Jan Karon - In the Company of Others

‘He gives the credit to you.’

‘Aye, he would.’ He saw for a moment the light in her eyes. ‘I love my husband.’

‘Your husband loves you.’

‘I’ve lived all these years knowing the truth, and the hatred I feel for her is so cruel, it devours me even yet. Sometimes I feel as if my heart would break for Liam-knowing the truth doesn’t always set us free, Reverend.’

Not always, perhaps, but often. Learning he had a brother from his father’s intimacy with the dark-skinned woman who helped raise him had been, after the initial shock, liberating-scary, but liberating. He had a brother now, that was the important thing, and he and Henry had the rest of their lives to puzzle out the mystery of it, to give thanks for it.

‘Liam loves Bella as best he can, he wants to be a good da to her, but she shuts him out. And there’s a coldness in Liam towards Da, though he tries to hide it from me. I think he resents that Da was allowed to buy his birth-right. All around us, there’s a shutting out of love, so.’

‘I sense there’s hard feeling still between Evelyn Conor and your father.’

‘My da bought Broughadoon anonymously, after Mr. Riley died and she came up against it. Perhaps Da was trying to make up for his misguided ways and help her; perhaps he was only bitter, and bent on taking away something she loved-I don’t know. But when she found it was Da who owned what had been hers, things went to pieces altogether.

‘And then there’s Paddy, always after Liam to give a hand with the roof, the gardens, the guttering, to loan him money-and Bella with such a fierce and dangerous rage, and myself thinking she got it from me, after all, that it’s in the blood, this brutal fury, perhaps I’m the one who…’-she put her hands over her face and sobbed-‘infects others with it.’

He waited.

‘I confess, Reverend, my weakness of faith, my hurtful selfishness, the sin of this consuming hatred that withers my bones. I want to let it go.’ A long keening came out of her. ‘I want to let it all go.’

He looked at the grainy light slanting across the floor, and wondered where Ibiza might be, that place for which the Irish yearn when it rains.

‘Wicked-looking stuff, his art, collected when he lived in New York.’

‘Did you visit New York?’

They were driving up the hill in the Rover.

‘In my late thirties,’ said Liam. ‘I couldn’t wait to get home. Don’t like a lot of frizzing about, horns blaring, that sort of thing.’

‘A bumpkin like myself.’

‘And our father’s gardens have run riot, of course. Seamus is no hand with a spade, nor Paddy, either.’

‘Gardening is civil and social, Thoreau said, but it wants the rigor of the forest and the outlaw.’

‘This one’s all outlaw. I’d love to get my hands on ’t, but there’s no stoppin’ th’ force of a goin’ wheel-I’d be up to my eyeballs, an’ Broughadoon runnin’ wild.’

‘Any hope for the country house hotel to happen?’

‘No hope a’tall as I see it. Paddy can’t boil water, much less cook a decent fry; he’s rude to everybody and a bloody terror with the cheque book. So he’s after writing a novel to make his fortune. Says a lot of ad blokes have done th’ same-James Patterson, Salman Rushdie, Peter Mayle, Elmore Leonard…’

‘Dorothy Sayers,’ he said. ‘She was in the ad business. Mystery writer, Christian apologist. A great success.’

‘So there you have it,’ said Liam. ‘Paddy’s convinced he’s next in line.’

‘This bridge club-it’s been around a few years?’

‘Feeney and Father O’Reilly have paid a monthly call to Mother since Father passed. He was generous to Feeney when he was coming along in his medical practice, and openhanded to th’ parish altogether. They were with him when he died; one of the last things he said was, lads, keep an eye on Evelyn. God knows, they’ve been faithful, they’ve done their bit- but none can wean her of the drink or the stepstool. ’

‘The stepstool.’

‘Goes up it like a monkey-pops herself onto a counter or table or whatever’s at hand-an’ squirrels her jumble in cupboards. She’s after keepin’ her last bit of jewelry from Paddy, who’d be off to the pawnshop in th’ blink of an eye. When Seamus came, she hauled the family plate to the top shelves, forks, knives, spoons, and all. Up she’d go to get herself a fork, and after the washing-up, Seamus would leave it out for her to put away again. That lasted for a year or two.’

He might have laughed, but Liam wasn’t amused.

The misting rain of the morning had turned to a pelting; he reached to the backseat and grabbed his wet umbrella. ‘By the way, where’s Pud?’

‘Shut up in th’ family quarters.’

‘Why is that?’

‘To give you your peace!’

‘If you’re putting him up on our account, please turn him out. We like the little guy.’

‘You’re sure of it?’

‘Absolutely.’

Liam grinned. ‘Righto, then.’ The engine idled at the front portico; Liam stared ahead. ‘Perhaps one day we could… that is… ah, no, a foolish thought. Dinner this evening compliments of the travel club.’

‘Can’t seem to think of them as anything but the poker club. No eel, I trust.’

‘Trout, salmon, an’ plenty of it. There’ll be long eatin’ in that, as William says. After dessert, we move to th’ library for Anna’s surprise. ’t will be grand, I hope.’

Liam’s mobile buzzed; he squinted at the ID. ‘It’s Corrigan. Hallo, Conor here… Well, then… Did you check in with Jack Kennedy, he dropped a good bit of his wages there. Yes… No… Of course. Will do.’

Liam snapped the phone shut. ‘Nobody’s seen Slade in two weeks. Corrigan says there’s nothing more can be done, call him if anything turns up.’

Again, the weight on Liam, the stricken look. He remembered what Peggy often said when he was a boy and things were hard. ‘Ever’thing gon’ be all right.’ It had always consoled him, even when he didn’t believe it.

‘Everything’s going to be all right,’ he said.

Liam looked surprised. ‘That’s what my father used to say-just like that. ’t is a wonder to hear it again.’

He climbed out and shot up the umbrella.

‘You’re a lovely man, Rev’rend. Don’t take our mother’s ways too personally, an’ enjoy your visit.’

The Rover rattled down the drive.

‘Seamus! Is that you?’

Seamus hailed him from the portico. ‘’t is m’self in my butler’s equipage, fittin’ tight as a sausage casin’.’

The Catharmore dogs burst from the house, an eruption of Vesuvius. He bounded up the steps, lowered the umbrella, shook hands. ‘You’re looking very smart in that gear, my friend.’

‘You can see your face in th’ shine of it, but Mrs. Conor likes me to wear it for company. Can’t gain so much as half a stone without rip-pin’ th’ seat of it.’ Seamus pulled a small comb from his pocket and hurriedly assailed his mustache. ‘Haven’t had two minutes to rub together, but we’re ready for the bridge club and glad to have you join us, Rev’rend.’

‘Tim, Seamus. Try Tim.’ He dropped a few dog biscuits onto the porch decking.

‘Tim it is, then. I’ll just lean your brolly against the rail here. As you can see, we’re standing at the west portico, which Dr. O’Donnell adapted from that of Bellamont Forest in County Cavan. They say the design was derived from Palladio’s Villa Rotunda in Vicenza-the historians who visit make quite a bit of that. But come inside, I’ll tour you around; Dr. Feeney and Father O’Reilly are on their way-runnin’ a bit late, I’m afraid.’

The front door stood open as Irish doors might in a land presumably free of bugs. He stepped inside, adjusted his eyes to the shadowed space. He hadn’t expected such a vast entry hall, nor one so handsomely proportioned.