Read Online The Visitors by Patrick O'Keeffe - Free Book Online Page B

Maybe he was just praying that he would get the hay at the price he wanted—
    —It’s a very good reason to pray, my dear, Zoë said.
    —I suppose, my dear. But I couldn’t pray with the castle rising above the trees and the scent of flowers and herbs. And at this man’s house the hay was bought, the deal went down, hay bought at a price that pleased my father, because if it wasn’t at that price it wouldn’t have been bought, the bottle of Powers brought out, palms spat on then slapped, speculating about the weather and the price of cattle, the lack of jobs, the dreadful politicians, and last Saturday’s horse races. The man’s wife brought out the whiskey. She served little glasses of it, with a splash of water—she used a teaspoon. She smiled down at me when she put a tall glass of lemonade and a thick slice of sponge cake before me. The table was covered in an oilcloth. Two red geraniums bloomed at my elbow. A gray cat was sleeping on the windowsill outside. I put my hand through the window and petted the cat—
    —How beautiful, my dear—
    —It was, my dear. Indeed, it was. But on the drive back we stopped at the abbey again. It was darker now, on the ground, but not above the trees, and the place was silent but for the crows cawing in the big trees. My father stood in the same place and took out his beads and prayed. And he warned me again to not touch anything, maybe thanking God now for the price he got, that was all there was to it—
    —Good karma, my dear—
    —Karma, indeed, my dear. But we drove away from the abbey, and on the drive home he talked about the year he spent in England. He had never talked to me about that before, although I had heard it around the house that he had once worked in England. I was still too young to be curious. And we weren’t a family who talked about those sorts of things. His year in England was the year before he met my mother. He was home at Christmas, and he met my mother at a dance and never again went back to work in England.
    —You’re losing it, my dear, but keep going—
    —Thank you, my dear. My mother, she had a small farm. I think her whole life was about waiting to marry and have children. I don’t think she imagined much beyond that. That and God were it. She talked to God like I’m talking now to you. Maybe the glass of whiskey caused my father to talk, but he was in a good mood. He told me he liked working on the buildings, the hardiness of it, meeting men from all over. He said the Connemara men were the worst—you are not going to understand any of this, my dear—
    —I’m liking your story, my dear. And your new friend has yet to show—
    —He won’t appear, Zoë—
    —Yes, James, he will—
    —Well, the Connemara men spoke only Irish, and it was their version of Irish. They were the toughest, you didn’t want to get into a fight with them, because you weren’t just fighting one of them, you were fighting a tribe, and one Connemara man was more than enough for any man to fight, though the Connemara men were highly valued as laborers. All the building sites wanted them. These men were proud of their strength, and they sold it to whoever wanted it, for the right money, of course, which wasn’t much money, just enough for lodgings, food, and pints of beer. And then my father tells me that he never slept that year. After work he just walked the streets of Kilburn and Camden, he never went back to the digs he was staying in, he never went to the pubs, he was so homesick, he said, so he sat on park benches for the hours when he wasn’t working, and he slept on the benches and got up the next morning and went off to work, but I have no idea why he told me all of that then. Maybe, like you in your dad’s office, you just happen to be there—
    —Oh, my dear—
    Zoë took a quick sip from the glass.
    —And so there I was, my dear, sitting next to my father, not watching him, but having to listen to him, to endure him, and I never liked to