by Morris West
Maeve O’Donnell was not to be put off. My humour had fallen flat with her. There was a light of battle in her green eyes and a ring of steel in that douce Dublin voice. ‘That’s all the past! It’s now I’m talking about. We’re back to civil war. Don’t you read the papers?’
It was Ruarri who bailed me out and saved the face of the lady as well. ‘The truth is, Maeve, he can’t read a line of print to save his soul. He’s an old-fashioned seannachie. Does it all by dint of a prodigious memory and the services of pretty girls to write the stuff down for him. Seduces them all afterwards, I’m told.’
This was the old Ruarri, and a glance at Alastair Morrison told me he liked him better than the bland fellow from the whisky advertisement.
Maeve O’Donnell showed her paces, too – with sickles on her chariot wheels! ‘Well! Well! I’d never have known it. He has such an educated look. You’re not thinking of marrying him, are you, Kathleen?’
‘He’s asked me.’ She told it, bland and sweet as honey. ‘But I’ve told him I couldn’t accept until he’d learned his letters and could write a cheque!’
We were saved by the roast and old Hannah waiting round with an ear cocked for scandal.
As he carved the mountain of beef, Alastair Morrison started a new line of talk. ‘You’re an investor, Ruarri. You know there’s loan money from the government to develop tourism. What would you do with a place like this if you had it?’
‘With the land you’ve got? And the fishing rights tied to it?’
‘Naturally.’
‘First I’d think about the season, which is short and chancy. So you have to make your money in three months, like they do in the Mediterranean. The rest of the year you close down, to cut the overheads. This house? I’d gut it. I’d put in a flat for the manager and the rest I’d turn into a central lodge – dining room, cocktail bar, television room and a quiet place for the old ones to read and write postcards. Then I’d go to the Swedes – no, better still, the East Germans or the Poles. I’d give them a design for cabins that would match the land and the climate. I’d have them prefabricated and erected around the shoreline. I’d buy boats from the same people, one boat to a cabin, each with an outboard motor. I’d charge high rents and top prices for drinks and food, and I’d have a three-year contract with a travel agency for ninety-per-cent occupancy. Anything over that would be gravy on the meat.’
‘If you’ll forgive my asking, laddie—’ Morrison paused with the carvers in mid-air – ‘did you give me all that off the cuff, or had you thought about it before?’
‘I’ve thought about it every time I’ve passed the place.’
‘Would you like to buy it?’
‘If I had the money, I’d give you a cheque now. But I haven’t. I’m spread thin for the next twelve months at least. If you’re serious, though, I’d like first offer.’
‘I’m serious, laddie. Not now, exactly, but possibly soon. I’d like to talk to you about it.’
‘I’ll be here, whenever you name the time.’
‘I’d hate to see this lovely place spoilt.’ My Kathleen was very blunt. I was glad it was with Ruarri and not with me.
‘Spoilt!’ He rounded on her impatiently. ‘Come on, girl! If the building’s good and it fits the landscape, where’s the spoiling? The Isles are dying. They’ll be stone cold dead in half a generation unless we get people back here. Tourism is the only thing that will bring ’em back – builders and gardeners and cooks and waiters and chambermaids and butchers and bakers and candlestick makers. I can’t sell a lobster in London if it weighs over twenty-six ounces. I’m pulling ’em out of the pots three and four pounds apiece, and no one to eat ’em. Give me a good chef and a good dining-room and the guests will be shouting for lobster Newburg at New York prices!’
‘That’s a stale argument. There’s a whole quality of life to be thought of first, and all the things you lose when you disrupt it without thought for the future. That’s the ultimate horror of the puritan ethic. Work is sacred. Money is the key to a new earth and a new heaven!’
‘It damn near is! Money’s the variety and the lift and the drive that keeps you living. Money buys liberty. Money made you a doctor. Money changed deserts into farmland. Money put men on the moon. Money’s what keeps us all from turning into little grey worms burrowing into the earth for safety.’
‘There are those who can never have it – and they’re the majority on the planet.’ She was very terse with him. ‘There are those who want only enough for food and shelter and dignity. Where do they fit in?’
The implied reproof touched Ruarri on the raw. His answer was abrupt. ‘I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t born rich. I wasn’t taught to be rich on nothing.’
‘Balls!’ said Maeve O’Donnell. ‘You’ve never been hungry in your life, Ruarri Matheson, so what are you squalling about? You just love money. So do I. But you don’t have to write a bloody gospel about it.’
One instant I thought he would throttle her; the next he was bursting with laughter, as though she had made the greatest joke since Rabelais. ‘She’s right! God help me – and my apologies to you, Mr Morrison! – she knows me better than I know myself. Which is why I’d never marry her in a million years. You know what this woman does – this sweet, innocent piece of fashion plate? She breeds horses. She peddles ’em to princes and potentates. She touts for votes at election time. She foments civil disorder in between….’
‘And if I were twenty years younger, I’d marry her myself,’ said Alastair Morrison.
‘Try me now, Mr Morrison,’ said Maeve O’Donnell. ‘I’m just in the mood.’
There were some reckless things being said, and I thought I might as well add my own ten cents’ worth and try my luck for the same money. So I called them to order and made them a little speech.
‘Talking of marriage, ladies and gentlemen, Kathleen McNeil has announced, without notice, that I have asked her to marry me. Ruarri Matheson has made it plain that I can’t read or write. So I’m repeating the offer and putting down a small deposit for good faith and public witness.’
With that I marched round the table and laid the locket in its open case before Kathleen. You know how you make omens for yourself! I made one then: if she wore the locket, I was home; if she put it back in the case, I was lost. She held it in her hands for a long moment, turning it over and over, feeling the worn surface of it, and the chain, pliable as plaited silk. I was standing behind her, so I could not see her face. Then she held the locket up to me. ‘May I wear it now, please?’
When I had clasped it round her neck, she drew me down and kissed me on the lips: a lover’s kiss, with tenderness and time to enjoy it.
‘Thank you, mo gradh – for the gift and for the loving.’
Alastair Morrison beamed approval and raised his glass. ‘We should drink to that.’
‘It’s a rare and beautiful moment.’ Maeve O’Donnell sighed like Deirdre of the Sorrows in rehearsal.
‘I’ll name the toast,’ said Ruarri the Mactire, and promptly did. ‘To the day when the seannachie signs the marriage register.’
I laughed and said ‘Amen’ and wished him roasting in hell.
Of course he wasn’t and by all the symptoms he wouldn’t be for a long time yet.
Still, we weren’t doing too badly. The veneer was cracking off us all. There were sparks enough and smiles enough to keep the party alive, and Morrison enjoying himself.
Then – blast her green eyes! – Maeve O’Donnell dropped a match on the powder train. I was hardly back in my chair when she leaned across to Kathleen and announced. ‘The strangest thing! I’ve just noticed it.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Ruarri and Dr Morrison. They’re extraordinarily alike.’
At that moment I thanked God I had told Kathleen nothing, because she reacted as normally as anyone who is asked to recognize a resemblance which has been missed at first glance. She looked from one to the other, then said dubiously, ‘Well, I suppose the
re is a likeness. The eyes, perhaps, the facial bones. But I would never have noticed it.’
‘That’s just the red hair and that great fungus of Ruarri’s.’ Maeve turned the question to me. ‘You see it, don’t you? Take away the beard now…’
By then I had had time to recover. I went through a pantomime of inspection, marvelling as I did so that Morrison could still sit, calm and smiling, on the edge of catastrophe. Then I made a joke of the whole idea. ‘You have to be in love with him, Maeve, or you need your eyes checked. That ugly mug of his belongs on a wanted poster.’
‘I won’t have our guests insulted.’ Morrison played up to the joke manfully. ‘It so happens I’m an expert on genealogies. Among the Morrison the women had the beauty and the men had the brains. With the Matheson it was the other way round – with some notable exceptions in both clans.’
Whatever Ruarri’s thoughts, they were hidden behind that facile smile. He would play whatever comedy was called. He turned to Kathleen and laid his head on her shoulder: the sad clown demanding to be comforted against the unkindness of the world. ‘Where would you say that leaves me, Kathleen oge?’
‘Slap in the middle! Moderately brainy, moderately handsome, and much too opinionated for your own good.’
‘Kiss me, woman! You have the wisdom of Solomon himself and the beauty of Sheba – both wasted on that truaghan over there!’
I looked at Morrison. He gave me a faint smile of gratitude and poured himself another glass of wine. His hand was steady enough, but it was clear that he was tiring. His food was almost untouched and the grey look was creeping back. As the dessert was served, he begged to be excused for a few moments and left the room.
Hannah gave me a warning signal. I asked Kathleen, ‘Do you have your bag with you?’
‘Yes. It’s in the car. Why?’
‘Morrison’s not well. Hasn’t been for days. He talked of a warning. I’m guessing it’s his heart. Would you go upstairs and have a look at him? He won’t like it, but I want you to insist.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll insist.’
As she hurried out of the room, Ruarri asked, ‘Would you like us to leave?’
‘No. He wouldn’t either. He’s delighted to have you here.’
‘I’m glad. I’d like to know him better. He’s a rare one in this dog’s world.’
‘The liking’s mutual. Why don’t you come to see him as he asked?’
‘I will.’
Maeve O’Donnell laid a cool hand on mine, and the gesture said more than the words. ‘You relax now. We’re all big enough to look after ourselves.’
‘He’s a man with a conscience.’ Ruarri was at his old game again. ‘That’s been the ruination of him. What about our day in the hills? Monday suit you?’
‘I’m free, unless Morrison’s in trouble.’
‘It’s fixed then.’
‘A pity I’ll be gone,’ said Maeve O’Donnell. ‘I’d have liked to spend a day with the pair of you.’
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask what had brought her here in the first place, but I thought better of it. This lady was too bright by half and I had troubles enough.
We were alone for two minutes in the lounge while Ruarri went to the washroom and Hannah was still brewing the coffee. When I handed her the brandy, she gave me a big Irish smile and a nasty shock. ‘I’m in the racing business, so I never spread secrets. But I was right about Ruarri and Morrison, wasn’t I?’
‘I wouldn’t know, lover girl.’
‘And you wouldn’t say if you did. But here’s a piece of advice from Sister Maeve. Take your girl to bed or to the altar or wherever and get the hell out of here. You’ll never beat the local horse at a country meeting.’
‘A tip from the stable?’
‘None better.’
‘When’s the race?’
‘They’re at the barrier now.’
‘Who’s the favourite?’
‘The Mactire. The outsider’s called Seannachie.’
‘I’d have a saver on him.’
‘I have. But the odds are against him. Hence the advice.’
‘You’ve got a personal interest?’
‘Business and personal.’
‘Thanks for telling me.’
‘You’re welcome. Good luck from me – but don’t count on it.’
Then Ruarri came back and a few minutes later Kathleen McNeil joined us for coffee. She was preoccupied and inclined to be terse.
‘The ambulance will be here in a few minutes. If you don’t mind, Ruarri, I’ll pack the pair of you off as soon as you’ve finished your drinks.’
Ruarri was on his feet in an instant. ‘Don’t give it a thought. Get your coat, Maeve, we’re on our way. How bad is it?’
‘Not good, but he’s safe for the night. We’ll start the tests first thing in the morning.’
‘You’ll let me know the results? And, seannachie, if there’s the least thing I can do, call me. I’ll come running. Good night to you both and our respects to Morrison.’
‘And thanks for the dinner,’ said Maeve O’Donnell.
Two minutes later they were gone and we were sitting by the fire with Hannah hovering over us, tearful but determined.
‘You’re giving me the truth now, young woman? You’re not going to cut him up or anything like that, you promise me?’
‘I promise you, Hannah. It’s exactly as I’ve told you. His heart’s damaged. It needs time and rest to heal, and doctors and nurses watching him until he’s well again.’
‘How well? Tell me that honestly!’
‘Never perfect. But with good years still.’
‘God bless you for that word, anyway. Can I go with him to the hospital?’
‘No. He’ll go in the ambulance. We’ll follow in the car. When he’s settled and comfortable, we’ll come back here. Can you put me up for the night?’
‘Can I put you up! The house is yours from cellar to ceiling. What do you want me to pack for the poor mannie?’
‘Nothing, Hannah. I’ve done it all.’
‘But you’ll call me before he goes.’
‘I will.’
‘I’ll be clearing away then. Better than standing around just thinking.’
She hurried out, nursing her private grief in the old dour way, the tears soon spent, the plaint going on and on inside like the cry of the gulls. I found myself grieving with her, for the presumptuous folly I had committed, for the needless, pointless hurt to the man who was lying upstairs, with the dark watchman just outside the door. I wanted to go to him, but Kathleen held me back.
‘He’s resting, my love. Leave him be. I need him quiet.’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘To thank you for the dinner. And there’s something in his desk he wants you to deal with.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘That’s all. I think I’ve guessed the rest of it.’
‘It wasn’t hard. After that bloody comedy at dinner. Who the hell is Maeve O’Donnell, anyway?’
‘I was going to ask you the same question.’
‘I know only what was said. And I don’t give a damn for the rest. Christ! What a stinking mess!’
‘Not all of it. I have my locket, remember?’
‘I’m glad you wore it.’
It was the conventional thing to say, the nice, polite, thoughtful, a-gentleman-never-gives-hurt-to-others kind of thing that I’d been saying all night. I’d been nursing Alastair Morrison, who’d had a good life, anyway. I’d been planning a prodigal’s homecoming for Ruarri Matheson, who had whored his way round the world and sold himself for a killer at auction. I’d been playing a pretty, Edwardian love game with Kathleen, who’d had a child sucked out of her with a vacuum tube to please some half-grown actor and now wasn’t quite sure whether she could or she couldn’t be in love any more… Well, to hell with it! To hell with them one and all! To hell with Kathleen, too, if the fruit was there on the tree and she couldn’t make up her mind between apples
and gooseberries. I was bone-tired, bitched and bewildered and bored to extinction by the antics of this inbred little group living on the edge of nowhere.
But when the ambulance came and they carried Alastair Morrison down, and he pressed my hand and murmured his private word of thanks, I was trapped again, seduced by the pity I would one day need myself, robbed of the anger which was my only armour. But not all of it, not quite all.
We drove back from the hospital under a clear sky and a cold moon. When we reached the house, Hannah was still awake, with the fire built up and the tea made, waiting for our news. When she heard it, she murmured a prayer of thanks and, in a rare display of emotion, laid hands on our heads for a kind of blessing. She would sleep quiet now, knowing the Morrison was in good hands. She would pray for us both before she slept. We should lie late in bed and the girls would not disturb us.
We finished our tea and it was two in the morning. Kathleen carried the tray out to the kitchen. When she came back I took her in my arms and told her I wanted her – now, this night – and I would not wait for any tomorrow.
Her answer was swift and simple. ‘I want you too, mo gradh. I’m ready.’
I have nothing to tell you of our loving, save that it was rich, and wild and wonderful, with a long, sweet calm afterwards. Once, in the early cold hours, I woke and heard her muttering and stirring in her sleep. There were names in the muttering and one of them was Ruarri. I felt a sudden, sharp pang of resentment, but when I drew her to me, she gave a small sigh of pleasure and woke slowly to be loved again. After that I was too triumphant to care. Sleep was the country of the dead and there was no threat to me in a jigsaw fantasy of dreaming.
Chapter 7
IF you’ve been there, you know what it’s like. If you haven’t, no poet in the world can teach you the geography of the love country: the land always green, the flowers spilling over it, the fruits ripe for picking every day, the people all beautiful, private to themselves but companionable, too, the sun warm and the dawn golden and the nights secret and secure, and a soft, new language easy to learn and apt for daytime or the hours of dark. You can do the wildest things in it – stand on your head, walk on your hands, shout, laugh, cry, roll in the flowers without a stitch on your hide – and they all make wonderful sense. You can wear the country, too, like the cloak of invisibility. You can carry it about, like a mirror in your pocket, and see every colour of it at a single glance. And others can see it on you, in you and around you and wonder how you found the way to it.
