Walk the Blue Fields (2 page)

Close to the airport, planes appear in the sky. Eugene parks the car and helps you find the desk. Neither one of you knows exactly what to do. They look at your passport, take your suitcase and tell you where to go. You step onto moving stairs that frighten you. There’s a coffee shop where Eugene tries to make you eat a fry but you don’t want to eat or stay and keep him company.

Your brother embraces you. You have never been embraced this way. When his stubble grazes your face, you pull back.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

‘It’s all right.’

‘Goodbye, Sis.’

‘Goodbye, Eugene. Take care.’

‘Watch out for pickpockets in New York.’

You cannot answer.

‘Write,’ he says quickly. ‘Don’t forget to write.’

‘I won’t. Don’t worry.’

You follow passengers through a queue and leave him behind. He will not go back for the fry; he hasn’t the time. You did not have to deliver the message. You know he will put his boot down, be home before noon, have the
meadows
knocked long before dark. After that there will be corn to cut. Already the winter barley’s turning. September will bring more work, old duties to the land. Sheds to clean out, cattle to test, lime to spread, dung. You know he will never leave the fields.

A stranger asks for your handbag, and you give it to
him. You pass through a frame that has no door and your handbag is returned to you. On the other side, the lights are bright. There’s the smell of perfume and roasted coffee beans, expensive things. You make out bottles of tanning lotion, a rack of dark glasses. It is all getting hazy but you keep on going, because you must, past the T-shirts and the duty-free towards the gate. When you find it, there is hardly anyone there but you know this is the place. You look for another door, make out part of a woman’s body. You push it, and it opens. You pass bright hand-basins, mirrors. Someone asks are you all right –
such a stupid question
– but you do not cry until you have opened and closed another door, until you have safely locked yourself inside your stall.

Earlier, the women came with flowers, each one a deeper shade of red. In the chapel, where they waited, their scent was strong. The organist slowly played the Bach toccata once again but a thrill of doubt was spreading through the pews. Already the slant of morning sun had crossed the granite ridge of the baptismal and slid into the font. The priest lifted his head and stared at the open doors where the bridesmaids, in green silk, stood silent. Beyond them, a pale cloud was splitting in the April sky. It was torn and had begun to drift before John Lawlor came up the steps with his only child and gave her away.

Without any reference to time, the priest welcomed everyone and went on to perform the ceremony. There was a moment when he stumbled over the words but, before long, the vows were made and Jackson had the plain gold ring on her finger. In the vestry, the priest noticed how the bride’s hand shook as she lifted the heavy fountain pen, how sparingly the dark ink flowed onto the register but Jackson’s bold strokes clearly
signified
his name.

Now, the priest stands outside and stares at the chapel grounds. It is a fresh day, bright with wind. Confetti has blown across the tombstones, the paving, up the
graveyard
path. On the yew, a scrap of veil quivers. He reaches up and takes it from the branch. It feels stiff in his hand, stranger than cloth. He would like, now, to change his clothes and turn out the country road, to cross the stile and
walk down to the river. There, in the marshy patch between the fields, his presence would make the wild ducks scatter. Further down, at the edge of the river, he would feel calm but as soon as he turns the key in the chapel door, he faces up the street where his duty lies.

Many of the shops in the village today are closed: scrubbed steel trays lie empty in the butcher’s window; blinds sit tight behind the draper’s pane. Only the newsagent’s door is open, a girl with scissors shearing the heads off yesterday’s papers. The priest crosses the street and walks up the avenue to the hotel. This was once the Protestant’s estate. On either side, the trees are tall and here the wind is strangely human. A tender speech is combing through the willows. In a bare whisper, the elms lean. Something about the place conjures up the ancient past: the hound, the spear, the spinning wheel. There’s pleasure to be had in history. What’s recent is another
matter
and painful to recall.

Out on the lawn, the bride and groom with relatives are gathered. The bridesmaids, in their blustering gowns, are laughing now at something the best man has said. The
photographer
is out front, telling them where and how to stand. The priest crosses the red carpet and reaches out to shake the groom’s hand once again. He’s a low-set man with
common
blue eyes and a great deal of strength in his body.

‘I wish you all the best,’ says the priest. ‘I hope you will be very happy.’

‘Thank you, Father. Won’t you step in and get your photo taken with the rest of us?’ he says, placing him beside the bride.

The bride is a beauty whose freckled shoulders, in this dress, are bare. A long string of pearls lies heavy against her skin. The priest steps in close without touching her and
stares at the white line of her scalp where the shining red hair is parted. She looks calm but the bouquet in her hand is trembling.

‘You must be cold,’ he says.

‘I’m not.’

‘You must be.’

‘I’m not,’ she says. ‘I feel nothing.’

Finally, she looks at him. The green eyes are stony and give nothing away.

‘Look this way, please!’

The priest looks over the photographer’s head, at the clouds. The clouds are moving fast, obscuring the sun, throwing legitimate shadows on the lawn.

‘Lovely! Hold that.’ The formation stiffens while a
button
is pressed, then falls apart. ‘Could we have the groom’s family now? Would all members of the groom’s family please step forward!’

Inside the hotel there’s the mordant heat of the crowd, the spill of guests. A waitress near the front desk is ladling punch. Another stands with a sharp knife, slicing a long, smoked salmon. The guests are queuing up, reaching for forks, capers, cuts of lemon. All about them, there are
flowers
. Never has the priest seen such flowers: wide-open tulips, blue hyacinths, trumpeting gladioli. He stands beside a
crystal
jug of roses and breathes in. Their scent is heavy. The need for a drink comes over him and he faces into the bar.

‘Hello, Father,’ says Miss Dunne, a stout woman in a multicoloured dress. ‘That was a decent ceremony. Short and sweet, you kept it.’

‘That’s the easy bit, Miss Dunne. I hope they will be happy now.’

‘Only time will tell,’ she says. ‘You could be jumping the gun.’

The priest smiles. ‘Will you take a drink?’

‘No,’ she says. ‘I never touch it.’ Her arms are folded.

‘Never?’

‘No. Never. If you don’t know why, just stay till evening.’

‘You’ll have a mineral?’

‘I won’t,’ she says. ‘I’ll wait for me dinner.’

The priest realises she is happy standing there on her own. He goes to the bar and orders a hot whiskey. The barmaid sighs and puts the kettle on, stabs a slice of lemon with cloves, drops a spoon into an empty glass. He looks at the crowd and waits for someone to descend. Mostly it’s women who talk to him. There are people here who would like to talk. There are others who owe him money.

Mrs Jackson, the groom’s mother, comes in from the cold. Her colour is high, clashing with the lilac dress. She takes her hat off and, not knowing where to place it, puts it on again.

‘Where was I going wud this?’ she says. ‘An auld woman like me.’

It’s the old game he used to love and has tired of: they put themselves down so he can easily raise them up again. Always looking for the compliment.

‘Would you stop,’ he says. ‘Don’t you look marvellous.’

‘God help us, Father, but it’s little you know,’ she says, standing an inch taller.

‘Easy knowing you’re a priest,’ says her niece. ‘A man would never say that.’ She is studying the room, clearly disappointed in the men that are there.

Mrs Jackson dismisses the remark. ‘Well, at least that much is done. I have only the one left now and, God knows, I could be left with him till the end of my days.’

‘You don’t think he’ll marry?’

‘Who’d take him? A bloody nuisance, he is. All work and all play. Nothing in between.’

‘You’ll take a drink, Mrs Jackson?’

‘I won’t,’ she says. ‘I’ll go off and see about this dinner, in the name of God.’

A young woman from outside the parish leans over the bar, trying to get service. She leans over the barber who is staring at his glass.

‘Is that glass half full or half empty would you say, Father?’

‘It’s whatever you think,’ the priest says.

‘Well, I don’t know what else you’ve been drinking,’ the woman says, ‘but surely it can’t be one without being the other.’

The barber frowns and then its meaning registers.

‘Women,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘The women always have an answer.’

A flower girl races past, trailing more children. The hot whiskey settles him, reminds him of winter nights in his youth. He begins to think of Christmas and his mother, how she poured the stout into the pudding and made him stir it, made him wish. She had encouraged without pushing him towards the priesthood. Once, as an altar boy, he’d stood in the vestry and let his hand trail over the cassock, the surplice. Winter light was staining itself on the high window and in the chapel the choir was practising ‘How Great Thou Art’. He had, at that moment, felt the path opening, but there is no time to dwell on such things here. Lawlor, the bride’s father, has stepped in tight and clasped his hand. In his palm, the priest feels money.

‘Something for your trouble,’ Lawlor says quietly.

‘Thank you,’ the priest accepts. ‘It was my pleasure.’

Lawlor is a widower with two hundred acres on the
Carlow road. The silk tie is perfectly knotted, its stripe bringing up the dark red thread in the suit. He is well known as a man of taste, well liked. He looks across the bar at the groom who has his head down, listening to something another man is saying.

‘Do you think that brother of his will be fit to stand?’ Lawlor asks.

‘Won’t the dinner soon be served?’ says the priest.

‘We’ve arranged it so we won’t be hanging around. They should be calling us any minute now.’ He turns silent and stares again at the groom. ‘When a woman makes up her mind, you can’t stand in her way. You are best out of it.’

‘Things have their own way of sorting themselves out,’ the priest consoles.

‘Some do,’ he says, dropping his head, toeing the stool with the big, polished shoe. ‘You have to stand back and let them at it, let them make their own mistakes. That’s the trouble. And if you don’t go to that trouble, you ask for more.’

The girl who was ladling punch comes into the bar with a gong. ‘Please take your seats! Ladies and gentlemen! Dinner will be served!’

There’s a ripple of surprise. Women reach for their handbags. Drinkers panic and order another round. A trickle flows towards the ballroom where the tables have been set.

‘You know where I am,’ says the priest. ‘If ever you need me.’

‘I hope I won’t have to call on you,’ Lawlor says.

‘Call anyhow,’ the priest says. ‘I’m home most evenings.’

In the Gents, he stands before the mirror and washes his hands, combs the hair back off his forehead. It is growing
fast, falling down over his eyes but the last time he went to the barber, he was given a rough cut. Donal Jackson, the best man, comes in, leans against the wall, and urinates. The stream is long and noisy on the tile. He turns before his cock is put away. It is a huge cock and he has difficulty getting it back into the rented trousers.

‘A fucken ornament, Father,’ he says. ‘Much like your own.’

‘Aisy!’ shouts Kennedy, who has flushed and come out of the stall. ‘There’s no need for that. Would you ever put that thing away!’ He is half amused. ‘Don’t mind this blackguard, Father. Pay no heed.’

Going out the door, the priest hears laughter. There was a time, not too long ago, when they would have waited until he could not have heard. He must go to the bar and compose himself once more. Weddings are hard. The drink flows and the words come out and he has to be there. A man loses his daughter to a younger man. A woman sees her son throwing himself away on a lesser woman. It is something they half believe. There’s the expense, the
sentiment
, the no going back. Any time promises are made in public, people cry.

He stands at the counter and orders a small Powers. When the barmaid hands it to him, she says it’s paid for. The priest looks up. At the far counter, holding a fresh pint of stout, stands the groom. He raises his glass and smiles. The priest lifts the whiskey and takes a sip. It had never occurred to him, until now, that Jackson might have known.

The crowd has filled the ballroom, covered now with tables laid. There’s the flash of silverware, candle flame, the grate of chairs on polished wood. Half the parish is here; a small wedding will no longer do. At the head table,
every seat but the groom’s is taken. Why had he assumed that a chair would be reserved up there for him? Awkwardly, he does the round of tables, looking for his name. Miss Dunne signals, points. He’s been seated at a table with relatives. On his left, the bride’s uncle. To his right, the groom’s aunt.

‘I see they’ve put you down with the rest of the sinners,’ says the aunt.

The priest offers no response. They milk the subject of the weather for a minute or two then look at the menu. The courses are printed in gold, and they are given a choice: cream of vegetable soup to start or crab meat in an avocado pear. Then poached salmon with parsley sauce or lamb in a rosemary jus.

The groom’s aunt sees no need for all the fuss.

‘Wouldn’t a piece of boiled ham do us? It’s far from alvocadoes we were reared,’ she says, looking for praise.

‘I wonder where they poached the salmon?’ Sinnott says. ‘I hope it wasn’t my part of the river.’ He is a wiry man who seldom pays his dues and has confessed to
stealing
sheep off Jackson’s hill.

Lawlor, at the head table, taps a glass and the crowd turns silent. A member of staff comes over with a
microphone
and hands it to the priest. Mechanically, he begins.

‘Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts …’

Heads bow. A crying child is taken from the room. As soon as he reaches the Amen, platters of avocado pears and bowls of soup appear. Bread rolls are buttered. Heads dip. Girls with a bottle in each hand pour red and white wine. Dishes of roast potatoes are brought out, vegetables, boats of gravy. Comfort is taken in the food and silence presides until the first wave of hunger is satiated. Then the talk begins.

‘You never put on an ounce, Father,’ the aunt says. ‘Don’t mind me asking but how do keep the weight down?’

‘I walk,’ he says, letting out a sigh.

‘The walking is great, they say. Do you go far?’

‘I go out the road as far as the creamery and on down to the river,’ he says. ‘I go any day I’m able.’

‘I know that way,’ Miss Dunne says. ‘Were you ever down wud the Chinaman, Father?’

‘No.’ He laughs. ‘What Chinaman?’

‘Well, you wouldn’t know him – he’s not a Christian – but there’s people goes down to him for the cure.’

‘The cure?’

‘Aye,’ she says, reaching for the salt.

‘Where, exactly, does he live?’

‘Down below Redmond’s in the caravan. You know there at the back of the hay shed? You must know it if you do be down that way.’

‘He’s a refugee, some relation of them people wud the Chinese,’ the Jackson man says. ‘Redmond of the quarry hired him as labourer and now he’s down there tending the ewes.’

‘Says he hasn’t lost a lamb yet,’ Breen says. ‘They say, in all fairness, that he’s a good man even though he doesn’t always do it our way.’

‘He won’t have a dog. Has some terror of dogs,’ says Mike Brennan from the hill.