John McGahern - Creatures of the Earth - New and Selected Stories

She returned to the Mater, but her confidence was broken and she had to school herself to meet the young doctor on the wards or along corridors, to smile and be polite when she felt like hiding or running. She saw with dull clarity that most women’s social position in Ireland was decided for the rest of their lives by one single unfair throw of the dice, and she had too much of the Kennedys’ sense of themselves to be interested in the young civil servants, policemen, and prison officers that were available to the other nurses. William Kirkwood felt that he should approach Mary Kennedy himself, but he knew too well that if left to his own devices he would think a great deal about it and do nothing.

‘How did you propose to approach Miss Kennedy?’ he asked McLoughlin.

‘We didn’t intend to put you into the back of a car and drive you round some fine Sunday anyhow.’ McLoughlin was now in the ascendant. ‘I know one of her brothers. If she has someone else or wasn’t interested, that would be the end of it. The Kennedys do not talk. If on the other hand …’ McLoughlin spread his hands in a gesture that meant that all things were possible.

Mary Kennedy listened carefully to the proposal her brother brought. She had suffered and was close to the age of reconcilement. The tide was not lingering.

She recalled the meeting in the fields. The few times they had met since then he had smiled and saluted in passing. There was the big stone house in its trees, the walled orchard, the avenue, the lawn, the spreading fields … no mean setting.

A boast she had made carelessly once among girls came back to her. Love was not important, she had declared. She would love whichever man she married, whether she loved him or not before they married. This could be tested at last. She told her brother that she would meet William Kirkwood but could promise nothing.

They met in the Wicklow Hotel and had dinner there. She wore a suit of black corduroy with a plain silver necklace and was more at ease than he with the formalities of dinner.

‘I was surprised you knew my name the time we met in the fields,’ she said.

‘That’s quite simple. I admired you and asked your name. But you knew my name?’

‘There was only one Mr Kirkwood. There are many Kennedys.’ She smiled back.

When she saw him waiting for her later in the hotel foyer, the worn but well-cut blue pinstripe, the thick, lank grey hair, the jutting Anglo-Irish jaw, the military appearance of alertness, she knew that he was superior to most men she was likely to come on in the city, and she noticed how soft and long his hands were from years of gentle living. The hands of her own brothers were already large and coarse by comparison. They had two other meetings in the city before she agreed to come down and look over the big stone house and its grounds, but she had already made up her mind that she would marry William Kirkwood.

The first sight Annie May had of her the Sunday she came to the house was standing beneath the copper beech on the front avenue. A handbag hung from her shoulder. William Kirkwood was smiling on her. The flurry of the past weeks, the visits to Dublin, the need for ironed shirts and polished shoes fell into place. The pain that filled her chest climbed into a tight band about her forehead. That there was no one to blame, that it was in the natural order of things only made it more painful. She couldn’t even be angry.

They came to the big kitchen by way of the front door, looking in on the library and drawing-room, and Annie May heard her admiring the stairs.

‘What is this room with all the marble?’ she heard her ask as they drew closer.

‘It’s just a pantry now. In the old days it was the flower-cutting room … where the roses were cut.’

When they came through the door, there was nothing but smiles and handshakes, but it was extremely tense. If William Kirkwood knew more of human nature, he would have seen that the two women were enemies.

‘Where’s Lucy?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. She was here up to a minute ago,’ Annie May said and offered to make tea.

‘I’d love a cup of tea,’ Mary Kennedy said. ‘But first I’d like to see the upstairs rooms.’

While they were taking tea, after having spent a long time walking through the upstairs rooms, darkness fell but still there was no sight of Lucy.

‘She must have gone outside,’ Annie May said worriedly, her own anxiety already transferred to the child.

William Kirkwood walked Mary Kennedy over the fields to the road that led to her house. When they got to the house, it was full of the Kennedys and their families, most of whom William was meeting for the first time. It was a pleasant evening, and by its end it was clear to Mary that both William Kirkwood and the match were approved of. For his part, he liked the big old ramshackle farmhouse, the crowd of people, the lashings of food and whiskey, the natural cheerfulness of people enjoying themselves, the absence of formality and selfconsciousness, reminding him more of political celebration than a family evening. When he left, Mary walked with him to the avenue. On the walk she kissed him for the first time. She was planning the wedding for June. The house would have to be painted, new curtains bought, some new furniture chosen. ‘The whole house will have to be opened up again. As it stands, the kitchen is the only room that looks lived in.’

As he walked with her, he felt that the night was bathed in a dream of happiness, and would start in disbelief that this tall elegant high-spirited woman was about to become his wife. For her part, she felt that her girlish boast was coming true. She knew that she was going to love this strange man who spoke terms of endearment as if they were commands. ‘Venus, Mars, Saturn, Jupiter to the east over there.’ He was barking out the names in the clear sky, and she had to bite back laughter. She knew of men less knowledgeable about the stars who would be able to turn them to better advantage, but she would take care of that in her own time.

‘There’s one thing more,’ she said before they parted. ‘Annie May will have to be given notice.’

‘That I could never do,’ he said with such vehemence that it took her back. ‘She came as a very young girl to work for my mother. Lucy was born here, grew up here. I could never tell them to leave.’

When she saw how disturbed he was, she put her hand on his arm. ‘Don’t worry, love. You’ll not have to do anything. I doubt very much if Annie May will want to stay once she hears I am moving into the house in June.’

They were both standing still at the gate, and she turned and raised her lips to his, and he, feeling her body stir against his, took her into his arms.

His own house was in darkness when he got home. He knew the back door was unlocked, but rather than go through the empty kitchen he let himself in by the front door with his key. There he sat for a long time in the cold of the library. He had many things to think about, and not least among them was this: whether there was any way his marriage could take place without bringing suffering on two people who had been a great part of his life, who had done nothing themselves to deserve being driven out into a world they were hardly prepared for.

It had been unusual weather, hot for weeks, and the white morning mist above the river, making ghostly the figures crossing the metal bridge, seemed a certain promise that the good weather was going to last beyond the holiday. All week in the Department he had heard the girls talking of going down the country, of the ocean, and the dances in the carnival marquees. Already, across the river, queues were forming for the buses that went to the sea — Howth, Dollymount, Malahide. He, Patrick McDonough, had no plans for the holiday, other than to walk about the city, or maybe to go out into the mountains later. He felt a certain elation of being loose in the morning, as if in space. The solid sound of his walking shoes on the pavement seemed to belong to someone else, to be going elsewhere.