Read Online The Barracks by John McGahern - Free Book Online Page A

smoke so much because it’s antiseptic or something. It keeps away germs,” she ended the digression to return to her first theme as if it was obsessional.
    â€œI don’t know why, perhaps it does,” Elizabeth said, she found herself already bored. This conversation echoed a thousand others. When she first married Reegan she’d found the small world absorbing and beautiful: but it was no longer so—her initiation was over, her passion had spent itself, this world on which she’d used every charm to get accepted in was falling in ashes into her hands. She was shackled, a thieving animal held at last in this one field. She’d escaped out of London, she’d not escape out of this, she’d have to stand her ground here at last. She could scream, the desperation she’d experienced on her own coming back on this conversation.
    â€œDo you not feel well, Elizabeth?” the strained intensity of her features was noticed.
    â€œNo,” she could have shouted but she drilled herself. “I’ve been feeling tired lately. I don’t think it’s much, probably just run down, but I’m going in to see the doctor tomorrow.”
    â€œIt’s always better to be certain, you can’t afford to take chances nowadays,” she echoed Casey and asked, “Which of the doctors are you going to?”
    â€œDr Ryan—just the police doctor.”
    â€œI always get Dr Malone, though Ned thinks there’s no one in the world like Dr Ryan.”
    â€œIt won’t matter very much anyhow. It’ll probably be just another iron tonic,” Elizabeth tried to close the conversation.
    â€œI’ll say a prayer anyhow!”
    â€œThat’s nice,” she smiled in gratitude.
    A wave of feeling, pity or compassion, crossed her for the other woman, but then she was looking upon her as an inferior. And what had she herself to feel superior about, she asked; were not both of them in the same squalid fix? And was somebody’s unawareness of the horror about them a reason to seethe with pity for them? Were they not far and far better off? Now a hatred was mastering everything and when she was asked, “Were you at first Mass last Sunday?” she knew she couldn’t stand much more.
    She nodded. She was at first Mass every Sunday, there were meals to get ready when Second was on.
    â€œDid you see the three Murphys at the rails?” she continued. “They must have got early holidays from the Civil Service. They were all very clever, weren’t they! They passed the exams.
    â€œI think Mary has failed. Irene is the prettiest now. She was dressed in all lavender, and it says in Woman that it’s the latest fashion in Paris now.”
    Elizabeth hadn’t noticed them particularly. She used to love watching the young girls home from the city parade to Communion, especially at Easter, when many came; it used excite her envy and curiosity, so much so that when she’d come from Mass she’d always want to talk about them to Reegan; it’d give her back the time when she too was one of them, but he’d never care to listen. Nothing, she knew, can exist in the social days of people without attention, her excitement would be gone before the breakfast was over.
    How often was she aware of being present at Mass now! The murmuring of prayers, the rising and standing and kneeling and sitting down, the smells of incense and wet raincoats and candles burning would set a sleepy rhythmgoing through her blood and drift her into the sickly limbo of her own dreams.
    â€œDo you think it’s right that Irene’s the prettiest now?” Mrs Casey was pressing.
    Elizabeth agreed desperately and got up. She put on the kettle, taking automatic part in the conversation as she waited for it to boil. She made tea and put three cups and some bread on the table.
    â€œWe better call up Ned,” she invited.
    â€œSo many will be too much