So, he thought, the Irishman knew a maestro when he saw one. A connoisseur. He stepped up beside Cullen. They leaned on the railing, and said nothing for a while. A fine film of black smoke whipped from the funnel of the trawler, billowing out, thinning into nothing in the vastness of the air above them.
The Frenchman spoke, his voice quiet, almost reverential.
“It is good, Steven. Good.”
He looked at Cullen, inviting attention to his words and to the expression of seriousness he offered with them.
“Your delivery is well noted. I know you were meant just to deliver and be finished. Have no part. Not to be paid. That your release was supposed to be payment enough.”
He made a brief grimace.
“That is not my way. I like to be paid for things I do. It gives dignity and respect to what one does.”
He raised an arm from the railing and expressively rubbed a forefinger on the side of his nose.
“You too will be paid. From my cut, of course. I cannot speak for the other party who delivered to you.”
He nodded and said with an encouraging laugh,
“But I can criticize. And I can have my opinions, non?”
He raised his huge hand and put it on Cullen’s shoulder.
“You have done well, mon ami, for you and for me.”
Cullen just looked at the sea. He thought he should have felt glad to hear such news from Gustav. But at the back of his mind, not very far, was the warning Doyle had given him. He was all right to like, but not one to trust.
Chapter Thirteen
When Eileen Doyle had just started to respond to Doyle’s courtship, her mother had not been delighted.
“God,” she had said blatantly one time, “could you not have done better? After all I’ve done for you and after your father slaving away to keep you in the convent. Could you not have set your sights a bit higher? I don’t know what your father will say. He’ll be heartbroken.”
But her father wasn’t heartbroken. He happened to like Doyle, but that was incidental. His concern was for whom his daughter liked. After all, he reasoned, if it came to marriage, it was Eileen who would be living with the man, not her mother. Bill Cullen was a sensible man. So while he had made those observations to his daughter, giving her his reassurance and blessing, he refrained from making them to his wife. He knew the suffering caused to her by their son, Steven, and of her manic desire for Eileen to do well, and to be seen to do well. Then the world could see that Bill and Tess Cullen could rear at least one successful human being, and that they were not a “barrel of bad ones” as Tess used to moan in her worst moments.
Eileen often reflected on her parents’ lives and how they had benefited greatly by becoming the parents-in-law of Sean. With Sean’s own parents dead, and no immediate family, he had treated her parents as his own. He had not only provided for them in their last years, but had protected them from the unfortunate consequences and sniping gossip about their son. Sean had been strong, she knew. He still was. Always would be.
She had married him at twenty. She loved Sean, loved the two boys she had borne, loved their life with its hardships and shortages, comfortable in the knowledge that they never knew real want. She loved and needed the passions he had awoken in her.
Life for her, in the true sense of the word, had started with her time with Doyle. She felt needed, knew she needed him. Her aim in life was immediate, her purpose clear. That had been sixteen years ago. She was now thirty-six. The house she lived in was bigger than their first. But that wouldn’t be saying much. The first had been a two-room cottage not a stone’s throw from the pier. Twelve years they had lived in it. Twelve hard years.
It wasn’t often she reflected on her life. She didn’t have the time and, for another thing, she was not generally the type to think about the past, being much more concerned with surviving the present and fending for the future.
But occasionally she found herself wondering whether or not it was all too good to be true.
Sean and Eileen Doyle were leading figures in the village. They personified what people thought a fisherman and his wife should be in their attitude, their ambition, even their appearance and behaviour. They respected the sea, their neighbours, and feared God. They expected a decent living for their efforts and, while they observed the rights of others, tipped their cap to none. They dressed and carried on their lives in a sober, serious and quietly intense manner. They taught their children to respect the property and feelings of others. Without being presumptuous, they were both honest enough to know that they set an example.
Eileen was aware of the responsibility that she and Doyle had incurred. She began to see that, by her and Doyle’s modest but solid ambitions, they had forfeit a certain privacy. As Sean’s involvement in his own boat, and the resulting business engendered by increased catches, became more demanding, their time and attention were taken by these considerations. She hoped that this would not be the beginning of the end of their simple life.
She had qualms about her own ability to cope with the life she saw was going to be before them. She doubted her ability to contend with the social aspects. They had already done things like attend dinners and presentations. She had been more than adequate in her role. Doyle had been proud of her, had told her so. None of the company at the functions could have guessed that the serene and self-possessed woman in front of them had suffered agonies of dread and apprehension before the events, and had even endured torments of mortification in private afterwards, as she lay victim to her vivid imagination, letting it run over a series of non-existent mistakes and failures.
She loved her husband dearly. It was only after their marriage that she began to see the potential of their lives. She had never thought it possible to let oneself go so wholly, so completely, forever and for anything.
It was the Monday after Doyle had brought his new boat to Rinnemor that these and other thoughts began to crystallise in her mind. It was another fine June morning. Eileen had stopped in her work to look out over the pier and the sea and the islands. The sky was a high, clear blue. A haze fogged the distant horizon. The sea was a calm, limpid swell moving in smooth rolls throwing shifting shadows and sparkling highlights. The pier was fairly full. The men were readying their boats for an early start on Tuesday.
She knew her husband would be out far, free from prying eyes, but one never knew if there were other trawlers farther out. The Spaniards and the English were known to wander into Irish waters, especially in summer, after the mackerel. She knew that Doyle was meeting a Frenchman out at sea and that Steven was being delivered to him there. More than that he had not told her, and she had not pressed. She was grateful to him for the help he was giving her brother, and annoyed at her brother for involving her husband, however willingly the aid was given.
The house was quiet and lonely. Her two sons, John and David, were back at school for the first day since their illness. At these times she liked to be busy; it occupied her while her family was away. But as Doyle had been in Dublin for a few days, and had only been home for the one evening, she was well ahead in her housework.
She moved away from the large bay window, out of the direct sunlight, into the coolness of the room. She would make tea. Going from the big room overlooking the pier, she went through the hallway, windowless and shadowed, and into the kitchen. She slid the big kettle onto the hot ring on the Aga cooker and got a round mug from the dresser. Using the loose leaves instead of the bags, she made a pot. Tea was her weakness, she thought. She patted her stomach, gripped the tiny roll at her waist and ran the back of one hand under her square, lean chin. Not too bad. Have to watch the tummy though. With an effort she closed the cupboard door where the biscuits were and poured the tea strong and black. She left out the milk. She’d been off the sugar since February.
Holding the steaming mug in her hand, she stood in front of the long mirror opposite the kitchen door. It was used by everyone going out the door for a final check before go
ing out to the world. Her skirt fell in a pleated flow to below her knees. It didn’t flare too much as her hips were not overly full. They had a shape, but not a spread, the way she’d seen a lot of girl’s hips go. That’s what having children did, her friends said. And she agreed. But they were all bigger around the hips and thighs and back, and she never doubted that it was their perpetual biscuit and chocolate nibbling that were the major contributing factors to their spreading beam-ends and doubling chins.
She placed her cup on the table beside the door and looked long and critically at her image. She was not fat, but trim with a neat waist. She put her hands behind her and gently hauled her skirt so that it stretched lightly over her thighs and lower abdomen. The outline of her pants and suspender belt showed faintly. She always liked the idea of stockings.
In the quiet of the house, she looked at herself in all her parts. She had good carriage, straight shoulders and an open face. Her hair tumbled in thick sandy red curls around her neck and she wore long simple earrings which showed underneath the curls. She looked at her bosom and was not displeased. Doyle had called her voluptuous. She brought her hands up under her breasts and cupped them. Even with her bra on, she could feel the full round shapes weighing her palms. She held them loosely, then pushed them up gently together, so they formed a deep cleavage. She let them part again and opened two buttons in her light blouse. With a quick tug, she plucked the blouse from the band of her skirt and held it up. Her bare tummy had no stretch marks. It was flat, but with a layer of soft flesh. She didn’t mind that. Her shape was good. The fat wasn’t soft and saggy as she’d seen on other women on the beach. She drew her fingers across it. The skin did not wrinkle, though it dipped under the pressure of her hand.
The last time she’d examined herself was nearly a year ago. It had been after a long Sunday afternoon with her husband in Dublin. They had been there two days, tired of the dirt, the noise, the incessant traffic, and had decided against going to a film for the afternoon. They had gone to bed tired and edgy, trying not to snap at each other. Once they got under the covers, they had made love spontaneously, passionately and wordlessly, then slept soundly for hours. When they returned home to Rinnemor, they were at one, at ease with themselves and each other. They were glad to be back, to get on with their lives. After the dirt of the city, the eternal greyness of the low clouds and high buildings, the drab paint on the walls and the inescapable smoky, oily smell of busses and cars, they were glad of the fresh, intoxicating air of the coast.
She put her hands behind her again and pulled the dress tighter at her front. Shapes filled out beneath the light material: panties, suspenders, stockings, and the mound beneath her abdomen. She shifted one foot, spreading the angle between her thighs and feeling the pressure of the material tighten on her tummy and pubis. Holding the skirt tight with one hand, she raised the hem above the knees with the other. Her calves were good, long and shapely and firm. They tapered at the lower part, giving the ankle a low, but distinctive prominence of its own. The light high-heel sandals set the shape off well. She was pleased to see that her knees didn’t sag or bulge. As she looked, she realised that it had been far too long since she had had a good look at herself; that it was easy to take for granted how well she had looked the last time. So far, it seemed fine. As well as before. No better, no worse. Though she’d had to haul the jeans last week a little bit harder than usual over the thighs.
She lifted the skirt to the stocking tops, then over them to the tops of the thighs. She stretched and flexed the thigh muscles, watching the shape. Her legs were well-contoured and firm. Her habit of walking from the hip, with a long stride keeping the knee fairly straight had a lot to do with this. She remembered reading about it in a magazine when she was younger. She had started to practise, got the habit and kept it for life. It kept her spine straight, so she walked and stood erect and comfortable. She opened the bottom two buttons on her blouse and let it fall open. She traced her hand up to her ribs and over the light material of her bra. She felt it first, then saw the nipple hardening. And the other one. Her buttocks tightened and her mound protruded against the stretched skirt, which she lifted higher.
Her panties were plain white nylon. The shade of her hair showed through. The palm of her open hand moved gently over the thick bush under the taut nylon. She blinked as her bra tightened over her swelling breasts, erecting nipples. It was getting too tight. And yet the tightness pleased her. She raised her hand and drew her right cup out and down. The breast pulled down, straining, and, in an exhilaration of tender pain, the nipple caught the edge and popped, hard and erect, from the firm round bulb of flesh. Gently her palm moved and touched the tip of the bright pink nipple. Her hand moved around, barely touching the tender flesh. She caught her panties, pulling them tight so they stretched between her thighs. She let her hips move lightly, squeezing and relaxing her buttocks so that the light material of the panties found its way inside her. The material touched her pleasure spot and she moaned involuntarily. She thought of Doyle, of how he liked to make love with her gently first, then with mounting passion.
At the thought of Doyle, she stopped moving. She did not want to do without him. She would love to have him here now, bare and hard, against her and inside her. She thought of his solid muscles, flat stomach, of how his hips pumped when he rode her. Thrills and shivers shot through her. She felt her knees bend slightly, the gap between her thighs open. She closed her eyes and moaned as she slid her finger in.
She was about to loosen her other cup, let her nipples thrill to her own caresses, when she heard the car brakes squeal in slow and noisy complaint. As if hit by a switch, her currents shut down and she was buttoning, straightening, moving quickly into the anonymous shade in the kitchen. The car door shut, footsteps crunched on the gravel of the front yard. She glanced in the mirror, flicked back her hair. She went to the big mirror again as someone knocked at the door. She had worked fast and well. She gave a few brief pulls to the blouse, drew her hands tightly down her cheeks to give colour and walked unhurriedly to the door. Even before she opened it, she knew who it was. She knew the footsteps and the jokey tattoo of a knock that Father Tom gave when he was on one of his parochial visits. She knew that the village loved him, and that he was as integral to the place as was the church, or the pier, or Bannion’s Pub. Though she knew he did good work, could even be described as dedicated, she could never bring herself to like him, or to trust him.
Chapter Fourteen
Eileen opened the latch, then stood back as she greeted the young cleric. She forced a smile onto her face and spoke lightly. She thought of Doyle’s respect for the priest. In deference to her husband, she tried to be cordial.
The young priest stepped in with two strategic strides. For a moment, Eileen stood still, irked by the man. He bent his head to one side, raised a hand in blessing and chanted,
“God bless all here.”
His words rang loud and empty. Eileen grimaced as the young man joined his hands, fingers interlaced, and beamed at her.
“Eileen, my dear, I was passing by the other day. I thought it had been a long time since we’d had a chat.”
He paused to renew his faltering grin.
“So here I am.”
She remembered his last little “chat.” She and Doyle were spending a Saturday evening quietly and contentedly in the room overlooking the pier. Father Tom had come and was welcomed in by Doyle and, with some reservation, herself. They had tea and talked. Within minutes, Father Tom had expounded on the necessity of Sunday Mass, the sanctity of marriage, and the regular reception of the Sacraments. Eileen had contained her sudden anger. For a while she said nothing. Then, when the priest had told them, without leave or their own consent, to do what he said they should do, she had flared at him with an eruption so volatile and so precise that the two men had sat in sullen silence before the priest beat a hurried and pious retreat from the house. Nor had Eileen been unaware of the implied vengeance of the priest’s par
ting remark:
“May God grant you all you deserve.”
Doyle had remarked later that Father Tom didn’t have the guile to speak with such irony. Eileen doubted that. But they still went to Mass when they felt like it, and not as a matter of habit.
What purpose had sent him now, she wondered.
“Come in,” she said and showed him into the front room. They sat on the old stuffed chaise longue. She offered him tea.
“Perhaps after,” he answered, as if acceptance of tea would be a condition of the successful conclusion of his visit.
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and looked at her. The last visit was still in her mind. His presence, timed when her husband was not here, seemed devious. She looked blankly at him. He continued staring. Neither of them budged. Finally he spoke.
“I called because Sean was saying the boys weren’t well. Yesterday, at the ceremony when the Stella came in.”
His voice had a solicitousness at odds with his manner, and only served to strengthen the impression of deceit. Before she could reply, he went on.
“It was a grand occasion. The whole village was there.”
He smiled vindictively.
“Everybody. We were all saying what a great figure Sean cut. And how he handled the boat so well. Every inch the captain.” He shook his head in gleeful sadness.
“The likes of it will never be seen again, nor will the sense of occasion ever be so grand. It was a great pity you couldn’t have taken the trouble to organise the children and been there, Eileen. I’d say you were missed, you know?”
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