An Irish Country Village

by Patrick Taylor

  Barry knew better than to ask Patricia if she needed help getting over the stile. He remembered how on the night he’d met her she’d bristled and told him that she didn’t want his pity for her lame leg. “I’ll go first,” he said, climbing onto the step, clambering over the slate, and hopping onto the grass. He put the basket and blanket down and waited for her to steady herself. “Jump,” he said, and when she did he caught her, held her, and kissed her. He was aching to tell her he loved her, but he shied away out of fear that she might not return the sentiment. “Nice,” he said, and held her at arm’s length. “Very nice.” He turned and pointed ahead. “Do you see that collection of tumbled stones about halfway along the Point’s shore?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s where we’re going. Come on.” He guided her along the Point, past brackish pools of peat water the colour of stewed tea that were hidden among red benweed.

  He jumped when a brace of small ducks exploded from beneath his feet, wings clattering as they strained for altitude, the leading bird making a hoarse craaking noise.

  “Teal,” said Patricia, and he remembered she was an amateur ornithologist. “The drake—he’s the one with the brighter plumage—he’s leading. They always do.”

  “You don’t object to that, I hope?”

  “Barry.” He could see she was laughing with him.

  “There’re lots of wildfowl down here,” he said, as they crossed the grass to walk along the shingly shore.

  “I know. I used to go to the wildfowl sanctuary at Castle Espie on the far shore of the lough. Greylag geese come from Spitsbergen to winter there. There used to be thousands of Brent geese, but they’ve been shot almost to extinction.” He heard the sadness in her voice.

  He squeezed her hand. “What a shame.” Barry decided this was not the time to tell her that O’Reilly was a keen fowler.

  A flock rose from the water’s edge, wheeled, and jinked. Then it turned in unison and flew low over waves that heaped grey foam and yellow brown bladder wrack into a ragged tide line. The air was redolent of salt, and the scent of its sea tang pleased him.

  “Those are dunlin,” she said. “And that is a heron.” She pointed up to where Barry could see a gangly bird that must have had a pterodactyl somewhere in its family tree. The big bird flapped its wings langorously under fluff-ball clouds beneath a robin’s-egg-blue sky.

  He glanced back to watch the dunlin, moving like blown smoke, swing over a great, rusty oil drum. Barry heard the clangour as it moved with the tide, hitting the shingle and the rocks. “Not far now,” he said.

  “Thank you for bringing me here. It’s lovely.”

  “Glad you like it, madam.” Barry made a mock bow.

  The wind blowing up to Newtownards at the lough’s head fluttered the grass, and he watched her ponytail sway to the breeze’s caress. Dear God, but she was beautiful.

  “How’s this?” Barry led her to the lee of the old sheepcote. “It’s cosy here out of the wind.” He bent and spread the blanket, setting the picnic basket at one edge. “Take the weight off your feet.” She sat, arms clasped around her bent legs, chin resting on her knees.

  He thought she looked like the statue of Hans Christian Andersen’s Little Mermaid. “I used to come down here when I was a student,” he said, “just to get away from Belfast for an hour or two.”

  “I’ve never been down on this side of the lough before, and it’s really no distance from Newry. Isn’t that silly?”

  “Not at all.” Barry sat and put his arm around her shoulders. He felt her snuggle closer and rest her head on his shoulder. “I’ll bring you here anytime you like.” If you’re still in Ulster, he thought.

  “I’d like that, but . . .”

  “No buts,” he said. “Not today.” He laid his hand on her cheek, feeling its smoothness, turned her face to him, saw fresh black coffee darkness in her eyes, and kissed her slowly, as softly as a man gentles a nervous colt.

  She pulled her head back but kept her gaze fixed on his eyes. “I do like you very much, Barry,” she whispered, “but . . .”

  He tensed.

  “. . . be patient, be gentle, be slow.”

  He laughed. He couldn’t help himself. She’d not said she wasn’t ready to fall in love. She’d not. “I’ll be gentle,” he said, “ ‘as a cooing dove.’ ” Before he could tell her the quote was from Shakespeare, he heard again the notes of the wood pigeon, “just like that fellah.” He stood and waited for his breathing to slow. Then he said, “It’s too early for lunch. Would you like to walk out to the end of the Point?”

  “In a minute.” Patricia stood beside him and kissed him hard, the tip of her tongue finding his, but before he could hold her more tightly, she stepped back. “Thank you, Barry,” she said. “Now show me the end of the Point.” He was convinced if it hadn’t been for her gammy leg she would have shouted, “Come on, I’ll race you.”

  Together, hand in hand, they walked to where the strip of land narrowed and slipped into the waters. Barry was so full of her he felt no need to speak. He knew Patricia must sense his mood because she said nothing.

  The wind was warm, the tide high. Occasionally a larger wave would toss spray right across the peninsula.

  “Here we are,” he said, halting at the water’s edge. “Land’s end.”

  “What a wonderful view.”

  “Isn’t it? See all those islands directly across the lough, close to the far shore?”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re near Ringhaddy . . .”

  “That’s not far from Castle Espie . . .”

  “That’s right, and down there, off in the distance to our left . . .” He gazed across ranks of little whitecaps, green waters, and low islands to where mountain peaks stood sentinel over the southern part of County Down.

  “Those’re the Mountains of Mourne,” she said.

  “Slieve Nabrock, Slieve Nagarragh, and Slieve Donard.” He named three because they were the only Mourne names he knew. He noticed clouds building above the highest, Slieve Donard, and hoped they weren’t the harbingers of one of the sudden summer squalls that could sweep the lough. He sang gently:

  “Oh Mary this London’s a wonderful sight,

  With people here workin’ by day and by night . . .”

  She laughed. “Do you play the tin whistle?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Because,” she said, “you should. You’ve got a tin ear. You’re about a semitone flat.”

  He grinned. “I know, and I don’t care. I’ve just heard you singing, back in the car there. You could make it shine for both of us. It’s a great song. Do you know the last line?”

  She sang, “But I’d far rather be, where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.”

  He stared at her, knowing those words were true for him, wishing they were true for her. “I hear you’ll find Cambridgeshire’s pretty flat,” he said, and waited to see how she’d respond.

  “If I get to go there.” She stiffened. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about that today.”

  “You’re right. Sorry.”

  She tossed her head. “And anyway it is true. I’d far rather be here in Ulster, but even if things do work out for me, the Mournes’ll still be here sweeping down to the sea when I come back.”

  And so will I, Barry thought. He pulled her to him and kissed her. “Right,” he said, knowing he had to change the subject. “I’m famished.” He knew it wasn’t only the contents of her picnic basket he hungered for. “Let’s go and have a bite of lunch.”

  Barry lowered the empty bottle of warm Harp Lager, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and burped. “Excuse me.”

  “I didn’t know you were Chinese.”

  He frowned.

  “You told me it was polite to burp in China.”

  That she’d remembered such a trivial thing pleased him. He put the bottle back in the hamper to lie among the crumpled greaseproof paper that earlier had held chicken sandwiches,
buttered barmbrack, and a couple of apples. “Feast fit for a king.” He left the lid open.

  “I’m glad Your Majesty approves,” Patricia said.

  He moved across the blanket to sit by her side. “It was grand.” Barry noticed that in the bay beyond the lee of the Point the waves were higher, steeper. The wind must be freshening, but it wasn’t noticeable there in the shelter of the ruined sheepcote.

  “It’s been a lovely day,” she said, running both hands across the top of her head and adjusting her ponytail holder.

  “Hasn’t it?” He bent, kissed her, and gradually, still kissing her, pushed her backwards until she lay on her side on the blanket. He moved his lips to her neck and felt hands behind his head holding him to her. He slipped one arm behind her, caressing her through the satiny material of her blouse. His hand stopped in the middle of her back. Good Lord. No bra strap. He’d heard about these feminists who refused to wear bras. Was Patricia making a statement or—he felt his pulse quicken as he realized nothing but a thin layer of material lay between him and her breasts—had she dressed deliberately this morning to make things easier for him?

  He kissed her again, harder, tongue darting, meeting hers. Slowly and softly his hand slipped from her back, across her flank, and onto the flat of her belly. Her kiss, so powerful was it, forced his head back. His hand with dandelion-puff lightness cupped her right breast, and she stiffened, drew back, broke the kiss, and eyes shut, covered his hand with hers. He held very still, praying she wasn’t going to thrust it away, rejoicing as she pressed it to her.

  He closed his eyes and waited until her hand relaxed and moved his to the upper button of her blouse. He fumbled, footered—the bloody thing was stuck—but she didn’t try to stop him. Finally the button sprang loose.

  Barry knew they were going to make love here on the blanket on the soft grass.

  He slipped his hand inside her blouse and felt the warmth of her.

  She whimpered and nibbled his lip.

  “Patricia, I . . .”

  The lid of the picnic hamper slammed shut with a crash. He opened his eyes to see the edges of the blanket flapping as wind battered through the gaps in the stones. The dry dune grasses at the sides of the sheepcote were flattened. Waves pounded the shore.

  He sat up and glanced at the sky. The clouds he’d noticed earlier over Slieve Donard had marched across the lough like companies of storm troopers. A single lightning bolt flared across the sky, and seconds later a roll of thunder like the drumming of a chorus of demented timpanists beat on his ears. He hated thunderstorms.

  The rain started, heavy stinging drops, soaking his hair. He felt Patricia rise and he stood beside her. He put his arm round her. “Sit down close to the stones,” he said. “Try to get a bit of shelter.”

  She shook her head, pulled away, ripped out her ponytail holder, raised both arms above her head, and turned her face up to the sky. The rain darkened her black hair to ebony, and it fluttered in the wind. She was backlit by another thunderbolt. She looked, he thought, like an Indian princess, worshipping the lightning god.

  “I love storms,” she shouted over the keening of the wind through the rocks.

  Barry saw how the downpour had soaked her blouse; the wind plastered it against her, moulded it to her so her breasts were limned in bas-relief. “And I love you, Patricia,” he shouted, but his words were drowned out by the thunder’s crash.

  He felt the raindrops, lighter now. The wind was easing. The grasses at the sides of the rock pile began to lift their heads, and out over the islands a single sunbeam burst through as the storm moved on its way, past Gransha Point.

  She turned to him, her grin wide, dimple deep. “Whew,” she said, “that was wonderful.” She looked at his pants and started to laugh. “You’re sodden,” she said, “but it wouldn’t be a day out with you if you could keep your trousers dry.”

  Barry was forced to agree. Almost every time he’d been with her, some disaster—from Arthur Guinness cocking his leg on him to Barry spilling a pint on himself—had left him with soaked britches. He laughed with her, but his gaze lingered on the sight of her breasts beneath her wet blouse. He feared the spell had been broken for her.

  “We’re both soaked,” she said, glancing down at herself. “Would you look at me? I might as well be naked.” She crossed her arms in front of her breasts. “I think we should be getting back.”

  No. But he swallowed, took a deep breath, and said, “All right.” He stooped and began to fold the sodden blanket. “And don’t worry about your wet blouse. I’ll give you my coat to put round you when we get back to the car.”

  She knelt beside him to help, and she turned and kissed him quickly. “You are patient,” she said, her voice low and husky. “Thank you.”

  “I love you, Patricia.” He waited. He’d said it.

  She stared down at the grass.

  Why must he remember O’Reilly’s words, “Lucky at cards . . . unlucky in love?”

  She looked at him, unsmiling. A tiny crease appeared between her eyebrows.

  “I do,” he said.

  She stood, slowly, and he closed his eyes. He couldn’t bear to watch if she walked away, but instead she hugged him, kissed him, pulled back, and whispered, “And I love you, Barry Laverty, even though I know I shouldn’t.”

  He didn’t know what to say and knew he must look like a mooncalf standing there with an idiotic grin plastered on his face. “Oh, Jesus.”

  He took Patricia’s hand and as he did the last of the clouds slipped from the face of the sun. The rays warmed him, and in their heat he saw tiny wraiths of vapour rise from her blouse. “I love you, darling,” he said. “I love you.”

  Success and Miscarriage

  Are Empty Sounds

  Barry parked Brunhilde in the lane. He was relieved to see no sign of Arthur Guinness in the back garden. Either O’Reilly had taken the dog out, or the Labrador was off on another Wellie hunt.

  Barry opened the gate, crossed the grass, and let himself into the house. The smell of roasting duck filled the kitchen, and his taste buds tingled. Kinky stood at the sink, peeling potatoes. He crossed the tiled floor, grabbed her, and spun her round.

  “Put me down, Doctor Laverty.” Kinky laughed and her chins wobbled. “Put me down this instant, you amaideach man.”

  “I’m not idiotic,” he said, letting her go. “I’m in love, Kinky.” He felt not a tad of the Ulster reticence that should have made him keep it to himself.

  “Huh,” she said, still grinning. “For a learned doctor it’s taken you a brave while to catch on, so. Didn’t I know that from the first time I saw you and Miss Spence together?”

  “It was that obvious?”

  “Plain as the nose on your face,” she said, “and I’m glad for the pair of you . . . and for himself.”

  “Doctor O’Reilly? Why?”

  “Sure, sometimes you’re as easy to see through as a window. Haven’t I known you were thinking of leaving?”

  Barry shook his head.

  “Well, you have been, and I’d not like to see you go, nor would the big fellah.”

  “The big fellah? Isn’t that what they called Michael Collins back in the twenties?”

  “Aye, but you know very well who I mean.”

  “I do.”

  “He’s no spring chicken anymore, and he needs your help . . . and so do the buck eejits who live here, only some of them are too cadránta to see it.”

  “Cad what?”

  “Bloody-minded. Never you mind them. You can’t please everybody. Wasn’t the sainted Jesus himself the greatest healer? But look what happened to him.” She sniffed. “There’s a brave clatter of folks who think you’re doing just fine.”

  “Honestly?”

  “Cross my heart, so.”

  “Thanks, Kinky.”

  “Don’t thank me, and if your Miss Spence would make another good reason for you staying in Ballybucklebo, more power to her wheel.”

  Before Barry cou
ld tell her that Patricia and her plans could very well have the opposite effect, Kinky glanced down and shook her head. “Doctor dear, you’ve done it again. Your trousers . . .”

  “Sorry, Kinky. I’ll nip up and change.” Barry turned to leave, feeling pleased by what Kinky had just said about his being needed, yet he was somehow unsettled. Since he’d recovered from his initial elation over Patricia saying she loved him, the thought of her going away kept gnawing at him like the throb of an infected finger. “Kinky?”

  She was bent over the oven, wreathed in a gust of steam, scooping the melted fat off the duck. “What?”

  He was going to tell her about Patricia, the exam, and Cambridge but decided not to. Instead he asked, “Is Doctor O’Reilly in?”

  She closed the oven door. “He is not. His Lordship phoned a while back. God knows what he said, but Doctor O’Reilly went tearing off with a great big grin on his face. He said he was off to Bangor to get Sonny.”

  “Sonny?”

  “That’s what he said, but don’t ask me what it’s all about. Himself was in too great a rush to tell me more.” She straightened her shoulders and put a hand in the small of her back. “When is he not? If it was his own funeral, he’d be going to it at the charge.”

  Barry laughed. “Don’t worry. We’ll find out about Sonny when Doctor O’Reilly gets back.” He thought of the empty back garden. “Did he take Arthur?”

  “He did not, and the eejit was in such a tearing rush he left the gate open behind him. Well, he’d better hurry back as quick. I’d not want this duck to spoil.”

  “I’ll be ready on time, Kinky. I’ll go and change right now.”

  Barry left and ran upstairs. He was short of breath by the time he got to his room, a combination of being too busy to take much exercise and Kinky’s cooking. And judging by the smell of duck that had risen to the third storey, she was going to set another of her feasts on the table.

  From below he heard the doorbell ring. He hesitated with one leg in his corduroys, and tried to hear what was being said. A man was talking to Kinky.