“And so you shall. And so you shall.”
Mr. Gray bent stiffly, took elaborate aim, and after a moment of anxious ridigity, miscued.
“Hard luck, Ernest. Hard luck indeed,” cried the indomitable Ben, in tones so heartfelt they would have honoured a bereavement. Con hid a large grin, and Mr. Gray, rising, looked indignantly at Dermot, as much as to say, ’There, you see: that’s what comes of following his advice.’
“I think you’d better let me go my own silly way in future, Ben,” he said, going over to chalk his cue, as Con, still grinning, got down and collected a slap-dash eighteen.
“Eighteen !” cried Uncle Ben. “Eighteen, the fella’s mad. Oh, Ernest, Ernest, we’re ruined. We’re ruined entirely. Sure, what can the two of us do, against the like of that? ”
He doubled round to the end of the table, and, stooping, anxiously scrutinised the leave.
“Ben boy, Ben boy, ye must see what ye can do. Ye must see what ye can do. Aye. Aye. Sure, they don’t leave us much, Ernest. They don’t leave us much. And we wanting every stiver we can lay our hands on. Aye, I wonder now, if I hit that white fine, with just a touch of side, could I——”
Con snorted. The shot was one Uncle Ben could make a dozen times any night of the week.
“Oho—oho. That’s me girl. Oh, but not too far. Not too—ah. Now, maybe, if I could put down that red——”
Uncle Ben went on, doubling round the table after the balls, addressing them affectionately, cajoling them, till the exasperated Mr. Gray was ready to dance with rage. Only the sight of its effect upon him kept the other two from being irritated by the delighted monologue.
“Twenty-nine,” recorded Uncle Ben, making a great clatter on the marker. “Twenty-nine. Ah well. We must take what we can get, Ernest boy. We must take what we can get.”
When, presently, Mr. Gray made seven, he was overwhelmed with felicitations: and, such is the nature of the novice, though he despised them, he was pleased, and had to struggle in order to hide a smile.
“You’re off form, Dermot boy,” commented Uncle Ben presently. “You’re not playing your best to-night.”
No one knew that better than Dermot. He could never do anything naturally in front of his father. He became nervous and uneasy. Indeed, any special occasion made him nervous. That same summer, Brian had asked him to lunch at his club. He liked and admired Brian, but was rather afraid of him: and so, when after lunch Brian asked him if he would care for a game of pills, he had not the courage to refuse. They played a foursome, and Dermot, over anxious to do well, played execrably. Only towards the end of the game was he able to bring off a shot or two that showed he knew what he was about. The strange men intimidated him, also. One of them, a little man in a bright pink shirt, wearing a bow tie, was, Brian whispered, a celebrated painter, by name Orpen. Dermot liked him at once: for he was very amusing, very kind, and had more synonyms for the red ball than Dermot had dreamed possible. The memory of that game was a nightmare, redeemed by him alone: and he, like the O’Dowda, received a devotion from a source he would speedily forget.
At a quarter to ten, Mr. Gray said they must be going. Dermot often got into hot water for coming home late from Delgany: nor were matters helped by a very decided difference between the Delgany and Walmer Villa interpretations of the word. Thus it was a good chance for Mr. Gray to finish an ordeal and assert a principle at the same time. When Uncle Ben riotously demurred, he could insist sadly, but firmly, as one whose duty compels him to give up a pleasure.
“I can’t keep them waiting up,” he finished, marshalling an added virtue: so Uncle Ben, putting on his coat, led him upstairs to say goodnight, leaving Con and Dermot to cover the table and put out the lights.
“It’s an awful pity Father’s got that way over his games,” said Con, opening out his end of the long heavy cloth. “He usen’t to do it. It’s only the last two or three years. He’s aged ; there’s no denying it.”
“I don’t mind it,” said Dermot. “I’m used to it. I like him so much, I wouldn’t mind what he did.”
“Oh, sure, everyone likes him,” said Con ; “but it’s harder to put up with things in your own people”: a truth which Dermot most fervently endorsed.
Chapter XXXVI
The end of the 1914 holiday proved to Dermot that he was indeed grown up. Small outward and visible signs, such as increased pocket money, licence to go into Dublin to the theatre by himself, had not convinced him of his status, because he did not inwardly feel different. Even though (for instance) Mona now appeared as an untidy, heavy creature with a sulky expression and clothes not over-clean, he felt too much like the Dermot who had adored her to be disillusioned. The real Mona, his Mona, was not a creature of time. She was ageless and unfading. All his feelings about Walmer Villa, Delgany, and the place in general, were of the same quality. They dug deep back into his childhood, and kept him a child.
But, now that he had to say good-bye again, he felt a change. The good-bye was as poignant as ever, but he was far better able to bear it. He was emotionally stronger. A year was no longer a vast desert, in which anything might happen. He could see ahead. Years passed more quickly now. He had had, as always, a lovely time. Very well. He would go away thankful, work hard, get his scholarship at Oxford—this War would soon be over: there was nothing to worry about on that account—have two glorious last terms, and then come over again. For longer, too, perhaps. Varsity terms did not begin till well into October. He and Con had a great plan, whereby he might stay at Delgany after the others had gone. He could work a bit, in the mornings. Oh, a great plan. And, after that—he hardly let his mind run ahead so far. Oxford terms ended in June. It was possible, just possible, mind you, that in the future, he might get over for a full three months. Oh, the future was full of hope: so full, he would be thankless indeed to grieve at going back now.
He packed in the room at Miss Tarbet’s, during a waste hour of the afternoon, half hoping that the old mad lady would begin her chanting. Sure enough, just as he was filling the second case, the piano clanked feebly, and her unearthly voice struck up :
“YES we’ll gather at the river…. ”
When he had finished, he paused at his parents’ door, which stood open. Mr. Gray, in his shirtsleeves, looked up from the big trunk, and made a grimace. He was always sympathetic when they left, until they got into the train. Then, it was only a matter of time till he fished out his annual joke.
“Next station Sandycove! Isn’t it lovely to think we have our whole holiday before us! ”
Dermot did not enjoy the sympathy very much, as his father always managed to strike a jarring note: but he made a friendly grimace back.
“That old girl,” said his father, jerking his head towards the unseen singer. “Wouldn’t she drive you off your head? I was hoping to get through before she opened fire.”
Dermot smiled.
“No,” he said. “I don’t mind her.”
“H’m.” Mr. Gray turned again to his task. “You’re lucky, that’s all I can say.”
Dermot went on downstairs, stood while a tram went by, and crossed the road. Bessie let him in. The darkness of the tiny hall, the well-remembered, indefinable smell of Walmer Villa engulfed him. Queer, to reflect, when he seemed to be so deep, so firmly established in it all, that this time tomorrow he would be in a train, somewhere in Wales. He peered at the clock. In less than an hour, the Delgany folk were coming in to say good-bye.
The next morning dawned perfect. Dermot woke early. The bay was clear and calm. No fear of a rough crossing, anyway. With a sort of smiling composure, he dressed, carried his lighter stuff across, made a round of the rooms to see he had left nothing behind, and sat at the hurried, flustered breakfast, aloof and self-possessed as an iceberg. His mother, he noted regretfully, grew more and more easily flustered, and seemed angry if other people kept calm. He had to demonstrate, very politely, twice, that all his belongings were ready. Eithne sat, staring straight in front of her, inscruta
ble. Poor Eithne. It must be extra beastly for her. She would notice, and resent it, if he watched her. Had Con said anything? he wondered.
Five minutes before they need start, he remembered he had left a magazine in the summer-house. Accordingly, without flurry, he went down the garden to get it. As he went, he looked at everything, with an eye that pretended it was simply interested. Determined not to be sentimental, nor to indulge to the old practice of saying good-bye to each place, he nevertheless welcomed the chance to see it all once more, and have a moment with it alone. If I hadn’t left the book there, I wouldn’t have come, he told himself: but he went slowly, even, at one corner, parting the long flags of an iris, to see if there were any snails, and smiling as he did so. He was grown up now, and a year soon went. It was merely a matter of patience. Sit tight, carry on, and presently the circle wheeled round, bringing one back. He crossed the lawn, all sparkling with dew, and stooped under the mass of creeper that overhung the summer-house door. Inside, out of sight, smelling the old faint smell of mustiness and decay, he stood for a minute: and the treacherous tide of feeling flowed over his soul. He let it flow, then shook himself, and resolutely pushed it back. Yes, yes, he said to himself: it is a dear old place: but you’ll be back soon. One more minute, fully savouring and exploring it all, and he went out.
At the top of the garden he turned, deliberately, for a long look back. One could always summon up a pretty accurate picture of it all: but nothing to the detail of the reality. (While, in the picture, one was remembering and placing this bush or that tuft of flowers, the rest of the picture blurred.) There it all was, standing patient and peaceful, in the early morning sun. A man, tiny in the distance, was walking along the road in front of the Glenageary houses. Down by the cottages on the right, someone was bawling fish. The Dublin Mountains curved, clear and beautiful, above the trees. The paint was almost all blistered off the cucumber frames. This is Ireland, this is Ireland. Well, he said to it lightly, as one who makes a concession to old customs, Goodbye, Ireland, till next year.
He turned resolutely, and went down the path. Suddenly he noticed the blank space, where Paddy-monkey’s kennel had stood: and opened his eyes wide, in recognition of the garden’s power, for there had been no kennel there this ten years. The times of leaving Walmer Villa were all one. Every year the circling orb ran again into that sorrowful patch. But Dermot was older now: he could master it all, watch himself, and study its effect upon him: and, as now, show himself manly and cheerful in the good-byes.
Granny was upstairs in bed. She had not been well, and was in great chagrin that she could not see them off. Dermot bounded up the stairs, and stooped over the bed.
“Good-bye, Granny darling.”
“Good-bye, Dermot, pet.” Granny was always tearful when they left. “Ta’ care of yourself, now. Don’t work too hard.”
He put his head on one side, and smiled.
“I’ll have to work rather hard, till December, I’m afraid, Then, please goodness, I’ll be able to take it easy till I go up to Oxford.”
“I hope so, darling. I hope so. And, once you’re over your exam, sure, it won’t be so long——”
“—till we’ll all be over here again.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “It’s not very long, once Christmas is past, Granny.”
“Ah no, me child. But the winter seems very long, when you have it all before ye.”
Granny began to cry again. He squeezed her hand, and got up gently from the bed.
“Get well quickly,” he said gaily. “You talk of me taking care of myself. You take care of yourself. That’s much more to the point at present.”
Granny smiled weakly.
“Ah, son, I do. Sure, I take great care.”
“Well, mind you do.” He kissed her. “I’m afraid you’re rather naughty, when there’s no one about to see that you do what you’re told.”
“Good-bye, darling boy. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Granny darling.”
He ran down the stairs.
“Good-bye, Katie.”
“Ah, sure, good-bye, Master Dermot. Ah, the blessings of——”
“Good-bye, Bessie. Not long till next year.”
“Good-bye, Master Dermot. Good-bye.”
The others had started. Grandpapa was standing at the gate.
“Don’t go squeeze me hand, now,” he adjured Dermot, suspiciously.
“I wouldn’t” protested Dermot, taking it very gently.
“Faith, ye would, in a minute,” said the old gentleman. “Well, good-bye now.”
Outside the gate, Dermot found Eithne waiting for him. They went down the road together, turning at the corner, and waving back to Grandpapa, who stood, leaning forward stiffly, looking after them.
“Poor old Grandpapa. He was afraid I’d squeeze his hand.”
“Yes. He told me not to, too.”
“I say. There’s Paddy. Do you mind if I walk down with him.”
“Of course not. I’ll catch up with the rest.”
That was a fiction, because they were well ahead: but Dermot did not stop to look into it. He crossed the road. Paddy, who had been sitting hopefully on a low wall, shambled to his feet.
“Well, Master Dermot.”
“Well, Paddy. It’s too fine a day to go.”
“Oh, faith, indeed, it’s grand.” Dermot fell into step, as Paddy set off in his familiar shuffle, arms working, breath hissing between his teeth.
“P-lay up the music,” he began, automatically, to hide his embarrassment: for he did not know what to say.
“I was sorry I couldn’t get down to go after an eel, Paddy. But, somehow, there never seemed to be time.”
“Oh, sure, I know. Ye do be busy now, and have lots to do. Sure I know. I wasn’t expectin’.”
To hear Paddy, one would have thought the idea almost a sinful indulgence. But Dermot had felt guilty. He had seen very little of the faithful old fellow, lately. It couldn’t be helped. They weren’t really at ease together, now. Whenever they met, they talked energetically of the past.
“Do you mind the day we got the big eel with a hook tied on to a swimp net? ” Paddy asked suddenly.
“Indeed I do. I’ll never forget it.”
“And th’ eel on Ballygihen Avena’; and all the little girls that did be watchin’.”
“Yes, yes. Those were great days.”
“Ah, the’ were. We had great times.”
“Paddy—we never had a dart at the mullet.”
“No. No more we did. Ah well, if you’re here, next year, please God, sure we might…. ”
“Indeed we might. We must. And do a Loughlinstown Walk.”
Dermot’s heart expanded towards Paddy. He would have promised anything, in the best of good faith.
They came out on the sea front, above the baths. There was hardly anyone about. A couple of bathers taking their before-breakfast swim: a milkman or so: one or two people, like themselves, walking to catch the mail boat: no one else. A sudden sick pang shot up in his heart, as he recalled the look of the garden. Almost angrily, he thrust it down.
Hardly another word passed between them, as they went down in front of the Pavilion, across the wide dusty road, and reached the pier. No one was fishing. It was too early. The familiar sound of one’s boots on the woodwork roused another pang, but he was prepared for it, and it had barely time to raise its head.
“Well. Good-bye, Paddy.”
“Good-bye, Master Dermot. Thank you very much ; thank you very much. The best of good luck to ye now. The height o’ blessin’.”
“Good-bye.”
He went up the gangway, and joined the others. Con was coming, on his way in to town, to see them off. Eithne, leaning on the rail, kept an anxious lookout.
“There he is,” she cried.
Sure enough, they saw the great galumphing figure, in his enormous overalls, charging up the pier. He was late, and the sailors at the gangway did not want to let him on: but he plunged past them
like a mad elephant.
“Here, pet,” he said, pressing some parcel into Eithne’s hands. “And, if ye open that before ye get half-an-hour out, I’ll have the behind off ye. Oh, sorry, Aunt Margaret! I didn’t see ye! ”
For a couple of minutes, the deck resounded with shouts of enormous laughter. Then, just in time, Con plunged down the gangway, and stood making faces, on the pier. He imitated in pantomime an old gentleman near him, and was caught doing it. He endeavoured to scandalise Mr. Gray, calling him to the rail, and bawling, in the coarsest Dublin accents, an intimate commission to some imaginary female relative. As the boat slid out, he ran along, blowing vast kisses. At the end of the pier, he climbed a great winch, and waved a scarf. But the boat slid fast, the scarf grew small astern, and soon the elbow of the harbour hid it.
Dermot was resolved again to be firm with himself, and not to spend all his time gazing religiously at the waning shore. He watched for a quarter of an hour: that first lovely but agonising quarter, when the coast opened out, when Delgany stood up fresh in the morning, with Vico and Killiney Hill behind it, to be hidden presently by Dalkey Island, and emerge again, smaller and different, when that was passed: when one could see the places in the mountains, the familiar runs, in one place, even, the tiny track of a road: the panorama of the holiday, like a drowning man’s last glimpse of his life. After that quarter of an hour, he read the paper, looking up from time to time and noticing the changes. For a long while the spires of Kingstown stood up clearly. Each time he looked he expected to lose them, but there they were still. A haze came down over the mountains: their large outlines grew vague and dim, till, by some trick of light and matter, the last thing to be seen was little Killiney Hill, a tiny mound upon the horizon. Dermot looked at his paper, and read how women had been assaulted by Germans on tables in a Belgian market place. One woman testified to seven assaults. Dermot admired the presence of mind which had enabled her to count them, walked to the rail, and looked astern again. Yes: still there: little Killiney Hill ; and the hump next to it must be Dalkey Hill. There, under the shelter of that mite of land, so far astern, was all he loved best in the world. Ah well: next year !
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