John McGahern - By the Lake

“What would you do with the business?”

“I’d sell.”

“Who would you sell it to?”

“Whoever’d buy. Whoever’d come up with the washers. That’s no six marker.”

“What would happen to Frank?”

“Frank will have to do like the rest of us. Well, what do you think?” he asked out of a silence that had grown uncomfortably long.

“Wouldn’t you miss it? It has been most of your life. What would you do with yourself?”

“I’d have plenty to do,” he bristled. “I wouldn’t mind having nothing to do.”

“You shouldn’t rush into anything, that’s all I’d worry about. You should wait till you’re sure.”

“We’ll not rush. That’s one thing we’ll not be doing anyhow,” he laughed, his confidence returning.

“What will happen to those men in your cottages?”

“Nothing will change in their direction. They’ll come to no harm. The cottages will stay as they are. Well, what do you think about it all, Kate?”

“It’s a big move. What does Captain here think?” and at the sound of his name the sheepdog left the sofa and went to Kate. His master appeared reassured and pleased as a child by both the move and the words.

“He knows who to go to. He’s no fool.”

“Bones!” she said playfully, and the dog barked.

“Have you discussed this with anybody else?” Ruttledge asked.

“No. I mentioned a few words to that woman down in the hotel — but no, I didn’t go over it with anybody.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your health?”

“Not that I know of but the mileage is up.”

“I find it hard to get used to the idea.”

“I find it hard to get used to it myself,” he admitted with rueful humour. “The time comes though when we all have to move over.”

“Why don’t we leave it for a while? If you feel the same in a few weeks we can talk,” Ruttledge said.

“That’s what we’ll do,” he said with obvious relief. “It’s been on my mind for a good while now. It’ll not go away.”

“I think you should give Frank Dolan his chance at it if you decide to sell. He’s worked for you all his life.”

“Will he be able for it? Will he have the washers?”

“We can go into all that when you make up your mind for certain.”

They walked the fields. They looked at the stacked bales in the shaved meadows, already a rich yellow in the sun, and at the cattle and the sheep. They stood on the high hill over the inner lake and watched a heron cross from the wooded island to Gloria Bog. The day was so still that not even a breath of wind ruffled the sedge that was pale as wheat in the sun. The birch trees stood like green flowers until the pale sea merged with the far blue of the mountain.

“That distant blue means good weather.”

“Talking of that blue and that neighbour of yours, I hear he’s going to take the plunge again.”

“The mountains so lovely and blue in the distance?” Ruttledge echoed. “He’s been plunging ever since I came about the place.”

“This time it’s going to be in the church with all the blessings and a big reception afterwards in the hotel. I’m told yous all are going to be invited.”

“Who is the lucky woman?”

“Some fool of a widow from up the country, Meath or Westmeath, with a grown family and a big farm of land. A fine, fresh woman, I’m informed.”

“Where did he find her?”

“In the best of places: the Knock Marriage Bureau.”

“Where the Virgin appeared to the children?”

“That’ll do you now but you’d think the priests and nuns would have something better to do than running a bucking shop,” he was shaking, wiping the tears away with small fists.

“Where did you hear this?”

“From that woman who owns the hotel. It’s all booked. I warned her she better get her money beforehand.”

“Are you sure you’re not making this up?”

“Not a word,” he shook silently. “There’s no fool like an old fool.”

The mower, the tedder, the baler were put away for the year. An old buckrake the Shah had given Ruttledge years before was taken out. With its ungainly weight of solid metal and the sharply pointed steel pins it looked and was antique but was perfect for drawing in the square bales.

As soon as Ruttledge entered the street with the big buckrake on the tractor he saw that Jamesie’s shed was already almost half full. Margaret came leading the mule by the bridle up from the meadows, six bales stacked on the small cart with the rubber wheels, Jamesie following behind. The brown hens paraded proudly around in the dust inside the netting wire. The box of pansies glowed on the windowsill beside the geraniums. Mary stood at the door.

“You should have told me you had started. I’d have come over,” Ruttledge said.

“We were doing nothing and started to jog along on our own. We hadn’t a thing else to do.”

They unloaded and stacked the few bales, untackled the mule and let him loose in his field.

“If he had manners he could run with the cows,” Jamesie said. “Since he hasn’t any manners he has to stay on his own. The very same as with people who can’t hold their drink.”

In the house Jamesie called for the bottle of Powers and derided Ruttledge when he refused whiskey.

“It’s too early. I couldn’t look at it now.”

“I’d drink it any hour of the day or night and thrive,” he boasted.

“Of course you would,” Mary echoed sarcastically as she poured him a whiskey.

“Have you any news?”

“No news. Came looking for news.”

“You came to the wrong place. We are waiting for news.”

Margaret laughed sharply at the repetitive foolishness of the play but instead of continuing the banter Ruttledge said, “I have big news,” and the room went still. “Very big news.”

“What? What?” Jamesie cried. “You’re only acting. You have no news!”

“I have very big news,” Ruttledge repeated.

News was the sustenance of Jamesie’s interest in everything that lived and moved around his life. Years before it had been arranged that they would come over to the Ruttledges’ for an evening, which was unusual in itself because of his dislike of formal arrangements. Early in the day, Ruttledge had gone into the town to get provisions for the evening and ran into Jamesie by accident. They went into Luke’s and chatted pleasantly for a half an hour or so.

“I’ll not say goodbye as I’ll be seeing you this evening,” Ruttledge said casually as they parted.

“You won’t,” Jamesie answered bluntly.

“Why? Is there something wrong?” Ruttledge asked in alarm.

“Not a thing wrong but you’ll have no more news this evening. I have all your news for a while,” he answered simply.

Ruttledge didn’t quite believe it until the evening disappeared without sight of Jamesie or Mary.

Now Jamesie could not bear Ruttledge’s mischievous withholding.

“You have no news. You are only acting the fool,” he accused.

“You may be acting the fool but he isn’t,” Mary said.

“I’m telling you he has no news. There hasn’t been news around here in years.”

“John Quinn is getting married again,” Ruttledge laid it out like a trump card on a green table.

“You’re lying. Who told you? Somebody’s been packing you.”

“The Shah told us.”

“How does he know? He’s in the town.”

“The Shah’s not lying. He wouldn’t care one way or another. He thinks all who marry are fools.”

“He could be right there,” Mary said.

“Missus Maguire who owns the Central told him. They are great friends.”

“I know. I know. He drives her to Mass every Sunday. They are like an old married pair.”