he had to light two more matches before it was all ash, powdered over the glass of the ashtray. When that was done he took the list of misspelled surnames and made a tent of it and lit that.
The paper with the name of the Dreoilín he stared at for some seconds, but at last he treated it like the others. When all the works of Mister William Grover (at least in this house) had been reduced in this manner, Blondell very neatly swept the tabletop and then took out his pipe, which he carried into the library.
Chapter Fifteen
The Game is Up
Donncha was hauling grain out to the mares that ran out on the high meadows with their babies. This had not been done yesterday and he wished fervently that he didn’t have to do it today, for he was sick tired and because of his work, would miss the wake tonight. As he walked he banged himself into the side of the cob repeatedly, for that animal was trying to go in circles, having more interest in the oat-filled sacks on his back than in the job at hand. Now he hit against Donncha’s side so smartly that the man lost his footing for a moment and only kept himself upright by hanging to the cob’s halter.
In his irritation he raised his hand to slap the beast back, but he thought of Anraí, with his bad health and bad temper, who never hit a horse out of anger. Never even felt the temptation. So Donncha put his hand back and felt very low.
One man could not do all this work. Where was Ruairí MacEibhir?
Donncha reached the fence of poles and wire, anchored into the old stone wall. They had heard him coming, and here were a half dozen tall mares with tall babies waiting in a row, and twice that number of ponies and their offspring in a circle around them. The cob greeted all that feminine beauty, but was ignored, for Donncha was quick to spill the grain onto the grass beside the fence, in a thin line fifty feet long, so the big ones could not pig it all.
This was usually Ruairí’s job, by choice. But the fairy was gone like a … like a fairy, and perhaps that was all the explanation necessary. Came with Anraí and went with him. By that Donncha had meant “went at the same time as him,” but hearing the thought ring through his tired head, Donncha felt a shiver in his bowels. Went with him.
And what was to happen to them all now: the mares and the babies, the stallions and the hunters and the pack ponies, and Áine’s cow and Áine in the empty house and Donncha himself in the barn? God with us all, thought Donncha, the kingpin of our carriage is broken. “Anraí Ó Reachtaire is dead!” he shouted to the mares. “The old man who kept us all is dead!”
The dun cob rumbled and danced sideways, and the mares and babies lifted their heads for a moment, for Donncha had spoken loudly.
It was such a lovely day. It seemed to Donncha MacSiadhail that it was always a lovely day after someone was dead, and the more mourned and valued the someone, the brighter the weather. It was known that the sea was as tender as a lover whenever it had taken men the day before.
“It isn’t worth it,” he said, leading the cob back down the hill. Now the problem was trying not to be run over by the beast as it worked its way down the slope with its empty bags. “I’ll take our dirty Connemara weather in preference.” He shook his fist at the glorious sky.
In answer came a circular, indolent wind that kissed his bitter lips and closed his eyes for him. Donncha sighed, an
d the cob shuffled to a stop.
Perhaps he could turn the stalled horses out until after the burying tomorrow. All but the black Thoroughbred stallion, who could jump too well for his own good and who would have to be either ridden or lunged every day. Donncha wasn’t thinking any further than the burying.
Down below him were the two stables and the great paddocks and the hay barn, their damp slate roofs all shining in the sun. Beyond them all was the house. At this season, its grey walls were hidden behind masses of Áine’s ragged robin and her yellow Chinese roses. Something was moving at the doorway. Not a horse.
Donncha loosed the cob in the near paddock and approached Seosamh still holding the halter rope in his left hand and with the pack saddle canted over his right shoulder.
The young man looked bad. His face was pasty and blue underneath his tan and he stood with his eyes down and knees stiff, as though he found it a lot of work to stand up.
Those unhappy eyes raised up in anger at Donncha’s short “God to you.” He waited, but the groom said nothing more, only standing with the saddle and waiting. Seosamh did not notice that Donncha’s color and attitude were no brighter than his own. “Aren’t you going to say you’re sorry for the loss of my father, man?”
Donncha’s weariness hardened. He put the saddle down over the top bar of the little garden fence. “I myself have lost so much with the passing of Anraí Ó Reachtaire, lad, that I’m beyond offering consolation to … to others.”
“You’ve lost more than you think, boyo.” Seosamh met Donncha’s gaze with difficulty and squinting, but he met it. “Boys to shovel manure are cheap and plentiful.” As Donncha continued to stare, he added, “My name is Ó Reachtaire, and I come into this estate of my father’s, as you’d know if ever you had a thought in your head.”
Donncha MacSiadhail had several thoughts at that moment, passing in quick succession. So this was to be the rest of it: after the burying. Well, perhaps. “It could be your mother who has been left that money, Joe-in.”
Strife lent to Seosamh’s face a normal amount of color. “You’ll leave my mother out of this, MacSiadhail. She won’t stand against her only son.”
These words somehow restored Donncha’s usual ironic complacence. It occurred to him that there was a great amount of manure that needed shoveling this day, and no cheap and plentiful boys nearby to do it. “If that’s the way it is, Joe-in, then good luck to you. I hope you remember where the manure forks are kept.” He yawned, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and started walking down the drive in the sunshine.
“Wait.” Seosamh followed after. “Where’s my mother?”
Donncha’s face went wide in wonder. “Surely she’s still at the church or resting in the house of a friend in town. Didn’t you leave her back there?”
Seosamh didn’t answer this. “I … thought she was … Never mind, though. Just tell me where you’ve put the grey horse that won the race.”
Now the wonder turned to enlightenment. Donncha grinned like a trap. “You’ll have to whistle pretty before you find that animal, Seosamh. He certainly isn’t here.”
Seosamh was not prepared to accept such an answer, for he had already sold the horse and was carrying the deposit in his trouser pockets. He grabbed Donncha by the sleeve and turned him.
“You won’t find him,” said Donncha with admirable patience. “That horse never belonged to Anraí at all, and he didn’t say that it did. It was a lending and has returned to its home now.”
“Lie!” shouted Seosamh. “It’s a lie and you’re a thief. I’ll have you in the gaol cell, a MhicShiadhail, before nightfall.”
Donncha was too tired to keep his patience at this. He took a swing at Seosamh, which was too weak and off center to have connected, except that Seosamh himself was weak and off center enough to flinch into it. He staggered backward and howled. Donncha, who had never been much for hitting people, stood slump shouldered and waited for Seosamh to hit back.
Seosamh did hit back, and in the hand with which he hit was a five-pound fishing weight. Had Donncha taken the blow squarely on the temple, as it was aimed, he likely would have joined Anraí in the stony soil. But Donncha had blocked with his hand, and the loaded fist only clipped him over the eyebrow. He went down and stayed down.
When he awoke, the shadows had all moved and the birds had stopped their early singing. Both Seosamh and the black stallion were gone, as well as Anraí’s exhibition saddle and bridle.
Donncha crawled into his nest of hay, though the stalls were foul and the water needed changing. His eyes were crossed from the blow and he kept retching the breakfast he hadn’t taken.
At least he wouldn’t have to lunge the black stallion, he thought, and fell out of consciousness again.
Within sixty minutes it was known by Maurice the hosteler that Seosamh Ó Reachtaire had taken possession of his father’s stable and accused Donncha MacSiadhail of stealing the race winner. Within ninety minutes most of Carraroe had the news.
Ó Flaithearta, the grocer, told the wife of Diarmuid Ó Cadhain, who told the postmaster and the Protestant rector besides. Morrie of the Dreoilín told Máire Standún as she took the household’s fish off the boat, and though both of them had other things to worry about, they spared a bit for Áine NíAnluain and the unfortunate Donncha.
Máire walked home with the gleaming silver pollack in a basket, and her heart was pounding. Ruairí was gone. Gone. Gone with Anraí Ó Reachtaire, and Donncha, poor lad, would suffer for it, if Seosamh had his way. She would suffer for it, though not as badly as she might have, had she been weaker.
She came into her own kitchen and found her sister sitting at the table, an untasted cup of tea before her and a sour look on her face. “So you’ve already heard,” said Máire, putting the fish into cold water to await dinner.
“Heard what?” Eibhlín lifted her pretty face to Máire, and it looked as though she’d been crying.
“About Seosamh, Anraí’s son, coming into the farm at his father’s death. And claiming Donncha had stolen … a horse from his father.”
Máire, who had no more compunction about repeating gossip than any other resident of Carraroe, had to repeat it all twice. Then she was certain there were tears in her sister’s eyes, and she remembered Eibhlín had slept through breakfast. “Eibhlín! What on earth is the matter today?”
Eibhlín flinched, and when Máire took her hand, it was very cold. “I have such a headache. And my eyes and nose burn,” Eibhlín said, and she stirred her cooling tea.
“You’d best go to bed,” said Máire. “For the summer is a bad time to be sick.”
At those words Eibhlín’s small features twisted out of shape, for she was suffering, too.
The news that passed through Carraroe, like water down the throat to the belly and into the limbs, had missed one particular limb: the rectory of the priest, where Áine sat with Nóra, the housekeeper, praying, napping, drinking tea, and receiving visitors, all in preparation for the official wake that would be held tonight.
In the winter a man might lay out for three days, but this was midsummer, and besides, Áine hadn’t the strength to endure such a stretch of formalized grief.
Anraí’s death, however terrible, had not been so unexpected to his wife. She had had him forty years and so had no cause for complaint. Seventy was an old age for a horseman. For a fisherman, it would have been exceptional.
Not one of the many callers at the rectory this fine afternoon spoke a word about Seosamh’s accusation. Most assumed she knew, but whether or no, it wasn’t the sort of talk that fit in with such a call.
Donncha did not come to tell his side of the story, for he had to watch the horses. He wondered if he would be arrested for this “crime” and who would tend the place if he were dragged off. But no one came. No one.
Blondell heard about the accusation after his very late breakfast, from one of his stableboys who had been sent on an errand to the town, and upon hearing, he became too angry to speak. His
son was angry, too, and each of them held his anger in private, for each had a reason to disbelieve Seosamh Ó Reachtaire’s story that he could not reveal, and though the reasons were different, father and son behaved in much the same way, and they kept their secrets faithfully. They dropped all business for the day and walked out in the park together.
Because Knockduff was too far for people to go on foot, Anraí’s wake was held in Carraroe. The coffin, which was not of deal but good, planed oak, was taken from the church to Maurice’s hostelry, for that had the largest room in the town in which whiskey might be poured. And there was whiskey enough, for a large bottle of aged liquor from Dublin sat on one end of the black bar, and a keg of something that never saw a government inspector was hoisted up to the other.
The men stood as thickly as on the best of ordinary nights, and they were only half the population, for the women who normally did not frequent Maurice’s hostelry called it instead “the wake house,” and they came anyway. Between the two pillars of whiskey along the bar lay babies in ranks in their white woolen blankets, and the children fell asleep on the wall benches or under them. Maurice sat at a table like one of his own customers, for he was taking no profit from this biggest crush of the year, no profit but in the material for stories. He watched the cloud of tobacco smoke on the ceiling fill and sink, until by ten-thirty it had reached the level of the window, after which it leaked out into the evening.
There were the ones who came to the wake for the thoughtfulness of showing, such as Blondell and the priest Ó Murchú and the priest from Ros an Mhíl. And there were the ones who sat out the wake, which was almost everyone else. They would be in the room with the coffin or in the connecting room all night, escaping only to breathe air.
Áine did not sit by the coffin, for she was ready to let the old body go, after the day and the previous night of watching. She sat in the dim light of the far parlor, where the women gathered around her, along with such older men as had known Anraí and herself when young. They said a rosary and then broke to drink tea or whiskey, and then another rosary. There ought to have been a third, but no one remembered to begin it, and by that hour of the night all the memories of seventy years were released, back to the stories of Anraí’s childhood as youngest of twelve on Inchamacinna Island.
The Grey Horse Page 23
