“Oh, I’m glad that he’s better since I came,” Davy smiled in appreciation, “because I remember after my father died that the lonesome nearly ate the heart out of me, so I kind of understand how Peter feels, and my mother was a bit like herself inside and she wouldn’t talk about it, and that nearly killed me altogether.”
So that’s it, Jack thought. He had wondered why Peter, who was not a great mixer by nature, was getting on so well with Davy. Davy just now was the right man in the right place. Davy would have been about Peter’s age when his father had been killed by Nolans’ bull, so in one sense he had once stood where Peter was right now.
“Well, I suppose we’d better get moving again,” Jack said, rising stiffly from the side of the plough. “I’m getting stiff in my old bones, Davy lad.”
“You’re as fit as a fiddle, Jack,” Davy told him. “You trot up and down that field faster than I could ever do it.”
That’s not saying much for me, Jack thought, because speed was not one of Davy’s strong points.
Just then there was a shout from the gap and Nora and Peter came running along the headland with school sacks bumping off their backs.
“Lord, are ye home from school?” Jack said to them in surprise. “The day is nearly gone.”
“You’ve a lot done, Jack,” Peter declared admiringly, looking up the long brown furrows.
“Not bad for an old fella,” Jack said smiling.
“You’re not an old fella,” Nora protested.
“I’m no spring chicken either,” Jack laughed.
“Are Jerry and James tired?” she wanted to know.
“Not at all,” Jack told her. “Those two big fat lumps need some of the lard taken off them. No better job than ploughing to do that. What have they been doing all winter only inside in the stable getting big roundy bums on them.”
But something else had caught her attention and she stood looking up along the field. She walked back and forth at the end of the furrows and then she stooped down and peered up along the row of upturned sods.
“What’s wrong with you, Norry, have you got something wrong with your head?” Peter teased, winking at Davy, but she ignored him.
“Did you ever notice, Jack,” she asked slowly, “that when you look up along a ploughed field it has a sort of a silvery look to it.”
“That’s right,” Jack told her; “whatever it is about the newly turned sod, it has a silvery or metallic sheen.” He joined her to look up along the field.
“Come on,” she said to the other two, “and see what I mean.”
Peter and Davy, with broad smiles on their faces, stood looking up the field.
“Can’t see a thing only mud,” Davy declared, “but if anybody looked in over the ditch they’d say that Phelans had four new scarecrows at the bottom of the field.”
“Go away home, let ye,” Jack laughed. “Ye’re only come-in-the-way boys here.”
“What are come-in-the-way boys?” Nora wanted to know.
“Fellows,” Jack told her, “who do nothing themselves and come in the way of other people who have work to do.”
“That’s us all right,” Davy said, sticking the tea bottle into his pocket and taking Nora’s hand. “Come on, lads, we’d better not come in the way of this busy man,” and the three of them headed for the gap with Nora still pointing up the field trying to make the others see what she found so fascinating.
Suddenly the three of them came to a standstill as Martha in the pony and trap turned in the gate from the road and came down the boreen beside the field. Jack could see from the stance of Nora and Peter that they were stunned to see her actually driving the pony and trap. Then their surprise turned to delight and they ran along the headland pulling Davy with them. They were at the gap to join her in the trap for a drive down to the house. Jack smiled to himself as he thought of Davy’s muddy boots inside in Martha’s clean trap.
But it was good to see her out and about again. He knew that if she put her mind to it she could do a great job in running Mossgrove. As he ploughed up and down the field he thought about her and decided that though he had never found her likable he had often found her admirable. But as the day wore on and the lengthening shadows stretched across the field, all thoughts of Martha and other problems disappeared and he became totally absorbed in the fulfilment of turning the soft brown sod. There is no doubt, he thought, but there is healing in this earth and a calming in the stillness of the fields.
When darkness came he unhitched the horses from the plough, left it on the headland ready for the morning and then headed down for the house with the horses. He hoped that Davy and Peter were well into the milking, or even had it finished, as he felt that he could do with a bit of a sit-down right now.
There was nobody around the cow stalls, so he concluded that they were all finished and was glad of it. He eased the tackling off the two tired horses and rubbed them down with a scrap of dry hay. After they drank deeply from the water trough outside the stable door, he led them into their stalls where Davy had their mangers full of softly piled hay. Paddy neighed in welcome, and as Jack left the stable he could hear the satisfying sound of hay between crunching jaws. Bran followed him across the yard jumping up to tell him how delighted he was to have him home.
“Good boy, Bran,” he praised, rubbing him down and patting him. “Did you get fed yet?” A half-empty bowl outside the back door answered the question and Bran went back to finish it off. Jack lifted the latch of the back door and then sat on a low stool to ease off his muddy boots and the wellington tops that he wore when ploughing to keep the mud off his trousers. Martha’s pan of water was back on the table, so he washed his hands and dashed some of the cold water over his face.
When he went into the kitchen the rest of them were gathered around the table and he felt at once that the atmosphere was lighter than in previous days.
“Mom milked with us tonight,” Peter said proudly.
“That’s good,” Jack said cautiously. Martha was not one to expect appreciation, so you had to tread carefully with her or you could get your nose snapped off.
“We’re having a fry for our supper,” Nora told him with a smile on her face, “’cause we didn’t have a proper dinner.”
“I could polish off a fry now right enough,” Jack declared, looking in appreciation at the bacon, sausages and black pudding surrounding the fried eggs on the plates on the table. Martha knew how to feed a hungry man. As they ate, the children chatted freely and Davy joined in their conversation. Martha as usual was quiet but Jack felt that tonight there was something different about her. He sensed a suppressed excitement and he wondered what had caused it. Maybe, he thought, she was just relieved to have today over her and to have things straightened out. Jack slept well that night and every night that week as the ploughing continued. It was great to be catching up and getting things done at last. For a while back he had been worried that they might not have been able to keep the show on the road but thankfully they were putting all that behind them now. There was nothing, he decided, to beat the feeling that you were winning though the odds were stacked against you. He felt that he owed it to the old man, Nellie and Ned to keep the place going for Peter, and then once Peter was up and running he could take things easy, but not too easy. He wanted to die in harness, not rust out like an old plough in the dyke.
On Friday the ploughing was finished, and that evening as he walked home after his supper he stood at the gap of the well field and looked across the folded furrows of brown earth. They stretched across the entire field and he could see through the gap in the blackthorn hedge the furrows continue across the adjoining field. These are fields full of promise, he thought, waiting like dark brown wombs to receive the seeds of wheat, oats and barley and even the humble spud. The miracle of growth never failed to delight him, and he knew that one morning in a few weeks time after the planting was done he would stand in this gap and see a fine green sheen along the top of the brown earth. A very de
licate ferny growth like a baby’s hair. A new beginning, and despite all the hardship what a wonderful thing that was. Ned, he thought, you understood all these thoughts that are running through my mind and I miss having you to share it with me, but somehow when I walk around these fields you are never far away from me. This was your place and your spirit lives on here.
When he reached the cottage Toby went wild with delight. He lit the fire and then went out to lock up the hens and to check for eggs in the darkening fowl house. I’m like a cat, he thought, I can find my way around in the dark. When he got back in he lit the lamp and was glad to see the Kilmeen Eagle on the table. Sarah Jones dropped it in every Friday on her way home from the village. He put a bowl of fresh food outside for Toby, where Maggie the cat soon joined him and they ate peaceably out of the one bowl. That’s all the jobs done, he thought thankfully and sat into his low armchair by the fire and eased off his boots to warm his toes.
He put up his hand and swung the lamp in its hinged bowl right over his head so that he could see the print more clearly. It was difficult sometimes to see in the lamplight, though he was fine in daylight. A new pair of glasses would probably help things along, but so far he had got by with an old pair of Nellie’s. He eased open the paper in anticipation. The Eagle was always full of interesting bits and pieces. As was his habit he glanced through it all quickly before settling down to go through each section in greater detail. When he opened the middle page the word Mossgrove in large letters jumped out at him. He couldn’t quite take it in: what the hell was Mossgrove doing in the Kilmeen Eagle? Then the large notice hit him between the two eyes like a hard stone.
For Sale. By Public Auction.
The rest of the words ran into each other and danced before his eyes. He could not make sense out of them. Blood pounded into his head. Shock like a bullet hit him in the gut. His hands started to tremble.
“What in the name of Christ is happening to me?” he wondered, taking off his glasses and shaking his head. “I’ll put down the paper now and I’ll steady up and calm myself. Maybe I’m imagining things.”
But when he put on his glasses and picked up the paper again it was still there. Mossgrove, on the instructions of Martha Phelan, was for sale.
“Holy Jesus,” Jack swore, “we’re going to be sold out.”
The possibility had never even crossed his mind. Mossgrove had been Phelan land for as far back as anyone could remember. But since he was fifteen it had been his too. He had worked and nurtured it and the love of this land was ingrained deep into the very fibre of his being. He would rather die than see it sold.
Chapter Eleven
KATE DID NOT sleep that night. Every time she closed her eyes, the “For Sale” notice in the Kilmeen Eagle danced into her mind. The possibility of such a thing happening had never entered her head. Mossgrove in her life had been indestructible. Generations of Phelans might come and go, but the land of Mossgrove remained in the family for ever. She ran the insoluble problem around her head for hours.
At three o’clock she finally gave up all hope of sleep. She came down to the kitchen and made a hot drink with Jack’s cure. Poor Jack, she thought, he must surely know by now because Sarah would have brought him the Eagle as usual. She knew that he had no inkling beforehand because if he had he would have got a message to her. It was a dreadful way for him to find out. Martha probably had not told anybody. Her style would be to do her own thing and keep her thoughts to herself. The chances were that the children did not know either. It would be terrible if they were told by an outsider. Thoughts and possibilities chased each other around her mind until she was so confused that she did not know what to think. She sat by the warm range in the kitchen and swirled the hot drink around in the mug. When she had it finished she felt fuzzy-headed and more confused.
She went into the sitting room and stoked up the fire; there were still some red embers so she put on more turf and soon it blazed up. She would sit by the fire here and maybe she might doze a little. She looked up at the picture of her grandfather. “Now where do we go from here?” she asked him. He looked down at her with his penetrating eyes and she wondered how he would have handled the situation.
“Your problem,” she told him, “came from outside the family, but this one is inside, which is far worse. I can see no solution to it.”
She wrapped an old knitted shawl belonging to her mother around her shoulders and sat looking into the fire, but there was no comfort to be found gazing into the glowing turf. Her mother’s face and Ned’s face swam in front of her.
She must have dozed off because from a distance she became aware that someone was tapping on the window. It did not alarm her unduly because people came to her house at all times of the night. She was startled, however, when she drew back the curtain and saw Mark’s pale face peering in at her. She went into the hallway and opened the door quickly.
“Come in,” she said. “Are you all right?”
He slipped past her soundlessly like a tall, thin shadow.
“I saw your light, Kate,” he said, looking down at her anxiously, “and I hope you don’t mind me knocking at this hour.”
“No, not at all,” she told him, taking his hand and leading him towards the fire. There was something about Mark that always made her feel protective towards him. “You’re a real night owl.”
“I know that people find it strange, but I like the night. I can play music after being out walking at night and sometimes I draw what I see at night. You see strange things at night, Kate.”
“You sit there by the fire and warm yourself and I’ll make us a pot of tea,” she said.
As she made the tea she wondered if he knew about Mossgrove. She decided that he probably did because Agnes would have got the Eagle and probably discussed it with him. When she returned with the tray he confirmed her thoughts.
“I knew that you’d be upset about Mossgrove,” he told her, “and when I saw your light I guessed that you couldn’t sleep.”
“Thanks, Mark,” she said gratefully. “I’m glad of the company. What do you think of the whole thing?”
“She won’t change her mind,” he told her. “Martha is never wrong and Martha never changes her mind.”
He was not criticising his sister; he was simply stating a fact It was one of the things that had always endeared him to Kate: he was totally non-judgmental of people. Part of it was that he had very little interest in what went on in the parish, as he was preoccupied with his music and drawing, but he was also very tolerant, and what people did was their own business.
“I brought you your picture,” he told her, opening his bag that he had hung on the back of the chair.
“Oh, I’m so happy to have this,” she told him appreciatively as she looked again at Ned planting the young beech along the ditch of Mossgrove.
“Never thought the day I drew it that there would be so many changes so soon,” he said.
“Our whole world is turned upside down.”
“Ned was so solid it was as if he held us all together.”
“You’re right there,” she agreed. “Did Ned know that you were sketching him?”
“Oh yea,” he told her. “Ned was one of the few people whom I could draw and it didn’t make any difference to him. A lot of people become very self-conscious.”
“I think that I’d be like that,” Kate admitted.
“Look at this one now,” Mark said, drawing another out of his bag.
“Well, isn’t that just perfect!” Kate gasped in admiration. She was looking at a picture of Jack sitting by the fire wearing Nellie’s old glasses and reading the paper with his feet up on the hob and Toby and Maggie stretched out on the hearth. It was a view from outside the window, which was lightly sketched into the foreground.
“Jack didn’t know?” she asked.
“No,” he said simply. “I did it from outside the window one night. Pictures seen through a window are fascinating; most of us have no curtains, and it’s almost
as if the window is the frame of the picture. People in those situations are completely natural. Wonderful pictures!”
Kate was amazed and amused. Nobody but Mark would think of doing something so outlandish and see nothing extraordinary in it. He did not look in windows out of curiosity. Mark simply saw them as interesting pictures. If anyone else went around looking in windows she would have been horrified, but because it was Mark it was different – innocent.
“I’ve a picture in here,” he said tentatively, patting his bag, “and it worries me.”
“Would you like me to look at it?”
“If you wouldn’t mind,” he said anxiously, “but then that would be passing the worry on to you, and you’ve so much trouble on your shoulders now that I hate bringing more.”
“But maybe I could do something about it,” she suggested.
“Well, yes,” he agreed, his normally tranquil face distressed. ‘You’re about the only one who could, though how I don’t know.”
“Let me see it so, Mark,” she suggested, “and then we’ll decide what to do.”
Slowly he drew the picture out of his bag, as if the very act was painful to him, and he handed it across the fire to her. When she looked at the drawing she recoiled in horror. The fear in the picture was palpable. Little Kitty Conway was sitting up in bed with a look of absolute terror on her face and the palms of her hands pressed forward as if pushing away something hateful. In the candlelight the menacing shadow of Matt Conway was sketched beside the bed.
“When did you do this, Mark?” she asked in a choked voice.
“A few nights ago,” he whispered back, “but I didn’t know what to do with it.”
“What did you do that night?” she asked.
“I rattled the window to frighten him, and then I ran, because that way he didn’t know who it was in the dark, and someone unknown might scare him more than me.”
“It probably would,” she agreed.
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