Jan Karon - In the Company of Others

A high ceiling with elaborate cornices. Pilasters on either side of two double doorways. A low fire on the hearth at the right of the hall, and in the center, Doric columns flanking a broad stair that ascended to a landing and a bank of dim windows.

‘Very beautiful, Seamus. Very grand.’

As for the art, Liam was right. Odious stuff. Smears of black, red, white, ocher, on unframed canvases of immense size.

Seamus gave him a discreet look. ‘They keep th’ devil in his rightful place.’

‘To each his own.’

‘Aye. He tried to sell it off, but ’t wouldn’t sell. Now, then, you’re seeing Catharmore at a good time of year-in winter, the hall is perishin’ cold. Paddy and his mother like a fire here on Christmas Day, but in no time a’tall, they’re off to th’ kitchen for th’ heat of the Aga.

‘This is the room as completed in 1862 or thereabout, everything done by Irish workmen. Mr. Riley carried out a restoration of the place in the 1940s-nothing changed save the add-on of closets and loos. Then Paddy did grand work on the main floor when he came home from New York.’

‘And you came with him, Liam says.’

‘We met in a pub, Paddy and I, in lower Manhattan. I was there with my employer, Michael Kerr-an Irish gentleman of means who emigrated as a lad and lived to be ninety-eight years and a day. Mr. Kerr liked to visit this particular pub at the weekend, to have himself an Irish whiskey and a good cry about the oul’ country-a lovely man, he was, and like a father to me. Paddy would come in with his riotous crowd from the advertisin’ shop and all th’ Irish among us would end up singin’ the old songs of the Eire; ’t was a great highlight of Mr. Kerr’s last years. When Mr. Kerr passed, Paddy had sold his business and was comin’ home to Sligo a rich man. Come with me, Seamus, he says, I’ll buy you a suit of butler’s clothes and you’ll have a pint and three meals a day for the rest of your life.’

Seamus laughed, patted his midsection. ‘Three is one too many, but I took the offer and never looked back. I had longed for home, but had nothin’ saved to give myself a start-I confess th’ habit of sharin’ my earnings with Irish down on their luck.’

‘There are worse habits.’

‘Wouldn’t have minded bein’ poor if I hadn’t been so short of cash.’

They had a laugh.

‘But here I am, thanks to God and Paddy Conor. Now, that’s th’ Doric-style columns that’s holdin’ up the ceilin’ there-and a good thing it is, as th’ two floors above need all th’ holdin’ up they can get.’

‘Is that an engraving?’ On a pane of glass in a window near the front door, something chiseled-a date, very likely. He walked over and looked, stooped, adjusted his glasses.

My dearest love

Always and forever

Evelyn

He glanced at Seamus, who appeared abstracted.

‘Mrs. Conor scratched that in as a young bride, with the diamond Mr. Riley gave her. He was very pleased-they say. You’ll see the drawing room and dining room at drinks and lunch, so if you’ll come this way, I’ll show you the kitchen.’

They walked along the stair hall, lined with display cases of mounted fish, and turned left into what he reckoned may be Catharmore’s crown jewel.

‘Paddy put a bob or two in th’ kitchen, as you see. ’t was the oul’ kitchen and maids’ quarters they combined into one.’

A wall of windows looking out to the ruined garden; decorative tile work surrounding a blue Aga; limestone floors, a coved ceiling, an enormous iron rack hung with copperware. Impressive.

‘Paddy was after letting guests dine in th’ kitchen, he said, th’ way they do in th’ States. They would pay a deal more for th’ privilege, he said, an’ cover the cost of a roof altogether.’

The cooking smells could stand against any at Broughadoon. He realized he was ravenous.

‘I’m hoping to meet Paddy. Will he be with us?’

‘Paddy’s after doing some business or other, haven’t seen much of him in several days. Make yourself comfortable, now, I’ll just stir up the pot.’

Seamus took an apron from a hook, tied it on, lifted the pot lid, looked in, replaced the lid. ‘I hope you don’t mind being treated like family, Tim.’

‘I’m honored to be treated like family.’

Seamus opened the oven door. ‘I hope I didn’t overstep my bounds bringin’ you into the kitchen.’

‘Not in the least.’

Seamus used a long fork to poke whatever was in the oven; by the smell, roast lamb.

‘This will be the end of the tour, as the old scullery has been turned over to Mrs. Conor and the paneled library to Paddy, for there’s no livin’ a’tall on the upper floors. As for me, I’m in the laundry which I’ve fitted out quite snug, if you don’t mind th’ washer cyclin’ as you watch th’ telly.’

‘How about the basement? I believe O’Donnell’s surgery was located there.’

‘’t was, yes, but we never go below unless at gunpoint; ’t is a calamity with the risin’ damp. On occasion, Paddy’s forced to do something about th’ plumbing or such, and then we’re in for it, ’t is like openin’ a hole to China and pourin’ in euro by th’ washtub.’

‘I have one of those holes myself,’ he said. Their new heating and cooling system had cost twice a year’s salary in his first parish. ‘Have you read O’Donnell’s journal?’

‘I’ve made a stab at it, but my eyes are unfit for th’ faded ink and he goes on too long about th’ least thing. My da inherited a journal from his grandfather. Wind rising, it might say. Figs ripe. Annie bilious. Farrelly ploughing.’ Seamus laughed. ‘That would be my style of a journal.’

‘Is the doctor’s old cabin standing?’

‘A pile of rubble in the sheep meadow, they say.’ Seamus removed his apron, hung it on the hook, buttoned his jacket. ‘Well, then. Everything’s under control; the rolls will pop in after the other guests arrive. I hope you’ve an appetite.’

‘You can count on it.’

‘Drinks will go for a half hour or so, you could probably do with a nibble.’ Seamus cut a slice from a round of cheese on a platter. ‘Our own sheep. Very fine.’

The cheese was proffered on the blade of a knife, the way his father had done years ago.

He bit into the cheese-aged, mildly tart beneath a mellow sweetness. ‘Hits the spot. There’s a lot to be said for being treated like family.’

Seamus gave him a paper napkin. ‘A taste of Irish to wash it down?’

‘No, no, thanks.’

‘Liam says you’re light on th’ drink-a good thing. Thirst after the drink, m’ father said, sorrow after th’ money.’

‘I was never much for spirits. A glass of burgundy or Bordeaux, a sherry now and then.’

‘I seem to remember a bottle of sherry at the back of the cabinet; it may have aged a good deal.’

‘All the better.’

‘I feel the need of a pipe, m’self. Would you step out with me? We’ve a bit of time before I show you to the drawing room. You might have to stick it out with Herself-ah, sorry, Tim, please forgive that-with Mrs. Conor-’til the rest of the party show up.’

The rain-soaked terrace was bare, save for a huddle of plastic chairs stacked together and anchored with a rock. ‘Th’ wind carried off th’ good stuff long ago. Probably somewhere in Easkey, on the porch of a stout fisherman and his wife.’

They stood well back of the rain pouring in a sheet from the terrace roof. Ever the earnest home owner, he suspected leaking gutters or none at all.

Seamus lit his pipe, puffed, kept the match to it, puffed, flicked the match. The scent of tobacco curled into the damp air.

‘I should warn you, Tim, if Liam didn’t. She’ll be after trimmin’ your sails.’