The Emerald Isle

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  “I will pray for you.” The words were spoken so softly I nearly missed them, but then I felt the light touch of her damp hands on my shoulders as she squeezed me from behind in a light embrace. The thought that she, burdened with so much, would offer to pray for me—well, the rising tide of emotion within me threatened to overflow. I lowered my hands back into the sink and looked for something else to rinse.

  “I’ve been praying for Patrick and his father for a very long time,” she said, her voice soft as she moved to the table and began to gather the other breakfast dishes. “And I’m worried about Paddy. I don’t think he’s been going to church in Limerick, and it breaks my heart to think he could abandon his faith.”

  When I could speak with a steady voice. I asked, “Did he ever really have it? Faith, I mean.”

  “I don’t know.” She brought two empty plates, both clean, and stacked them on the counter. “He loved learning about God when he was a little boy, but then he seemed to lose interest. I don’t think he’s ever come to the place…of surrender.” Her eyes clouded with sadness. “Neither has James. Oh, he’s a good church-going man who fears God, but he’s terrible set on doing things his own way.”

  A moment of companionable silence fell between us, then I noticed the empty plates. Obviously Patrick and James had not eaten breakfast.

  “Is Patrick awake yet?” I had not yet been downstairs this early and thought he might still be asleep. “He promised to take me for a drive today. We thought we might do a bit of exploring.”

  “Paddy’s been up since sunrise. You’ll find him out in the barn.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. O’Neil.” I shut off the water and wiped my hands on the dishtowel, resolutely turning my thoughts from past problems to future possibilities.

  I found the metal gate that led to the enclosed area devoted to the real work of Ballyshannon, then lifted the latch and slipped through the opening. No one had ever told me guests weren’t allowed into the barn area, but the arrangement of the house made it clear that certain areas belonged to guests while others were reserved for family. Guests could take their ease in the sitting room and dining room, the front lawn and the garden. The kitchen seemed to be a neutral territory into which a brave guest might venture. But the back-wing bedrooms and the barnyard were definitely private property, so I felt a little like a trespasser as I walked toward the long rectangular building.

  Three buildings occupied this area, four if you counted the roofed structure without walls. Under that aluminum roof I saw a tractor and other kinds of farm equipment I didn’t recognize, as well as dozens of bales of hay stacked at least ten feet high. Next to this shed stood a smaller building with padlocked double doors. Immediately behind the hay shed I could see another long and rectangular roofed structure.

  The O’Neils’ little terrier, Shout, came running toward me, then stopped in my path, his hyperactive paws beating the ground in a canine dance of delight. “You want someone to notice you?” I bent and scratched behind the dog’s ears. “Believe me, I know the feeling.”

  Shout accepted my affection with delicate pleasure, then his ears pricked to attention as his eyes saw something in the distance. Without a warning, he was off and running again, leaving me alone. Just like every other male in my life.

  Shoving my hands into my pockets, I walked toward a separate building at the edge of the pasture. Through a pair of yawning double doors the sound of contemporary music spilled out into the silent barnyard.

  “Patrick?” I stood on the threshold and called his name but saw neither man nor cow in the small room beyond. A rectangular silver tank took up most of the available space, and a series of white plastic tubes ran along the ceiling and disappeared into a hole in the concrete wall. The lid to the container stood open, and as I walked forward, I saw an ocean of creamy milk stirring in the refrigerated tank.

  I looked up at the tubing again and saw the pulse of liquid beneath the plastic. They weren’t white tubes, but clear, and filled with milk.

  A cinderblock wall separated this refrigeration room from another, and the music poured through another doorway. I crossed the spotless cement floor, then stepped into the milking room.

  I don’t know what I expected to see, but the actual sight was delightfully interesting, especially to a city girl. A dozen black-and-white cows stood in front of me—six on each side—with their tails to the center of the room. Their heads hovered above round, cement feeding troughs, which they sniffed and snuffled and licked, as if completely oblivious to the activity taking place, well, down south. In the center of the room three automatic milking machines hung from the ceiling above a concrete well, and from each milking machine four tubes extended outward and were locked onto the udder of an apparently contented cow. I crept forward, amazed to see that each milking tube was divided into four vacuum-type cylinders, each one slipping—comfortably, I hoped—around one teat of an udder.

  I leaned against the wall and smiled as I watched the milk flow into the milking machines. The loud hum of the machines nearly drowned out the radio, but as Patrick moved from cow to cow, checking the apparatus, I could see his lips moving to the words of a song—Donna Summer’s “She Works Hard for the Money.”

  “I guess you do work hard,” I told one cow who turned to stare at me. “You do this twice a day?”

  As the first milk machine filled and quieted, Patrick stepped up to the first cow. I watched, fascinated, as he disconnected the vacuum mechanism, squirted the cow’s udder with something from a spray bottle, and then wiped the area with a clean towel. He did this with all six cows on one side, occasionally giving the animals an affectionate pat on the flank. Then he turned and saw me. For a moment his eyes narrowed and his face brightened in a flush, then he cracked a smile.

  “Morning,” he said, climbing out of the long well where he’d been working. He moved toward a bar that kept the cattle penned in their places, then jerked his head toward the wall on my right. “You might want to step aside, lass. These girls are going out to play.”

  I hurried out of the way and watched in amazement as he swung the bar wide. With only a slight prod to the first cow’s bony rear end, the line of cows ambled forth. Patrick seemed to have a word or touch for each, even knowing them by name, though the only difference between them I could see was the little numbered tag each cow wore in her ear.

  “You know them?” I yelled as he swung the bar back into place. I followed him as he stepped back into the well and walked to the far end of the shed. “You talk to them like you know them.”

  “You’d know them too, if you stared at them every day.” He stepped up out of the well again and opened another gate, beyond which a larger group of cattle stirred restlessly in an enclosed pen. Patrick lifted the bar, then urged the nearest cow forward. Within moments, six more cows had filed into position, ready to be milked.

  “Are they dangerous?” I crossed my arms, a little frightened of the huge beasts. “They’re so big.”

  “They’re mostly placid,” Patrick answered, slapping one cow on the flank in good-natured humor. “But single-minded, for certain. They’re not bright, but they can be determined. I’ve heard of people being trampled in a herd for attempting to separate a calf from its mother.”

  Milking was like a ballet, I thought, stepping aside as he moved to the head of the line. He squirted each cow’s udder with spray antiseptic, wiped the udder clean, and then attached the milking apparatus. When each cow on the left side was contentedly chilling out on the good vibrations, he turned to the opposite line of six cows and began the unhooking ritual again.

  “How many cows do you have?” I yelled as he moved to send another group out to pasture.

  “Thirty-three,” he answered, but in the peculiar Irish manner of ignoring th sounds, his answer came out “tirty-tree.” I was charmed.

  I leaned against the metal railing that separated the cows from the milking well and shook my head, amazed at the ritual. How many times had I drunk milk with
out giving a thought to where it came from? Of course I knew milk came from cows, but I’d never let my imagination even attempt to picture how the milk moved from the cow to my glass.

  As Patrick moved back down the three steps that led into the milking well, he tugged on my sleeve and gestured for me to follow. I did, and when six new cows had come down the chute, he grabbed my shoulders and positioned me right behind the first cow’s rear end. The sight of a pillow-sized udder, full and white, met my startled eyes.

  Patrick squirted the cow, wiped the milking area clean, then picked up the milking gizmo and pressed it into my hand. When I gaped at him, he propped an elbow on the metal railing and gave me a smile that set my pulses racing. “Give it a try then.”

  “Me? Milk a cow?” I stared at the four rubber attachments and the tubing. The machinery wasn’t intimidating, but before me, just behind the metal railing, stood two tree-trunk legs, a pair of sharp hooves, and a vastly engorged udder with four elongated teats.

  “I don’t think I can.” I pressed the milking gizmo back into Patrick’s hand, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  “Here.” Moving to my side, he pressed the vacuum thing into my right hand, then took my wrist and extended my arm. Quavering in every muscle, I gritted my teeth and positioned one of the little vacuum cups beneath a teat, then gasped in surprise when it jumped into place with almost no effort on my part.

  “It’s easy, you see?” Patrick guided my hand and expertly fitted another into place. “’Tis foolproof; anyone could do it. I think I could do this in my sleep.”

  When all four nozzles were in place, I withdrew my hand and watched in amazement as the machine went to work. Within seconds, a stream of white liquid began to move along the tubing and into the holding tank behind me.

  Patrick left me standing there and moved to the next cow, which had begun to stamp her foot in impatience. Altogether pleased with myself, I stood back and watched him work, admiring the confident manner he exhibited with the animals. He paused behind one beast, then climbed up the railing and peered closely at her head, then yelled that she had an infection in her right eye, so we’d have to call the vet before we could leave the farm.

  I noticed something else about Patrick, and as the hour wore on, I began to suspect I’d found the reason he blushed when I entered the barn. As he worked the milk machines and studied the cattle, his shoulders broadened, his eyes brightened with pleasure, he whistled and sang and smiled at the beasts. He may have preferred to hide the truth, but I saw clearly that Patrick O’Neil, computer wunderkind, loved his cows. He loved dairy farming. He probably loved this farm, too, for I hadn’t heard one word of complaint in the entire week he had been home.

  So why had he stayed away so long?

  I pondered the question until the milking was done. Patrick herded the last cow into the pasture, then fastened the gate and hosed out the entire building. After closing the lid on the refrigerated tank, the last bit of business, he pointed to four buckets of milk standing along the wall.

  He lifted a brow and flashed a killer smile. “Can you carry two of those for me? I wouldn’t be asking a guest to pitch in, but Maddie assures me you’re not afraid of hard work.”

  “I’m not.” To prove my point, I lifted a bucket, then wondered if this raw milk was what I’d been pouring over my breakfast cereal. “Um—do these go to the kitchen?”

  Patrick laughed. “No, to the stable. The milk is for my calves.”

  He picked up the other two buckets, then I followed him to the other long building. Patrick opened a small door, allowing me to enter first, and I grinned in delight when I saw four little black-and-white calves waiting in a straw-filled pen. The animals were no taller than ponies, and their brown eyes gleamed faintly blue in the shadowed light of the barn.

  “How adorable!” I gently lowered the buckets of milk to the floor, then leaned forward to stroke the soft nose of a curious little fellow who’d come running to get his breakfast. His ears flickered at my touch, then he turned his head toward the trough Patrick was already filling with raw milk.

  “How many calves do you have?”

  “Just the four now, but we’ll have them all year long.” He tossed the empty bucket away and reached for another as the calves greedily pressed forward.

  “Excuse the city girl’s ignorance, but why don’t the cows feed the calves?”

  It may have been a stupid question, but Patrick didn’t laugh at me. “We keep the cows with the calves for only four or five days, until the cow’s milk is suitable for human use,” he said, shrugging a little. “The udders fill with colostrum, you know, when the calves are first born. After that, we bring the calves in here so they don’t form too great an attachment to their mothers. ’Tis hard to separate them if you keep them together much longer than a few days.”

  “Oh.” I searched my brain for information about cattle and found very little. “I suppose you don’t keep a bull on the premises,” I began, feeling confident of at least one bit of information. “Aren’t most calves today the result of artificial insemination?”

  Patrick dropped the second bucket with a clang. “Most farms use AI, but we don’t,” he said, his tone coolly disapproving. “My father insists upon using Graham Red.”

  A dim ripple ran across my mind, and I snapped my fingers as I identified the source. “The sign at the beginning of your drive! Doesn’t it say something about Ballyshannon being the home of Graham Red?”

  Patrick’s answering smile seemed more a mechanical civility than a genuine expression of pleasure. “Yes. He was a good bull in his day; some of the best cows in the county are descended from him. But his time has come and gone, and Dad can’t seem to accept that.”

  At the mention of the word bull, I looked toward the back of the barn. A much larger pen stood there, and in it stood a large brown hump—above the biggest head I’d ever seen.

  I pointed toward the beast. “Is that—?”

  Patrick nodded and picked up another bucket of milk. “’Tis Graham.”

  “Well,” I lightened my tone, “if he’s still producing babies, he can’t be that worn out.”

  “He’s producing only through AI.” Patrick’s smile flattened. “He’s blind and too old to venture far out of his pen, but my father won’t even think about using another bull to enlarge our herd. He’s stuck on Graham, and he’s stuck in the old system.”

  Sensing that I’d hit upon a sore subject, I let the matter drop and reached out to a little calf that had looked up at me. “How old is this little guy?”

  “That lovely little fella is about five weeks.” Patrick reached out and scratched the ears of another curious calf. “We wean them when they’re six weeks old and turn them out with the herd.”

  “What kind of cows are they?” The guy I’d been scratching suddenly darted away.

  “Dutch Friesian,” Patrick answered. “I’ve been after Dad to get some Scottish Angus into the herd, but he won’t hear of it. The Angus are the best beef cows, but they’re smaller. We can’t mate an Angus cow to Graham because the calf would be too large to fit through the birth canal. We’d have quality calves and safe delivery if we used AI to mate our Friesian cows to an Angus bull, but Dad thinks ’twould be disloyal to old Graham, or some such thing.”

  “You seem to know a lot about cattle”—I watched his eyes—“for someone who works with computers.”

  “How could I not know,” he drawled with distinct mockery, “when I’ve lived here all my life? My father inherited this farm from his father, and my grandfather from his father. Five generations of O’Neils have lived at Ballyshannon and worked this farm.”

  “You’re kidding.” I couldn’t imagine any American family living in the same city for five generations, much less choosing the same occupation. “And does your father expect you to run the farm when he retires—” Too late I realized that retirement was the furthest thing from Mr. O’Neil’s mind. He was struggling to survive his cancer long enoug
h to see Maddie married and happily settled.

  Patrick lowered his gaze, probably sensing my embarrassment, so I ended my comment with an abrupt question: “Does he want you to run the farm?”

  “I don’t know what my father wants,” Patrick answered, his mouth set in annoyance. He bent to pick up the empty buckets and gathered the handles of all four in his hands. “Now—if we’re to be off soon, why don’t you go collect your things? I’ll be along shortly.”

  I nodded and left the barn, but my cheeks burned as I walked back to the house. I’d been politely dismissed in that last moment, probably because I led Patrick to the brink of a painful topic he didn’t want to discuss. But how could he help it? With his father within months of dying and a family business in the balance, how could he ignore the fact that his family needed him?

  An hour later, when Patrick emerged from the family quarters freshly scrubbed and dressed in a warm sweater, he suggested that we not go far on our first day of sightseeing. He made some excuse about expecting an urgent e-mail from a friend in Limerick, but I suspected his father’s sleepless night might have had something to do with his desire to remain close to home. James O’Neil was suffering through a painful day, and Patrick didn’t want to be gone too long.

  We drove first to the library at Terryglass, where I greeted Mrs. Sullivan and returned an armload of borrowed books about Irish history and the Norman invasion. Mindful of Patrick’s concern for his father, I didn’t linger or visit the rare books room, but hurried back out to the car. We drove northward for about forty minutes on a twisting country road, and I couldn’t help but remark on the beauty of the river looming against the western horizon.

  “The Shannon,” Patrick explained, “is truly a remarkable river. It passes right through the center of Limerick, and I never tire of looking at it.”