“Good day to you,” replied Hector. He ordered the bottle of stout for which the driver expressed a wish and then somewhat tentatively asked for brandy for himself–“and soda water,” he added.
The big man did not move but merely rumbled regretfully. “Isn’t that too bad now? I haven’t a drop of soda wather in the house. I get no call for it,” he explained. “What brandy would you like? Hinnessey or Courvoisier or––?”
Hector made his choice, but the drinks were not immediately forthcoming. After a short pause for thought the publican washed his hands with deliberate thoroughness at the sink under the counter, dried them, shook out of its folds a fresh teacloth and with it proceeded to put a polish on two glasses which he had already selected with some care; occasionally he would hold one or the other up to the fight from the small window to admire the results of his handiwork. Hector was beginning to think that his presence had been forgotten when the man spoke.
“Is it from across in The States ye are, sir?”
Before Hector could open his mouth to speak the driver supplied the information. “The gentleman came in this morning on the Aer Lingus flight from New York,” he announced.
“Ah!” said the publican weightily; he put down the polished glasses with an air of finality and turned to select a bottle from the shelves at the back of the bar. “There’s nothing like travel to broaden the mind.” With the cork half-way out of the bottle he paused to look piercingly at Hector. “Do ye mind me asking, sir, now that you’re here–what’s your first impression of the old country?”
Although the room was still dim in comparison with the tangled sun-lit garden that could be glimpsed through the small windows, it was no longer of a vault-like blackness; Hector’s eyes had adapted themselves. He could distinguish the gleaming mahogany of the bar counter and the scrubbed bareness of the unstained floor; he could see the spotless, gilt-framed mirror with its painted advertisement for beer above the heavy green marble chimney-piece on which stood a heavy black marble clock, its motionless hands indicating the hour of half past ten. He wondered whether this represented the pub’s opening time or closing time, if time mattered at all in this wild western valley. Perhaps that, after all, was his clearest impression of the day, that he had flown into a land where time stood still.
He was about to put his thought into words when he remembered the advice of his fellow-passenger and cast about in his mind for some more suitable impression. It would never have done for Hector to admit that he had already become aware of a mañana attitude in Ireland; what he said might be taken as a generalisation, as an expression of what he expected to find throughout the country, even as an idea that had been preconceived. If tine publican were to drag out his natural slowness into a performance for the foreigners benefit, it seemed unlikely that the drinks would get served before nightfall. Looking round at the scrubbed dinginess of the bar and remembering the wind-scoured bareness of the high plateau, Hector decided to play it safe.
“The wonderful freshness of the air,” he said, “and the clean look of everything–to be frank with you, I didn’t expect that.”
The publican continued to regard him with a heavy lack of expression. “Cleanliness is akin to Godliness,” he observed at last. As if reminded by the proverb of a neglected duty, he thrust the cork back into place and began to wipe the neck of the bottle vigorously with a clean cloth. When his conscience was satisfied he dropped the cloth into a basket, removed the cork–completely this time–and held the bottle poised over the brandy-glass, but he did not pour. “I went across for the Epsom Derby last year,” he rumbled reflectively. “I suppose you know London, sir?”
“I’ve been there,” Hector admitted faintly. He was unable to take his eyes off the bottle; to begin with, he had not particularly wanted a drink–now he felt like Tantalus.
“Most of the London public-houses I went into had machines for washing the glasses,” the heavy voice pursued. “While it’s undergoing treatment, the glass is never touched by human hand but is washed and cleaned by jets of water–very hygienic altogether. Then the bartender takes the glass when it comes out of the machine and wipes it off with the same old cloth he’s been wiping his hands on and swabbing the counter with half the day. Science is wonderful.” He heaved solemnly a couple of times, perhaps with subdued laughter, and turned to look for a spirit-measure.
Behind the publican’s back the driver made a face at Hector and elaborately pantomimed the agonies of death from thirst, but his voice was polite, almost ingratiating, when he spoke. “The gentleman’s fair gasping with the drought, boss,” he said.
“Is that a fact?” The new thought had to be examined from all angles. “I don’t know but what the missus must have the measure. ’Tis making cakes she is inside. I’ll just pour out by eye-measurement. You won’t lose by it, sir.” Incredibly, the golden liquid was at last allowed to flow into the glass.
Feeling relaxed and a little tired, Hector had a second brandy while the going was good. He found it pleasant to lean against the bar counter, separated by its width from the massive quietude of the publican, and absorb the peace of the place. Again the thought came to him that he was in a lacuna in time, that the earth and the sun would continue to stand still till he finished his drink and recommenced his journey. He wondered what, if anything, the publican did when he was not engaged in tantalising passers-by by not pouring drinks for them. In any other part of the world it would seem impossible just to do nothing, but here––
“I’m not sure that my most lasting impression of this country won’t be its peace,” Hector said; he was scarcely aware that he had spoken aloud. “Lots of people have told me about it, but I never realised that it’s an almost tangible thing–peace of the spirit.”
“Peace of the spirit, echoed the publican solemnly, it a trifle doubtfully. “A fine thing surely! Isn’t it the goal of life?”
“In my country the constant noise and rush and worry and competition are slowly driving us all nuts. We should all spend half the year over here to get our sanity restored.”
“Then maybe the population of Ireland should change over with you because there’s a powerful lot of us going nuts–and not slowly either. Our insanity figures are terrible altogether.”
“That’s a true fact,” agreed the driver. “There’s many a man leading a lonely life in a place like this that no one thinks anything of till he splits some unfortunate with a reaping hook, or maybe hangs himself by the roadside to frighten the children an’ they coming home from school. Ah, ’tis a curse altogether when the brain goes wrong.”
“Ye’ve only to look at our asylums,” pursued the publican darkly. “They’re bigger than the factories.”
“Specially round the coast,” chipped in the driver.
“And give more employment.”
“And the screams coming out of them would turn your stomach.”
“’Tis true. There’s a strait-jacket–as you might say–in every countryman’s kitbag.”
Since the first mention of insanity, Hector had been unable to get in a word; now he stared from one to another of the two Irishmen with growing astonishment. “I had no idea,” he said, “no idea at all. Nothing I’ve heard or read has prepared me for it. And yet––” A thought struck him. “You say the figures are worst round the coast?”
“True for you.”
“And the mountains run round the coast? I seem to remember that Ireland is like a saucer, flat in the middle.”
“Right again.”
“And the mountain men make moonshine, don’t they? Poteen–could that be the cause of the trouble?”
“Yerrah, not at all.” The publican’s vast frame became mobile with indignation. “Sorra a bit of harm a drop of the right stuff ever done to a good man, unless maybe the next morning he might have remorse for breaking the law. Look at it this way, sir.” He leant across the counter and banged it with his fist to emphasise his argument. “Good poteen that’s properly made is pure po
t still whisky that only needs to be machoored a bit to be as grand as anything you ever tasted. And you can’t just go into a place and buy it–at any price, anywhere. Before you can get a drop you’ve got to be known, and the reputation of your parents and them that got them have to be known, and who your sisters and your cousins are married to. Well, if the poteen-maker knows so much about you, you must have a pretty good idea about him and whether he’d do things right or wrong and, if you had the least doubt about the stuff, you’d have to be mad in the first place to drink it. No, sir. Poteen may have helped an odd poor fellow down the road but it never started anyone on it. There isn’t enough of the stuff made in the whole country anyway to alter a statistic by the shadow of a decimal.”
“There was never a truer word,” said the driver. He finished his stout and replaced the glass on the counter with a thud.
Hector found himself left with the shattered remains of preconceived ideas that he had not even realised he had been nurturing; he was too much surprised to recollect that the theory of the fat man on the plane had also been dealt a severe blow. “That’s very interesting,” he said, signalling to the publican to refill the glasses, the brandy at least having outdone his expectations. “Have you any theory to account for the greater incidence of insanity in maritime districts?”
“I have that.” This time it was the theory that was left in the air while the drinks were poured with fitting solemnity. “We’ve had a theory in these parts for years, though the scientists are only coming round to it now. It’s the fish.”
“The what?”
“Too much fish in the diet. The phosphorus in the fish burns up the brain and makes men mad–kind of radiation, like, or radio-action. ’Tis a true thing I’m telling you.”
“Oh, gospel-truth–and well known,” confirmed the driver. “That’s why you’ll never find anyone who lives round the coast who’ll eat a bit of fish at all.”
The patent lack of logic was too much for the publican; his impressive solemnity dissolved into what in a less massive man might have been described as a giggle. He made a derisory gesture towards his compatriot.
“That fellow’s the queer eedjut,” he said to Hector. “Isn’t it a wonder now that he couldn’t keep going a bit longer without giving the show away.” His giggles subsided. “And by the same token I hope there’s no offence–none was intended. It’s just that I see so few people around here that I have to have a bit of a joke when I get the chance. You must have a drink on me now to show there’s no ill feeling.” He grabbed the bottle with the speed of a striking snake.
Somewhere at the back of Hector’s mind had lurked the suspicion that he was being ribbed, but he had suppressed it; it was the manner rather than the matter that had deceived him. The two men had seemed so slow, so solemn, so unsophisticated, so much–Hector would have thought–in need of dollars, that the idea of their merely having fun with him had seemed far-fetched. The odd tiling was that he liked them the better for it; at once they had become more human and the country more real to him, because the performance that they had put on had been to amuse themselves and not the stranger. Oddly he was the more amused.
“You must have a lot of practice at this sort of thing,” he said. “That lecture of yours about poteen was so impressive that it really convinced me. Don’t tell me it was all boloney.”
“What I said was true enough, but I was arguing one way.” The publican poured out a liberal measure of whisky for himself and raised the glass. “Good health! Here’s hoping you’ll enjoy yourself in Ireland. Good poteen’s all right, but I wouldn’t touch the stuff. It has some strange properties: it breaks down barriers–inhibitions, like–and makes people do powerful queer things but nothing that the same people wouldn’t do sober, if they had the guts.” He downed his drink in one swallow. “Except talk, maybe. ’Tis a true fact I’m telling you that, however loose-tongued an Irishman may seem–a countryman anyway,–he’ll never say a word at all about the things that matter to him. You may meet a hundred men with a gift of the gab like some of O’Casey’s characters, but they’re only concealing their thoughts behind a smoke-screen of words. You’ll find that out for yourself when you know the country better–or maybe you won’t. One thing though; in places where poteen is made or drunk you’ll not hear it mentioned in jest or in earnest, in general or in particular. ’Tis only rarely when a man’s under the influence he may talk, and then he may act so that what he said won’t go any further. That’s one of the things we don’t like about poteen. It’s safer to get muzzy on ordinary liquor and do nothing at all.”
The sun was dipping towards the sea when they left the pub. Hector had enjoyed himself a lot, nonetheless so for realising that he had made some quite substantial purchases from an expert if somewhat unusual salesman. There was still sufficient light to see whatever the road might have to show him, and it would be more convenient for all concerned to let his aunt reach her home before he presented himself there. He settled back comfortably in the seat beside the driver.
“That was a remarkable joint,” he said. “I’m glad you brought me to it.”
“The people round about call it the Mirage.”
“It’s substantial enough I should have thought.”
“But it’s powerful hard to get a drink when you crawl into it–and many’s the man who’s found it hard to see his way to crawl out of it. Getting drunk there has what you might call the inevitability of gradualness.”
Hector laughed. “Is he always so slow in getting started to pour out drinks?”
“Sure isn’t that his technique? A bunch of people come in for a quick one, and they get such a thirst on them watching him take half an hour to pour it out that they don’t leave till they’re full. He’s quick enough when he’s got his customers in the mood.”
“The old ruffian,” commented Hector indulgently.
“He’s a hairy one all right; the divil wouldn’t best him.” There was conscious pride in the driver’s voice. “He’s my uncle.”
The car was reasonably comfortable and the road smooth of surface, if narrow and winding; Hector stopped talking and concentrated on the ever-changing view. They left the valley behind them and a range of low hills and passed through a belt of farmland, with small houses set apparently at random among small fertile fields and–here and there–a sleepy village. As the sun began to sink below the horizon, they ascended into a region of harsh grey mountains and still grey lakes and occasional sheltered valleys where rhododendrons rioted. Here the only trees to be seen were in ordered evergreen plantations about houses of the sort that were associated with Hector’s dim childish recollections of Ireland, dignified and colourless except where upper windows reflected the last of the sunset. In gathering darkness the way dipped from its windings through the hills to run straight as an arrow across what seemed to be an endless monotony of bog.
“Nearly there now,” said the driver.
“I’m sure I remember trees,” Hector complained.
“Plenty of trees when we get there, very like. I’ve never been nearer the place than the town beyond.”
It was scarcely what Hector would have called a town, though it rose out of the bog with impressive suddenness almost as the driver mentioned it; while the little huddle of houses seemed to mark the road’s return to solid ground, the rise in the general level was barely appreciable. There was a winding main street that could be called long only in relation to the brevity of the two or three lesser ways that intersected it, and a stone bridge over a wide river; in spite of the lateness of the hour, nearly nine o’clock, several shops appeared to be still open for business. Like the countryside that immediately surrounded it, the place seemed to be devoid of distinguishing features. The driver brought the car to a halt.
“I’ll have to ask the way here,” he said.
“Where is here?” Hector inquired without enthusiasm.
“Sure where would it be but Newtown Moore, the place you wanted to go? It’s the great
house we have to look for now.”
A passer-by directed them to go on to the end of the town, fork left over the bridge and carry straight forward till they saw the big gate-piers in front of them, a matter of ten miles from where they stood. When they continued their journey it was too dark to see more than the undulating road before them and the fences that bordered it after the last of the houses had been left behind. Straggling thorn hedges were to be seen and occasional clumps of fuchsia, even a few scattered, wind-stunted trees, but of the dark woods of Hector’s recollection there was no sign even when the car’s speedometer told them that they should have arrived at their destination. They did not have much longer to wait however; the road must have risen imperceptibly all the way from the village, for, without having been aware of climbing, they found themselves suddenly at the top of a steep hill. Looking out over the valley that lay ahead, Hector thought that he perceived a difference in the darkness; the uniform grey had been replaced by a great splodge of deepest black broken by patches that glowed palely–trees, Hector guessed, and water. A moment later the car was in the silence of the woods, where thick foliage over-arched the road and motionless rabbits stared into the headlights’ beam.
“This is more like it,” Hector observed.
He was not sure if his memory anticipated by an instant the sight of the twin stone eagles on the mouldering gate-piers; certainly his recognition of them was at the least immediate and full, and accompanied by an unexpected heart-stirring. The gates were expectantly open, but there was no light showing from the lodge, the conical roof and leaded windows of which reminded Hector of a witch’s house just as much as they had done when he was a child. Memories were coming tumbling back now so thickly that they obscured and coloured reality, memories of things and places–and of people, some of whom he would no doubt be meeting again within the next few minutes as strangers. As the car swept round the last curve of the avenue and the big grey house came in sight, Hector found that all the excitement, all the anticipated pleasure of his arrival had in a moment changed to a diffidence that was almost fear. He would have liked to say to the driver: turn round and go away from here–I should never have come.
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