John McGahern - By the Lake

They saw him to the car. The sheepdog leaped into the front seat and placed his front paws on the dashboard. He turned under the four iron posts and let the windows down to call out, “God bless yous,” as he passed the porch. They watched the light flash on the glass and metal as the car appeared and reappeared in the breaks in the big trees as it went slowly out around the shore.

They continued looking for a long time at the evening sparkle on the lake until a dark figure appeared in a pale space, walking slowly, disappearing behind the trees. When the figure moved across the last clear space, it could either turn uphill or enter the fields along the shore. So even was the slow pace that Patrick Ryan emerged into the shade of the alder above the gate at the expected moment.

“Talk of the devil,” Ruttledge breathed as soon as he recognized the figure in the dark suit.

He came at the same slow, studied pace up the short avenue to the porch. The dark suit was neatly pressed, the white shirt ironed, the wine-coloured tie carefully knotted and the black shoes shone beneath the thin white dust of the road. He was five feet, six inches in height, with broad shoulders, a remarkably handsome head, sixty-five years of age, erect and strong.

Ruttledge knew that his first words would have been pondered carefully, and waited in front of the porch instead of going towards him.

“I have been meaning to come round several times but there’s been people hanging out of me for months,” Patrick spoke slowly and deliberately.

“That doesn’t matter. You are welcome,” Ruttledge said, and led him into the house.

“Where is she?” he demanded when he was seated in the white rocking chair. “Is she here?”

“In the house somewhere.”

Kate came into the room. She had changed into a blouse of pale silk and brushed her hair. “You are welcome, Patrick.”

“It’s great to see you, Kate,” he rose from the chair with natural easy charm.

It was cool and dark within the house after the brightness of the porch, the green bank outside the large window glowing in the hidden light.

“You’ll have a drink — it’s a while since you were in the house,” Ruttledge said as he took out a bottle of Powers.

“I bar the drink,” Patrick Ryan raised his hand dramatically. “I completely bar the drink. There’s too much fucken drink passed around in this country.”

“You’ll have tea?” Kate said.

“No tea either. I came on a mission. I want this man to drive me to Carrick.”

“That’s easily done.”

“I suppose you have all heard that our lad is bad in Carrick?”

“Jamesie told us that Edmund is poorly,” Ruttledge said carefully.

“With Jamesie around, this place will never lack a radio-TV station,” he said sarcastically.

“We’d be lost without Jamesie,” Ruttledge said.

“I suppose he told you that I was never in to see our lad. He probably has it spread all over the country.”

“He just mentioned that Edmund was poorly and that old Mrs. Logan and the dog are lost since he went into hospital.”

“They are casting it up that I was never in to see him when I only heard today that he was in hospital. When you are working here and there all over the country you hear nothing.”

“When do you want to leave?” Ruttledge asked.

“We’ll go now, in the name of God.”

“Would you like to come?” Ruttledge asked Kate, though he knew Patrick Ryan wouldn’t want her and she was unlikely to come.

“No, thanks.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Patrick Ryan said, but Kate made no response. In the porch he stood looking across at the four iron posts standing in their concrete bases and said, “I heard they are talking about that as well.”

“If it wasn’t that it would be something else. There’s no hurry,” Ruttledge said.

“We might as well stop them talking, lad. The people around this lake were always known to be a holy living terror for news and they’ll never die while Jamesie lives,” Patrick Ryan laughed lowly, suddenly in much better humour. “There was a boy of the Reagans down on holiday from Dublin. The Reagans were all doctors, lawyers, teachers, that kind of crowd and the boy was delicate. I heard not long ago that he’s a diplomat in Chicago. He wanted to visit an uncle, the Master in Kesh, and they thought him too delicate to walk or cycle, so they harnessed up an old quiet pony they had. I’m not telling a word of a lie, lad, but the mile by the lake took longer than the other five miles to Kesh. They were all out. They wanted to know who he was, where he was from, who he was staying with — though they all knew the pony and cart well — and where was he going and what was he doing in this part of the country. It was like having to pass through customs and excise. They got in between the shaft of the cart and the pony’s shoulder so that the poor gossen couldn’t move until they had extracted every word of flesh. If he had a loudspeaker to broadcast the details, hours could have been saved, but they all had to find out for themselves. It was dark by the time he got to Kesh and they were beginning to be worried. I’m telling you, lad, those people will never die while Jamesie is cycling around.”

“Jamesie is marvellous,” Ruttledge said.

“He’s a pure child, lad. He’ll never grow up,” he said dismissively. “There’s been a big clear-out since young Reagan came round the lake in the pony and cart. The country was walking with people then. After us there’ll be nothing but the water hen and the swan.”

They passed the wide opening down to the lake where earlier Cecil Pierce had sat fishing from the transport box with the tractor running. “Cecil has gone home to do the milking. He was fishing here all day,” Ruttledge said.

“No better sort than poor Cecil,” Patrick Ryan said. “I never heard a mean word about anybody from Cecil’s mouth. You’d think that crowd up in the North would learn something, lad, and get on like Cecil and us.”

“It’s different up there.”

“How could it be different?”

“They are more equal there and hate one another. There were never many Protestants here. When there are only a few, they have to keep their heads low whether it suits or not, like the Irish in England when a bomb goes off. Cecil would want to keep his head low whether they were many or few. He is that kind of person.”

“They are a bad old bitter crowd up there. They’ll eat one another yet,” Patrick Ryan said belligerently.

“Johnny is coming home from England this week,” Ruttledge said to change the subject.

“God bless us, has that come round again?” Ryan said, and then brightened to mimic Jamesie with affectionate malice. “ ‘Meet the train with Johnny Rowley’s car … There’ll be drinks, you know, rounds … rounds of drinks, stops at bars, shake hands and welcome … Welcome home from England … no sooner in the door than Mary has the sirloin on the pan.’ ” He laughed in the enjoyment of his power and mastery. He had a deadly gift.

“That’s almost too good, Patrick — it’s wicked.”

“ ‘He’s a sight, a holy sight,’ ” he mimicked Jamesie again, warmed by the praise, and then changed briskly into his own voice. “After all that performance he’ll spend the next two weeks avoiding Johnny at every stop and turn as if he had grown horns. They never got on. For two brothers they couldn’t be more unlike.”

They drove through a maze of little roads until they reached the main road close to Carrick. In places, the encroaching hawthorns brushed the sides of the car. Some of the cottages were newly painted and pretty, with gardens and flowers. Others were neglected, uncared for.