John McGahern - The Dark

“How much money have you, Joan?”

“A pound and two shillings. I bought these sandals and the dress and you can’t save much out of ten shillings,” she was apologizing about the sandals and the dress she wore, that you hadn’t even noticed.

“No. I just wanted to know. I had enough to get both of us home tomorrow but we have plenty now.”

“To go home tomorrow?”

“Yes — both of us. You couldn’t stay on in that hole?”

“But what’ll he say?”

“Our father?”

“Yes.”

“He’ll say nothing. We’ll tell him what happened, that you couldn’t stay on, that’s all. It doesn’t matter much what he says.”

“Who’ll tell them in the shop?”

“I will, if you want, unless you’d sooner do it yourself.”

“No. You’ll tell. I’m afraid. Do you think will everything be alright?”

“It’ll be alright.”

The grass margin a short way beyond the last of the houses was an easy place to rest, and not many people or cars passed.

“Does Father Gerald know you’re going tomorrow?”

“No. I’ll tell him when I get back.”

“I thought you were staying more than a week?”

“I’m not now. I’m going tomorrow.”

“Are you not going to be a priest?”

“I don’t know, I don’t think so. What made you think I was ever going to be a priest anyhow?”

“You were always very quiet or something,” and that caused you to start, you didn’t think yourself very quiet.

You didn’t know very much about yourself so. The mirror was before you now, temptation to probe to see other pictures of you in her mind, but it was no use, she had her life as well as you, every life had too much importance and unimportance to be only a walking mirror for another.

You walked slowly back past the bungalows and then the shops. Ryan was behind the counter.

“So you got back, did you,” he greeted. “Mrs. Ryan is inside. I think she expects you to stay to tea. Come on inside anyhow.”

Inside she was laying the table for tea.

“I was cross when I heard you came and I wasn’t told. You’ll stay to tea. The children said too they’d like very much for you to stay,” she invited.

“I’m sorry. I left word that I’d be back for tea and Father Malone may be waiting for me. But thank you very much,”

“That seems a shame …” she was beginning.

“I just want to tell you that Joan is coming home with me tomorrow,” you had to grow tense to force it out, but you remembered the bathroom.

Her eyes searched for her husband’s, but they told her nothing, except to deal with the situation herself, she was the dominant one.

“That’s a bit of a surprise.”

“I’m sorry.”

“People usually give more notice than that.”

“I’m sorry but she has to come with me tomorrow.”

“You’re being very sorry but what has she to say for herself?”

“What I say,” and you felt your control of yourself slip, you had to cut it short before you were driven to attack. “I’m sorry. I must go. Be ready tomorrow, I’ll call for you before the bus time.”

She stood without any attempt to make response. The woman had grown swollen with suppressed anger. You didn’t know whether you said good-bye again or sorry before you left, you were too anxious to be gone, before your control slipped.

You went the same road back, rage seething, and failure. People had to go among people, they needed other people, yet they couldn’t be easy, all the little hatchets that came up. Wouldn’t it be better for them to stay alone in the fields and rooms, and let the world come or pass in whatever shape it would? Why couldn’t the Ryans listen to you tell them that Joan was leaving and no more, instead of driving knives at you, and why had you the same urge to knife them back? Then you couldn’t think when you imagined that meek bastard alone with her in the bathroom.

All the strength, the will to go on, was drained by the quarrel and what she’d said, nothing but anger and dust and despair, always the same after all these useless conflicts with your father or here. You felt close to the end, feverish and worn, the day’s sun dying above you into the west, and then you tried to walk quicker, watching your shoes swing over the road, how so much dust had dulled their shine since you had left.

THE CAR WAS ONE SIDE OF THE CACTUS, THE PRIEST SITTING IN one of the black leather armchairs in the room with a newspaper. He would not look up. He turned each page with as much crackle as he could. He was annoyed, and what did you care, you wished you could go away out of his annoyance, leave him there, you’d enough turmoil and conflict for one day.

“Did you eat yet?” he consented to ask at last out of the newspaper, you weren’t in the room to him till then though you’d been standing stupidly for five minutes inside the door.

“No, father.”

“Then we’d better have it so now. I delayed mine.”

He rose, folded the newspaper and let it fall back in the chair, and he went out and struck the gong in the hall. You followed him out to where the table was laid in the dining-room. Almost immediately John came with the soup.

“I more or less understood you were to stay about the house today,” he brought out his grievance as he sprinkled salt and pepper on his soup.

“Yes, but I wanted to see Joan. I didn’t think it would be any harm.”

“Were you not interfering with her work? If your day was free hers wasn’t. Could you not have waited for the two of us to go in together to see her?”

He was using the same pressure of the night before. He was the one who decided — or was he. He’d not have his own way so easy this evening. You didn’t answer.

“And what did you do in town?” he had to ask.

“Mr. Ryan gave her time off. We went out the town for a walk.”

This evening would not be his as last night was.

“She’s coming home with me tomorrow.”

“She’s coming home with you tomorrow,” he lifted his face, puzzled and ironic emphasis on every word.

“She wasn’t happy there. She wants to come with me tomorrow.”

“This news is quite sudden I must say. How is she not happy?”

“They interfered with her.”

“Who?”

“Ryan did.”

“How did he interfere?”

“Sexually.”

“You have proof of this?”

“No, but she told me. She’d hardly want to tell lies.”

“How did she say he was interfering?”

“He attacked her in the bathroom once. There were several other things.”

“Why didn’t this come out before?”

“She was frightened. She was afraid to tell.”

“Did you attack the Ryans with this?”

“No. I told them she was leaving with me tomorrow. I gave no reasons.”

“For that relief much thanks at least.”

John came with the main course. He took away the empty soup bowls. There was silence while the priest portioned the food out of the dish.

“You’ve decided to go home tomorrow?”

“Yes, father.”

“You’ve more or less made up your mind about your life so?”

You’d never make up your mind but it was simpler to pretend you had.

“I don’t think I’m able for to be a priest, father.”

Another slow interval of silence, sharp noises of knives or forks on the plate, a thrush or something singing beyond the open window out in the graveyard.

“May God bless your life no matter what its way is all that’s left to me to say so,” he said, and nothing had prepared you for it, he went on, he spoke very slow: “I was afraid today that maybe I had pressed you too hard last night. There never was such need of priests in the world. But no priest at all is better than a bad priest. You may not be able to save your soul as a priest. There are far greater stresses, greater responsibility, greater temptations than in the ordinary or natural way of life. You stand on a height. And heights were never safe places for humans. You can fall, you can make worry over your health or car fill the place of a wife and children. Did you ever hear of the word bourgeoisie? ”