Creatures of the Earth

by John McGahern

  ‘Is there much?’

  ‘Not any more. They say the tourists netted the lake.’

  ‘The foreigners are blamed for everything nowadays.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Of course you wouldn’t know but you’d talk.’

  ‘The boy said you wanted to see me. Is there something you want?’

  ‘I just wanted to get a look at you,’ he said and shut the car door. I watched him back the Mercedes away from the gate and turn down to the lake, the children grave and silent in the back.

  Maggie told me Jerome Callaghan came alone a few times to the house during those months. She also said there was never truth in the rumours flying around about him and Kate. He liked Kate and wished to help her, but that was all there ever was to it. Maggie was right and wasn’t right.

  One evening Kate left the children early because the German woman was making her presence felt in the house. She was walking back towards Main Street when Callaghan’s car drew up. He wanted to take her to see his unfinished house.

  ‘It’s too dark for us to be seen, and it’s normal for the car to be driving there.’

  The night was dark. She had to imagine the woods on either side, the lake in darkness below the house, the mountains at the back. When the front light came on, she saw a small concrete mixer, a barrow and wooden planks scattered about on what could have been intended as a long lawn. A paint-splattered table stood in the centre of the large living room with some wooden chairs. All the other rooms were empty and held hollow echoes.

  ‘It came cheap on the market, another man’s misfortune, but I’ve never been able to let it go. I know they laugh: “Callaghan’s built a big cage without first finding a bird.”’

  Kate went with him from room to room, looking with curiosity at everything but without speaking. As they prepared to leave, she said, ‘It could be a fine house. A rich man’s house.’

  ‘Maybe some day,’ he said, and she was glad he did not complete the wish. Without touching or speaking, they had drawn very close, as if they were two single people setting out on a journey from which they could return together. On the outskirts of the town she asked him to stop the car so that she could walk in to the first street light alone but before she left the car she kissed him firmly on the lips. ‘I know it’s dangerous and I can promise nothing.’

  The silent, almost unbearable strain in the evenings with Harkin and the children changed without warning. He became alarmingly friendly. He must have heard some rumour about Callaghan and Kate. The German woman disappeared from the house. His voice could not have been more conciliatory when he spoke to her for the first time in months.

  ‘We want to forget everything, Kate. We’ll start all over again, as if nothing happened.’

  She could find no words. She was grateful for the noise of a passing car. ‘It’s too sudden,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘We want you to think about it anyhow. The children want that as well.’ Later he asked, ‘Have you thought about it, Kate?’

  ‘For the children I’d do anything, but I don’t see how we …’ Mercifully she was able to leave the rest unsaid.

  ‘Will you think about it? We all want to get back to square one. All the children as much as myself.’

  Harkin and the children were there every time she called that week. The friendliness increased. Her nervousness grew intense. She had to force herself to go to the house.

  ‘Will you be coming back to the house at the end of the week, Mammy?’ young Kate asked as they were playing draughts together before their bedtime. She’d been playing badly, and the girls were beating her easily.

  ‘I don’t think so, love.’

  ‘Daddy said we’d all be happy again,’ little Kate added.

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  She told Jerome Callaghan about the new pressure she had come under to return to the marriage, the way the whole weather of the house had turned.

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I can’t go back. I know everything is about to change. That is all I know.’

  ‘Do you think you should go to the house at all?’

  ‘I have no choice. I have no other way to see the children.’

  The next day Maggie came into town, and they spent a long time talking. They agreed to go together the following week to see a young solicitor Jerome Callaghan had recommended, no matter what happened. When Kate went to see the children that evening, it was Callaghan who drove Maggie out to the lake. Kate was sick at work the next day but couldn’t be persuaded to go home. In the evening Jerome Callaghan insisted on driving her to her rooms, and she allowed him to come with her into the house in full view of the busy evening street. She seemed to be past caring; but when he offered to drive her to the bungalow after they had tea together she responded fiercely. ‘You must be out of your mind.’

  ‘In that case, I’m waiting here, and if you’re not back before eleven I’m coming to look for you.’

  ‘I’ll be back before eleven,’ she said.

  As soon as she entered the house, she saw the strain in Harkin’s friendliness.

  ‘Well, have you made up your mind?’

  She was calmer now. She said it was impossible. She felt the stone-faced silence return. Only by shutting everything out and going from moment to small moment with the children was she able to get through the long evening which suddenly started to race as the time to leave drew near.

  The two girls were reserved as she kissed them goodnight. She was afraid the boy would cling to her so she lifted him high in the air. Beforehand she had been eating currants nervously from a glass jar on the sideboard and she lifted him awkwardly because the currants were still in her hand and she did not want them to scatter.

  ‘I want you to know that if you leave tonight you’ll never set foot in this house again.’

  She bowed her head. ‘I’ll have to take that risk.’ As she turned her back she heard a sharp click but did not turn to see him lift the gun. One hand was reaching for the door when she fell, the other closed tight. When it was opened, it held a fistful of small black currants.

  Jerome Callaghan sat waiting without moving in the one chair. Not until after ten did he begin to grow anxious. At half past ten he moved to the window. Several times he went to leave, then held back, but once the hand of his watch moved past eleven, he ran down the stairs and drove to Harkin’s house. A Garda car already blocked the entrance to the short road. There were other police cars in the street. The guard and Callaghan knew one another well.

  ‘There’s been a shooting. Mrs Harkin …’

  ‘Is she …?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Guard Sullivan said.

  Callaghan restrained the urge to rush to her, the futile wish to help and succour what can be helped no longer, and turned slowly back to his car. Numbly he turned the car around and found himself driving out to the lake, parking at the gate. As he got out, he disturbed wildfowl in the reeds along the shore, and they scattered, shrieking, towards the centre. There was no moon but there were clear reflections on the water. Never did life seem so mysterious and inhospitable. They might as well all be out there in the middle of the lake with the wildfowl.

  The lights were on in the house. When he knocked, Maggie came to the door. Later when the guards called at the house with word of the death, it was Callaghan who answered the knock.

  After being charged, Harkin was transferred to a mental institution for a psychiatric report as part of the preparations for his trial. He took great interest in his case and consulted regularly with his solicitor. He tried but was unable to prevent the children from going to Maggie. Other than his solicitor, the only person he asked to see was Guard McCarthy, who had fought back to back with him against the tinkers on that terrible night years before.

  McCarthy had settled in Cork and married a teacher. When Harkin’s letter arrived, he was alarmed and took it straight to his sergeant, who consulted his superiors. To McCarthy
’s dismay, he was asked to visit his old friend and to write down everything that was said during the visit in case it could be of use in the forthcoming trial. All the expenses of the visit would be paid by the State.

  On a summer’s day the two men met and were allowed through locked doors into a walled ornamental garden. They sat on a wooden bench by a small fountain. Almost playfully Harkin examined McCarthy’s ear for stitchmarks and asked, ‘Do you think Cork has much of a chance in the All-Ireland this year?’

  ‘Not much,’ McCarthy answered. A silence followed that seemed to take a great age. The visit could not end quickly enough for him.

  ‘What makes you say that?’ Harkin eventually asked.

  ‘The team is uneven. They’re short of at least two forwards.’

  ‘I’d hate to see Dublin winning it again.’

  ‘They have the population,’ McCarthy said. ‘They have the pick.’

  There was another long silence until Harkin asked, ‘How do you think my case will go?’

  In the heart-stopping pause that followed, McCarthy could hear the water splashing from the fountain, the birds singing. He said he had no earthly clue. The silence returned, but nothing came to break it. ‘Was there anything in particular you wanted to see me about, Michael?’ he ventured cautiously.

  ‘No. Nothing. I just wanted to get a look at you again after all these years,’ and he placed his hand on the guard’s shoulder as they both rose.

  McCarthy wrote down everything that Harkin said, but it was never used as evidence. That same evening Harkin swallowed an array of tablets that he had managed to conceal, and before he slipped into unconsciousness he reached beneath the scar on his chest to tear out the mechanism that regulated his heartbeat.

  A silence came down around all that happened. Nobody complained about the normal quiet. Bird cries were sweet. The wing-beat of the swan crossing the house gave strength. The long light of day crossing the lake steeped us in privilege and mystery and infinite reflections that nobody wanted to break or question.

  Gradually the sense of quiet weakened. The fact that nothing much was happening ceased to comfort. A craving for change began again. The silence around the murder was broken. All sorts of blame was apportioned as we noticed each year that passed across the face of the lake, quickening and gathering speed before swinging round again, until crowds of years seemed suddenly in the air above the lake, all gathering for flight.

  With the years, Maggie and I had drawn closer. Whenever I had to go into the town I nearly always called at her house to see if she wanted to come and I often took the children to the train or met them when they came for weekends from Dublin.

  All three children were at university. They were well mannered and intelligent and anxious to please, but compared to Maggie’s rootedness they were like shadows. It was as if none of them could quite believe they had full rights to be alive on earth under the sky like every single other.

  Every year I drove Maggie to the Christmas dinner and party for senior citizens in the parish hall. I am now almost old enough to go to the dinner in my own right, but it is one meal I want to put off for as long as I can. When Maggie was made Senior Citizen of the Year, it was natural that I’d drive her to Carrick for the presentation. All of us who knew her were delighted, but there was great difficulty in getting her to accept.

  ‘Well, all of us here think it’s great, Maggie, no matter what you say,’ I said to her as we drove to Carrick.

  ‘It’s a lot of bother,’ she answered. ‘The old people used always to say it was never lucky to be too noticed. The shady corners are safer.’

  ‘Even the shady corners may be safe no longer, but isn’t it wonderful how well all the children did, and all you were able to do for them.’

  ‘They were no trouble. They did it all themselves. I think they were making sure they’d never be left behind a second time,’ and then she laughed her old, deep laugh. ‘The two lassies will be fine, but I’m not so sure if his lordship will last the course. When he set out to be a doctor I don’t think he realized he was in for seven years. Now his head is full of nothing but girls and discos. He thinks I’m made of money.’

  As Maggie entered the ballroom of the hotel, everybody stood, and there was spontaneous clapping as she was led to her place. I saw Jerome Callaghan and his young wife at one of the tables. It was said he gave Maggie all the help she would allow over the years in bringing up the children – and I can’t imagine her ever taking very much – and that he had played a part in her being chosen. I waited until she was seated behind an enormous vase of roses. Then I left as we had agreed. I walked about the empty town, had one drink in a quiet bar that also sold shoes and boots, across from the town clock, until it was time to take Maggie home.

  ‘How did you enjoy it anyhow?’ I asked as we drove towards the lake.

  ‘Enjoy it?’ she laughed. ‘I suppose they meant well but I wouldn’t like to go through the likes of tonight too often. The whole lot of them would lighten your head. What did I do? I did nothing. What else could I do? I was – in life.’

  She was silent then until we turned in round the lake. ‘Even where I am now, it’s still all very interesting. Sometimes even far, far too interesting.’

  The moon was bright on the lake, turning it into a clear, still sky. The fields above the lake and the dark shapes of the hedges stood out. Maggie sat quietly in the car while I got out to open the gate. Only a few short years before she would have insisted on getting out and walking the whole way in on her own. Wildfowl scattered from the reeds along the shore out towards the centre of the lake as soon as the car door opened. They squawked and shrieked for a while before turning into a dark silent huddle. Close by, a white moon rested on the water. There was no wind. The stars in their places were clear and fixed. Who would want change since change will come without wanting? Who this night would not want to live?

  The Country Funeral

  After Fonsie Ryan called his brother he sat in his wheelchair and waited with growing impatience for him to appear on the small stairs, and then, as soon as Philly came down and sat at the table, Fonsie moved his wheelchair to the far wall to wait for him to finish. This silent pressure exasperated Philly as he ate.

  ‘Did Mother get up yet?’ he asked abruptly.

  ‘She didn’t feel like getting up. She went back to sleep after I brought her tea.’

  Philly let his level stare rest on his brother but all Fonsie did was to move his wheelchair a few inches out from the wall and then, in the same leaning rocking movement, let it the same few inches back, his huge hands all the time gripping the wheels. With his large head and trunk, he sometimes looked like a circus dwarf. The legless trousers were sewn up below the hips.

  Slowly and deliberately Philly buttered the toast, picked at the rashers and egg and sausages, took slow sips from his cup, but his nature was not hard. As quickly as he had grown angry he softened towards his brother.

  ‘Would you be interested in pushing down to Mulligan’s after a while for a pint?’

  ‘I have the shopping to do.’

  ‘Don’t let me hold you up, then,’ Philly responded sharply to the rebuff. ‘I’ll be well able to let myself out.’

  ‘There’s no hurry. I’ll wait and wash up. It’s nice to come back to a clean house.’

  ‘I can wash these things up. I do it all the time in Saudi Arabia.’

  ‘You’re on your holidays now,’ Fonsie said. ‘I’m in no rush but it’s too early in the day for me to drink.’

  Three weeks before, Philly had come home in a fever of excitement from the oil fields. He always came home in that high state of fever and it lasted for a few days in the distribution of the presents he always brought home, especially to his mother; his delight looking at her sparse filigreed hair bent over the rug he had brought her, the bright tassels resting on her fingers; the meetings with old school friends, the meetings with neighbours, the buying of rounds and rounds of drinks; his own fever for co
mpany after the months at the oil wells and delight in the rounds of celebration blinding him to the poor fact that it is not generally light but shadow that we cast; and now all that fever had subsided to leave him alone and companionless in just another morning as he left the house without further word to Fonsie and with nothing better to do than walk to Mulligan’s.

  Because of the good weather, many of the terrace doors were open and people sat in the doorways, their feet out on the pavement. A young blonde woman was painting her toenails red in the shadow of a pram in a doorway at the end of the terrace, and she did not look up as he passed. Increasingly people had their own lives here and his homecoming broke the monotony for a few days, and then he did not belong.

  As soon as the barman in Mulligan’s had pulled his pint he offered Philly the newspaper spread out on the counter that he had been reading.

  ‘Don’t you want it yourself?’ Philly asked out of a sense of politeness.

  ‘I must have been through it at least twice. I’ve the complete arse read out of it since the morning.’

  There were three other drinkers scattered about the bar nursing their pints at tables.

  ‘There’s never anything in those newspapers,’ one of the drinkers said.

  ‘Still, you always think you’ll come on something,’ the barman responded hopefully.

  ‘That’s how they get your money,’ the drinker said.

  Feet passed the open doorway. When it was empty the concrete gave back its own grey dull light. Philly turned the pages slowly and sipped at the pint. The waiting silence of the bar became too close an echo of the emptiness he felt all around his life. As he sipped and turned the pages he resolved to drink no more. The day would be too hard to get through if he had more. He’d go back to the house and tell his mother he was returning early to the oil fields. There were other places he could kill time in. London and Naples were on the way to Bahrain.