“That was in your father’s day. Now it’s variable. Depends on what Simon’s doing,” Beatrice says.
“Get a load of all those new houses we saw on the way here,” Kerry says. “Nothing but mansions all over the place — five and six bedrooms. Not a thatched cottage in sight. Right, Andy?”
“Haven’t you heard about our economic miracle?” Beatrice asks.
“I’ve seen changes on business trips to Dublin, but the fact that it’s all over the place didn’t hit home till now,” Andy says.
Dublin? Business trips? He’s been so close and she didn’t know. Beatrice fights down her anger and hurt. This is a new start. She mustn’t sabotage it.
Fortunately, there’s a distraction. Scott disappears under the table, his food untouched. “How’s the little fellow doing?” Beatrice asks.
“Hey, Scott?” Kerry says. She lifts up the tablecloth and looks in underneath. “I think he’s asleep,” she says.
“Hardly. Are you sure?” Beatrice asks. “Maybe he’s pretending.”
Kerry slides from the chair onto the floor, gets down on all fours, and crawls in under the table. Andy and Beatrice lean sideways, lift the edge of the tablecloth, and peer in. Their upside-down faces watch Kerry touch Scott and shake his crouched form gently. Mother and son have the reddish-blond hair and pointed chin in common. “Yup,” Kerry reports. “He’s out. What a shame. I wanted him to see the cows after dinner.”
“He can see them another time,” Beatrice says.
“I’ll take him up to bed,” Andy says.
“Maybe best to put him on a sofa in case he wakes up and takes fright in a strange place,” Beatrice suggests.
“That’s probably better,” agrees Andy.
Kerry reverses out and sits back up at the table. “Let him be for now, I guess. He might wake up. This is a big house, Beatrice,” she says. “I dunno. I guess I was expecting low ceilings and small rooms.”
“It was originally owned by a Protestant.”
“Pardon?”
“She means it was built by an Englishman. That’s why it’s sizable. The natives had to make do with mud huts.”
“I can’t keep up with all this history. Andy keeps telling me this stuff, Beatrice. I guess you Catholics bought out that Protestant guy.”
“My husband’s grandfather, that’d be Andy’s great-grandfather, made his money in the States and came back to Ireland. That’s how we got the house.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Mid–eighteen hundreds.”
Kerry raises her glass and says, “Sláinte.” When Beatrice laughs in surprise, she says, “That’s right, isn’t it, Andy? That’s what you told me to say?”
“It’s exactly right, darling. You even got the pronunciation!”
“You know you’re called after an Irish county, Kerry, don’t you?” Beatrice asks.
“Guess it must have been prophetic. Like, I married an Irish guy, didn’t I?”
“You’ll have to show me where you milk the cows. I had a peek at the yard and the place is unrecognizable,” Andy says to Simon, who’s wolfing down his microwaved dinner.
“He’s transformed it,” Beatrice says.
“Had to be modernized,” Simon says. “The new milk hygiene regulations left no option. Come up tomorrow morning and I’ll give you a guided tour.”
Beatrice rinses out the washing bowl in the sink and rubs the stainless steel basin. To her left saucepans tilt like a declining tower of Babel. She feels winded, as if tiring at the end of a long race. Now that the threat of the feared row and walkout by Andy has evaporated, she has lost her puff. Simon is seated at the kitchen table, his back to her.
Andy appears at her side. “You okay, Mam? Need a hand?” he asks.
“Just have to get my breath. This is a big day, Andy. We’re going to have to get to know each other all over again.”
“I know, Mam, I know.”
“Kerry seems really nice.”
“She’s afraid you won’t like her.”
“What I’ve seen looks fine to me.”
He hugs her. “Sorry I took so long to break the ice,” he says. “I just kept putting it on the long finger. It was Kerry said I had to contact you.”
Took you long enough. I might have died, she thinks, but says nothing.
The following morning, Andy accompanies her to the village for Mass. “Fastest way to meet people,” he says. Kerry doesn’t go to Mass. She’s Episcopalian.
“Are you still a Catholic?”
“Practicing? I kinda shrugged off being a Catholic in New York. I go to church with Kerry sometimes. Episcopalian is like what Church of Ireland would be here.”
“Anglican, you mean.”
“Sort of. Religion is a big thing with a lot of Americans. Her folks are devout but they’re not fanatical.”
“Not too many attend weekday Mass now. The old regulars are dying off. Saturday night attracts the best show.”
He drives slowly through the village. “They’ve filled in a lot of — correction — they’ve rebuilt all those derelict sites that used to be on the streets. No harm. They were an awful eyesore. The place looks half-decent now. What have they done to Mundy’s shop? It looks like a mini-mart.”
“Terry and Bart Fitzgibbon did it up when they bought it. It’s about twice the size it used to be, the best shop in the village now. There’s even a customer car park behind. What keeps James O’Flaherty’s shop open is the post office, that and the custom of a few regulars.”
“I’d have expected him to be retired by now.”
“He’ll retire only if forced to.”
“What’s this?” he asks outside the newly built health clinic. “That used to be Johnjo Byrne’s house.”
“Johnjo’s dead, long gone. They knocked the old place down and built the clinic.”
“And who lives in those houses?” he asks as he spies the county council houses down Mart Lane.
“That’s a new public housing scheme.”
“I hope the village hasn’t turned into a dumping ground for white trash. They’d better not ruin the place.”
She hasn’t heard him use the term “white trash” before. Will she have to introduce him as my son, the snob?
“Most of them were renting old places, Andy. They’re perfectly ordinary decent people. They’ve been on the housing list a long time.”
At Mass, Andy is restless and shuffles about in the pew. Were he a child, she’d have a word in his ear.
When they emerge, she sees Matt hurrying toward them. “Welcome home,” he says warmly, and crushes Andy’s hand in a firm handshake. “Céad míle fáilte. A hundred thousand welcomes.” He turns to Beatrice. “I bet you’re delighted to see this fellow back, the return of the prodigal. You’re looking well, boyo.”
“Hello, Matt. You haven’t changed a bit.”
“More than I can say for you. You left a young fellow and now you’re a man. Looking prosperous too.”
“Not doing too badly.”
“Doing well, boyo, doing well!”
“Listen, I was really sorry to hear the news about Julia. Mam told me last night.”
“That’s the way, boy. There’s no avoiding it. Comes to us all,” Matt says, shrugging off his sympathy.
Word spreads and Beatrice and Andy are surrounded by a gaggle of people. Even Father Mahoney stops on his way across to the presbytery. “You’re from before my time,” he murmurs when introduced, “but you’re more than welcome. A fine son you have there, Beatrice.”
“You’re a dark one,” Nan Brogan says. “Not a word about him coming home.”
“I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“That it is. You could have knocked me down with a feather. It must be a great comfort to have the surviving son back again.”
Andy stiffens, and Beatrice senses a few people awaiting her reaction. The usual dull anger against Nan stirs. “Come on, Andy,” she says loudly. “If we don’t get a move on, we
’ll be here all day.”
She takes a cloth, wipes the morning dew from the seat of the bench, and sits down. The day is only getting started. The sky is an unbroken blue, the pale gray of early morning dispersed by sunshine. The blue-bronze patches of bog and heathers on the mountains are etched with the clarity of a painting against the splashes of yellow plants and gray rocks, with the multitudinous greens of arable land below.
She hears a sound and turns to see Andy. He’s standing under one of the old beech trees planted almost ninety years before by his grandfather, the father-in-law she never knew. “Morning,” he says, and joins her on the bench.
“Where are you lot off to today?”
“Kerry and Scott have gone to Waterford. I’ve done enough sightseeing.”
“You packed in a lot this visit.”
“We haven’t seen much of each other.”
“You’ve been away on those trips.”
“Yeah, I know we’ve been a bit touristy. Kerry’s really taken with Ireland. She wants to come back.”
“Well, there’s an open invitation to stay here anytime. You know that.”
“You’ll come see us in the States?”
“It’s a long way away.”
“Not nowadays. The world has shrunk.”
She hesitates. “Come to see Scott,” he urges. “You’re a real hit there. It’s Granny Beatrice this and Granny Beatrice that, and ‘Granny Beatrice says’ all the time. You’ve made a big impression.”
“I hardly hear a word out of him.”
“That’s what he likes. You’re not always at him to talk. Kerry’s mom wears him down trying to get him to speak. You don’t force any agenda on him.”
“He’s a good child.”
He fiddles with his watch. She stands up, stretches her back, and sighs. “Better go in and do something to justify my existence.”
“What’s your hurry?” he asks.
“Things to do, people to see,” she jokes.
“Mam?”
“Yes?”
“Where did John shoot himself? Will you show me?”
She groans. Here it comes, the inevitability of having to talk about it again. “I avoid the place.”
“I’d like to see it.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking. What’s the point? He’s dead. Seeing where he died won’t change that.”
“Please.”
“If you must,” she manages.
The dairy tanker roars past as they make their way across the upper yard to the barn. She leads him to the exact spot the policeman showed her. “This is it. There’s nothing to see.”
He clears his throat. “We used to play chasing and hide-and-seek here as kids. I can see it clear as yesterday.”
“There was nothing to stop you coming home after Dad died,” she says. “If you had, you’d have seen John, noticed what he was like, what he became.”
“You’re not blaming me, are you?” he asks sharply.
“Don’t get me wrong. That isn’t what I meant. Just… it might have… explained it a bit better. It might have been easier for you to understand.”
“I know. Kept putting it on the long finger.”
“He smoked a cigarette before he died. They found the butt. Imagine that. Of course, there was alcohol in his blood. And anti-depressants. I didn’t know about the antidepressants.”
“I often speculate about why he did it.”
“There are all sorts of theories about why people kill themselves. He wasn’t happy in himself. I think he was in this place he couldn’t get back from, that the loneliness wore him down. He couldn’t reach out for help.”
Andy says nothing. He looks about him as if trying to impress everything on his memory.
“I question it every day, wonder why he didn’t feel he could talk to me,” muses Beatrice.
“It wasn’t your fault he killed himself.”
“Oh, I know that. Still, one of my sons left home. The other killed himself. I’m sure that speaks volumes to some.”
“I meant to stay in touch.”
“I’m sure you did.” He probably did. Just careless and thoughtless. No malice aforethought.
She’s surprisingly calm. The barn is merely a structure. It hasn’t any hold over her. “Have you seen enough?” she asks.
“Quite enough.”
“I’m glad you asked.”
“Can you forgive me?”
“Forgive you?”
“For not being around.”
“It’s not a hanging crime.”
He laughs shortly. “It sounds dreadful when you put it like that. Makes me sound pathetic.”
“It’s the callousness of youth. You’re growing out of it.”
“Everyone’s trying to hold on to their youth in America. They put a premium on it,” he says. “There are no dispensations from growing old.”
“I think they’re deluded in that. What a horrible way to live. Will we go?” They make their way back to the house.
“Let’s go out for lunch some day,” he says.
“Only if you’re buying.”
“Of course I’m buying.”
“Where did this Simon guy come out of? How’d he get the job? Is he related to you?” Kerry asks the next morning at breakfast. She’s eating a plain cracker and sipping water. Kerry talks about food as if she wolfs it down, but when it comes to a meal on a plate she picks at it.
“No relation,” Beatrice says, adding honey to her porridge.
“So he’s an employee?”
“Yes.”
Scott is out in the garden running up and down with the dog. Shep is ever ready to retrieve sticks and Scott never tires of throwing them. Beatrice has no idea where Andy is, but he’s not in the house.
“The son inherits the farm, right?”
“The son inherits the farm?” echoes Beatrice. A trick Beatrice has learned over the years is to fall silent when someone says something challenging. It usually makes them explain themselves. She has Jack to thank for this. His complaints used to falter when he couldn’t elicit a reaction from her.
“That’s how it works, right?”
Beatrice shakes her head. “Say again,” she says.
Kerry takes a sip of water. “Hey, I’ll just shut up now.”
“Sorry?”
“I’m done.” Kerry gets to her feet. “I was just curious,” she says uneasily. “That’s all.”
“I’ll just check and see if Scott and Shep are okay. Shep’s quiet but he’s not used to children.”
“I’ll go,” Kerry volunteers.
“I’ll do it. I need the air.”
Scott and the dog are sitting on the steps that lead up to the old granary store, the dog flopped devotedly at Scott’s feet, panting, tongue out.
“What about coming in for breakfast?” Beatrice calls.
“Uh-uh. I ate.”
“Wouldn’t keep a fly going what you ate this morning.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’ll never grow if you don’t eat.”
Scott looks irritated. “I will grow,” he says fiercely.
“No, you’ll end up a little pishameen of a man.”
“A pissawhat?”
“A stunted little runt of a man.”
“What?”
She smiles. “A tiny little man.”
“Yeah, right,” Scott says eventually. He grins. Barely six years old and he doesn’t believe a word of it.
Andy comes out. “He’s fine, Mam,” he says. “He doesn’t have much of an appetite but he won’t go hungry.”
“He picks at his food.”
“He’s a finicky eater.”
“I was hoping the fresh air would give him an appetite.”
“I thought the air would knock him out but it hasn’t had that effect.”
“It’s not pure the way it was years ago.”
“I guess you’re right.”
She goes inside, up to her room. She has a h
eadache. Was that why he came home? To check out the inheritance? To put his spoke in?
Later Andy appears beside her when she’s taking washing in off the line. He unpegs some of the clothes. “Kerry told me she put her foot in it this morning,” he says.
“How so?” She’s unwilling to make it easy for him, for either of them.
“She was asking you about the farm.”
“Are you interested in taking it over? Is that what she was on about?”
“No, no. Not at all. I told her she shouldn’t have opened her mouth.”
“The farm reverted to me when John died.”
“So, what will happen to it?”
“I often wonder the same myself.”
“We won’t be here for dinner today. We’re heading off after lunch.”
“Showing them the sights? Don’t forget the view along the back road. It’s spectacular.”
“No, we’re going away for a day or two. We’re booked into a hotel in Killarney. Kerry just arranged it.”
“I thought you were going to stick around for the last few days.” She turns. “I’m disappointed, Andy. I was looking forward to having you for a bit longer.”
“It’s difficult with that Simon guy about. It doesn’t feel like home somehow.”
“I won’t hear a word against him. He doesn’t put in or out on you. He’s a fantastic worker, Andy.”
“Still, kinda spoils the place a bit. Oh, I know that’s not reasonable, Mam. It’s caveman stuff. I’m sorry. Can’t help it.” He pats her shoulder. “It’s not a big deal, Mam. Don’t fret. We’ll be back soon.”
“But then you’ll be leaving almost immediately.”
“You’ll be sick of the sight of us before we go. It’s Kerry really,” he confides. “She has so much energy. The pace of life here is too slow for her. She gets restless. Besides, she wants to cram in as much as possible.”
Is there an atmosphere, she wonders? Is Kerry annoyed that she wouldn’t discuss the succession with her? “I hope you’ll be lucky with the weather. The forecast is good.”
Kerry calls Andy into the house. Beatrice finds Scott perched on the gate to the nearest field. “You’d better go down to your mum and dad. They’re packing. You’ll be off on your travels, off to see the sights.”
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