back tomorrow,” Patrick Ryan said, but Kate made no response. In the porch he stood looking across at the four iron posts standing in their concrete bases and said, “I heard they are talking about that as well.”
“If it wasn’t that it would be something else. There’s no hurry,” Ruttledge said.
“We might as well stop them talking, lad. The people around this lake were always known to be a holy living terror for news and they’ll never die while Jamesie lives,” Patrick Ryan laughed lowly, suddenly in much better humour. “There was a boy of the Reagans down on holiday from Dublin. The Reagans were all doctors, lawyers, teachers, that kind of crowd and the boy was delicate. I heard not long ago that he’s a diplomat in Chicago. He wanted to visit an uncle, the Master in Kesh, and they thought him too delicate to walk or cycle, so they harnessed up an old quiet pony they had. I’m not telling a word of a lie, lad, but the mile by the lake took longer than the other five miles to Kesh. They were all out. They wanted to know who he was, where he was from, who he was staying with—though they all knew the pony and cart well—and where was he going and what was he doing in this part of the country. It was like having to pass through customs and excise. They got in between the shaft of the cart and the pony’s shoulder so that the poor gossen couldn’t move until they had extracted every word of flesh. If he had a loudspeaker to broadcast the details, hours could have been saved, but they all had to find out for themselves. It was dark by the time he got to Kesh and they were beginning to be worried. I’m telling you, lad, those people will never die while Jamesie is cycling around.”
“Jamesie is marvellous,” Ruttledge said.
“He’s a pure child, lad. He’ll never grow up,” he said dismissively. “There’s been a big clear-out since young Reagan came round the lake in the pony and cart. The country was walkingwith people then. After us there’ll be nothing but the water hen and the swan.”
They passed the wide opening down to the lake where earlier Cecil Pierce had sat fishing from the transport box with the tractor running. “Cecil has gone home to do the milking. He was fishing here all day,” Ruttledge said.
“No better sort than poor Cecil,” Patrick Ryan said. “I never heard a mean word about anybody from Cecil’s mouth. You’d think that crowd up in the North would learn something, lad, and get on like Cecil and us.”
“It’s different up there.”
“How could it be different?”
“They are more equal there and hate one another. There were never many Protestants here. When there are only a few, they have to keep their heads low whether it suits or not, like the Irish in England when a bomb goes off. Cecil would want to keep his head low whether they were many or few. He is that kind of person.”
“They are a bad old bitter crowd up there. They’ll eat one another yet,” Patrick Ryan said belligerently.
“Johnny is coming home from England this week,” Ruttledge said to change the subject.
“God bless us, has that come round again?” Ryan said, and then brightened to mimic Jamesie with affectionate malice. “ ‘Meet the train with Johnny Rowley’s car … There’ll be drinks, you know, rounds … rounds of drinks, stops at bars, shake hands and welcome … Welcome home from England … no sooner in the door than Mary has the sirloin on the pan.’ ” He laughed in the enjoyment of his power and mastery. He had a deadly gift.
“That’s almost too good, Patrick—it’s wicked.”
“ ‘He’s a sight, a holy sight,’ ” he mimicked Jamesie again, warmed by the praise, and then changed briskly into his own voice. “After all that performance he’ll spend the next two weeksavoiding Johnny at every stop and turn as if he had grown horns. They never got on. For two brothers they couldn’t be more unlike.”
They drove through a maze of
“If it wasn’t that it would be something else. There’s no hurry,” Ruttledge said.
“We might as well stop them talking, lad. The people around this lake were always known to be a holy living terror for news and they’ll never die while Jamesie lives,” Patrick Ryan laughed lowly, suddenly in much better humour. “There was a boy of the Reagans down on holiday from Dublin. The Reagans were all doctors, lawyers, teachers, that kind of crowd and the boy was delicate. I heard not long ago that he’s a diplomat in Chicago. He wanted to visit an uncle, the Master in Kesh, and they thought him too delicate to walk or cycle, so they harnessed up an old quiet pony they had. I’m not telling a word of a lie, lad, but the mile by the lake took longer than the other five miles to Kesh. They were all out. They wanted to know who he was, where he was from, who he was staying with—though they all knew the pony and cart well—and where was he going and what was he doing in this part of the country. It was like having to pass through customs and excise. They got in between the shaft of the cart and the pony’s shoulder so that the poor gossen couldn’t move until they had extracted every word of flesh. If he had a loudspeaker to broadcast the details, hours could have been saved, but they all had to find out for themselves. It was dark by the time he got to Kesh and they were beginning to be worried. I’m telling you, lad, those people will never die while Jamesie is cycling around.”
“Jamesie is marvellous,” Ruttledge said.
“He’s a pure child, lad. He’ll never grow up,” he said dismissively. “There’s been a big clear-out since young Reagan came round the lake in the pony and cart. The country was walkingwith people then. After us there’ll be nothing but the water hen and the swan.”
They passed the wide opening down to the lake where earlier Cecil Pierce had sat fishing from the transport box with the tractor running. “Cecil has gone home to do the milking. He was fishing here all day,” Ruttledge said.
“No better sort than poor Cecil,” Patrick Ryan said. “I never heard a mean word about anybody from Cecil’s mouth. You’d think that crowd up in the North would learn something, lad, and get on like Cecil and us.”
“It’s different up there.”
“How could it be different?”
“They are more equal there and hate one another. There were never many Protestants here. When there are only a few, they have to keep their heads low whether it suits or not, like the Irish in England when a bomb goes off. Cecil would want to keep his head low whether they were many or few. He is that kind of person.”
“They are a bad old bitter crowd up there. They’ll eat one another yet,” Patrick Ryan said belligerently.
“Johnny is coming home from England this week,” Ruttledge said to change the subject.
“God bless us, has that come round again?” Ryan said, and then brightened to mimic Jamesie with affectionate malice. “ ‘Meet the train with Johnny Rowley’s car … There’ll be drinks, you know, rounds … rounds of drinks, stops at bars, shake hands and welcome … Welcome home from England … no sooner in the door than Mary has the sirloin on the pan.’ ” He laughed in the enjoyment of his power and mastery. He had a deadly gift.
“That’s almost too good, Patrick—it’s wicked.”
“ ‘He’s a sight, a holy sight,’ ” he mimicked Jamesie again, warmed by the praise, and then changed briskly into his own voice. “After all that performance he’ll spend the next two weeksavoiding Johnny at every stop and turn as if he had grown horns. They never got on. For two brothers they couldn’t be more unlike.”
They drove through a maze of
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