The weather remained broken and Mungo stayed indoors, haunted by the memory reflected in the rain as it trickled down the window. To have lived to find himself in that furnace of passion and abandon was a revelation of what life could after all hold. It would never happen quite like that again, if only because he now knew it existed. Perhaps it could happen in another way, shock him to the core, change him all over again; but he refused to hope for that; it was asking too much.
If it would happen with anyone it would be with Tess. Yet if he had known her ten or fifteen or even five years before, it would not have happened. They each had to go through their seemingly barren lives to reach the point where they could be like that. And, he consoled himself, even if he could have waited unattached and free it still would not have happened: they both had to go through marriage, children, the death of love.
How alive, he wondered, had their loves been, even in the beginning? He had perhaps not been very much alive himself. He was twenty-four when he met Connie, she a year younger. He had spotted her as she danced with a big countryman twice her age in the Irish Club in Parnell Square. It was quite possible that she had cast her eye on him first. In any event, it was soon clear that they fancied each other, and after two weeks, having overcome a token resistance, she convinced him he had seduced her. After a night of energetic tussle, there was no turning back. It was still like that: energetic, blind, craving for oblivion, and what came between was accidental and a means to an end. And then, long spells when they were strangers to each other. He had noticed it first after Aidan was born. The pattern had begun to establish itself then, he realized, and not after Aidan’s accident. Perhaps if things had not gone so smoothly in the beginning, it might have been different. They might have been able to gauge their real need of one another, got to know each other, or parted. It was his fault. He had drifted on the ebb tide. He had felt it was time for marriage, and Connie was there. No doubt her reasoning had been the same. He liked her body, he still did. It was the main reason he still had sex with her, however rarely; and now he liked the comfort of his home, the backdrop of security for his children. And when the children were gone, he would settle for his own comfort. Was that it?
He longed for a cigarette or a drink. All this reflection was too painful to take neat. And yet he welcomed it; what had been blurred for years was now as clear as a formula. He wondered if Connie had seen this a long time ago, but had just given in and retreated to her bed, television and the Sunday night drink with the girls. Maybe she kept going for the sake of the children. She was a good woman, and he felt a sympathy with her. He couldn’t be easy to live with, but something beyond being tied to him had died in her. Perhaps it was only the flush of youth which had given the impression that it had ever lived. He wished for things to be different, to roll back the years and build a bridge between them with what he was aware of now. But he knew it was too late, and it was impossible to change someone anyway. And yet … and yet … He was different with Tess, a different man to the one he had always known himself to be. The question was: did he want to take the leap into that way of being himself? Would Tess have him, once she became stronger, as he believed was happening, even if this was because of him? Could he give up being a father to his children, which had given his life any meaning it might have had until now? Perhaps on this point he could come to an arrangement, like Tess had with her son, but Connie was a proud woman in spite of everything and he felt sure she would use the children as a stick to punish him.
And yet, what did he know of Tess? Only what he knew through the tall tales she had told, and the tall tales he had told her. How strange.
The rain had cleared without him noticing, and now a band of blue sky lay between the rooftops and the lightened cloud. Connie came, laden with shopping, and proceeded to put it away. Somehow, she had avoided getting wet, though she had no umbrella.
`You realize the children get their holidays tomorrow,’ she said.
`Thanks for reminding me.’
`Have you spoken with your mother about them going down?’
`No, not yet.’ His heart sank. He would be expected to go too, along with Connie, to be a family, as a dry run before settling there.
`Tell her I’ll go down later in the month,’ Connie said, as if she had steeled herself.
`I got a letter from Mammy this morning. Daddy isn’t well, so I thought maybe I’d go up for a few weeks.’ `What happened him?’
`Took a weak turn. I don’t suppose it’s serious but you never know.’
`No. I’ll ring Mother today, then.’
Connie went into the kitchen. So the die was cast and he was trapped. The possibility of an alternative life was falling away. Was he relieved? Yes, a part of him was, that lead in his bones and blood; but mostly he felt defeat, as if the events of his life had conspired against him for so long that he needed an anger and energy he could not find to throw them off. Yet, he found that it hurt him, and in that were the seeds of an anger that might one day liberate him. It was now very clammy and he needed to get out in the open.
`I’m going to take a walk as far as the GPO to ring, alright?’ he called.
`The GPO?’ Connie called back.
`Well, it looks like clearing. Anyway, I need some air.’
He walked by way of the cobblestones of Smithfield Market. Peace at last. Dressed in tee-shirt, jeans and runners, he exulted in his freedom in the hot sunshine that had broken through, so that for a time he found it easy to keep his predicament at bay. Halfway down, he saw that a broken mains near Queen Street had become a fountain, unnoticed, it seemed, by anyone except himself. He walked up to it, enchanted by the sparkling drops of water caught by the sun, as if each drop was a teeming world intensely alive for a moment before falling back into the gushing universe. Enjoying the cool air and the boyish novelty, he was tempted to walk through it; but no, he thought, let it be what it is. He walked away, but then he heard a Volkswagen van slowing, and he turned to see the driver and his woman companion grinning as they rolled up the windows and drove very slowly over the fountain. Now it was something else, but no matter, and Mungo grinned too. The van circled and this time a side of the van was simultaneously washed and cooled. They came a third time, laughing and conscious of Mungo observing them, and washed the other side of their van. They circled again, but this time they stopped, looking at Mungo and laughing. The driver nodded towards Mungo and then to the fountain, and Mungo looked from the couple to the fountain again, and on impulse he leaped to their suggestion and ran through the fountain, which almost knocked him out of his stride, and despite his run, drenched him. He turned to face the other two, grinning and breathless, and noticed that the young woman had stopped laughing, though her mouth was open, as if she was impressed or moved by what he had done. Then she decided to do the same and without hesitation got out of the van and flung herself through the fountain, stumbling as she passed through it but at the last moment staying upright. She turned in triumph to face her companion, and taken by surprise, it was a few moments before he took up her unspoken challenge and imitated her with a whoop. He jumped through it with such vigour that he ran on, and in those few seconds the woman turned and looked straight into Mungo’s eyes.
He saw at a glance that her breasts showed through her drenched shirt, and that she in her turn looked frankly at how his clothes clung to his body. But then the moment was gone and in the instant her companion turned, she turned to him. His lips twisted into a leer, and then he advanced towards her, and though her back was turned to Mungo he could see her shoulders rising and falling, and she spread her feet slightly, as if to brace herself- her jeans, Mungo noticed, clinging to her; and when her companion reached her, they kissed passionately.
Mungo turned away and hurried, walking as fast as he could, until he reached the fruit and vegetable markets where, although it was mid-afternoon, the fork lifts were still busy. Along Mary’s Lane, past the aroma of The Pastry Bakery, it suddenly came to him: there were obligations he had to fulfill; there was a space to be cleared, and then in turn, and then, he would be free. That’s what he wanted to say to Tess. That was her position too, with her son. They were both in the same boat, and he hurried along Capel Street to the quays, bursting to tell her.
Even as he pressed her bell, he knew she was gone to collect Arthur. His clothes were almost dry, though his runners still squelched, and he realized that he had attracted glances, but he didn’t care any more what people might think, and took off his runners and went barefoot, airing them as he walked.
In the GPO, the phone rang for a minute or so before his mother replied. He persisted because he knew she’d be about the yard somewhere, and also because the GPO was a long way to walk to without an answer. He felt neutral, somehow beyond what was inevitably unfolding.
`The children are off school now. We were thinking of going down at the weekend.’
`You could have told me.’
`And what about you?’
`I’ll put them on the train-’
`What? and leave me-’
`I’m rising you. I’ll be with them.’
`You never grew up, Mungo, you know that.’ He knew it well, she’d been telling him for twenty years.
`And what about Connie?’
‘Connie’s father’s not well. She’ll be down in a few weeks – we’re staying a few weeks, if that’s all right.’ There was a brief silence. Mungo knew that it was a moment of something more than satisfaction for her, which now that the die was cast he felt generous enough to concede.
`What do you mean – a few weeks? You’ll stay for the children’s holidays at least.’ It was both plea and command.
`Tell Connie she’ll have the run of the house.’
It had cost her a lot to say that, but she was nothing if not a realist.
`Fine, I’ll tell her that.’
`Friday evening. There’s a few things to be seen to.’
Like, he thought, his eyes closed – like seeing Tess for maybe the last time.
Somehow he got through the rest of the day, caught up in the children’s excitement and the practical details of organizing the holiday. It took him a long time to sleep. There was so much to do, according to Connie’s schedule, that he would have no chance to see Tess. He would have to write to her, and he only vaguely knew her address. In fact there was no getting around it: he knew where she lived, but he had no idea of her house number. He didn’t care about himself any more, only for Tess, who he had no choice but to abandon, when, he remembered with longing, her story was only half told. His too, but he would have to find a way for her to tell hers; he owed her that. And his story? It was stalled somewhere on the rail tracks between Zaragoza and Barcelona. Soon he would see the Mediterranean again and they would arrive in – what was the name of the station? Perhaps he could find it in the library in Gorey, but the name was only a detail, and he wouldn’t know what it was, never mind being able to tell it, without her in front of him, listening to every detail, making sure it was true. His lips opened to tenderly kiss her ghost.
`You look wrecked,’ Connie said at the breakfast table, after the children had bounced away. Already they were arguing in the yard.
`Didn’t sleep very well.’ He looked at her directly. `I’m not looking forward to this.’
`To Wexford? Well,’ she said rising to clear the dishes, `neither am L’ She paused for effect. `But your mother has made the effort and so should we.’
He smiled. `You’ve really got your sights on the farm, haven’t you?’
`Haven’t you?’ She hadn’t taken offence. They were very matter-of-fact.
`No. I don’t want it at all. If my mother died in the morning – and she’ll live for the next forty years, by the way – or if she signed it over to us, my family would have their hand out for their share, and who would blame them? And the value of land on paper is always more than it’s likely to produce in a lifetime.’
`We can sell this house, you know. We don’t lack capital.’
`Capital?’ He stared at her as she cleared the table, realizing that she was a business woman who would come to life if she got half a chance. Whereas he was a dreamer who would never do anything, his only value to her being as a means to an end, and an indulgent if wayward father to her children. He could see she was animated by her long-term scheme. No doubt she was seething with ideas. No doubt she could make the farm pay its way, and debts would be cleared, treated as a challenge. Of course he knew the basics, even if he had tried to forget.
She would use his knowledge until she was proficient herself. The children and their inheritance: that was the justification. He could only admire her.
`Here,’ she said. `Check this list and make sure I’ve thought of everything.’
`Wellingtons,’ he said, glancing through it.
`Wellingtons. I’m okay, there’s boots down there for me, but the children need wellingtons.’
`Well now, aren’t you great?’ she said, seeing how pleased he was.
`There’s been a lot of rain of late. They’ll be up to their shins in muck.’ He was grinning now.
`How would I cope without you,’ she said, taking money from her purse and handing it to him. `Sure you’re great altogether.’
`It’s what marriage is all about.’
`Don’t start me.’ She scribbled a note. `Here, you can never remember what size they take. And don’t be all day. I need some help.’
With one bound he was free. The phrase came back to him as he closed the door behind him. From some comic he had read as a child, no doubt, like Dash it, old chap! and Achtung! and Schweinhund! and Himmel! and For he’s a jolly good fellow! and Tallyho! He could have used them all at various moments over the last twenty-four hours.
The fountain in Smithfield had been stemmed. He avoided the markets by opting for Chancery Street and cutting down by Ormond Square onto the quays. Small children were play-ing on the swings and slides in Ormond Square, their play-ground bordered by cherry trees whose blossoms had long since blown over the surrounding houses in the spring winds. The children’s voices filled the square. Mothers sat with babies in prams, chatting, sunning themselves.
For once, Mungo welcomed the heavy traffic on the quays. By the following day he would miss it, but for now his only prayer was that Tess would be in. It was still early, she might not even be up. He rang the bell. Forty-two. That was her number. Forty-two, forty-two. He rang again. Forty-two.
She opened the door in a tee-shirt and skirt, obviously just out of bed, but she smiled and gave him her cheek to kiss.
`You’re lucky,’ she said. `I wasn’t going to answer but I looked out the window and saw you.’
`Thanks,’ he said quietly.
`You look very subdued. Are you okay?’
`Let’s go up.’
She looked at him but said nothing and led him upstairs. He could see she was preparing herself for the worst, and he wondered what in fact he would tell her. For the first time he noticed hair on her legs, and once more, maybe for the last time, he drank in the curves of her body through her light clothing. She seemed so vulnerable, balanced between youth and the attrition of age, and he wanted to say something stupid like, `I’ll love you anyway, even if you lose your figure.’
`Please.’ He closed the door behind him as she disappeared into the kitchen, grateful, he supposed, for the respite in which she could steel herself and save her dignity, if nothing else.
They drank in silence, each looking at the other, desire hemmed in by caution.
`You don’t want to see me any more, do you?’
The question hung in the air.
`I won’t be able to see you for a few weeks. That’s why I came yesterday, and this morning, to tell you. And even then, if you still want to see me, there will be intervals of weeks.’
That was it. He had said what he had to say, in more or less the way he wanted to say it. By some magic her presence lent him a fluency, he who in other company rarely spoke more than a few words at a time.
`May I ask why?’ There was no recrimination or drama, only a hint of loss. His estimation of her went up another notch; but now that he had to answer her inevitable question, he feared that he would descend in hers.
`I’ve let myself … be persuaded by two women, my mother and my wife, that as I’m not gainfully employed here, I should help out on the farm in Wexford, which I am led to expect will be passed on to me. My children love it there … and their grandmother adores them … and so I tell myself I’m doing it for them.’
`You don’t love it there.’
Their eyes met and he reached out and lightly touched her cheek. She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek against his hand, and it seemed to him that she was taking the last deli-cate ounce of their time together, when she could have done otherwise without blame.
`The things we do for our children,’ she whispered. `Our one constant love.’
His hand moved across her face, and she dragged her lips against his fingers, then pushed back her head, exposing her neck to his kisses. He was powerless to hurry, even if he had wanted to, but he didn’t care about the clock. This was their time together, which lapsed under its own rules.
After they had made love, they lay together for some time. Then she sniffed.
`We stink. You better wash if you’re going back to your wife, not to mention your mother.’
He laughed, but it was a pained laugh.
`What time is it?’
She leaned across him to check the clock.
`Twenty past one. I’ll have to go soon. I’ve to collect Arthur from Brian’s parents. Shunt him over to my parents. They all want a piece of him. Then he’ll be with me for the summer.’
`Maybe we could go down to Wexford!’ He lifted himself onto his elbow, suddenly alert.
`Silly! I can’t afford a holiday in Wexford or anywhere else.’
`Oh. What a pity.’
`Come on, get up.’
`Yeah. Suppose we better.’
She didn’t move and he felt her watch him as he dressed and wondered if she took pleasure from it, or if she merely saw that he too had lost his youthful sleekness. It embarrassed him a little to be observed like this, but he wasn’t slow to do the same to her. Fair enough. He had his trousers on, and he pulled his shirt over his head. There was nothing further to see, or so he thought.
`I can’t say whether I’ll be here when you come back, Mungo.’ He turned. `There’s no knowing what might happen between now and then.’
She turned away to dress, and certain this was the last time he would see her like this, he stared at her, trying to burn the details of her body into his memory.
`You’ve given me back my appetite for sex,’ she said, still turned away. `I don’t think I’d be able to last without it now.’
He didn’t reply. How could she say a thing like that, when she was still hot from his body? She was still dressing, slowly, her back turned to him, tense and silent. He was shaking, unable to handle this. Then the anger came and he made to leave, not caring if he ever saw her again. Furious, he turned at the door to say what he thought of her – but her back was still turned to him. So be it. He left, leaving the doors open behind him, slamming the front door closed.
He bought the wellingtons in Henry Street without any hesitation and strode home, throwing them on the table.
`Oh you’re back!’ Connie called from upstairs, her voice laden with sarcasm.
`Look,’ he shouted up the stairs. `I’ve got the wellingtons and I’m going to fucking Wexford. Is there anything else I can do for you, like drowning myself or something like that?’
He fumed, waiting for the retort which didn’t come. Ethna came in from the street and he glared at her, but she was oblivious and danced up to him.
`Hallo Daddy,’ she sang, and he relented.
`Hello pet,’ he said, holding her. Content, she danced away again.
`There’s still some hot water for a shower if you want one,’ Connie called. He caught her conciliatory tone and assented, remembering, as that bitch had put it, that he stank. Connie was standing at the door of the children’s bedroom, a bundle of Ethna’s pants in her hand.
`What’s got into you?’ she asked quietly.
`I’m going to Wexford,’ he said with perfect truth, `but I don’t have to like it, do I?’ and he closed the bathroom door for a respite. As he washed his hair, the water ran cold.
On the train, the children had settled by Bray. Once again, he had made sure they looked up from their comics to see the curve of Killiney Bay as the train slowed on the single track beneath the overhanging rock at the edge of the cliff. Below, there were families dotted about the beach, a few swimmers by the shore, a few small boats easing their way through the tranquil water. Again, Aidan and Ethna were silent while the view lasted, then returned to their comics without comment. Mungo wondered if it affected them at all.
It affected him. It calmed him, and he saw that he had been foolish. If he was deserting her, which he was, then she had every right to feel like that, to say it, to wound him with it, even. He’d write to her from Gorey. That was all he could do now. That the loss was not inevitable, that it was his choice in the end, made it very painful.
`Did we bring paper and envelopes to write to Mammy?’ he asked Aidan.
`I have them in my bag.’
`Did we remember stamps?’
Aidan made a face.
`Never mind, we’ll stop off in Gorey and get some.’
Mungo, he thought, necessity is making you devious.
Thinking back over the day, he realized that his anger had surprised Connie. It was the first time he had shown anger since Aidan’s accident and it had stopped her in her tracks. She had even kissed him good-bye at the station, for Christ’s sake – to the amused approval of the children – and had deferred to him all afternoon. Could it be that she approved? He thought about that for a moment and dismissed it. She was humouring him, afraid he might upset the apple-cart.
They were now below Greystones, travelling at speed between the long stretch of narrow beach to the east, and the moorland and mountains to the west. The anger, the assertion had felt good, had given him back a feeling of his strength, of his right to say what he needed and what was detrimental to those needs. He would say it – he would make it plain, and if Connie really wanted that Godforsaken land, she would have to meet him halfway or lose everything. By Arklow, he was looking forward to the summer. Perhaps it would be a season of discovery.
In Gorey, he took the wheel.
`But I’m not insured,’ his mother protested.
`Well, we’ll have to get insured.’ And he drove to the post office.
‘Why are we stopping?’ she demanded.
`Because we need stamps to write to Mammy, don’t we children?’
`Yes,’ they chorused.
`But I have stamps at home!’
`Oh we can’t sponge off Granny! We have to get our own, don’t we?’ This time only Ethna agreed. Aidan was looking at his grandmother, who was looking at Mungo as if she sensed he was crazy.
`Can I come? I want to come!’ Ethna shouted.
`No no, stay there with Granny. I won’t be a minute.’
He bought a dozen stamps and a mail letter in the post office.
`Dear Tess, I acted like a small boy, as you will have noticed. Naturally you’ve a right to look somewhere else – why wouldn’t you. If you’re still around, I would be very glad to see you the next time I’m in Dublin. I want to hear the rest of your story and I’d like you to hear mine – we can’t finish until that happens can we? I miss you. Mungo.’
`There you are,’ he said, turning to the children as he sat into the car. `Three stamps for you, Ethna, and three for you, Aidan – that should be enough, shouldn’t it?’
Mrs Kavanagh fretted about the insurance and his bad driving until they reached home. Bowing to the inevitable, she arranged the insurance the following day.
They settled into a routine, and Mungo revelled in clearing the backlog of work. In the evenings he walked to neighbours’ houses to renew old acquaintances. Some of them called during the day. He ventured farther afield in the car, bringing his mother if she let herself be persuaded, but always taking the children so they would know the haunts of his own child-hood and youth. To his gratification, they loved this. At night he was so tired he fell asleep immediately, knowing he was leaving no space to think.
His mother checked everything he did, but it didn’t bother him. He knew she wasn’t going to change now. How Connie would take it was another matter. Yet as he watched her, unknown to her, checking on him, he saw her vitality was ebbing, and for a stomach-turning instant he imagined a shadow walking beside her; that her energy was flowing, little by little, into this shadow. It was the first time he realized she was mortal, yet she was still vigorous enough to drive herself to Mass every morning.
The postman came with letters for the children from Connie. In Aidan’s there was a note for Mungo. Her father was recovering well, and she would be down soon, would ring from Dublin. Love, Connie.
She came few days later, and to his surprise and admiration, she settled well. His mother too, seemed to have thought matters out, and their relationship worked from the beginning, despite the antagonism which had not always been disguised since Mungo had introduced them. Both women had been wary even before that, he remembered.
Now, it seemed, they were in league against him. He was amused, until he overheard them talking about him one morning, when his mother thought he had gone to check the sheep. They were washing and drying the dishes.
`You like it here, don’t you Connie?’
`Aye, it’s great, Granny. The children adore it.’
`Well, the city is no place to rear children.’
`No, it isn’t really …
‘You know I’ve left the place to Mungo in my will.’
`No … no, I didn’t know that …’
`Well I have. And if ye were to come, to live – not just a holiday – to live, then I’d sign it over, on the spot.’
`God … that’s very good of you.’
`Well Connie, I’m getting old. Maybe I am old. Anyhow, I can’t really manage any more, and it’s lovely around here. You’d have the run of the place, Connie, there’s no question about that. The house is big enough, God knows, and I could have a little flat to myself. So what do you think?’
`It sounds wonderful. It really does.’
`Well would you talk to that son of mine. Sometimes I think he’s away in the clouds. Anyhow, he doesn’t listen to his mother.’
‘Ach, he loves it here as much as the rest of us, Granny. He just likes to be coaxed into doing what he wants. Sure all men are the same.’
`You’ll see to it then?’
`Don’t worry. I’ll talk to him.’
`It’d be a great weight off my mind, I can tell you.’
Mungo left to count the sheep, bringing the dog who, without a word from him, rounded them up into a corner. He couldn’t remember if it was easier to count them like this, bunched together, or scattered, but he counted them three times and came to the same tally. The air was heavy and it hurt his eyes to look at the clouds, so laden with rain that they almost glowed. Halfway up the hill it came, and he took shelter under the big oak in the middle of the field. Within seconds the rain covered the hills and valleys in great squalls which fascinated him. The stream would flood; a good time for fishing.
So all men were the same? Somehow he didn’t think so. There was a time when he had thought all women were the same. Now he knew it wasn’t true. Tess was very different to Connie, and although they shared traits, Connie was different to his mother. He could say with a degree of certainty that he was different from the man he had been, and that neither Connie nor his mother had noticed, or if they had, they had put it down to male pride. Pride had nothing to do with it. For one thing, the man they thought he was did not follow strange women. He laughed out loud, relishing the freedom to do so, surrounded by rain and the large field.
The rain lasted several days, and while the children played in the outhouses and the hay barn, they were about the house a lot and there was tension between the women, which Ethna finally broke by cutting her hand. Aidan looked on guiltily while Connie tried to stem the blood and Ethna screamed, but Mungo said nothing. The cut required two stitches and Ethna settled into being the focus of attention, her mother and grandmother outdoing each other to spoil her. When the weather cleared, Mungo brought Aidan to see the stream at the bottom of the big grass field, telling him on the way that the big oak, alone on a mound in the centre, was a fairy tree. All such trees were fairy trees, he said. Aidan was cynical, laughing at his father. He was too old to believe in fairy tales. Mungo tried to tell him that this was a different matter; this was a part of the land he was standing on, and which, perhaps, he would one day own. But Aidan wasn’t fooled, leaving Mungo unaccountably sad. He cheered again when Aidan responded to stories about how Mungo and his brothers and sisters had played in and fished the clear stream; and they crossed the footstick, though the stream was only a few inches deep now that the flood had subsided, and explored the scrub where Mungo had set snares. This fascinated his son: the tracks, the burrows, the droppings, they were all still there, as Mungo remembered them.
Later, they rolled over the heavy bales of hay to air them. Mungo explained that when he was a boy, hay was cut with a mower in rows, its scent filling the air like perfume; then as it browned in the sun it was turned with either a hay fork or machine, before being gathered into cocks. Now most farmers seemed to favour silage; at least here, the hay was still made, in whatever way. There was much he had to tell the children. There was even more he had to remember and learn.
In Gorey, he bought a card which showed scenes from the town.
`Dear Tess, my train has broken down outside Barcelona, stuck there until I see you, which I hope will be soon. I miss you. Mungo.’
He had to go to Dublin soon. There was at least one excuse: to check the house. Maybe Connie would want to hand it over to an estate agent. He didn’t want that to happen. Despite the disasters and unhappiness, he loved that house. It was his base and springboard. His children were conceived there, and there had been happy times, which seemed now to outweigh the unhappy ones. He supposed that for Connie, Aidan’s accident was synonymous with it.
But the days passed, and neither broached the subject.
The following Saturday morning he was checking the sheep when he heard Aidan shouting, panic-stricken, and running towards him as fast as he could. Granny had fainted, he was shouting, Mammy said he was to come quick! Mungo ran up the hill, and Aidan turned and ran ahead.
His mother was dead. She had collapsed at the foot of the stairs and Connie had done all she knew to revive her, a doctor and a priest were on their way; but she was dead. Mungo stared at her, unable to believe it. The children were crying, afraid, knowing something beyond their ken had happened.
`Here, help me get her up to the bed.’ Connie said.
Then she remembered the children.
`Hush,’ she whispered, hugging them to her. `Hush, hush, it’s alright.’ They quietened. `Go on outside for a wee while.’ They obeyed, unsure, looking over their shoulders, and with difficulty the two adults carried the body upstairs and laid it on the bed. As Mungo looked on, Connie got some towels from the hotpress and placed them underneath.
`Close her mouth,’ she whispered. He pressed the pale chin upwards, and, almost as an afterthought, closed her eyes.
`Is she really dead?’
He stood back to look at her in a way he had never looked at her in life, and now that she was gone, and although he could not articulate a single word, his head flooded with what he had always wanted to say, but could not. So few meaningful words had ever passed between them, and now it was too late.
`She looks very dignified, doesn’t she?’
`As she always did,’ Connie said, and to his astonishment, he saw that she was silently crying.
The priest came first, and anointed her. Then the doctor, who officially pronounced her dead. So it was real after all. Mungo was dazed, and yet somehow he got through the motions, being polite, getting what was necessary done, not least a list, beginning with the undertaker, of who to contact.
When the doctor had gone, they called the children in again. There were smudges around their eyes, and Connie told them that their granny had gone to heaven.
After a pause, Aidan said: `You mean she’s dead.’
We mean both,’ Connie said. `Whichever way you understand.’
`She’s dead,’ Aidan said to Ethna, who nodded, wide-eyed, in agreement.
There were so many things to do. Somehow, over the next few days, they were all seen to, and arrangements fell into place. He marvelled at how efficient Connie was, and wondered how he would have coped without her.
His siblings were like strangers, uncomfortable in their childhood home. Connie ran everything, falling into the role of woman of the house. Mungo saw at once that it was noticed and resented, though nothing was said.
It was a big funeral. The family stood in the pews at the front and waited while the congregation filed up to shake their hands, and murmur `I’m sorry for your trouble’ like a healing mantra. It gave Mungo strength. People knew that he was the son who had come home to help out his mother, and there was a silent assumption that he would take over the farm and be their neighbour; so they paused that fraction longer with him, pressed his hand tighter. That mute language of the mul-titude had singled him out, and after a short time there was no mistaking it. As he realized what was happening, Mungo became acutely embarrassed. The neighbours had taken for granted what his family did not know for certain, and neither did he, if it came to it.
After the burial the house was full of family, and neighbours, and faces that Mungo barely knew. Connie, with the help of neighbours and Mungo’s sisters and sisters-in-law, saw that everyone was fed. The men of the family looked after the drinks. Division of labour. There was a great deal of laughter. It was as if nothing had happened, apart from a gathering of old friends, swapping familiar phrases. Something a Yankee brother said stuck in his mind: he knew a guy who blew his nose in one hundred dollar bills.
Knowing what lay ahead, Mungo was nervous as the last neighbours left. He had been too busy to drink more than a cup of tea all day, but now he poured himself a large whiskey and drank half it back, neat. The family sat into a long table and devoured ham and chicken sandwiches and tea. It was Jim who broached the subject on everyone’s mind.
`It looks like you’re getting the place, Mungo.’ Everyone stopped talking and looked at Mungo.
`I don’t know, Jim. No one’ll know till we see the will.’
From the corner of his eye he saw Connie stare at him.
`And that won’t be read for a while. In the meantime, Mother has only been in her grave a few hours.’ He said this on an unexpected wave of grief, and everyone fell silent for a while, eyes lowered. Ethna came around the table, crying.
`I want my Granny,’ she implored Mungo, who held her close. Aidan, Mungo saw, was pale and quiet.
`Poor Mammy,’ Cathleen sobbed. There was silence again, until Mary spoke.
`You’re the one who lives here, Mungo, so it’s only right that you get the place. But we all have families too,’ she added. The implication was not lost on anyone.
`Any idea how much the place is worth?’ Jim asked.
`I haven’t a clue, Jim. But I’ll let ye all know as soon as I know myself.’
What had to be said was now said, and everyone relaxed, breaking into small groups of conversation.
They were staying in bed-and-breakfasts around the area and there was a prolonged series of good-byes the next day. Mungo sat into his evening meal with relief. Both of them had fallen into an exhausted sleep the night before, but now that they had the house to themselves Connie brought up her preoccupation.
`We will get the place, won’t we?’
`Ah … yeah.’
`We have to know soon,’ she said, her voice rising, `the children’ll be going back to school.’
`Relax, relax, who else would she leave it to? She schemed for years to get us down here. And we were here,’ he said, as another wave of grief surprised him. `She died at peace. What more could any of us ask?’
`You’re right,’ she said, assured.
`Listen, I should go to Dublin soon, to check on the house.’
`Oh yes.’ She paused. `You know, I’d almost forgotten the house. It seems like years since we were there.’
`Yeah. A lot has happened.’
`You should put it up for sale while you’re there.’
`For sale?’ His heart went cold.
`Why not? We can’t eat bricks and mortar.’
`Not till after the will is read, anyway,’ he countered, kicking to touch. `I’m going to count the sheep – I didn’t get a chance this morning.’
He counted the sheep which were down by the river, then made his way back up the hill and sat under the oak. It was good there was some grit of uncertainty surrounding the will. He grinned, enjoying his malice. When you want something badly, you shouldn’t get it too easily – otherwise you get arrogant. Slowly, slowly. Then he was serious again, remembering his own uncertainties about what he wanted so badly. At least he was going to Dublin. If he could send her a note the following morning from Gorey, it would arrive the day after, and she would have two days’ notice. He’d ask to meet her in the evening, that way there was a possibility he could stay with her overnight … if she would have him. The evening light took on a warm, amber glow. Sunset, he thought idly, without turning.
He would be in debt for many years, something Connie didn’t seem to appreciate. If he had any sense he would sell the place and divide the proceeds amongst his family, and for a moment it was the solution; but the real solution, he knew, was to stick it out until Aidan and Ethna had grown, and then leave and strike out on his own to whatever destiny, even if, as he supposed, there would be no Tess any more.
Tess. Dear Tess. She would never fit in here like Connie did, so naturally. She was alien to all he was supposed to be, to all he had been brought up to be; but in a way that was marvellous, through her he had discovered that he was someone else, that something hitherto unknown to him which he couldn’t describe which resonated with something in her. The only word he could think of to describe it was abandon: the desire to be lost, cut off. And it came to him again, this time more clearly: he would fulfill his obligations, and then set out on that adventure in which he would lose himself, cut free from the language and baggage of the past. And then? Who could tell, and he felt a joy that he could not bear without jumping to his feet and laughing. He strode back up the hill, vaguely aware of the strangeness of the light and then on impulse he turned, his mouth falling open.
The oak was ablaze with light. If he blinked, he could imagine it in flames, as he had once seen, he knew not where, a lone tree on fire. Now he could see it without blinking. He dared not blink; until, all too soon, the sun had gone down.