Read Online Annie Dunne by Sebastian Barry - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sebastian Barry
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house and see on the dresser the ears of a rabbit, neat and dry, and on the fire smell the pot of stew boiling, and know that Jack Furlong has been by and made a sale of a stringy rabbit for a couple of eggs, or a wrap of butter.
His little song drifts down over the spent heathers,
‘There was an ould woman and she lived in the woods, Weile, weile, waile, There was an ould woman and she lived in the woods, Down by the river Sáile.‘
And late in the summer every year the mother’s lilies still bloom.
‘There he is,’ I say.
‘I suppose the children wouldn’t like rabbit for their tea?’ she says.
‘I don’t know, why not? They’re as good as rabbits there anyhow, rolling down the field!’
‘Heya, Jack, Jack Furlong!’ she calls. ‘Have you ever a rabbit for us?’
Well, he stops in the murk of the trees, as startled as a deer. No doubt he was deep, deep in his thoughts. Oh, what thoughts might they be? Does he go over and over the dark history of his people? His long loneliness and neglect, the loss of all, his father vanished, his brother under lock and key in Carlow? No doubt, no doubt. He stops in the dresses of the pine trees, with their sharp hoops, and stares out from the dark at us, two old women with two milch cows in the bright sunlight of the summer. And a darkness passes from his face, and he raises a hand like a proper countryman, and what is that look in his face? Only lightness, the lightness of gratitude.
Sarah goes up the field then and goes as far as the brambles of the low hill-wall, and Jack the same the other side, and without a proper word he hands a dangling snag of a thing across the loose stones with a strong arm, and Sarah lifts her own strong arm and he gives the rabbit over into her care, he letting go of his grip on the ears, she taking the grey creature by the long soft paws.
Sarah comes back to me.
‘I don’t know what that means,’ she says.
‘What what means?’ I say sharply. ‘Did he say something to you?’
‘I said I would give him two of your fine brown eggs for it, and he says, “No, Sarah Cullen, have grace of it.” Now what does that mean, have grace of it?’
‘It isn’t the King’s English anyway.’
‘It isn’t even Kelsha English,’ she says, laughing her laugh.
And when we look again to spy him and his mysterious English, he is gone among the trees.
‘Auntie Anne, Auntie Anne, look at us, look at us!’
The girl and boy have locked themselves in a fast embrace and are throttling each other without regret, as they speed in a double heap down the raging field.
‘Do you think,’ says Sarah, though barely to me, mostly to the quiet countryside about, ‘that there will be life much after that pony? Do you think it will be worth living at all?’
This is a very big question and I am not qualified to answer, not entirely. I look down at the rich grasses. All sorts of insects happily resort there, a shiny black beetle heaves himself along a dipping blade.
‘Do you not feel,’ she says, ‘the wind of change? It is like the Bible sometimes up here, living here. We are like the Jews of old. It shakes me, the talk of Billy Kerr. He speaks like my father, all sense and certainty. There’s safety in that man, and still he shakes me.’
This is a large speech for Sarah, and which I don’t understand. She has spoken with ease and surety, very definitely, like marking cloth before cutting, straight and confident as such marks must be. Many months can go by, especially in the winter, when Sarah will say nothing beyond the usual round of instructions, agreements and ordinary observations. Then suddenly, a pronouncement as dark and uncomfortable as a sibyl.
‘There is nothing,’ she says, ‘that anyone could say would dissuade me, dissuade me from the opinion that.’
‘That what?’ I say, beginning to be rightly frightened.
‘Grass stains,’ she says.
‘What?’
‘Grass stains, grass stains, elbows and trouser knees, think of
His little song drifts down over the spent heathers,
‘There was an ould woman and she lived in the woods, Weile, weile, waile, There was an ould woman and she lived in the woods, Down by the river Sáile.‘
And late in the summer every year the mother’s lilies still bloom.
‘There he is,’ I say.
‘I suppose the children wouldn’t like rabbit for their tea?’ she says.
‘I don’t know, why not? They’re as good as rabbits there anyhow, rolling down the field!’
‘Heya, Jack, Jack Furlong!’ she calls. ‘Have you ever a rabbit for us?’
Well, he stops in the murk of the trees, as startled as a deer. No doubt he was deep, deep in his thoughts. Oh, what thoughts might they be? Does he go over and over the dark history of his people? His long loneliness and neglect, the loss of all, his father vanished, his brother under lock and key in Carlow? No doubt, no doubt. He stops in the dresses of the pine trees, with their sharp hoops, and stares out from the dark at us, two old women with two milch cows in the bright sunlight of the summer. And a darkness passes from his face, and he raises a hand like a proper countryman, and what is that look in his face? Only lightness, the lightness of gratitude.
Sarah goes up the field then and goes as far as the brambles of the low hill-wall, and Jack the same the other side, and without a proper word he hands a dangling snag of a thing across the loose stones with a strong arm, and Sarah lifts her own strong arm and he gives the rabbit over into her care, he letting go of his grip on the ears, she taking the grey creature by the long soft paws.
Sarah comes back to me.
‘I don’t know what that means,’ she says.
‘What what means?’ I say sharply. ‘Did he say something to you?’
‘I said I would give him two of your fine brown eggs for it, and he says, “No, Sarah Cullen, have grace of it.” Now what does that mean, have grace of it?’
‘It isn’t the King’s English anyway.’
‘It isn’t even Kelsha English,’ she says, laughing her laugh.
And when we look again to spy him and his mysterious English, he is gone among the trees.
‘Auntie Anne, Auntie Anne, look at us, look at us!’
The girl and boy have locked themselves in a fast embrace and are throttling each other without regret, as they speed in a double heap down the raging field.
‘Do you think,’ says Sarah, though barely to me, mostly to the quiet countryside about, ‘that there will be life much after that pony? Do you think it will be worth living at all?’
This is a very big question and I am not qualified to answer, not entirely. I look down at the rich grasses. All sorts of insects happily resort there, a shiny black beetle heaves himself along a dipping blade.
‘Do you not feel,’ she says, ‘the wind of change? It is like the Bible sometimes up here, living here. We are like the Jews of old. It shakes me, the talk of Billy Kerr. He speaks like my father, all sense and certainty. There’s safety in that man, and still he shakes me.’
This is a large speech for Sarah, and which I don’t understand. She has spoken with ease and surety, very definitely, like marking cloth before cutting, straight and confident as such marks must be. Many months can go by, especially in the winter, when Sarah will say nothing beyond the usual round of instructions, agreements and ordinary observations. Then suddenly, a pronouncement as dark and uncomfortable as a sibyl.
‘There is nothing,’ she says, ‘that anyone could say would dissuade me, dissuade me from the opinion that.’
‘That what?’ I say, beginning to be rightly frightened.
‘Grass stains,’ she says.
‘What?’
‘Grass stains, grass stains, elbows and trouser knees, think of
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