The little corner of the shelterbelt was like a room in the wilderness. He could tell by the marks and shapes on the floor of spruce needles that she had been in labour for some time. The waterbag had broken. Afraid his hands were not clean enough, he felt lightly without entering the cow and found that the feet and head were in place. The Shorthorn began to press. The womb dilated wide. The feet showed clearly but did not advance. She fell back and moaned again.
“We’re not going to lose you after all these years,” he spoke reassuringly, without thought.
He had hardly said the words when he heard a sharp cough. He turned and found Jamesie staring at the cow. The spruce wood behind him was almost in night. He had crept up without a sound. “Hel-lo. Hel-lo,” he called in a hushed, conspiratorial voice.
“You’re an angel of the Lord.”
“Have you felt the calf?”
“The calf is coming right. She’s making no headway though.”
“Get the calving jack,” he said.
As Ruttledge turned to go to the house, he saw the soft ropes hanging from Jamesie’s pocket. He must have been watching the cow covertly the whole evening: he came prepared and didn’t expect to find Ruttledge there. At the house Kate put aside what she was doing and got warm water, soap, disinfectant, a towel. The jack was made of aluminium and light to carry. They hurried to the plantation.
“Jamesie, it’s great that you’re here,” Kate whispered when they entered the darkness of the small room beneath the spruce branches.
“Kate,” he smiled.
Both men scrubbed their hands and arms. Kate held the towel. Jamesie drew out the feet. Ruttledge slipped on the loops and drew them tight above the hooves. When he got the jack in place he ratcheted quickly until a strain came on the ropes. He then waited until the cow began to press. Each time she pressed he increased the strain.
“That’s a great girl,” Jamesie said. “Look how she’s pressing. There’s many an old cow that would just lie there on her side and give you no help at all.”
The long tongue and the nose appeared. At one moment there was a terrible strain on the ropes and the anxiety and tenseness were so near at hand they could almost be touched and felt, and the next moment the ropes went slack as the calf came sliding out on to the floor ahead of the quick ratcheting, covered in the gleaming placenta. Jamesie called out, “It’s a bull, a savage!” as he plucked the veils of placenta from the nostrils and turned the calf over. Quickly Ruttledge lifted the navel cord and immersed it in a cup of disinfectant. Bellowing wildly, the Shorthorn struggled to her feet.
“Careful, Kate, not to stand in her way. You never can tell.”
The Shorthorn’s whole attention was fixed on her calf as if it was her first calf all over again, the beginning of the world. Between wild loos she began to lick the calf dry. So vigorous were the movements of her tongue that they moved the calf along the ground in spite of its inert and sprawled weight. When she nosed the calf over on its other side, she was undeterred in the vigorous licking by the spruce needles that were sticking to the bright curtain of slime. With the same loud, exhorting cries—so wild that they sounded threatening—she nosed him to his feet. He tottered on the long wobbly legs, fell and rose before sinking on his knees in spite of her impatient urgings. His head was large, the shoulders heavy and thick, his coat a light chocolate brown, with white markings on the deep chest and the legs.
“He’s a monster,” Jamesie said in admiration. “The old lassie would never have landed him on her own.”
“It’s wonderful she’s safe … that they are both safe.”
“These new jacks are great,” Jamesie said. “I often saw six men pulling with ropes, using the trunk of a tree to hold the strain, the poor cow bursted.”
“Don’t tell me, Jamesie. Look how excited they are to meet one another.”
“Money, Kate. Money.”
“I suppose we should leave them to one another,” Ruttledge said.
“He’ll suck when he gets hungry. They know their own business best.”
There was a great feeling of relief. She was safe with her calf for another year. The relief was like peace.
“How did you come to be here, Jamesie?” Kate asked suddenly as they went towards the house. It hadn’t occurred to her to ask until now.
“The sleepy fox, that’s how, Kate,” he said defensively. “You’ll be sick of the sight of me. Twice in the same day.”
“That could never happen.”
“You must have been here all the time. You must have been watching while I was looking for the cow. You are something. You were watching me all that time? Why didn’t you call?”
In response, he gave a sharp guffaw. “Where did you leave Patrick Ryan?” he asked.
“How did you know I was away with Patrick?”
“I saw him go round the shore. I saw the car head for Carrick. I knew well what Patrick wanted. He wanted to go to the hospital. I knew the cow was sick. I didn’t expect you home so soon. Better men than you failed to get Patrick out of the town.”
“I left him in the village. He didn’t want me.”
“Don’t tell me. I know too well.”
With difficulty they persuaded him to enter the house. “Twice drinking whiskey in a house the same day. I’ll be the talk of the country.”
“Not every day the old Shorthorn calves.” Ruttledge gripped his shoulder in a sign of gratitude and affection.
The drinks were poured. They spoke of the visit to the hospital, Edmund’s great courtesy, the difference in character between the two brothers with the same father and mother and the same upbringing in the same small place.
“Would never harm a fly, ‘How are yous all round the lake. You were very good to come.’ I can hear his voice,” Jamesie said.
“Patrick shouldn’t have shaken him awake,” Kate said.
“No, Kate. You can quit. Patrick never had value on Edmund. He just wanted to say that he made the visit in case it could be upcasted. All he cared about was that he was seen talking to Edmund. When the parents were going, it was Patrick this and Patrick that and Edmund wasn’t even noticed. The sun shone out of Patrick.”
“That’s not right.”
“Right or wrong, Kate? There’s nothing right or wrong in this world. Only what happens. I’ll be beating away,” he said, draining the whiskey and refusing the offer of more. “Mary’s over in Mulvey’s on her Sunday ceilidhe. She warned me not to be late. We’ll come back home across the bog together. She wouldn’t cross that bog on her own even if it was the end of the world.”
They walked to where he had left his bicycle down by the lake. The moon was high above the lake. Scents of the wild mint and honeysuckle were sharp and sweet on the night air. The full trees stood high and still, dark and magnificent against the moonlit water.
“I doubt but poor Edmund will ever go these roads again,” Jamesie said quietly as he prepared to cycle away. “I doubt he’ll ever see the lake again.”
Late that night they walked through the heavy dew to the plantation. The calf had sucked and was sleeping by the mother. She let out a sharp, anxious moo as they approached through the branches. When they spoke to her she was quiet and gave the sleeping calf a few sharp, casual licks as if to show her pride. They appeared now as if they had been together for ever. The black cat followed them over the fields. As they retraced their steps she made little runs and darts across their path, a ruse to get herself lifted from the wet grass and carried. Eventually Ruttledge picked her up, and she rode back to the house on his shoulder.
The warm weather came with its own ills. The maggot fly had struck, each stricken sheep or lamb standing comically still as if in scholarly thought. Then suddenly they would try to bite back at the dark, moistened patch of wool tantalisingly out of reach. They were run into the shed. A bath was prepared. The infected sheep and lambs were picked out and the parts dipped in poison. The fat white maggots writhed underneath the wool and on the ground around t
he bath. The sheep and lambs bounded free, rid of their deadly guests.
From the plantation the Shorthorn guided her stumbling calf down to the herd by the water’s edge. They all gathered dutifully to sniff and snort and poke the new calf while the mother stood proudly by. When the cows returned to their grazing, the calves approached their new companion in the expectation of frolics and play but he just sank wearily to his knees, exhausted after his long journey. Ruttledge was surprised to hear voices when he reached the house and stood to listen. Patrick Ryan had come. He and Kate were talking.
“I hear Edmund isn’t well.”
“He’s finished.”
“He could get well again.”
“No, girl. He’s finished.”
Patrick Ryan was seated at the table, his cap beside his hand on the tablecloth. He was eating a boiled egg and buttered toast with a big mug of tea. Kate faced him across a separate table where she was putting together frames for the hives. She often resorted to such tasks when Patrick Ryan was in the house.
“I’m in heaven here with a great boiled egg,” he greeted Ruttledge with sunny amiability.
“We’ve been talking about Edmund,” Kate said.
“It’s no use. I told her our lad is finished. There’s no use talking or pretending otherwise,” he asserted darkly. “I suppose ye were hardly expecting to see me?”
“We are glad to see you,” Ruttledge said. “We expect you, Patrick, when we see you.”
“There’s no surer way as far as expecting goes.”
“Was there much fun in the village last night?”
“It went on too late. Somebody gave me a lift to the corner of the lake. We sat too long in the car—discussing. Fuck all these late-night discussions. They never go anywhere. There was a moon as big as a saucepan when I had to climb the hill to the Tomb. I think it must have been six weeks since I last slept in the house. Anyway there was no little woman there to give out.”
“That was good,” Ruttledge said.
“You wouldn’t know. She wasn’t there anyhow. This woman here is looking to her bees. If people were as busy and organized as the bees we’d have paradise on earth.”
“The bees can be rough too in their way. They make short work of the drones,” Kate said.
“That’s what should be done with our layabouts as well,” he said vigorously, taking his cap from the tablecloth. “We better be making a start. Are you ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“We’ll proceed, then, in the name of God.”
The timbers, the angle irons, the long nails, the nuts and bolts, the sheets of iron had lain about in the shed since they had been bought two years before. They took a long time to find and arrange in order.
Patrick Ryan worked slowly but meticulously. He measured each beam several times before drawing the line with a set square and a stub of a pencil and checked again before taking the saw.
Late in the day they heard a heavy motor come slowly in round the shore and turn uphill towards the house.
“It looks as if we may have a visitor, lad,” Patrick Ryan said with excitement as they lifted their heads from the measuring and checking.
“It’s the Shah,” Patrick Ryan said with obvious disappointment when the new black Mercedes entered the shade, towing a covered cattle trailer. The two men knew one another too well. “You better go and attend to him. He’s unlikely to leave me any washers. I wonder what the hell he’s doing with a cattle trailer,” he said sourly.
Ruttledge went towards the car. The Shah made no attempt to get out. The window was down. The sheepdog was sitting upright in the passenger seat, his paws on the dashboard, barking and wagging with excitement.
“Aren’t you getting out and letting the dog out?”
“I’m waiting,” he said darkly.
“For what?”
“To know what to do.”
“To do with what?”
“This consignment,” he answered irritably.
“A consignment of what?”
“As if you didn’t know,” he said more irritably and struggled from the car. The sheepdog followed him out. Ruttledge petted the dog while the Shah took the pins from the trailer door and swung it open dramatically.
The trailer was full of boxes. Ruttledge started to laugh quietly. The mood and its reason fell into place. A few months before he had done an assignment for a wine company. A payment in wine had been agreed.
“They should have delivered all this to the house here,” Ruttledge said. “They weren’t told to dump it on you.”
“They said the lorry was too big to get in round the shore,” he said angrily. “If I knew what they were carrying I’d have run them to hell.”
“You could nearly start up a pub with this,” Ruttledge said.
“There are several taverns in the town operating with far less,” the Shah said disagreeably.
“I suppose we better get it into the house out of harm’s way.”
“Unless you want to dump it in the lake. I’m glad you can see the funny side of it anyhow. I suppose it pays to have a sense of humour when you’re giving the party.”
Kate hadn’t heard the motor’s approach and was surprised to see the car and cattle trailer outside the porch. She went towards the Shah in welcome but was taken aback by his abruptness. “What are all these boxes?” she asked.
“I suppose your man didn’t tell you either,” he said accusingly. “You should ask him. He appears to know it all.”
“Tell me what?”
“About these boxes he’s ordered for himself. He must be planning to have one whale of a time. It’ll be no time now till you see the whole place going up in smoke.”
She looked towards Ruttledge.
“You remember the work I did for the wine company?”
“Of course.”
“They left it with this man in the town instead of delivering it here to the house.”
“I never thought it would come to so many boxes,” she said.
“They won’t go to loss,” Ruttledge said humorously.
“You can say that again,” the Shah said. He had been watching Kate’s face intently and was reassured by her manner.
They began to carry the boxes into the house. The Shah stayed by the trailer, opening and shutting the door as if to guard against anybody seeing the shameful cargo. Ruttledge carried the boxes through the porch and into the spare room. Kate found the boxes heavy and put them down in the porch. When all the boxes had been carried in, she saw the Shah staring at her little stack of boxes.
“Am I doing something wrong?”
“Can’t you put them where nobody will see them? Can’t you put them where your man is putting them, where they’ll be out of sight?”
Ruttledge said quietly under his breath, “If they are too heavy leave them alone. I’ll carry them into the room. We couldn’t have done worse if a cargo of fallen women had been delivered to the railway sheds.” He was having difficulty presenting a straight face to the world and was glad to hide behind the carrying.
The Shah closed the trailer door and dropped the pins into place with a firmness in which anger and relief were mixed. Patrick Ryan had not looked their way. With a pencil and metal tape he was studiously measuring and marking the various lengths of wood.
“I see you have that drunken sally back working. If he gets wind of this cargo he’ll never leave from around the place,” the Shah said as he entered the house, somewhat mollified to see that the boxes had been removed and put away.
“He doesn’t like wine,” Ruttledge said.
“I suppose he’s no sooner here than he’ll be gone again. I’ve been telling you for a long time that you should run him to hell from around the place and get a proper tradesman.”
“He’s all right. He’ll do for now.”
At first, the Shah had been taken by Patrick Ryan’s easy charm, his effrontery, his mimicry, a delinquency he was partial to, but eventually he went to
o far and the Shah withdrew and watched him as coldly as if he were evaluating a hand of cards. On his way out to the lake one evening he gave Patrick a lift from town. Patrick was the worse for drink and in foul humour. In this mood he was given to lecturing people.
“You have gathered a sight of money. What do you think you’ll do with it? You can’t take it with you. The shroud has no pockets. Have you made decisions?”
Patrick Ryan could not have staggered into a more dangerous territory. The Shah continued to drive in silence; he had not been spoken to like that in years. His money was a source of pride and satisfaction and a deep security. He did not speak at all until the car reached the two bars in Shruhaun beside the little river and the roofless abbey. He stopped the car at the stone bridge while Patrick continued his lecture.
“I’m not stopping here. I’ve had enough of the bars for one day, bad luck to them. I’m going on to the lake.”
“Out!” the Shah said while looking straight ahead.
If Patrick Ryan had been more sober and more watchful he would not have been so taken by surprise.
“There’s no need to take things so seriously. What were we doing but a bit of aul ravelling? They’re no cause to get so het up.”
“That’s enough. Out.”
When Patrick Ryan saw that his attempt to smooth things over would not work, his mood swung round again. “I can tell you something for nothing. You may have money but you’re as thick and ignorant as several double ditches.”
“Out, I said. I’m not one bit interested in what you think.”
“He should be run to hell,” the Shah repeated now as he entered the house. Once he was seated he asked for tea but would have nothing to eat. He was going down to the hotel as soon as he got rid of the trailer.
“You are a great girl, Kate. We have no doubt about you—unlike your man here,” he said as he took the tea, returning to the subject of the wine.
“What doubts?”
“Who’s giving the party?” he demanded half-humorously, anxiously, disapprovingly.
By the Lake Page 7