by Anne Doughty
There were several questions I wanted to ask him, but as he was still talking when we came up the hill, I had to use hand signals to indicate that we had arrived and to show him where to park. The moment he stopped talking, things took a turn for the worse. He stepped out of the car, caught his sleeve on the indicator lever and snapped it off. When he bent down to retrieve the broken piece from the floor, he bumped his head on the steering wheel. I wondered if I should fetch my shopping from the back seat myself, but that might upset him more, so I waited patiently and listened to the landslide he generated in the process of getting it out.
By the time we’d walked out of the yard and round to the front of the house, he was running his fingers through his hair at five-second intervals. Something would have to be done to help him. I parked the shopping on the garden wall and waved him over to the other side of the road.
‘Look,’ I said, pointing out to an expanse of sea south of the islands. ‘That’s where Kyle Stefeen lies lost below the waters with its houses locked and barred. And it’s a girl with six fingers will find the key and she’ll find it in the sands of Liscannor Bay,’ I said quietly, mimicking the rhythm and intonation of the storytellers.
His face lit up. He beamed and said something about an Atlantis myth.
‘You won’t mind if I just call you Geoffrey, will you?’ I asked, pausing before we went in. ‘The O’Daras are very informal people. You’ll like them.’ I really couldn’t imagine what Mary and Paddy were going to make of his decidedly upper class accent.
He nodded, but continued to look very nervous as we entered the kitchen where Mary and Paddy sat by the fire wearing the unmistakable signs of people trying to pretend they’re not expecting a stranger to appear at any moment.
‘Mary and Paddy, this is Geoffrey. He’s a friend of Professor McDonagh. I heard him asking for you, Paddy, in the post office. Wasn’t that lucky?’
‘Yer welcome, Geoffrey, yer welcome,’ said Paddy, rising to his feet and jutting out his hand.
‘Professor McDonagh is it?’ said Mary.
Geoffrey was about to reply, but Mary wasn’t listening. From the ecstatic look on her face I knew exactly what was coming next, a Professor McDonagh story I’d heard at least three times.
‘Ah shure he’s a gentleman, Professor McDonagh. He’s a lovely man. For all he’s educated, you’d not feel one bit strange with him. He’d come in here and sit down in that chair like any one of the neighbours and talk away as if he were in his own house. Shure one time he came and didn’t he take a packet out of his pocket and it a pound of steak. Ah, shure the butcher hadn’t wrapped it half-right and the blood had come through on his pocket. But he never said a word. Just that he thought I mightn’t have been in town and it might come in handy for the supper. Wasn’t that nice now?’
Geoffrey agreed that it was, his face turned towards her bearing no trace at all of his former anxiety. Paddy took up the story. For another ten minutes, Geoffrey said so little his accent hardly noticed and by the time they got to asking him about his relationship with Professor McDonagh and the nature of his visit, the kettle was already down and the blue striped teacups waited on the table.
I smiled to myself as I watched Paddy curl his fingers round his blue enamel mug. Only two weeks since I had first sat drinking from the best flowered china cups, wondering how I would deal with the problem of money, the absence of a bathroom, and the hazard of my alien religion.
I looked at my blue striped teacup. Best china for female visitors, because women notice such things. Second best china or delft for male visitors, because men don’t notice such things. Mugs or chainstore cups for children and tinkers, because what they might or might not notice doesn’t matter anyway. The ritual hierarchy of teacups. I’d make a note on it and try the idea on Patrick.
Patrick. The name resonated in my mind and comforted my weariness. Outside, it was settling in for a wet evening, the wind gusting round the gables, spots of rain hissing down on the glowing fire. Geoffrey still wasn’t saying very much, but he was proving himself a good listener. His questions were very simple, but just what was needed to carry on the easy flow of talk and reminiscence. Already, I could see the gleam in Paddy’s eye. He was enjoying himself. Any minute now, he would start to tell one of his stories.
When he did, I could move into that strange world of fantasy I found so intriguing, or slip away unnoticed into my own thoughts, where Patrick was with me, watching me, talking to me, asking me questions. Happy as I was in the small gathering round the fire, there was one place I would rather be. And that was with Patrick.
Chapter 12
Whatever anxieties I might have had about Geoffrey Llwellyn-Jones when I brought him back to the cottage, they disappeared as the hours passed. Beneath the shyness and his quiet manner, I discovered a remarkable capacity for accepting people and situations without the slightest fuss. He didn’t say a lot, but he listened closely to all Paddy and Mary said, a warmth in his dark eyes I had not expected to find in someone from such a very different background.
When he arrived back the next morning with his tape recorder and a hand mike, Paddy settled down to tell stories as if this was as much a part of his life as digging potatoes. I sat in a corner by the stove, working on my own notes, while Mary crept round the kitchen trying to do her usual jobs without making any of the usual noises. I glanced at Geoffrey from time to time and saw he was perfectly at home, his only anxiety the oscillations of the green lines on his portable machine.
At the end of Sunday’s efforts, I heard him persuading Mary to let him peel the potatoes for supper. I was amazed when he succeeded and even more amazed when I noticed how competent he was. I watched him across the table as I scraped the carrots and remembered the way George insisted he was no good at the job. Certainly the amount of potato he left on the skins made his point. Geoffrey was a different story. With his shirt sleeves rolled up and a cheerful grin on his face, he tweaked out the odd sprouting eye like a professional and left a mere handful of peelings at the end.
By the time I took Geoffrey to visit Sean O’Struithan on Monday afternoon, he’d made further progress with his shyness. On Saturday, even meeting my glance looked as if it might have dire consequences but today he could look at me as if I were a normal mortal rather than a close cousin of the Morrigan.
‘You do seem to have made a lot of friends in a fortnight, Elizabeth,’ he said, as we turned out of Sean’s courtyard and took the short path that led to the steep back wall of the quarry.
‘There are a lot of nice people around. It wasn’t very difficult,’ I said, over my shoulder, as we tramped in single file through the spiky heather.
‘I say . . . Elizabeth . . . I. . . I’ve been wondering . . . well you’re so good at these things . . . I wanted to. . . ask your advice.’
I turned to look at him, startled and dismayed to hear the old hesitancy return.
‘Well, you always seem to come up with exactly the right thing to do or say . . . as if you knew every single custom or habit of this whole community . . . I’ve never met anyone half as good as you are at getting on with people in the field.’
I was completely floored. He’d paid me a very sincere compliment, but the way he put it I could hardly say thank you in the usual way. I muttered something feeble about always being glad to help in any way I could.
‘It’s Mary and Paddy actually,’ he went on. ‘They’ve been so kind to me, and so generous, giving me supper and putting up with all my questions. I’d like to express my appreciation, but I can’t think how to do it. I can’t do the flowers and chocolates thing. At least I can see that’s not right. But I can’t manage the pound of steak in my pocket one. I’m sure I’d just end up embarrassing them. What would you do?’
Now he’d got it out, he seemed easier. Certainly I felt easier because I knew I could solve the problem once I gave my mind to it.
We had emerged from the wide expanse of heather. The path now led across a broad stretch
of short grass starred with tiny wildflowers. I studied them closely as we walked along side by side.
‘Yes, mmm. . . money in any form is taboo . . . and what you do has to fit the relationship you’ve made. Can you drink Guinness, Geoffrey?’
‘Oh yes, most certainly.’
‘That means you could take Paddy to Considine’s,’ I said happily. ‘But then I expect you want to include Mary too, don’t you?’
He nodded emphatically, so I tried again.
‘Something that makes life easier, or pleasanter, or a little more comfortable, but where money is not visibly involved.’ I turned to him, beaming, as it suddenly came to me. ‘The rates. That’s it. The rates.’
He burst out laughing. ‘I’ll believe it, if you say so.’
When I explained, he looked relieved as well as delighted.
‘. . . so you need to pretend you have to get a sight of Ennistymon for the benefit of your work,’ I began. ‘Then you can ask them if they would like to go along for the outing. When they say yes, which they will, because otherwise they’d have to hire a car, you could ask them if they would have lunch with you. The place the farmers go to does a very good meal for five shillings and they’ve been there before. How about that?’
‘Splendid . . . absolutely splendid. . . but for one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I’d so like it if you could come, Elizabeth. If you could manage it, that is,’ he said apologetically. ‘I know you haven’t got much time left, but I’m sure Mary would like that.’
I hesitated. Then I looked at him and weakened. He was a very kind person and Mary had become quite devoted to him, but I knew that although she listened to him with total attention, often she didn’t understand what he said.
‘Could we go early and be back for tea?’
‘Yes, of course, whatever fits your programme.’
We stopped at the end of the path and gave our total attention to the shallow steps cut in the steep back wall of the quarry. Safely down we moved across its floor and then turned and looked back.
‘He’s absolutely right, isn’t he?’
Geoffrey gazed up at the descent we had just made. Sean had said the steps were invisible and they were. Unless you’d been shown the markers and taken down yourself, the grey cliff which ran the whole length of the old workings appeared exactly as Sean wanted it to appear, a barrier to anyone trying to approach his mountain hideout.
A few minutes later, as we passed through the gate into the uppermost of Paddy’s fields, we agreed that Wednesday would be the best day.
‘Splendid,’ he said again, as we moved into the next field. ‘I knew you’d have the answer.’
When I opened my eyes on Tuesday morning the first thing I thought of was Patrick. I could hardly believe the six days since our parting had disappeared so quickly. But I was grateful they had, for I was sure I wouldn’t be able to manage a day longer without seeing him. There was so much to tell him, so many new and interesting things to share with him. And I wanted to see what he thought about the ideas I’d been shaping for some real research of my own.
As I set off down the hill to visit the elderly lady who had taught in Lisara when it still had a school, even the mizzling rain did nothing to dampen my spirits. I waved to the laden carts as they passed on the way to the creamery. Last week, I had met and talked to all the farmers as they waited in the long queue to unload their heavy milk churns. I’d learnt a lot, added to the green file material for my thesis and notes towards this other project which hadn’t any name yet.
In fact, the green file was now full. Not another sheet of punched paper could I coax between the bulging rings. Patrick would laugh when I told him, for he referred to the Green File as if it were some friendly creature following upon my heels, ever hopeful of being fed with one more delectable sheet covered with my observations.
I was some way beyond the creamery when I noticed a strange object on the now empty road. Black and shiny. With a high back. It looked like a giant beetle moving towards me. I tramped on steadily, the rain becoming heavier as I approached my turn down towards Ballahaleine. The strange object declared itself as I got closer and I laughed aloud. Head down over the handlebars, enveloped in his huge regulation cape, the wind inflating the dark, shiny material, Paddy the Postman was cycling towards me. I stopped by the turn and waited for him to reach me.
‘I’ve two letters for ye, miss. Will I fetch them out?’
‘Oh, Paddy, I don’t want to trouble you in this rain.’
‘Shure I wouldn’t keep a lady from her love letters,’ he said with a wink, as he took the envelopes out and put them into my hand.
‘I’ll let you know tomorrow if they’re any good.’
The moment he’d gone, I ripped open the thick, white envelope with a Dublin postmark and an unfamiliar, spiky writing. I knew it was from Patrick and I was sure it had to be bad news. It was. His elderly uncle had died suddenly. He wouldn’t be able to return before the funeral which was to be on Friday. He would come out to Lisara just as soon as he arrived back. He very much hoped I would still be there.
Tears sprang to my eyes. Friday. Three more whole days to wait. But before I’d even grasped that unhappy fact a worse one came to me. I was to leave Lisdoonvarna on the ten o’clock bus on the Saturday morning. That left only Friday evening, assuming Patrick would actually be back by then. A brief meeting at the cottage. Perhaps a drive to the cliffs. So little time to resolve what had been begun between us.
I blew my nose hard. Maybe it would have been better if we hadn’t gone to the Burren together. Then all I’d have was a happy memory of someone I’d met and had tea with a couple of times. I pushed the damp envelope into my jacket pocket and stared at the other letter. It was from George, written in haste. He had left out ‘Doolin’, the postal district for Lisara, so although it had been posted on Saturday it had taken an extra day to get to me. I had to read it through twice before it finally sank in that George was planning to arrive tomorrow, Wednesday. He was coming with Dicky Sinclair in Dicky’s new car, which he’d just had for his twenty-first. They hoped I’d be ready to leave on Wednesday, but in case the letter didn’t reach me in time, Dicky had thoughtfully agreed to spend Wednesday night in Lisdoonvarna and set off for Wicklow on Thursday morning. Dicky had friends in Wicklow who had invited us all to a party and we could stay overnight with them. How wonderful to be together, just the two of us, at last.
‘No. No. I can’t,’ I said aloud. I couldn’t just go off like that. If I did I would miss Patrick completely. And what about Geoffrey’s outing for Mary and Paddy? There wouldn’t be time to say goodbye to anyone, neither Patrick, nor Sean, nor Bridget, nor Mary-at-the-foot-of-the-hill, nor any of the neighbours who had done so much to help me with my work.
I stuffed the letter into my other pocket and marched furiously down the road to Ballahaleine. However pleased I might be to see George, it upset everything for him just to appear like this. Our letters had crossed. Today, he would have mine telling him I was coming back on Saturday. But that wouldn’t have much effect on him, if Dicky had already decided to go to Wicklow by way of Lisdoonvarna.
On top of all my distress at George just thinking I would drop everything and be delighted to drive off to a party in Wicklow with people I’d never laid eyes on, was the fact that he was coming with Dicky Sinclair. I could understand him wanting us to be together again, but to land me with the company of one of the few people at the university I really loathed and detested was a quite different matter. What on earth could he be thinking about?
The answer was simple: he wasn’t thinking at all. If there was a prize for the person I would least like to inflict upon Mary and Paddy, Dicky must surely win it. Rich, spoilt and insincere, I’d disliked him from the moment I’d set eyes on him. Son and heir to Sinclair Textiles, good-looking, wealthy by any student standards, I’d always thought his main aim in life was to collect admirers by using his looks, his money, or both.
Surely I’d said as much to George often enough for it to sink in. How often had I complained about Dicky’s clever talk, his attempts to shock, his sudden synthetic enthusiasms and his affected, modish slang.
The awful thing was there was absolutely nothing I could do. George’s mother was having a week off so I couldn’t phone her office. A telegram would cost the earth. Besides, how could I say anything other than ‘Don’t come’? And how could I say that? I sniffed miserably and wiped my eyes again on my damp hanky. There was something so terribly wrong about having to go with plans broken off and promises unfulfilled.
By the time I had walked back to Lisara after my morning with Miss Crawford, I was feeling a bit steadier but I just didn’t know how I would tell Mary and Paddy about going. I was sure Mary would be very upset.
‘Hallo, Mary, where’s Paddy?’ I asked, as I stood on the doormat, taking off my boots.
‘Ah shure good, there you are. I was just putting on a bit of griddle bread for us, astore. Paddy’s away to Careys-the-low-road. He’s helpin’ Jamsey with the t’atch. He’ll not be back till supper. Are ye hungry?’
‘The smell of that would make anyone hungry,’ I said truthfully, as she poured the bread mixture on the smoking griddle. I wasn’t really hungry, which was most unusual, but I wasn’t going to say so.
I hung up my jacket and put my notebook in the window recess where I kept most of my writing stuff. The little pile of books Patrick had lent me were there with the few I had brought with me. I would have to write Patrick a note. He would come to the cottage and Mary would explain that I’d had to go.
Mary’s comfortable shape blurred as I watched her turn the bread. I went and fetched a clean hanky from my room and said how the wind had made my eyes water. Our last lunch together, I thought, as Mary cut the fresh bread into pieces and fried bacon for us in a small, battered pan. And tonight when we sit round the fire, it will be the last evening I’ll listen to Paddy’s stories.
I scolded myself thoroughly for letting myself think such negative thoughts, but I made up my mind at that moment I was not going till Thursday. Even though I’d had the letter in time to be ready tomorrow, I was not cancelling our visit to Ennistymon. You can’t just plan to come back next year, expecting people who have worked so hard and endured such hardship, over so long a life, still to be there for you. Dicky might not like it, but George was bound to understand I couldn’t just leave without even a day’s warning.