But now, as England became a faraway island, her shores finally obliterated by the sea, and the gulls following the ship screeched out their ancient street cries calling for bread, or fish, or scraps, or just a free journey to Ireland, and other passengers went below in search of a warming drink, Walter remained on deck, thinking.
Being left by Walter had a shocking effect on Judy. Suddenly, with Kim and Hubert away, she was quite alone. At first it seemed to her that being alone at Owl Cottage was just like the war, and then she realised it was not at all like the war. During the war she had been out most of the time driving about in the dark, attending accidents, taking town children to place them in country homes, driving everywhere and anywhere where she might be needed: hospitals, bombed-out cinemas, burning houses. She had not been alone at Owl Cottage either, for after Walter went missing Loopy and Dauncy had come to live with her there, and she had loved having them, setting up a jolly little household who all needed each other, cared for each other, but never once seemed to tread on each other’s toes, such was the urge for survival. So being alone at the cottage now was not at all the same as the war. Finally she realised that she must now know what it was to be lonely. It was to be without any particular purpose. If she had a purpose she would be busy, but she was, at that moment in her life, without direction and she hated it, feeling useless and unwanted.
Walter reached Waterford easily in time for lunch, eating a lonely meal in a small white-painted hotel while the rain still bucketed down in torrents outside, before heading southwest for Cork where he planned to stay the night before setting out on the last leg of his journey. He had booked into the Majestic where he drank and dined alone, glad of his solitude and happy to retire early to his bed where to his surprise he found that for the first time in months he fell asleep immediately.
Much refreshed after a splendid cooked breakfast, and a stroll down the main street of a city whose charms he found growing on him by the minute, he threw his bags into the boot of his car and in greatly improved weather set his course for Loughnalaire, which he had discovered to be along the coastline between Skibbereen and a landfall known as Mizen Head, just south of the famous Bantry Bay. The rain had stopped altogether overnight, leaving the late November skies a pale blue-grey with cloud higher than was normal at this time of year. By the time he had crossed the Bandon a weak sun was shining, but even had it not been Walter realised that he was already in love with this mysterious country of rocks and sky, of water and lakes, and few people.
He wondered what he might find on the coastline along which he was now driving, his speed dropping ever lower as he realised the wonder of the landscape he was passing through.
Below him on the left the Atlantic, still swelled by the recent gales, was landing dramatically before splintering on granite rocks, while to the right of him and ahead rolled unbroken and un-spoilt miles of rough green pasture, dotted with tiny cottages, some whitewashed and still inhabited, to judge from the curls of peat smoke rising from their chimneys, others long abandoned and derelict, their thatches either collapsed or removed, the windows just dark stone apertures, their doorways open and empty, inviting only listless abandonment.
On distant hills men were cutting peat by shovel and hand, while donkeys in the traces of carts piled high with fuel waited patiently to make their next journey. Other donkeys roamed free, some with floppy-eared heads hanging over loose lines of broken barbed wire watching Walter driving slowly by, others standing in small groups on the edges of the bogs, their tails swishing rhythmically and their shaggy coats twitching spasmodically as some hidden scrounger took yet another bite of their undernourished flesh. A black collie chased his car for a good half-mile, running alongside the driver’s door and barking at Walter, while casting him a doleful glance every time Walter looked his way. Finally he stopped and fed the scrawny animal some biscuits he had in a tin on the back seat and the last four squares of a bar of milk chocolate that the half-starved dog swallowed seemingly without even chewing. As a consequence he accompanied Walter for the next half-mile, until, worried that he might unwittingly be abducting some farmer’s working dog, Walter accelerated away, leaving the dog behind, watching its image in his driving mirror until it was a speck, and finally vanished completely.
It was then he got lost, and there was no one around to give him directions. There were few signposts, and those he had passed seemed in retrospect to have directly contradicted each other. The first one had signposted Loughnalaire to lie northwards of his position, then the very next sent him straight back on his tracks. Doubling back he lost his bearings and found another signpost that showed Mount Glen lay due west, although the way the finger was pointing seemed to indicate the traveller must drive over hill and bog since beyond the sign there was no road. With a sigh, Walter stopped yet again, relit his pipe and made another study of his map which seemed on this reading to bear no resemblance whatsoever to the countryside in which he was parked. He got out of the old Riley and stood surveying the great finger of land on which he had stopped, the Atlantic Ocean breaking in huge white rollers both sides of him, wondering how on earth the signpost behind him could indicate that Loughnalaire now lay out to sea.
Hearing a sound from down the road Walter turned and saw a tall gaunt man slowly driving a tiny cow slowly along the road, an animal whose rump every now and then the driver gave a swish with what looked like a bundle of ferns. The small cow appeared to take no notice whatsoever of its chastisement, stopping where it so wished to chew a bit of the scenery, while its driver swished without interest at its quarters in between puffs at the white clay pipe he was smoking.
‘I’m looking for Loughnalaire!’ Walter called to the newcomer, who paid him scant heed. ‘I said I’m looking for Loughnalaire!’
‘Then look away!’ the man called back. ‘Don’t let me be a-stoppin’ you!’
‘No,’ Walter explained, going over to the man. ‘No, what I mean is I can’t find Loughnalaire.’
‘Sure you wouldn’t, would you? Not if ye’re lookin’ for her.’
‘Her?’ Walter wondered. ‘Loughnalaire is a place.’
‘Do ye think that is somethin’ I’m not knowin’? Sure I know Loughnalaire ’tis a place, as I knows ye can’t be findin’ her, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Then perhaps you could help find it?’
‘Why? When I knows where she is?’
‘Help me find it?’
The man stared at him thoughtfully over his clay pipe, which he puffed strongly and deeply until his head was swathed in thick blue smoke.
‘And sure what would I do with Veronica here while we went lookin’? She’s the very divil of a walker.’
‘There’s no need for you to accompany me. All you have to do is point out where Loughnalaire is,’ Walter suggested.
‘How can I do that so? When I cannot see her from here?’
‘Perhaps you could point me in the general direction.’
‘You’re in the general direction, sir. Loughnalaire is, as ye say, situate here generally speaking, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Fine. Thank you,’ Walter replied. ‘But I wonder where exactly.’
‘So ye do, so ye do. For if ye did not, ye would not be askin’, now would you?’
‘Absolutely.’ Walter stopped and drew a patient breath. ‘So if you could just perhaps be kind enough to tell me where she lies specifically. . .’
‘Specifically is it?’ The man tilted his cap to scratch the side of his head with the stem of his pipe. ‘I can’t do specifically. I haven’t done specifics since when I was at the school, do ye see. Specifically ye want. Well now, let me see. Let me see.’
The man turned his back on Walter and stared back down the road. Then he turned half right and stared that way, before turning right round to stare the other. Finally he turned back to Walter and looked beyond him over his head.
‘Ye’ve tried most of these ways, I’ll be thinkin’, so you would, wouldn’t you?’
/> ‘You’d be right, too,’ Walter assured him.
‘Then the best thing ye can do is try this way so, wouldn’t you say? Turn the car around, and then to the left. Go up the hill foreninst ye, then go down the other side. Turn the car to the left of ye, even though the sign says to the right and to the left No Through Road. Go down the No Through Road till ye can go no further then turn the car about and go to the right.’
‘Why turn the car about?’ Walter wondered. ‘Couldn’t I just go down the No Through Road and simply turn left?’
‘There’s a reason, but now it’s gone for ye have me quite lost again. Turn the car around, and then to the left,’ he began again, in a kind of chant this time, as if it was something he had learned by rote. ‘Go up the hill foreninst ye, then go down the other side. Turn the car to the left of ye, even though the sign says to the right and to the left No Through Road. Go down the No Through Road till ye can go no further then turn the car about and go to the right. And the reason why ye have to do that is because ye cannot just turn to the left because there’s this big rock in the way. Ye’ll see. Then ye’ll come to a man with a dog and ye’ll need to turn to the right again.’
‘A man with a dog? Why should there be a man with a dog there?’
The man looked at him and shook his head as if Walter had lost control of his senses.
‘What time do ye have, sir? Isn’t it a quarter of one hour after four? Of course it is, even my watch has that.’ The man was looking at a large pocket watch he had pulled on a great length of string from one trouser pocket. ‘So if it’s a quarter of one hour after four there’ll be a man with a dog by the turn so turn right be him and travel on till ye come to a sort of a crossroads.’ He fell silent.
‘What do I do then?’ Walter asked, anxious to prompt his guide out of his silence.
‘Whatever you please, sir. For isn’t that Loughnalaire? Loughnalaire there at the crossroads will be all around ye. Sure ye can’t miss her so.’
‘Thank you,’ Walter said, trying to memorize the instructions but unwilling to ask for a recap in case it led to further modifications. ‘Thank you very much for your help.’
‘Something tells me ye’re not from these parts,’ the man said. ‘Don’t ask me what – just something.’
Sticking his pipe back in his mouth, the man swished at his little cow who this time to Walter’s amused amazement broke into a trot and disappeared off down the road, while her keeper stood staring after her, shaking his head.
‘Isn’t that another in need of guidance? For isn’t that the road back to the market?’
* * *
Parking his car in a badly potholed area at the top of the beach that spread out before him in the gathering November dusk, Walter grabbed his overnight bag and made his way down to the large house surrounded by what looked like a small village of cottages that lay at the foot of the steps cut in the side of the cliff. There was no sign of much life as he walked up to the front door, other than a large lurcher dog fast asleep under a handwritten sign that said, DO NOT RING BELL OUT OF ORDER.
At a slight loss, Walter nevertheless knocked on the door, at which sound the dog barked, but no one came. Walter opened the door and called, but no one answered. Following this he pushed the door open further and found himself in a hall full of large pots stacked with old fishing rods, broken umbrellas and a variety of walking sticks. On a long, slender hall table were a variety of hats in which slept a variety of cats, while an enormous stag’s head hung precariously at an angle on one wall, its antlers ringed with coloured hoops, making the creature obviously the target of some rainy day game. At the end of the corridor through a half-glazed door Walter could see lights, but no figures. He called once more but still receiving no response began to make his way to what he assumed must be the kitchens. En route he passed a half-open door through which he could glimpse a large drawing room where most of the furniture seemed to be either upholstered in well-worn velvets or draped with faded multicoloured shawls. Pushing the door wide open he peered inside to see if it contained any sign of life but there was none.
Beyond the drawing room was a huge conservatory, again lit up, although again seemingly unoccupied. Beginning to think he had wandered into some sort of tragic scenario where everyone who lived in the house had been body-snatched by unknown forces, Walter eased over to the conservatory and opened the door. At once he heard definite signs of life, the unmistakable sound of extremely heavy snoring coming from the far end of the large glasshouse, which was kept at a fine heat. Looking down to the end of the room he could see a pair of very large feet clad in a pair of very large laceless boots sticking out from behind a groaning and rumbling boiler. Tiptoeing down further Walter discovered the owner of the feet, an enormous red-bearded man fast asleep in a deck chair, dressed in red flannel underwear clearly visible under a wide open tartan dressing gown whose string girdle at some point had become undone, the top half of his face covered with an open copy of The Life of Sophocles.
Unsure of what red-bearded men did when suddenly and rudely awoken from their late afternoon siesta, Walter preferred to retrace his steps to the hall and thence to the half-glazed door, on which he knocked. In spite of the blaze of light from the other side and the murmur of what sounded like conversation, there was no reply, so once again Walter entered unbidden.
This time he found a tall woman fast asleep in a huge armchair that was set by a black iron Victorian kitchen range. She had a mountain of pepper-and-salt-coloured hair that was half pinned up and half down, a long purple satin dress under a vast hand-knitted cardigan in what he would soon come to recognise as the Aran weave, two pairs of thick knitted grey fisherman’s socks over what looked like black nylon stockings and a beautiful hand-embroidered silk shawl draped round her shoulders. On her lap, equally fast asleep, sat a big black chicken.
Walter coughed politely at first, but that failed even to wake the chicken. So he coughed again and this time followed it with a solicitation.
‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Excuse me?’
The louder repeat woke the chicken who stared round at him with quick, sudden movements of its head, as if wondering who had dared to interrupt its reverie?
‘Excuse me?’ Walter said once more, hoping this time successfully to wake the sleeping woman. ‘Excuse me – are you—’
‘I am, I am, I am,’ the woman interrupted him, although to Walter it sounded more like yam yam yam. ‘And isn’t this a terrible time to be sleeping? The Romans were right now, were they not?’ She stretched out her arms and yawned expansively, but even that failed to dislodge her pet, which merely squawked. ‘Never slumber at the hour of sundown. And sure weren’t they right as per usual? Can I help you now?’
‘I’m Mr Tate. Walter Tate,’ Walter volunteered.
The woman nodded vaguely at him, pinning up some loose strands of long hair. ‘Is that right? And I’m the Widow Hackett.’
‘I thought you might be.’
‘Grand. Grand. So what can we be doin’ for you?’
‘I’m Mr Tate?’ Walter repeated, as if that was sufficient. After all, he was expected.
‘The name is ringing the bell, Mr Tate now – ah yes to be sure! Mr Tate! You’ll be Mr Tate who must be married to Mrs Tate now! You’ll be dear Mrs Tate’s husband! Whom I was forever calling Lyle, would you believe? Heaven forfend us, what can you be thinking? And here’s me asleep with old Puck-Puck – what can you be thinkin’?’
The Widow was up on her feet by now, placing her beloved hen in a dog basket by the range and picking the feathers carefully off her velvets.
‘And how is lovely Mrs Tate?’ she asked, with a flash of a green-eyed glance at Walter, who was already enchanted. ‘We have heard neither hide nor word from her since God knows when. But then mind you when you have no postman, sure you have no post.’
‘Something is telling me you didn’t get Judy’s letter.’
‘Ask me my name and on most days it’d need a push to tell yo
u, so ask after letters and you’ll get no better answer. No, no – we’ve had no letter from anyone for a while since, but then, as I said, sure we have no deliverance.’
‘You have no postman?’
‘You’ll not want to hear about that now,’ the Widow said with a frightful grimace. ‘Oh God no, you’ll not want to be hearing about a saga such as that now. For that you’d need a jug of stout and a good bowl of stew at the very least. That’s not for the cold telling. Suffice that we have no deliverer, and the good thing is sure – that means no bills. So what can I be doing for you, you sweet man? You look worn, I’ll have to say. Can I get you a drink? I’m about to start in meself, so why don’t we have a ball? A couple of balls of malt and you won’t know a frown from a smile.’
The Widow expertly took down two whiskey glasses in two fingers of one hand from the dresser behind her, tucked a bottle of Powers under her other arm, and nodded to her visitor.
‘Come along, Mr Tate – we’ll be away now into the sitting room because you’ll not want to be in here when they return.’
Walter followed on obediently, as the Widow rattled on about how everyone had taken the house bus into Bantry to catch some film or other, a work of which to judge from the rumblings and tongue-clucking going on in front of him the Widow did not approve.
‘Cleopatra indeed,’ she said, pushing the drawing room door open with one double-socked foot. ‘If that was Cleopatra then me – I’m James Bond. Any barge that she sat in sure would sink straight to the bottom of the Nile – and with all hands. Ah, and to think I used to fancy that Richard Burton – but then the eejit went and took the money. Lovely voice. Make the hair stand up on a hedgehog. Here – slainte.’
The Moon At Midnight Page 29