Jan Karon - In the Company of Others

‘Catharmore is competition for Broughadoon, then?’

‘Ah, no. He never finished th’ job. Mother wanted the ground floor done up first, for a good impression to the guests; and of course th’ kitchen had to be done up if you’re to feed a mouth in these parts. He cobbled that together with a crew from Dublin, and what’s done is grand, I’ll give him that, but th’ cost was three times th’ bloody estimate, an’ no place yet for a guest to lay his head.

‘His money was gone, th’ wind was whippin’ th’ tiles off th’ roof, and th’ drink took over completely. ’t was a right cod.’

The Rover splashing through pools along the lane; in the hedges, rain-washed light on scarlet fuchsia.

‘Broughadoon-is it part of Catharmore?’

‘’t was. Th’ lodge would have passed to me, but Mother sold it off after Father died. Maybe a hundred acres in terms of your American real estate. Anna’s father bought it.’

‘William.’

‘Aye. He deeded it to Anna when we were married; he has life estate.’

They were silent for a time.

Along the verges, a colony of bizarre vegetation-leaves the size of small umbrellas, fruit similar to a pineapple. Scary stuff.

‘Gunnera tinctoria. Th’ blasted wild rhubarb. ’t is takin’ us over.’

Even the Irish had their kudzu.

‘Meant to tell you I saw deer this morning,’ he said. ‘A breathtaking sight in the ground fog.’

‘We farm deer for Sligo and Dublin restaurants, and our own tables at Broughadoon. Around forty head these days.’

‘That’s roughly the number up to destroying my rosebushes back home.’

‘We get a bit of that, too, th’ buggers, but the herd you saw is fenced. I’m also runnin’ around eighty head of sheep on land leased from a neighbor, and of course there’s th’ chickens-some for eggs, most for meat. A patch of bog gives turf for th’ hearth, I cut it m’self when I can.’

‘Well done.’

‘In this business, have to paddle like a son of a gun to keep the oul’ head above water. Anna makes our preserves, does most of th’ cooking, keeps th’ gardens, books th’ guests, runs th’ lodge altogether.’

Liam glanced at him, suddenly shy. ‘A grand woman, Anna-I’m mad for her. I’ll never forget the day she threw herself at me, as she says. I thought she loved me, but she wouldn’t marry me, for all that. She said no, but there was th’ look of yes on her face. ’t was like she was boltin’ th’ door with a boiled carrot.’

He laughed.

‘’t was a desperate time, I felt I might lose her. Then one day I was walkin’ along the oul’ cart road an’ she was standin’ on th’ bank, so, and suddenly she just leaps off th’ bank, I saw it in slow motion. Just surrenders herself to the air, to me, an’ lands in my arms, nearly knockin’ me over. An’ that was that.

‘She got herself a finer education than my own. Her da sent her to Mount Anville in South Dublin, where th’ sisters took a great likin’ to her. She has the gift for French and Italian, and a fine way of speakin’ her feelings.’

‘We married above ourselves,’ he said. ‘How many guest rooms?’

‘When I’m done down th’ hall, a total of nine. Looks like I’ll have to do th’ finish work m’self. Nobody wants a day’s honest labor anymore. Gave th’ boot to a bloody Englishman last week; he had th’ skills of an angel an’ th’ soul of a devil. Could cope to stone like nothin’ you ever saw, but couldn’t keep his mitts off th’ dope.’

Fields interlaced by crumbling walls. A cow barn with a single blue shutter. ‘Ireland is more beautiful than I remember,’ he said.

‘By suffering worn and weary, your Mr. Longfellow wrote, but beautiful as some fair angel yet.’

‘You know Longfellow!’

‘No, no. ’t was a line my father liked to quote. When he wasn’t fishin’, he had his nose in a book.’

‘You love his books.’

‘Maybe because I loved him. He was a very fine class of a man. Very devout. We fasted, we confessed, we walked the Mass path. He loved us, though there was none of that touchy-feely stuff the young get nowadays. You knew you were loved and that was enough, you never wanted more. He set me on his lap occasionally, which was closer than I ever got to my mother. I remember being uneasy up there where his whiskers seemed to have a life of their own.’

They turned out of the lane to the highway.

‘God above,’ said Liam, ‘I’ve gnawed your ear off.’

‘Not a bit. I happen to like stories of other people’s lives.’

‘My mouth is a terror, Reverend, and that’s a fact.’

He laughed. ‘Listening is one of my job requirements. ’

‘My father was a grand listener, I could tell him bits I couldn’t tell anyone else. There’s something about you that reminds me of him.’

When they arrived at Broughadoon after two o’clock, he found his barefoot wife enthroned in the green chair, wearing jeans and a sweater.

‘Tell me everything,’ she said. ‘Then I’ll tell you everything.’

Even in a locked room, she would have something to report.

‘Made the rounds,’ he said. ‘Saw Catharmore, the big house on the hill. Went to the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker. The butcher was a fellow named Cavanagh spelled with a C, who knows nothing about us poor goats with a K. Twinty-foive yares agoo, he said, there ware foor of us in th’ village. There’d be soom of’em yet if ’t weren’t for th’ big chains coomin’ in.’

‘’t is stirrin’ th’ Irish in ye,’ she said, pleased.

Actually, he had felt a stirring-some sense of home or consolation that he hadn’t expected.

‘Let’s see. We bought stamps. Saw a castle in the distance-Liam says castles are a dime a dozen, one on every corner like the American drugstore. Then we had lunch-a turkey sandwich with lettuce and tomato on whole wheat. Drank a pint.’

‘A pint of what?’

‘A pint of what everyone else was drinking.’

She laughed. ‘In Rome.’

He sat on the foot of the bed, exhausted. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘your turn. I guess you know the power’s still out. They can’t send workmen ’til tomorrow, and Liam’s fit to be tied. The landlines are down, too, of course, and their computer. Not good for business.’

‘I’m in need of a real bath, but I love the power being out.’

‘You would,’ he said.

‘When you left, I…’ She sneezed.

‘Bless you.’

‘I sketched the view from the window. Want to see?’

‘Is the pope a Catholic?’

She had always been tentative about showing her work to him. She gave over the sketchbook as a child might-abashed, hopeful.

‘Yes, yes,’ he said, gawking. A flame of pride shot up in him. ‘You’re a wonder.’

‘Do you mean it?’

‘I absolutely mean it.’

‘Would Henry like it?’

‘He’d be thrilled. I’ll finish up his letter tonight, we can send it off tomorrow.’

‘And this is the dear lady who’ll be doing our laundry.’

Bad teeth, radiant smile, thinning hair. The face of suffering, the face of courage.

‘Maureen McKenna. She helped Anna work on putting this place back together. Born with a deformed leg. Can cook, iron, clean, and sing. She’s the sunshine of Broughadoon, Anna says.’

He turned the page.

The girl who had brought the hot towels around. Scornful. Beautiful in a menancing sort of way.

‘Bella,’ she said. ‘Bella Flaherty. Anna’s daughter by a first marriage. Plays the fiddle-a trad musician.’

‘Trad?’

Traditional. Plays the old tunes.’

He was strangely unsettled by the portrait. ‘You’ve been busy.’ He stooped to kiss her forehead. ‘How did you learn all this?’