Collected Short Stories, page 25
The boy had now reached the top of the ladder and after struggling on to the lip of the chimney he stood up on it, walked round to the lightning conductor and gripped it like a Roman soldier with his spear. At that moment a woman came out of the end house across the fields and taking damp clothes from her washing basket she hung them on the line. Then, shading her eyes, she called to left and right: ‘Jackie, Jackie, Jackie.’ She didn’t see him crouched at the top of the chimney, and when she had gone back to the house he descended the ladder rapidly and raced across the fields.
‘Thanks be to God he’s safe anyway,” Tim said and rose to his feet. ‘Never again will I leave the ladder without a watchman.’
He walked across the field to the end house and on reaching the open door he called to the woman as she moved about the dark kitchen and asked if he could have a word with her son.
‘I hope he hasn’t been up to any mischief, Mister,’ she said, coming to the door.
‘Nothing much. I was wondering if you’d like him to be a steeplejack.’
‘A steeplejack! What on earth’s that?’
‘My job – pointing and renovating mill chimneys.’
The woman smiled: ‘Is it our Jackie! He hasn’t the heart of a rabbit, Mister, and that’s the truth.’
‘I can tell you he climbed to the top of the brickyard chimney when we’d our backs turned.’
‘He wouldn’t do the like of that, Mister!’ she said, and stared at him incredulously.
‘He did, indeed. Ask him yourself.’
She beckoned Jackie beside her and scrutinised the red dust on his jersey and trousers.
‘Where were you?’ she shouted, and gripped his shoulder.
‘Over in the brickfields, Mother.’
‘What were you doing?’
‘Looking around and playing.’
‘Playing at what?’
Jackie lowered his head but didn’t answer.
‘You climbed the ladder to the top of the chimney,’ Tim challenged him.
‘Speak up to the man, Jackie, where’s your manners!’
Jackie plucked at a loose thread on his jersey.
‘You walked round the lip of the chimney and put your hand on the lightning conductor,’ Tim pressed.
‘Merciful God!’ the mother exclaimed and sat down on a chair. ‘Wait till I get my breath back. My boyo, but you’re a heartscald. You’d some poor body’s blessing about you when you weren’t killed stone dead.’
‘He has a head for heights. You should let him follow his gift. He’s a born climber, a born steeplejack.’
‘He’ll not be able to climb into bed when I’m done with him … And wait till his father hears about it … It’s the last chimney he’ll climb in this life … Oh, you’ll be in your good safe school tomorrow if you’re fit to go … I’m thankful to you, Mister, for if I’d seen him at the top of the chimney the sight’d never have left my eyes.’
The bell of the fire brigade could be heard approaching the edge of the town.
‘I’ll have to go,’ Tim said. ‘But when the lad’s the age keep my job in mind for him. There’s good money in it.’
He hurriedly took his leave and headed across the field to the hedge where his two workmates awaited him.
The Schooner
It was August and very warm; Terence Devlin, a boy of eight, was leaving the city with his father for a holiday on the Island of Rathlin. It was early morning when they walked to the station where porters were rim-rolling milk cans along the empty platform. At Ballymoney they had to change and wait for a long time for the narrow-gauge train to take them to Ballycastle. That train was very small and the people seemed too big for it; steam dribbled from all parts of the engine and Terence held on tightly to his father for he feared that it would explode at any moment. The wooden seats in the carriage were rough and hacked with names, and they hurt the backs of his knees. In the floor boards there were wide slits and through them could be seen the sharp stones which lay between the sleepers. The train shook violently and Terence’s teeth rattled in his head and the suitcase fell off the rack on to the floor.
‘I hope you’ll not be sea-sick in the train,’ his father smiled to him, and put away the paper he was trying to read. When the train slowed down he would shout out to his son the names of flowers and mosses that grew on the rocky embankments. But to amuse himself Terence dropped cigarette-cards between the floor boards and spelt out words that were pencilled on the ceiling. His father told him to try and sleep and not be straining his eyes reading words that were written by bad boys: ‘It’s the like of those things that bring a bad name on the country. I hope, Terence, you’ll never scribble in a railway carriage.’
After that Terence dozed off and when he awoke he was in Ballycastle. There was the smell of turf and the air was heavy with heat. Down past a siding they walked where the wooden sleepers were sticky with oil and smelt sharply of tar.
They stopped at a shop and Terence bought ice-cream, a wooden spade, and a red bucket with black letters: A Present from Ballycastle.
They took the long road to the sea. Men with twisted towels round their necks passed them. Blinds were pulled down in the big houses and on the lawns old ladies sat on deck-chairs under the shade of red umbrellas. Terence shook a pebble from his sandal, and Mr Devlin walked on, fanning himself with his hat. The big chestnut trees that lined the road were stiff with heat, but under the leaves flakes of shadow quivered. The tarred road crackled as a motor raced by, then a drove of cattle came up, their hooves sticking in the tar, their dung-caked sides as dry as the bark of a tree.
‘If we get weather like this, Terence, we’ll not know ourselves on the way back.’
While Mr Devlin went to inquire about the boat Terence leaned over a sun-warmed wall and saw below him boys and girls playing tennis. Boys hung blazers on the net-posts, hitched up their belts, and through the sun-sifted air came the cord-rattle of tennis balls hitting the net and nearby a lazy plunge of waves falling on a curve of sand. Idly he picked moss out of the crevices in the wall, and then a finger flicked his ear and he turned to see his father smiling down at him: ‘We’ll go over to the quay now; the boat’s going to the island shortly.’
Alongside the quay lay a boat, a brown sail wrapped round the mast and old motor tyres hanging over the sides. The out-going tide had left pools of water on the quay, and strands of seaweed had entangled themselves under the mooring rings. At the end of the quay three boys were fishing for fry and behind them sat glass jam-jars filled with shining water and green moss. Terence yearned to take off his sandals and dabble his scorched feet in the pools, but already his father was handing the suitcase to a man in the boat and he joined him to see the cargo being taken aboard: two bags of flour, a tea-chest filled with loaves and covered with sacking, a coil of barbed wire and two panes of glass.
There were five islanders, some tall and awkward-looking, standing loosely as if they were ashamed of their height. Terence and his father sat in the stern; the tyres were pulled in, and one of the crew lifted an oar and pushed the boat out from the quay. The gunwale was warm and blobs of resin had oozed out of the wood. The sky was clear, the sea smooth and a fierce sun striking into it.
Ballast stones were dropped overboard and Terence saw the water fizzle white and felt splashes of salt on his lips. Four oars were fixed between the thole-pins and dipped into the water simultaneously; drops dripped from the blades, whorls were left by the thrust of the oars, and looking back Terence watched for a long time the wrinkled patches of water fade into the smooth sea. He could still hear the dull thud of waves on the sand and he wondered in what part of the ocean the waves were hatched. He was going to ask his father, but he was now pointing out Fair Head to him and telling him a story about beautiful children who had been turned into swans and how for many lonely years they had wandered about this sea.
Far out from the Head two steamers were very black and seemed to float in the sky. Gulls flew close to the boat, their reflections clear in the smooth water; puffins stood up and flapped their wings, or to escape the boat they arose in a flock and flittered the top of the water with their feet. But for all the rowing the island seemed to draw no nearer. It lay spread out in front of them, its white cliffs like a row of teeth, and to the right its black cliffs polished by the sun.
‘Now, men,’ said Mr Devlin, ‘I could give one of you a spell,’ and he took an oar, splashed awkwardly, and broke the rhythmic dip-and-lift which had fascinated Terence.
‘Don’t dip the blade so deep,’ said one of the islanders, and with great patience he showed Mr Devlin how to feather his oar. In no time the sweat was gleaming on Mr Devlin’s forehead, and soon he had to take off his coat and waistcoat.
‘It’s tough work when yer not used to it,’ said a little brown-faced man who was rowing near the bow.
Mr Devlin grunted and turned around to look at the island: ‘I’m damned if we’re moving at all. I thought we’d row over in ten minutes.’
‘No, nor in ten times ten minutes. ’Tis a long pull – eight miles across.’
Mr Devlin puffed loudly and his oar left no whirling holes in the water. Presently he gave up: ‘Gentlemen, I think I’ve worked my passage,’ and he sat in the stern and his hands fell limply on his lap.
Later Mr Devlin began to ask questions about the island, and the boatmen answered him, and in his own mind he began to plan what walks he would take during his fortnight’s holiday. Terence picked out the white houses that lay in the scoops of the hills and the square-towered church and graveyard that edged the coast. Now the boat was passing between two quays, and a clump of men with their hands in their pockets gazed at the boat as she came in. There was a strong smell of rotting seaweed rising from the bay. White ducks were dozing on the grass above tide-mark; along the strand a man in his shirt-sleeves was carrying two cans of water, and a barefooted boy was throwing a stick into the water for a black dog to retrieve it.
Terence and his father made their way up the stony quay, past a rusty winch and a broken boat with green-scummed water. The houses were low and slated, and one of them with two sentry-box porches had its name in Gaelic letters printed on a thin board.
‘This is our ticket,’ said Mr Devlin, and they walked up a gravel path towards it.
A tall woman in black opened the door: ‘Welcome to the island,’ she said. ‘We didn’t see the boat comin’ in or faith we’d have sent Paddy down to meet it … Come on in. Annie’s bakin’ and the place is a bit throughother.’
They were in a warm kitchen with a shining range, and Annie was turning farls of bread on a griddle and hurried to greet them: ‘Ye must be famished with the hunger. I’ll not be long gettin’ the things on the table.’
The two women were dressed alike: black blouses with high collars, grey hair topped with big combs, but Annie had on a spotted apron, and two broad rings were grooved so tightly on her finger that the flesh was swollen at each side.
‘Lizzie,’ she said quietly, ‘take their things up to the room,’ and she stood beside Terence, holding his cap and stroking his fair hair.
A door opened on the opposite side of the kitchen and Paddy slouched in, his sleeves rolled up, a rough-haired terrier at his heels. The dog began to bark at the strangers and Paddy swiped at him with his hat: ‘Chu, you brute! Chu, Bumper, and have some manners!’
He shook hands with Terence and Mr Devlin, and then sat beside them on the sofa, idly picking clay from his fingers with his thumb nail. Annie moved from the table to the griddle: she was very quiet, shadow-like, her elastic-sided boots making no noise, her eyes withdrawn and brooding.
The kitchen was big: a wag-at-the-wall ticked loudly, and in the deep window that faced the sea there was a white spool, a yellow tape, and a calendar with its leaves curled and a red outline of a fish on all the Friday dates.
‘Ye got a lovely day for crossin’, so ye did,’ put in Paddy. ‘It was a long pull, but ye had the tide with ye.’
‘There wasn’t a ripple. I never saw the sea so calm,’ answered Mr Devlin.
Annie scraped the griddle noisily with a knife and swept the scrapings into her hand with a goose’s wing. Paddy crossed and re-crossed his legs.
‘The sea was like oil,’ continued Mr Devlin, trying to make conversation. ‘And it was covered with birds.’
Annie dropped the knife, and then quietly opened the back door and went out.
Paddy got to his feet, glancing at the door: ‘Calm weather is scarce in these parts. There wasn’t an air of wind the past two days.’ He stuffed a piece of twisted paper between the bars of the grate and lit his pipe. ‘Weather like this would do no good; the soil’s as dry as snuff.’
Annie came in and Paddy added hurriedly: ‘And, Mr Devlin, while you’re here you must get a night or two’s fishin’. The sea’s thick with fish.’ He hitched his belt: ‘I’ll leave ye now till you get your tay. I’ve a field of purties I have to weed.’
Bumper slid out from under the table, but when he saw Lizzie enter with an old raincoat he wagged his tail.
Lizzie smiled at Terence and turned to the dog: ‘Bumper, are ye goin’ to Ballycarry?’ The dog jumped into the air three times, ran under the stairs and came out with a basket in his mouth.
Terence laughed and said to his father: ‘Could I go to Ballycarry?’
Lizzie folded her arms: ‘Ah, child, it’s too far. It’s away up in the mountains, but if you come here next year you’ll be a big boy and I’ll take you and Bumper up to Ballycarry.’
Kneeling on the sofa he watched through the window: Bumper walked in front, the basket in his mouth; Lizzie followed, a gleaming can hooked to her elbow. They passed behind a limestone wall, her head bobbing up and down; then the road swept alongside a hill, dipped into a hollow and they were lost from sight.
For the next two days while his father tramped the island gathering specimens of wild flowers Terence played about the house waiting for the time when Bumper and Lizzie were to set out for Ballycarry. On the third day he was strolling about like that when he saw the door of a little lean-to lying open. Cautiously he went in and found Annie sharpening a knife on a hone. She didn’t hear him. The sun was shining through a small window and the shadow of a bush flickered against the pane. It was cool and quiet, and broken cobwebs dangled from the bare slates. There was no sound except the rasp of the knife. He was going to go out when he saw on a shelf a model schooner with brown sails, brass hooks and rings, and underneath the tail-shaped stern the painted name: Windswept.
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘who owns the lovely boat?’
Annie started at the voice and turning round she saw him tapping the deck and moving the sails backwards and forwards. Silently she stared at him. He stroked the hull with the palm of his hand and toyed with the helm.
‘Who owns it?’ he asked again, his eyes wide with anticipated joy.
For a moment she was rigid, then she relaxed, and a look of brooding doubt spread across her face. Again he tapped the deck, and her expression changed to one of patient sadness.
‘You can play with it,’ she said, almost in a whisper. ‘You can play with it, and Paddy will show you how to trim the sails.’
In a minute he was out and off to the shore. Paddy met him: ‘Where are you goin’ with that? You can’t have that!’ he said in great surprise.
‘Annie lent it to me. She said I could play with it and you could fix the sails for me.’
‘Wait now a minute. Don’t go away.’ And Paddy hurried up to the little lean-to. Annie was standing in the shadow of the doorway and came to meet him. Both raised their hands and waved to Terence to go on. Paddy followed him, thinking how long the little schooner had remained on its stand and how for many years Annie had polished it: ‘It’s curious the changes that come over people – changes ye’d never dream of.’ And he rubbed the back of his neck with his hand.
He sat on the beach stones above the little bay, took the schooner on his lap and showed Terence how to use the helm: ‘Turn it to the left when you’re sailin’ her with her bow pointin’ to the house.’
Terence took off his sandals and placed the schooner in the water. All her sails tightened in the breeze and her brass rings glinted in the sun. Annie saw it from the door: the rust-brown sails, the wet-gleaming hull, and the silver flakes of water skimming from the bow. Paddy walked along the strand, then a disturbing thought whorled in his mind, for he wondered was the ship watertight after her years on the stand? He called to Terence to bring it up to him, and with his ear to the hull he turned the boat up and down; he could hear nothing except a slight seed-rattle of a chip of wood inside her.
‘She’s as tight as a pig-skin – a lovely boat! She’s the girl can whip along in a thin breeze … Take good care of her.’
All that day Terence played with the boat, and in the evening after his supper Annie, with a thin shawl on her shoulders, came down to the shore to bring him home. The sun had gone down and the water was darkened by a chilly breeze.
He shouted: ‘Look now!’ as the boat tore across the bay and a knife-curve of water rolled white at her bow.
‘Come, Terence, it’s gettin’ late. What’ll your father say if you’re not in bed when he comes back from fishin’?’
She waited on the shore road for him, and presently he came floundering up the loose stones of the beach with the schooner hugged to his breast. He was out of breath and full of joy. Then he saw that her eyes were wet.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
‘I was just thinkin’,’ she answered clumsily and tried to draw his attention to a shower of moths that flickered over a field of beans.
‘But why were you crying?’ he persisted.
‘I was thinking of the boat. It was my husband made it.’
‘And will he make one for me?’ Terence asked eagerly.
‘Indeed, he’d make you one.’
‘And when will he make it? Where is he?’ he kept repeating. ‘Where is he?’
