Collected Short Stories (12 page)

‘Just leave that kettle alone, Mister MacNeil,' said Martha.

‘The mare has to be fed!'

‘It's little you care about the poor dumb beast, and you out killing yourself and her, when it would suit you better to be in peeling these spuds.'

‘It's little you do in the house but make the few bits of meals, and it's time you were stirring yourself and getting a hard-worked man a good supper.'

‘If you're hard-worked, who's to blame, I ask you?' flared Kate.

He was done for now. He could always manage Martha; if he raised his voice it was the end of her. But Kate – he feared her though he wouldn't admit it to himself.

‘Do you hear me, Paddy MacNeil? Who's to blame? Time and again we have told you to let the fields and have sense. But no; me bold boy must be up and leppin' about like a wild thing. And what'll the women in island be talking about, I ask you? Ah! well we know what they'll be saying. “It's a shame that Paddy MacNeil's mean old sisters wouldn't hire a man to work the land. There they have poor Paddy and his seventy years, out in the cold of March ploughing with the old white mare. And the three of them getting the pension. I always knew there was a mean streak in them MacNeils.” That's what they'll be saying, well we know it!'

‘Talk sense, Kate, talk sense. Don't I know what they'll be saying. They'll be putting me up as an example to all and sundry. And …'

‘But mark my words,' interrupted Kate, shaking a needle at him, ‘if you're laid up after this you can attend to your pains yourself. I'm sick, sore and tired plastering and rubbing your shoulder and dancing attendance on you, and God knows I'm not able. I'm a done old woman myself, slaving from morning to night and little thanks I get for it.' Her voice quavered; crying she'll be next. It was best to keep silent.

‘Get him his supper, Martha, till we get to bed – another day like this and I'm fit for nothing.' She lifted her hands from her lap and the needles clicked slowly, listlessly.

In silence he took his supper. He was getting tired of these rows. When he had finished he went out with a bucket of warm mash for the mare. He felt very weary and sleepy, but the cold night braced him a little. The moon was up and the cobbles shone blue-white like the scales of a salmon. Maggie stirred when she heard the rasping handle of the bucket.

He closed the half-door of the stable, lit the candle, and sat on an upturned tub to watch the mare feeding. It was very still and she fed noisily, lifting her head now and again, the bran dripping from her mouth. Above the top of the door he could see the night-sky, the corrugated roof of the house, and the ash tree with its bare twigs shining in the moon. A little breeze blew its wavering pattern on the roof, and looking at it he thought of the gulls on the clay and the cool rush of their wings above his head. He shivered, and got up and closed the top half of the door. It was very still now; the mare had stopped feeding, her tail swished gently, and the warm hay glowed in the candlelight. There was great peace and comfort here. Under the closed door stole the night-wind, the bits of straw around the threshold rising gently and falling back again. A mouse came out from under the manger, rustled towards the bucket blinking its little eyes at the creature on the tub. Paddy squirted a spit at it and smiled at the way it raced off. He looked at the mare, watching slight tremors passing down her limbs. He got up, stroked her silky neck and scratched her between the ears. Then he gave her fresh hay and went out.

It was very peaceful with the moon shining on the fields and the sea. He wondered if his sisters were in bed. He hesitated at the stone fence, looking at the cold darkness of the field and the bits of broken crockery catching the moonlight. Through the night there came to him clear and distinct the throb, throb of a ship's engine far out at sea. He held his breath to listen to it and then he saw its two unsteady mastlights, rounding the headland and moving like stars through the darkness. It made him sad to look at it and he sighed as he turned towards the house. He sniffed the air like a spaniel; there'd be rain before long; it would do a world of good now that the field was ploughed.

His sisters were in bed; the lamp was lowered and the ashes stirred. He quenched the lamp and went up to his room. The moonlight shone in the window so he needn't bother with a candle. He knelt on a chair to say his prayers; he'd make them short tonight, for he was tired, very tired. But his people couldn't be left out. The prayers came slowly. His mind wandered. The golden shaft of the lighthouse swept into the room, mysteriously and quietly – light – dark – light – dark. For years he had watched that light, and years after when he'd be dead and gone it would still flash, and there'd be no son or daughter to say a prayer for him. It's a stupid thing for a man not to get married and have children to pray for him; a stupid thing indeed! It was strange to be associating death with a lighthouse in the night, but in some way that thought had come to him now that he was old, and he knew that it would always come. He didn't stop to examine it. He got up and sat on the chair, fumbling at his coat.

He climbed into bed, the straw mattress rustling with his weight. He lay thinking of his day's work, waiting for sleep to fall upon him. He closed his eyes, but somehow sleep wouldn't come. The tiredness was wearing off him. He'd smoke for a while, that would ease his mind. He was thinking too much; thinking kills sleep. The moonlight left the room and it became coldly dark. He stretched out his hand, groping for his pipe and matches. The effort shot a pain through his legs and he stifled a groan. At the other side of the wooden partition Kate and Martha heard him, but didn't speak. They lay listening to his movements. Then they heard the rasp of the match on the emery, heard him puffing at the pipe, and saw in their minds its warm glow in the cold darkness. There would be a long interval of silence, then the creak of his bed, and another muffled groan.

‘Do you hear him?' whispered Kate. ‘We're going to have another time of it with him. He has himself killed. But this is the last of it!'

‘He'll be harrowing the field next,' said Martha.

‘Harrow he will not. Tomorrow, send a note to the horse-dealer in Ballycastle.'

‘Are you going to sell the mare, Kate?' Martha asked incredulously.

‘Indeed I am. There's no sense left in that man's head while she's about.'

‘Will you tell Paddy?'

‘I'll tell him when she's sold, and that's time enough. So off with the note first thing in the morning.'

A handful of rain scattered itself on the tin roof above their heads. For a while there was silence – deep and dark and listening. Then with a tree-like swish the rain fell, fell without ceasing, filling the room with cold streaks of noise.

Paddy lay listening to its hard pattering. He thought of the broken field soaking in the rain, and the disturbed creatures seeking shelter under the sod, rushing about with weakly legs clambering for a new home, while down in the sea the fish would be hiding in its brown tangled lair disturbed by no plough. It's strange the difference between the creatures; all the strange work of God, the God that knows all. Louder and louder fell the rain. ‘It's well the mare's in that night,' he said to himself, ‘and it's well the field's ploughed.' He pictured the sheep pressing into the wet rocks for shelter, and the rabbits scuttling to their holes. Then he wondered if he had closed the stable door; it was foolish to think that way; he closed it, of course he closed it. His thoughts wouldn't lie still. The crow on the thatch flew into his mind. He'd see to that villain in the morning and put a few pickles in her tail. Some day he'd have the whole house corrugated. Maybe now the kitchen'd be flooded. He was about to get up, when the rain suddenly ceased. It eased his mind, and listening now to the drip-drop of water from the eaves, he slipped into sleep.

But in the morning he didn't get up. His shoulders, arms and legs were stiff and painful. Martha brought him his breakfast, and it was a very subdued man that she saw.

‘Give me a lift up, Martha, on the pillows. That's a good girl. Aisy now, aisy!' he said in a slow, pained voice.

‘Do you feel bad, Paddy?'

‘Bravely, Martha, bravely. There's a wee pain across me shoulder, maybe you'd give it a rub. I'll be all right now when I get a rest.'

‘You took too much out of yourself for one day.'

‘I know, I know! But it'd take any other man three days to do the same field. Listen, Martha, put the mare out on the side of the hill; a canter round will do her a world of good.'

And so the first day wore on with his limbs aching, Martha coming to attend him, or Kate coming to counsel him. But from his bed he could see the mare clear as a white rock on the face of the hill, and it heartened him to watch her long tail busily swishing. On the bed beside him was his stick and on the floor a battered biscuit tin. Hour after hour he struck the tin with his stick when he wanted something – matches, tobacco, a drink, or his shoulder rubbed. And glad he was if Martha answered his knocking.

Two days passed in this way, and on the morning of the third the boat with the dealer was due. Time and again Martha went out on a hill at the back of the house, scanning the sea for the boat. At last she saw it and hurried to Kate with the news. Kate made a big bowl of warm punch and brought it to Paddy.

‘How do you feel this morning?' she said when she entered the room.

‘A lot aisier, thank God, a lot aisier.'

‘Take this now and turn in and sleep. It'll do you good.'

Paddy took the warm bowl in this two hands, sipping slowly, and giving an odd cough as the strong whisky caught his breath. Whenever he paused his eyes were on the window watching the mare on the hillside, and when he had finished, he sighed and lay back happily. His body felt deliciously warm and he smiled sweetly. Poor Kate; he misjudged her; she has a heart of corn and means well. Warm eddies of air flowed slowly through his head, stealing into every corner, filling him with a thoughtless ecstasy, and closing his eyes in sleep.

As he slept the dealer came, and the mare was sold. When he awakened he felt a queer emptiness in the room, as if something had been taken from it. Instinctively he turned to the window and looked out. The mare was nowhere to be seen and the stone-slap had been tumbled. He seized his stick and battered impatiently on the biscuit tin. He was about to get out of bed when Kate came into the room.

‘The mare has got out of the field!'

‘She has that and what's more she'll never set foot in it again.'

He waited, waited to hear the worst, that she was sick or had broken a leg.

‘The dealer was here an hour ago and I sold her, and, let me tell you, I got a good penny for her,' she added a little proudly.

His anger roused him, and he stared at his sister, his eyes fiercely bright and his mouth open. Catching the rail of the bed he raised himself up and glared at her again.

‘Lie down, Paddy, like a good man and quieten yourself. Sure we did it for your own good,' she said, trying to make light of it, and fixing the clothes up around his chest. ‘What was she but a poor bit of a beast dying with age? And a good bargain we made.'

‘Bargain, is it? And me after rearing her since she was a wee foal … No; he'll not get her, I tell you! He'll not get her!'

‘For the love of God, man, have sense, have reason!'

But he wasn't listening, he threw back the clothes and reached for his trousers. He brushed her aside with his arm, and his hands trembled as he put on his boots. He seized his stick and made for the door. They tried to stop him and he raised his stick to them. ‘Don't meddle with me or I'll give you a belt with this!'

He was out, taking the short-cut down by the back of the house, across the hills that led to the quay. He might be in time; they'd hardly have her in the boat yet. Stones in the gaps fell with a crash behind him and he didn't stop to build them up, not caring where sheep strayed or cattle either. His eyes were fixed on the sea, on the mainland where Maggie was going. His heart hammered wildly, hammered with sharp stinging pains, and he had to halt to ease himself.

He thought of his beast, the poor beast that hated noise and fuss, standing nervous on the pier with a rope tied round her four legs. Gradually the rope would tighten, and she would topple with a thud on the uneven stones while the boys around would cheer. It was always a sight for the young, this shipping of beasts in the little sailing boats. The thought maddened him. His breath wheezed and he licked his dry, salty lips.

And soon he came on to the road that swept in a half circle to the quay. He saw the boat and an oar sticking over the side. He wouldn't have time to go round. Below him jutted a neck of rock near which the boat would pass on her journey out. He might be able to hail them.

He splashed his way through shallow sea-pools on to the rock, scrambled over its mane of wet seaweed, until he reached the furthest point. Sweat was streaming below his hat and he trembled weakly as he saw the black nose of the boat coming towards him. He saw the curling froth below her bow, the bending backs of the men, and heard the wooden thump of the oars. Nearer it came, gathering speed. A large wave tilted the boat and he saw the white side of his mare, lying motionless between the beams. They were opposite him now, a hundred yards from him. He raised his stick and called, but he seemed to have lost his voice. He waved and called again, his voice sounding strange and weak. The man in the stern waved back as he would to a child. The boat passed the rock, leaving a wedge of calm water in her wake. The noise of the oars stopped and the sail filled in the breeze. For a long time he looked at the receding boat, his spirit draining from him. A wave washed up the rock, frothing at his feet, and he turned wearily away, going slowly back the road that led home.