Collected Short Stories, page 26
She stood still on the road: ‘When he comes back, please God, he’ll make you one.’
‘And when will he be back?’
‘It’s getting cold. We must hurry now,’ she evaded.
There was great heat in the kitchen from the humming range. The curtains were drawn and the oil lamp lighted. Terence was allowed to look at the book of flowers that his father had already gathered and sometimes Annie would bend over him, take from her apron pocket a sugar lump and put it in his mouth. He loved this time of the evening with no one in the kitchen but the two of them, and even Annie, herself, looked forward to this hour before his bedtime. He was great company. Sometimes he would thread her needle and she would sit and watch him, her hands loosely on her lap. She would give him milk to drink and he would sit near the range feeling the heat on his knees and hearing outside the unhurried breath of the waves. Then when he would nod his head in sleep she would light a candle and bring him to his room. She used to allow him to keep the schooner under the dressing-table, but one evening when she heard him coughing she stole upstairs and found him asleep on the floor beside the schooner.
The next day she feared he would have a cold, but he set off with his father to swim and later she coaxed him to sit with her in the sunny field at the back of the house. The foot of the field had a crop of blossomed potatoes and Paddy was spraying them with bluestone and from where they sat they could hear the spray rattling like hail on the leaves and see the blue sheen of it as it dried in the sun. Butterflies pirouetted over the field and Terence caught one and placed it on the palm of his hand. The powder from its wings clung to his fingers and he put the butterfly on the ground and it began to struggle up a blade of grass.
‘It’ll never fly again,’ Annie said to him as she looked over the calm sea. ‘The powder on its wings means as much to it as wind for the sails of a boat.’
The remark hurt him and he watched with growing sorrow the blade of grass bending under the weight of the ungainly butterfly and how brilliantly white its helpless wings shone in the sun.
Paddy came up to them for a drink from the can of milk, his eyebrows and clothes covered with a fine blue dust. One foot crushed the butterfly, and Terence was going to cry out when he noticed that Annie was engrossed in her knitting and didn’t see what had happened. Presently she got up and went inside to get ready the tea, leaving her rug and knitting in the field.
‘Do you know what you’ve done?’ said Terence to Paddy. ‘You’ve tramped on a butterfly and killed it.’
‘And sure what sin is there in that?’ replied Paddy, noticing how his lips quivered. ‘Sure they only live for a day and some of them don’t live as long as that – the swallows and thrushes snap them in two while you’d wink.’
Paddy lay back and pulled his hat over his face. Terence took off his sandals and felt the soft grass on his bare feet. He closed his eyes from the glare of the sun and thoughts of cool things stirred within his mind – moss floating in a jam-jar, drops on the blade of an oar, and rain washing the powder from a butterfly’s wings. He sat up and on gazing at the sea he saw that a schooner with all her canvas out was passing up the sound.
‘Oh, Paddy, look at the lovely schooner like Annie’s!’
Paddy took the hat from his eyes and stared at the ship: ‘It’s not often you see them about now. They’re a grand sight. That one is only drifting up there on the first of flood – there’s no wind for her.’
‘I’ll run and tell Annie.’
‘Come back here and let her make the tay,’ and he rose to his feet. ‘Come on with me and spray the spuds.’
Terence hesitated: ‘Let me tell her!’
‘You’ll not!’ Paddy said sharply. ‘Do what I say!’
Reluctantly Terence came over to him, and slowly they walked down to the barrel of spray, Paddy looking now and again at the schooner and calculating how long it would take her to drift out of the sound, knowing also that she would surely drift back again if the wind did not rise during the night.
He got Terence to pick up the flinty pieces of limestone that lay between the drills and to search under all the leaves for the Queen of the butterflies. ‘And you’ll know her,’ says Paddy, ‘by her wings, for she has one wing of pure gold and one of shining silver, and if you find her you’ll be able to sell her for hundreds of pounds.’ And while Terence searched, Paddy sprayed until the schooner had nearly passed up the sound. Then clapping the dust from his hands he went to the top of the field and gathered up the rug and the knitting.
When they came in Lizzie and Bumper had arrived from Ballycarry, and Bumper lay at the open door in the sun snapping at the flies. The cement floor was cold under Terence’s feet and Annie made him sit down at once and put on his sandals.
As the evening grew old the warmth left the earth and the potato-blossoms closed up and drooped their heads. In the kitchen a warm silence crept into all the corners and a trapped fly buzzed madly in a web.
During the night a rainy storm blew against the house, and in the morning when Terence wakened he saw his father standing at the window: ‘Terence, boy, it’s like a winter’s morning. The summer’s finished and tomorrow, if the boat can leave, you’ll be on your way back again.’
Two conflicting thoughts encumbered the boy’s mind: a desire that the storm would last a long time so that no boat could leave; a desire that the storm would die at once so that he could get sailing the schooner before he left. At breakfast he heard Paddy assure his father that the storm would last no time and that it would blow itself out before night.
When Annie was making the beds Terence went with her and from the window they looked out upon the bay. Ducks and hens sheltered under the boats that were hauled up on the grass. The wind flayed the water into jagged peaks; waves tore between the two quays, crashed on the strand, and sent jabbling fingers amongst the stones on the beach. Gulls rose from the stones and tipped the waves before they broke. Tangles of brown sea-wrack curved the bay and clumps of it floated in a solid mass.
‘Oh, look!’ Terence would call out as a big wave struck the quay and burst in snowy spray. Annie would cross to the window and share for a moment the vigorous joy of wind-torn water.
When she had the beds made Terence shyly plucked her apron: ‘Could I have the boat?’
‘Terry, you have no sense – one wave would smash the riggin’ and leave it like a butterfly that had lost its wings,’ and she stroked his head and smiled at him meekly.
‘Well, could I have it after a while if the wind goes away?’
‘We’ll see.’
In the afternoon the wind had fallen; and late that evening when the wind was exhausted and only a glimmer of it flicked across the bay Terence pleaded again for the boat.
Annie laughed at him: ‘At this time! Ye’d be frozen down on the shore.’
‘Ah, please, I’ll be going away in the morning.”
‘But sure you’ll be back next year and you can sail it till you heart’s content.’
‘Just one more for the last,’ he kept pleading.
Paddy was dozing on the sofa, and Lizzie was trying to read a paper in the light from the fire, but did not raise her head.
Terence asked again.
‘All right,’ said Annie, and getting the key she went out for the schooner. ‘Just sail her once. Darkness will soon be here.’
The chilly water took his breath away as he set the rudder and let the boat slide from his hand. As he ran along the cold strand he could see the sails black against the light from the water. He sailed her back across the bay again and then heard Annie call to him from the lighted doorway.
‘I’m going now,’ he shouted, waiting for the boat to come to shore. But then something happened. The schooner stopped, tangled in a clump of floating wrack. He waited for her to free herself. Then he noticed she was slewing round. He clenched his hands and involuntarily pressed his feet into the sand. The sails flapped, caught the wind, and she headed out between the two quays towards the open sea. He began to cry. He ran to the first quay. He skinned his legs as he climbed on to it from the strand. Annie called to him again, but he didn’t hear her. He lifted a boat-hook that lay on the quay and peered at the waves that slopped in amongst the stone steps. Once he thought he saw something pass at great speed, but he wasn’t sure. Backwards and forwards he ran from one quay to the other like a dog that had lost his master. Desperately he searched, lifting up sand-soaked tins and flinging them into the water. His throat was scorched. He heard Annie call to him from the shore: ‘Terence, Terence, are you there?’
He went back to look for his sandals. The incoming tide had almost covered them. Annie came down to him over the beach stones: ‘Where did you get to?’
He couldn’t answer. When she came close to him she saw him without the boat and heard him sobbing.
‘Where’s the boat?’ she asked.
Through his tears he told her how he had fixed the rudder and how the boat had caught in wrack and had turned round. She stood beside him and squeezed his head against her breast: ‘Don’t cry, Terence. Don’t take it so ill.” A deep shivering convulsed her and she squeezed him with great possessiveness and stroked his hair.
Paddy and Lizzie were seated at the fire and looked questioningly at Annie when they saw Terence’s scratched legs and the tears in his eyes.
‘He lost the boat,’ said Annie, ‘and he’s broken-hearted.’ An awkward silence fell. Lizzie poked the fire and Paddy fumbled in his pockets.
‘Wash your face and legs and don’t let your father see you in that state,’ and she made much noise under the stairs getting a basin and a towel. Lizzie and Paddy said nothing.
‘Don’t cry; sure that could happen to anyone?’ she said, drying his face and legs.
‘It was the rudder … I fixed it right and it caught in seaweed on the way over and turned round.’
‘They’re a misfortunate thing to put on any model boat,’ put in Paddy.
Annie stared at him, and he went out and walked about until the lamp had been lowered in the kitchen and all had gone to bed.
In the morning it was raining heavily and some sheep that were to be taken to the mainland stood on the quay bleating and calling to others that were being driven along the strand. Dogs were barking, and drenched men with no overcoats shouted to one another. Mr Devlin heard them as he washed, and he hurried Terence out of bed and carried down the suitcase to the kitchen.
‘There’ll be a bit of a jabble on the sea,’ said Paddy as they sat down to their breakfast. ‘It’s raining badly and I have an ould bit of a sail you can spread on your knees.’
He looked out of the door: ‘Yiv plenty of time – eat yer fill. They’re carrying the sheep to the boat but I’ll not bring my three down till yer nearly ready.’
Through the open door they could hear the melancholy bleat of sheep and see a loose web of rain wind-trailed across the bay.
Annie was quiet: ‘You’ll send Terence back next year for all his holidays. Paddy, there, could meet the train at Ballycastle.’
‘Would you like that?’ said Mr Devlin.
Terence nodded his head. He wanted to talk about the schooner, but he knew if he opened his mouth no words would come.
Paddy carried the suitcase to the boat, Lizzie and Bumper followed. In the porch Annie held Terence’s hand: ‘It won’t be long till next summer and if God spares us all you’ll be back again.’
He couldn’t look up at her and he noticed that stains of salt water had whitened the toes of his sandals.
‘Goodbye,’ she said and watched them go down the gravel path.
They clambered into the wet-soaked boat and a man rubbed a seat for them with a wisp of straw. When Paddy had tied the legs of his sheep he carried them aboard and sat beside Terence and Mr Devlin. The sail was unrolled from the mast and blobs of rain-water fell from its folds; it filled in the breeze and the driving rain rattled on it like countless bird-pecks. Lizzie stood on the quay with her arms folded and Bumper ran around shaking the rain from himself. From the porch Annie waved to Terence; the tears came to his eyes and he pretended to look for something under the seat. The water slid past the boat, her bows crunched into the waves, and Terence raised his head and scanned the shore for the schooner. But he could see nothing, only black rocks with waves jumping over them. Slanting clouds heaved up against the hills and stitched the valleys with rain. The houses were falling behind and soon there would be nothing to mark them except the big telegraph pole above the post-office.
The wet sheep lay on yellow straw, steam was rising from them, and now and again with the pitch of the boat they tried to scramble to their feet. The rain wormed down the bit of sail that was spread across Terence’s knees, and Paddy tried to light his pipe by pulling the edge of the sail over his head.
Terence now searched the sea, and his gaze was so prolonged and intense that Mr Devlin nudged Paddy: ‘He’s looking for the boat.’
‘Ach, God knows where she is by this time,’ replied Paddy.
‘Would it cost much to replace it?’
‘Ach, Mr Devlin, it’s not the cost that matters – it’s what it meant to Annie,’ and he bent confidentially to Mr Devlin. ‘It was her husband that made it thirty years ago. It was a model of his own ship and since he went away she cleaned and polished it. It held raw memories for her!’
‘Where is he now?’ Mr Devlin asked.
‘He never came back. They were married in June and early in September of the same year he went away and she never saw him again.’
‘Were they … happy?’
‘Happy! … He was a ship’s carpenter – a fine lump of a fella – and made every stick of furniture that went into their house. They lived at Ballycarry on the east side of the island. We still have the house, but she never goes there now … She still thinks he’ll come back.’
‘And will he, do you think?’
Paddy shook his head: ‘He’ll not, poor fella. I think he’s drowned.’
Terence’s eyes were on the sea, but sometimes when a sheep would move he would stretch out his hand and pat its wet head. Paddy spoke in a low voice, but Terence wasn’t listening to him.
‘They spent three happy months together on the island,’ continued Paddy. ‘His ship was bound for Canada for a load of grain. It left the Clyde and it was to pick him up passing the island. He was on the look-out for it and when it came into the sound they sent a small boat ashore for him. But at night the wind had fallen and the schooner was becalmed.’
Mr Devlin noticed that his suitcase was lying flat and the rain was creeping into it, but he did not move and inclined his head nearer to Paddy’s.
‘Annie kept her light in the window and at dawn she was down on the shore looking out at the great schooner. She waved, knowing he’d see her. The next day the ship was still there. It was a day like the one you met coming to the island – terribly warm. But during the night a wind sprung up and she saw her lights moving out of the sound … That was the last she saw.’
‘And what happened?’
‘The boat nor crew were never heard tell of … She always felt that he was alive and that he’d come back … She’s got very old waiting … For a while she used to walk about the house at night, opening and shutting doors. But she got over that.’
‘It’s a great pity Terence lost the little schooner on her. She shouldn’t have lent it to him.’
‘Ah, Mr Devlin, she has a great liking for your son – great liking. And you’ll have to send him back next summer. The loss of the wee schooner may do good, for it’s gone now and she won’t be cleaning it and thinking … There was times I wish somebody had stolen it.’
They were both silent. Three big waves hit the boat and sent the spray flying over them.
‘Man, Terence,’ said Paddy, ‘if the wee schooner met fellas like that they’d make short work of her. But, maybe, she’s ashore somewhere below the white rocks.’
‘And will you look for her?’
‘I will, I will,’ said Paddy, trying to relight his damp pipe. But the abstracted way he answered made Terence feel that the schooner meant nothing to Paddy; he knew he would never see it again and that he’d have no schooner to play with when he’d come back next year.
The Circus Pony
The four children were in the sitting-room, warmly sheltered from the cold wind that was sweeping up in gusts from the lough. Now and again it flung handfuls of hailstones against the window-panes and bumped like a mattress against the gable of the house. Kevin, a boy of ten, was standing at one of the windows gazing out at the dry hailstones as they bounced on the lawn and combed through the chilled trees in the orchard. And with each shower that passed he saw the hailstones gather in the hoof-marks in the fields and lie white as snow on the road that switch-backed across the hedgy countryside.
For a while he scanned the road for he wanted to be first in seeing his father’s car coming from the town and be the first out of the room as it drove into the stabled yard at the back of the house.
His father was to be home before five, and already five had chimed from the marble clock on the mantelpiece, and soon the blue of the sky would darken down for the coming of night and the lights in the farm-houses would shine out across the cold fields.
Of his three sisters Eileen, the eldest, was practising her pieces at the piano, playing softly, and paying no heed to anything else. Rita, with her black fringe broken in places like a comb, was stretched out on the hearthrug with a book propped between her elbows, and Kevin sensed that she was slyly watching him, determined that he wouldn’t be first out of the room to greet the car. Joan, the youngest, was kneeling at the sofa with her dolls and scolding her teddybear for having fallen forward with out-stretched arms and head touching its legs. ‘If you don’t sit up straight and have manners like the rest of the children you’ll have to go to bed,’ she said. ‘Do you hear? Now be a good teddy’ – and straightening the brass bell on his ribboned neck she stood him soldierly against the sofa and propped dolls at each side to comfort him.
