The Garden

by L. A. G. Strong

  “You know Mrs. Conroy, ma’am, and you know Mr. Conroy. Sure, there can be no harrm there. Such a fine, well-respected lady and gentleman——”

  “No harm at all, I’m sure,” conceded the lady. “I know as well as you do who they are. But it’s not a thing I like, and it’s not a thing I will have, Mr. Kennedy: you to be making assignations with my daughter, for anyone’s behalf, at the age she is, and putting ideas into her head.”

  “‘Putting ideas into her head,’ “repeated the discomfited one venomously, when he came to report his ill-luck. “As if it wasn’t stuffed full of them already, and she with half the schools runnin’ after her in the road. She’s a nice little girl, mind ye: but she well knows who looks after her, and she passing by. Maybe she doesn’t well know the way to lead them on, either! ”

  When next Dermot saw Mona, she tossed her head, and went by with her beautiful chin held high in the air. Next year, it was too late. She was crazy about athletics. She went to cricket matches, and, in September, to the football: the object of her regard being a curly-headed hero with the improbable name of Lambkin, whose prowess was remarkable in both. If she had other suitors, he ousted them all: and the day came when Paddy reported that he “seen young Lambkin pinnin’ her up agen the wall at the butt of Ballygihen Avena’, and he kissin’ the face off of her.” From that day, Dermot set her down as unattainable. She became once more a wraith, a vision: and remained embedded in his prayers, last of that list, nearly all relations, whom, after saying the Lord’s Prayer, he called on God to bless. Banished even from daydreams, there she stayed ; subject of a mechanical petition: sometimes remembered, with a smile, but causing no resentment, nor regret. To have had her, and lost her to Lambkin, would have meant disillusionment. Mona was not meant for the trials of actual acquaintance. She was a vision, in a white drifting frock, a creature from the land of myth. His first instinct had been right. She was only for the eyes. And, alas, when a few years had gone by, no longer even for them. She flowered too early.

  But, before all this happened, there came a second deed of derring do. Another eel was captured: and though Mona was not there to see it, others were. Plenty of little girls, from fourteen downwards, caught prawns along the Wall, sailed boats, built castles (to the fishermen’s indignation, since the only sandy places were sacred to the digging of bait), paddled, and occupied themselves busily day in, day out. One of these, a handsome sturdy laughing creature, two years older than Dermot, much approved by Paddy, believed in going for what she wanted. She wanted Dermot, who attracted her by contrast. He, as soon as he found that her eager questions were not really prompted by an intense desire to learn about fishing, received them coldly. She asked him the same questions too often. But Marjorie was assiduous. Flushed and sunburned, she waylaid him one evening, and pinned him against the wall, hemming him in with her strong arms and legs, gazing enthusiastically into his eyes.

  “I expect you’ll catch lots of lovely big fish,” she proclaimed.

  Dermot wriggled, averting his eyes uncomfortably from her face. Past her straw hat, her thick dazzling plait of hair, and her pink-sleeved shoulder, he saw the wide calm bay and the elbow of the pier.

  “Oh,” he said.

  “I think so,” she repeated. Her face was closer. He felt her breath.

  “Don’t come sprawling all on top of me,” he said with sudden irritation, and pushed against her chest. She held firm, smiling at him.

  “I’m stronger than you,” she said.

  He stared into her face, his own wrinkling in distaste. Some other little girls were looking on, and laughing. If he struggled, she might win. It would be too undignified.

  “Do let me go. I’ve got to hurry home. I shall be late.”

  Marjorie took her reverse good-naturedly. She stood back, and let him go.

  “Oh, well,” she said, smiling right into him in a large way that made him feel very uncomfortable. He ran up the steps, to join Paddy, who was leaning over the top, looking down. “Good-bye,” she called after him.

  “Oho,” said Paddy, at the top. “Oho, boy! Looka, Master Dermot: the young girl is waving good-bye to you.”

  “Oh, good-bye.”

  He turned and waved.

  “Good-bye, Dermot.”

  She went to join the others, waving and smiling.

  “Oho, boy,” chuckled Paddy again, as they fell into step, “ye were very near gettin’ kissed that time.”

  Dermot stopped short.

  “Good Lord,” he exclaimed, “was that what——”

  He went on again, saying nothing, while queer hot waves of feeling went over him. He had had no idea: and wondered, now, whether he would have liked or hated it, if she had.

  He might try again, go near her, and see if she would. Paddy’s shameless enjoyment made him look at the matter differently. Paddy—and Grandpapa: that was the one point on which they both agreed. Girls were to be admired, and run after, and—Dermot’s imagination stopped. The active rôle, as yet, was outside his range.

  When he next did meet Marjorie, he received fresh evidence of feminine instability. The conger line, fitted up at last, had been set for the second time, below high water mark, lashed to the iron stanchion on the left hand rock at the foot of Ballygihen Avenue. An eel had been seen there, and one afternoon, on the rising tide, they had fished him. What a clumsy, unlikely instrument of capture the line looked! how garishly the thick white twine showed up, lying lumpily along the bottom, with half a new herring transfixed on the great hook. Scarcely had they flung it in, when a little crab, marvelling at his good fortune, had flung himself upon the bait. Paddy swore, and jerked on the line: the little crab hung on. Paddy pulled up the line: just below the surface, the little crab let go, and sank regretfully back, his legs and claws outspread, like some eccentric flower. Paddy put out the line again, in a different place: but the scent of the herring was strong, and the little crab, capering over the tussocks of brown weed, found it again with joy, and fastened on.

  “Holy Mother of Divine God,” cried Paddy, in high wrath, “will you look if this bloody little divil isn’t at me bait again.”

  He was about to move the line a second time, when Dermot caught his arm, and pointed. Coming in languidly, on the far side of the little bay, nosing his sinuous way along—the eel. Instantly, with a great scutter and slithering of boots, Paddy lay flat on his belly upon the rock: and his pupil followed him. Tense, hardly daring to breathe, they watched the eel’s progress. Waving his way along, like a streamer, a long blue weed, he was in no hurry. Once he disappeared into a hole. Then, when he emerged, the light upon the water hid him. For a long time he was out of their sight ; and Dermot was just about to raise himself cautiously upon one elbow, when a sharp hiss from Paddy stopped him, and he saw the eel, close to them, cutting straight across and making a beeline for the bait. Three seconds, perhaps, and the little crab let go of the bait as if it had been red hot, scampering wildly, with all his legs, to bury himself under the protecting weed. But the long lean snout did not concern itself with him. Delicately, warily, it nuzzled the bait: delicately, warily, it picked it up, and began lightly to chew. The veins stood out on Paddy’s forehead. His very muscles and tendons seemed to creak. His hand shook: but he held the line loose.

  “Chuck, Paddy,” breathed Dermot. “Oh, now, now.”

  “No. Lave it to’m.”

  “Chuck! ”

  “No, I’m tellin’ you.”

  Gaining confidence, the eel began to bite in real earnest. He worried the bait, shaking it, turning up his underside.

  “Now! Oh, Paddy, you’ll lose him.”

  “Will you lave me be! ” came back the furious whisper. “Do you want to lose’m on me? ”

  “Oh, oh, oh, look! Oh Paddy—I’m sure it’s time.”

  “Divil mend you, then! ”

  Paddy struck, with the full force of his arm. The blow spun the eel clean over, tearing the bait out of his mouth. Then, with a single stroke of his long
tail, he was off like an arrow, frightened irretrievably ; and the power of the stroke sent up a ripple to writhe resentfully on the calm surface of the water.

  Paddy rose.

  “Now then,” he adjured the crestfallen Dermot, “maybe you’re satisfied. Now maybe ye’re pleased with what ye done.”

  He pulled in the line.

  “Another minyit, and I had’m. He was bitin’ on it grand. Only for you fussin’ me, and goin’ on at me, I had’m here, now. Do you know more about fishin’ for eels: or do I? ”

  “Well,” protested Dermot ignobly. “If you know such a lot, why did you take any notice of me? ”

  “Now then, Master Dermot,” said Paddy, very properly, “if ye’re going to talk that way, ye can get someone else to fish with ye.”

  Receiving no reply, he gave his pupil a long lecture, of such admirable sense that even a small and disingenuous boy could not but feel the justice of it. The incident concluded well, and it was with complete submission to Paddy’s science that the line had been laid down, which they were now to take up.

  The tide ebbed slowly. By infinitesimal degrees, it seemed to sigh its way down the rocks, and out of the small weedy bay. Bright yellow the weed drooped, as if exhausted by the burden of the waters: like a hostess who collapses into a chair when her guests have gone. Ripples upon the shiny surface darkened, broke, became the tops of rocks: rose into little polls: and soon were casting a shadow. In a few minutes, if he rolled up his shorts into tight rings around his thighs, Dermot would be able to wade across and reach the rock with the stanchion. They could see the stanchion. It had been uncovered for some time, and they could just see the butt of the line. It looked taut, but one couldn’t really tell, at that distance, whether there were anything on it or not. If the eel had been at it, Paddy explained, the line would be taut anyhow. He would have dragged the bait off into the weeds, to worry it undisturbed.

  A number of little girls, with Marjorie at their centre, had gathered on the Wall. Dermot, feeling important, strolled over, and explained to them what was afoot. Far from being properly impressed, Marjorie scoffed at the idea that there could be an eel on the line.

  “Pooh,” she laughed. “You couldn’t catch an eel.”

  Dermot drew himself up, deeply offended.

  “I caught one the other day,” he asserted.

  “You mean those men caught it for you.”

  “I don’t. I mean——”

  “Did you catch it all by yourself: or were they there? ”

  “They were there. But I kept it——”

  “There you are, you see.” She would not let him explain. All the girls sided with her, and laughed at him. Worst of all, he saw Annie and Eithne on the rocks, not far off.

  Hurt and puzzled, he turned away, and went back to Paddy. Paddy looked at him.

  “I think you can get across now,” he said.

  Biting his lip, Dermot bent to tighten the rolls of his turned-up shorts, and began to wade across. The water rose high and cool inside his thighs. In one place, it touched the roll. Then the floor sloped upwards: a stride or two, and he was upon the rock, the water squelching out of his sandshoes. As he crossed, he heard a murmur from the girls. They were watching, intently enough. He half realised that they were really interested, but were belittling him for some mysterious reason of their own.

  The line was drawn down tight from the stanchion. Shading his eyes, he peered down into the forest of upstanding weed. A shock hit him right under his ribs, tangible as a real blow. There, beneath him, a little to one side, just above the bottom, keeping level with faint languid movements of his tail, the outstretched line leading straight into his jaws, he saw the eel, suspended, a prisoner.

  “Is he in it? ” came Paddy’s voice.

  Dermot turned, over his shoulder.

  “Yes.”

  There was a stir among the audience, an excited murmur. This was the moment. So swiftly that he gave himself no time to hesitate, and the exhausted eel no time to resist, Dermot stooped, seized the line, and with a couple of frenzied tugs had the captive leaping on the rock beside him. Then, and then only, did he realise how little of the rock was out of water: a small, irregular platform, close quarters for four foot six of galvanized india rubber, with vicious teeth, and a solitary, bare-legged captor.

  Happily, the eel was caught, all right. Even supposing it got back into the water, it could not escape. Dermot watched it. It was quite close, a yard away, perhaps, but there was a reassuring aimlessness about its leaps. Either it did not see Dermot, or else it did not connect him with its predicament. The unhappy brute had probably been caught on the evening tide, and been left high and dry for several hours. This it could easily survive, for eels will spend a long time out of the water of their own accord ; and the wet weed, in which it would have sulked, would keep it going. But this, and its long struggles to escape the great pitiless hook, had weakened it. Even now, as Dermot watched, the eel ceased leaping, and lay still a moment on its belly. Then, with smooth insinuating purpose, it wormed its way into a crevice. The stiff, hard snout scraped harshly against the rough surface of the rock.

  What to do now? Impossible to carry the captive back in triumph. Dermot could not hold it high enough. Besides, the beast would probably attack him. He had heard enough tales of eels’ ferocity to assist his natural caution. Still, something had to be done. He could not stand helpless there, in front of Marjorie and the rest. Stooping down, he took hold gingerly on the line, and gave it a timid chuck. A discontented writhe was the answer, as the eel wormed deeper into the crevice.

  Then, to his surprise, he heard a splash behind him, and turned to behold Mike. The longshoreman had removed his shoes and stockings, and rolled up his trousers, revealing a pair of unprepossessing hairy shins, and toes so warped and discoloured that they looked like roots.

  “Undo the butt,” he advised, turning a lack-lustre eye upon the eel.

  Dermot stared for a second in bewilderment, then understood, and hastened to untie the end of the line.

  “I sent Mrs. Crotty’s young lad to borry the lend of a coal hammer,” Mike vouchsafed, as Dermot fumbled at the cold, swollen knots. “We’ll jairk him above on the Wall.”

  Dermot nodded. Blood was pumping and singing behind his ears. He coveted Mike’s approbation. What a good thing Mike was there. Ah—the knots were coming.

  “It’s—nearly—undone,” he panted: but Mike had straightened up, and was gazing intently at a passer-by upon the Wall. Sudden dread chilled Dermot. Supposing it should be someone from the Salvation Army! Then, Mike would at once forsake him. At the call of conscience, he would leave any gathering, any occupation, and stalk off, muttering his one word of ill-omen. But the passer-by proved innocent. Mike sighed, and looked back at the eel.

  “Have ye it undone yet? ” he asked mildly.

  “Yes.” Dermot straightened his aching back, and handed the line to his companion. Mike took two turns on it.

  “Hel’ up,” he exclaimed, and savagely jerked the eel out of its crevice. It flapped, but feebly, and they realised how grievously exhausted it was: for after a convulsion or two, it lay upon its back, arching up its belly slowly from the rock, dropping back again, and twisting into a slow, stiff arc.

  “Way ou’ o’ that! ”

  Mike dragged it along the rock. Then, reaching the water, he shortened his grip upon the line, and swung the eel away, high and wide. He kept it swinging, so that its own weight should keep the line taut, and prevent its jumping up and biting him in the hand. Dermot followed. In the short time, the water had sunk almost to his knees.

  They dragged the eel up on the Wall, just as Mrs. Crotty’s little boy arrived with the hammer. A gasp went up from the crowd as Paddy dealt the executioner’s blow. Some of the little girls screamed faintly, and hid their eyes. With her arms about a couple of them, Marjorie looked steadfastly upon the deed, her lower lip stuck out, her face flushed.

  As soon as he could slip away, Derm
ot strolled casually over to her. Now, she would recant. Now, she would admit that he could catch an eel. His face stiffened into patronising lines.

  To his amazement, she assailed him roundly. He was a coward. He was afraid of the eel. He stood there, like a baby, on the rock, with his thumb in his mouth, for all to see. He could do nothing. He couldn’t even bring the eel back. The poor man had to take off his shoes and stockings, and go across to him, just like a nanny.

  “You were afraid,” she charged him, boldly and contemptuously. “You were afraid of the eel.” And all the other little girls joined in, and chanted, “Afraid of the eel. You were afraid of the eel.”

  Crimson with mortification and bewilderment, Dermot faced them.

  “I pulled it up, anyway,” he kept repeating, almost humbly.

  “Coo,” said good-natured Annie afterwards. “They didn’t half give it to you.”

  Dermot turned angrily away. That Annie should have seen, and should sympathise, was the last humiliation. His heart was full of resentment against Marjorie, and all her satellites. Girls! Never again would he have anything to do with them. Walking back with Paddy and Mike, his triumph gone sour in his mouth, he imagined scenes of fierce humiliation for Marjorie. His imagination, darkening, like a thunderous sky, grew lurid and alarming. He pictured himself beating her with a cane. For a moment he could hardly see where he was going. Paddy had to ask him a question twice, and he stammered as he replied. His throat seemed to have swollen.

  Later, his mood grew cold. He would ignore her. It was well for his peace of mind that her holiday ended soon after, for she would have beckoned to him one day, and, to his own complete surprise, he would have gone to her. Let her speak nicely to him once, and his resentment would be all forgotten. It was as well, perhaps, he should not find this out.

  A further annoyance was to be lectured by his father upon unnecessarily taking life. The eel was useless for food: why kill it? This Dermot felt to be a sort of blasphemy, a base, unfair contradiction of that gospel of the chase to which Paddy had brought him up, which fortified and raised to ritual his normal boy’s instinct. A rebuke from his father always outwardly abashed him. It filled him with a strange embarrassment, which had nothing to do with his transgression, and imparted a sort of anger to any defence he might put up.