by Therese Down
Dan went back to milking his cow but there was something in the back of his mind about a Spillane girl. Wasn’t the girl Donal had found in the barn a while back a Spillane? And hadn’t she been running away from a marriage match? He would have to ask Deirdre for the details. Something here wasn’t right.
A little more than a month after the wedding and the world was adjusting, it seemed to Caitlin, to assimilate her status as Mrs Jack Flynn. The change in its landscape wrought by the seismic nature of the event was now a landmark. Life went on. Apart from emerging to stoke the range or empty its ash tray, prepare meals, and perform light housework duties, Caitlin spent the weekends in her room, watching the rain and the sky. Her window onto the back field was a study in greyness and precipitation cycles. She estimated the ferocity of the wind by watching how peacefully or fitfully the little black tree slept through the bleak winter.
Without the constant interruptions from her parents and Maureen which had characterized busy family life on a farm, Caitlin could read for hours, complete her homework in silence, and – in the third week of her removal to Flynn’s house – she even started to sleep better than she had at home. She was free of Maureen’s snoring and shifting in the bed and was not disturbed by her sister’s early rising to meditate and pray. And, increasingly convinced that Flynn would keep his word and not touch her, she began to eat well. She told herself that it would not be possible to perform to her best ability in her exams if she were undernourished, and, in any case, when the time came to escape, she would have to be fit and healthy, with her wits about her. She had learned that much.
Late afternoon of the third Saturday in February, Flynn returned to the house having tended to his horse. He had made the animal very comfortable in the barn, deeply littering the floor around him with straw so that he might be tempted to lie down and take the weight off his feet entirely. He was feeding him hay and no sugar beet on the vet’s advice and grazing him during daylight hours, for it was essential he got some exercise and good grass. In a week or so, the horse would need his hooves clipped and to be re-shod and led at least a mile or two a day around the roads.
As Jack entered the kitchen he was arrested by music. Spellbinding, an air in a minor key had slipped down the stairs and swirled in the kitchen like a graceful ghost. Jack stood transfixed, gratefully aware on a less conscious level of the warmth from the roaring range and the aromas of bacon and cabbage escaping the pot on the hob. He realized, in a moment, this was the very melody his mother used to sing when she was sad and which used to bring tears to her eyes.
He swallowed hard, closed his eyes, and allowed the music to caress him. When it was finished, he took off his coat and cap and made for the stairs. Almost reverently, after a brief hesitation, Jack knocked gently on Caitlin’s door. She had heard him approach and was sitting perfectly still on the edge of her bed, facing the window. Embracing her accordion, Caitlin turned her head towards the door. What did he want? She had made his dinner and cleaned the kitchen.
“Yes?”
There was no immediate response, but then the door opened gently. Caitlin altered her posture so that she could see him.
“What was that tune?” he asked almost shyly, awkward in the doorway as though he feared her.
“The one I just played?” He nodded. “‘Silent, O Moyle’.”
In spite of his nervousness, Flynn was transported by the title to a vivid memory of his mother’s voice. But he could not have been more than three years old and the impression of familiarity he had now would not harden to remembrance, for the words had meant nothing at the time; only the sound of them was familiar.
“Do you know the words?” His voice was softer than Caitlin could have imagined him capable of. She was uncomfortable with the intimacy of this exchange. She was certainly not going to sing for him.
“I have them written down,” she said, “somewhere.” She turned away from him.
“The horse is going to need a lot of care,” he announced, reverting to his usual imperative tone. “You can do that. He’ll need feeding with hay every evening and bedding down for the night, mucking out. Next week, you’ll have to walk him around the lanes for a mile or so a day. Vet’s orders.”
Caitlin did not respond but her head jerked upwards and she stared ahead, allowing the defiance and resentment to harden her eyes, for he could not see her face.
Flynn watched her a moment longer, withdrew a little, and was about to shut the door but he stopped, adding, “Oh, and don’t forget – mass tomorrow.”
“And how are we supposed to get there without a horse?” she rounded on him.
“We will walk! How else?” And he shut the door with much less regard than he had used to open it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The congregation at mass in Dunane on the fourth Sunday of the month had their attention held by more than Father Kinnealy’s ministrations. In truth, he was a lot less able to compete for it than usual, given the unfair distractions represented by the presence at mass of Caitlin Flynn and Donal Kelly. “What in blazes is going on?” wondered Mrs Brett to her husband. “Who is that young fella with Spillane?”
“Isn’t he the new teacher above in the school?” replied her husband, turning his head to follow the direction of his wife’s aquiline glare.
“What’s he doing with Spillane?” she persisted, never taking her eyes from Donal Kelly’s smiling face and how Mick was making a show of laughing and talking with him.
“How should I know?” Malachai observed his wife’s pale blue eyes, which often struck him as being a lot like his pigs’ eyes, but her eyelashes weren’t as long. She pursed her lips in irritation and untrained her gaze to look at him.
“Do you know anything?” she sniped.
“I do,” said Malachai, assuming a long-suffering expression. “More than you, I can assure you, because I keep my gob shut and mind my own business.”
“In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.” The congregation ceased to talk and rose to its feet as Father Kinnealy intoned the introductory rites.
“Amen!” said Mrs Brett loudly, with a sideways glance and a sneer at Malachai.
“The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with you all…” Jack and Caitlin stood apart in the first pew and both stared fixedly at the priest, trying not to think about the people staring at and whispering about them. Donal Kelly stood between Mick Spillane and his wife a few pews behind them, Donal looking more handsome than ever in a brown suit and brogues, his curly hair washed and silky.
“Oh, geeney, he’s gorgeous,” sighed Nuala Kenny to her friend Majella Clutterbuck, daughter of the local blacksmith. Majella, with short dark hair and china blue eyes, was a year younger than Nuala. She was an only child and had her own horse, which was a cause of much envy among her school friends and much speculation among her neighbours about the relative wealth of her parents. The imminence of Majella’s removal to a boarding convent school in Adare, Limerick, so she could get riding tuition at a stables in nearby Lisaleen, did nothing to ease social relations. And Majella’s mother had dyed blonde hair and wasn’t in the least bit fat, while her father was dark and lean and would have been handsome, in most women’s opinion, if he trimmed his eyebrows and prolific nose hair. The Clutterbucks had a strange way of talking, as if they knew that a broad Tipperary accent might hinder their social mobility, but where they thought they were going was altogether a mystery. Majella pushed back the edge of her lace mantilla and peered coolly at the man in the pew across the aisle and halfway up from where she stood. She would rather, she decided with an arch of a fine eyebrow, have her horse.
Donal strained as inconspicuously as he could to keep Caitlin’s back and bowed head in view, noting how far away from Flynn she stood and pitying her at the same time as anger filled his heart anew at the injustice she had suffered. The thought that Flynn might have already impregnated her had occurred to him, but w
hile it filled Donal with anguish it fuelled his resolve. It was urgent and imperative that he act soon. They would think what to do with a baby if and when that time came.
“May almighty God forgive us our sins, have mercy on us and lead us to eternal life.”
“Amen,” said everyone. The priest led them as one into the “Gloria”.
There was no chance that Spillane was going to let Jack Flynn ignore him after mass this Sunday. And indeed, Jack was intrigued to see with Mick the young man who had wordlessly accosted him a few Sundays ago. Caitlin too was astounded to encounter the new maths teacher chatting amiably on the church steps with her parents.
“Jack! Jack!” shouted Mick as his daughter and her husband emerged from the narthex. “How are ye?” Several of the congregation milled and affected conversation at the foot of the steps to see how this meeting would pan out, eyes sliding from their neighbours’ faces and up the steps as they spoke. Neither Jack nor Caitlin moved to join Spillane’s party, so Mick beckoned to Donal and Mrs Spillane to follow him and walked across to his son-in-law.
“Do ye know this young man, now?” He beamed at his daughter and Jack, looked from one to the other. Both glowered at him. Undeterred, Spillane introduced Donal to Caitlin then Jack.
Donal fixed his eyes on Caitlin’s pale and puzzled face, marvelling at the beauty of her eyes, and said, “I know Caitlin; sure I teach at her school.”
There was something about the tone of his voice and in his proximity which made Caitlin contemplate Donal Kelly anew. In the brief time she had to acknowledge him the thought occurred that Kelly’s familiarity had origins outside or beyond the school. She stared into his liquid brown eyes and tried to place him in any other context, but could not. Jack thought several things, none of them hospitable. He remembered the aggression of this man when he was yet a stranger to him and thought now, as he watched Kelly greet his wife, that he knew its source. He drew himself up as straight as he could and stared darkly at Donal. Mick watched the exchange with some amusement but stepped in. His plan was to re-establish contact with Caitlin and introduce her to his new friend and possible business partner. It would not go unnoticed, he thought smugly, that he had made acquaintance with the smart new maths teacher. He was counting on Jack’s ignoring him and, particularly, Caitlin’s unwillingness to cause a scene in public and before one of her teachers. Then he would move on and make a show of ushering Donal into his shiny red truck while most of Dunane’s population looked on.
Mick had had a chat with a few men in the bar and it seemed Dan Kelly was getting no better after a huge heart attack months earlier. Kelly had two daughters after Donal, and it was anyone’s guess what would happen to the small farm he was endeavouring to keep. Now that Mick’s daughters had all left home and he was comfortably well off, he was thinking of expanding his herd and hiring a lad to help around the place. Dan Kelly’s cows at a good price might be a starting point. Apparently oblivious to the extreme awkwardness of the situation he had engineered, Spillane turned to his daughter.
“Are you right, Caitlin? Sure, you’re looking well.” She did not respond but regarded him coldly. “Anyhows,” Spillane rushed on, “it’s grand to see the two of ye. Are your cows all right now, Jack? I heard you had to destroy a few. Terrible business.” Mick’s mercurial face assumed an expression of concern and he shook his head. “Donal’s father is Dan Kelly of Golden,” he added, brightening again. Jack regarded the young man and Donal returned his scrutiny. Dan Kelly always seemed to avoid Jack at markets. He did not know the man.
“Will ye come to us for lunch?” Mrs Spillane’s small voice crept into the conversation and held everyone’s attention as though it were a mouse running into a circle of cats. That would certainly make the prospect of lunch with Mick Spillane and his wife more interesting, thought Donal.
“No,” said Caitlin straight away. “We have to get going. We’ve no horse and must walk.”
“No horse?” Spillane was glad to change the subject but was, in any case, genuinely shocked. He may have lately acquired a truck, but even now, life without a horse was not an option to a serious farmer. You couldn’t plough fields with a truck.
“It’s lame,” said Flynn.
“Sure I can give ye a lift home in the truck!” he beamed, turning his head to indicate the vehicle where it was parked, half on half off the pavement at the bottom of the church steps. He could drop Jack and Caitlin off then bring back Donal Kelly. That way, there was no chance that an unpleasant mood would spoil the impression he wanted to create at lunch.
“Ah, no, Mick,” pleaded Mrs Spillane, less timidly, then looked imploringly at Caitlin. “Sure there’s plenty of food below. More than enough for the five of us.”
“We cannot,” said Jack decisively, calculating immediately that Kelly was a lunch guest. “We have food above. Good luck.” And he began to walk away. Caitlin glanced after him then back at the truck. She didn’t want to walk the two miles up the road to Flynn’s farm.
“Give us a lift, so,” she said loudly enough to her father so that Flynn would hear. He stopped in his tracks and turned around. He was weary and his chest hurt. A ride home might not be a bad idea. Spillane dropped the tailgate and Jack and Donal climbed in, taking a seat on opposite edges of the truck bed. Mrs Spillane and Caitlin climbed into the front. Although Mrs Spillane cried and pleaded, Caitlin was obdurate. She was in no way ready to eat with her parents – particularly with a school teacher looking on. She was mortally embarrassed by the whole idea and just wanted to get back to the solitude and quietness of her room. Jack at first ignored Donal Kelly, but as the latter continued to stare at him, he returned the young man’s cool and steady gaze with mounting ire.
“What’s the matter with you, Kelly?” he shouted at last above the rumble and judder of the truck. The two men were forced to grip the sides of the truck with both hands and plant their feet squarely on the bed floor to maintain their balance.
“Me?” answered Donal, never taking his eyes from Jack’s face. “There’s nothing wrong with me, Mr Flynn.”
“Well, keep your scobbing to yourself, then,” retorted Jack, and began to cough, so that he was forced to remove a hand to cover his mouth and was almost thrown headlong into the rear window of the cabin. Donal smirked and looked away. No real problem here, he thought. In a few minutes, Spillane pulled into Flynn’s yard. It was starting to rain. Donal leapt out ahead of Jack and waited for Caitlin to descend from the cabin.
Mick rolled his window down and shouted to Jack, “If it’s a horse you’re wanting, you could buy mine at a good price. I have the truck now and was thinking of buying a heavier horse, just for the ploughing, like.”
Caitlin looked at Jack, blinking against the rain. Her father’s chestnut, she knew, did not much like the plough, for Spillane had often come in swearing at the perversity of the animal and the swervy lines in his field which wasted precious sowing space because the horse would not drive straight. But it was a good carriage horse and only eight years old. He could be trained to be less skittish at the plough, with a more expert master. “I will think about that, Spillane,” answered Jack. “How much?”
Donal climbed into the cabin next to Mrs Spillane and watched Caitlin make for the shelter of the doorway. Mrs Spillane sniffed and blew into her handkerchief and tutted repeatedly to herself but Donal had eyes and ears only for the girl before him. He was irritated by the windscreen wipers which Spillane had set in motion, for the rain was now driving against the glass and, with the wipers, was obscuring his view.
“Fifteen pounds,” said Spillane, “because you’re family now.”
“I will think about it,” answered Jack and walked away from the truck towards his house. Just before she disappeared inside, Caitlin turned to look at the place she knew Donal Kelly sat, for she had been keenly aware the whole time that he was staring at her. At last, her curiosity was aroused.
Donal timed his confession perfectly. Mrs Spillane had killed a chicken i
n his honour and served it roasted. They needed fewer eggs in any case, now that Maureen and Caitlin were gone. For dessert, she had baked a rich porter cake, using up the last of her precious raisins from Christmas. Goodness alone knew when she would be able to buy more, for fruit dried and fresh was a scarcity since the war broke out. She served it with cream.
“That was a marvellous dinner, Missis,” said Donal, arching his back and caressing his belly. “Thanks very much.” And he winked at her.
“Oh, that’s a pleasure.” Mrs Spillane simpered and coloured slightly. He really was a very good-looking, polite young man, she thought as she reached for his dessert plate. And her next thought was of Caitlin in bed with that old goat. She closed her eyes quickly on the image, turned away from the table, and made for the sink. Mick was delighted.
“It was grand, Mary, so it was,” he confirmed. “Do ye’s eat well above in Golden?”
“We do,” replied Donal. “I have two sisters who can cook very well.”
“Ah,” said Mick, nodding. “What ages are they?”
“Jacintha is nineteen now and Deirdre is going on seventeen.” “Ah,” said Mick again knowingly, not taking his eyes from Donal’s face. “I suppose they’re wanting to get married – move off the farm, is it?”
Donal smiled and looked down briefly before he answered. “I couldn’t say, now. My father has need of them.”
“Of course he does, of course he does,” said Mick. “Is he doing better – Dan?”
“He is,” affirmed Donal. “I do the heavy work but he milks and does jobs around the place.”
Mick nodded. “It must be hard, though, I’d say, keeping everything going between the two of ye and you have your teaching and all.”
Donal inclined his head to one side. “It is, all right, Mick. I can’t lie to you, now. I have often wondered if we should sell up, and…”
“Have you?” Mick interrupted. “A big decision, but if it’s for the best – sure your health comes first, Donal. What’s the point of anything if your health is gone?” Donal nodded as if he were considering the wisdom of Mick’s words. After a brief pause, while Mrs Spillane placed a teapot and her best cups on the table, Donal spoke again and both she and Mick paid especial attention.