John McGahern - By the Lake

“What is the purpose of the visit?”

“To pick up a friend who is coming on a short holiday.”

“Where has he come from?”

“From London.”

“Good day,” Robert Booth said in his officer’s accent.

“Have a good holiday, sir,” the soldier saluted smartly after handing back the driving licence. He did not ask to look in the boot.

“A very pleasant young man,” Robert Booth said as they drove across the ramps leading out of the compound, where other cars entering the North were waiting to be checked.

“They all are. They are well trained.”

“I’m told it’s quite difficult to get into today’s army. They no longer require cannon fodder,” Robert Booth said.

“Two soldiers were killed here. A bomb was put in a car and pushed downhill. The soldiers saw too late there was no one behind the wheel.”

“Will it ever end?”

“You should know that better than I do. You come from the place.”

“If it came to an all-out conflict our people would render a very bloody account of themselves but they would probably lose,” Robert Booth said, making it clear he wanted the subject pursued no further.

Kate got on well with Robert Booth. A part of her family came from the class he had so assiduously joined. He never brought presents and after an exchange of pleasantries he was shown his room. The visit was then as predictable as a timetable. He washed, walked around the lake, read a newspaper. The way he crackled the pages as he read created a space around the rocking chair. They knew him well enough to ignore him completely. They would have been rebuffed if they had enquired was there anything they could do. His mood changed noticeably when he put the newspaper aside: the time for drinks was drawing close.

“It is a very great pleasure to be here,” he raised his glass and laughed his most agreeable laugh. Over dinner he told many stories. Like many very sociable people, he would never discuss people he worked with or anybody they knew in common unless they had been written off. Only when he spoke of paintings did something like feeling enter his voice.

Kate asked about a Turner watercolour he owned that she admired. He had purchased it for a small sum when he was young.

“It’s in Japan. At a Turner exhibition,” he laughed triumphantly. “Before Tokyo it was in Sydney. It does give me pleasure to think of all those people looking at it.”

The next morning after breakfast he walked down to the lake. Later he sat in the white rocking chair on the porch and read. While he was reading, Bill Evans came. Ruttledge heard the loud knocking on the glass from within the house and when he reached the porch Robert Booth was about to open the door.

Instead of following Ruttledge into the house, Bill Evans stood stubbornly outside and asked, “Does he smoke?”

“He doesn’t but I have cigarettes within.”

“Where is he from?” he demanded when he was finally seated.

“From London. You’ve seen him several times before. Don’t you remember him from last summer?”

“Begod, now I do.” A look of cunning crossed the sharp features. “Hasn’t he some big job?”

“Yes. In London.”

“Would yous be getting anything out of him?”

“He’s a friend. Sometimes he gives us work.”

“Is it paying work?”

“Yes.”

“Yous would want to be getting something out of him,” he said as he put his cup away and took hold of his stick.

Ruttledge saw him to the gate, and as he was returning to the house he noticed that Robert Booth had stopped reading and was following Bill Evans with his eyes as he lifted the two buckets out of the fuchsias and headed towards the lake.

“He looks like something out of a Russian novel,” he said.

“He’s all ours, completely home-grown and mad alive. They were scattered all over the country when I was young. Those with English accents came mostly from Catholic orphanages around Liverpool. The whole business wasn’t a million miles from the slave trade.”

“It’s not a pleasant story.”

“Any of us could have found ourselves in his place.”

“But we didn’t,” Robert Booth said firmly.

At lunch he asked for a glass of wine, which was unusual, though occasionally they had seen him drink heavily into the late afternoon.

“We’ve had a very long association now. I was going to bring it up last night at dinner but decided to wait,” he began.

The head of layout and design was retiring. They had decided to split that department in two and to offer Kate one of the positions. The people who knew her were certain she could do the job well. He wasn’t able to put an exact figure on her salary but it would be considerably more than she had been paid in the past. They would have written but it was known he was coming on this visit.

“The decision was completely unanimous, I’m glad to report.”

“It’s very flattering,” Kate said.

“It shouldn’t be all that great a move. Haven’t you kept that flat?”

“It is rented now but that wouldn’t be a problem.”

“What is the problem?”

“Leaving here.”

“There’s another thing,” Robert Booth said. “The people that run the firm now know and like you both, but there’s a whole new generation coming up. Naturally, they’ll want their own friends. People tend to forget quickly once you are no longer there.”

A second bottle of wine was opened. Excitement and holiday entered the afternoon. The prospect of London in all its attractiveness was laid out in squares and streets and parks, shops and galleries, the winding river and the endless living stream of its people. It could be enjoyed with the lulling wine without the sharpness of the knowledge that it would only become their same lives again in different circumstances in a different place.

“I’d also like to say it would give me a great deal of personal pleasure if you were both to move back to London.”

“And it would be one of the pleasures of London to see you more often.”

“This place could be kept on as a second home.”

“We’ll have to think all of that out.”

“Of course you would have no difficulty finding a position,” he turned to Ruttledge. “With us there’s no staff position open now but there will be.”

“I doubt if I’d want a regular job again,” Ruttledge said. “It all depends on Kate.”

“Remember. People forget,” Robert Booth said.

Ruttledge changed into old clothes and went into the fields. After the wine and the heady excitement he was glad to lose himself in the mindlessness of the various tasks.

Returning to the house, he saw Jamesie come through a gate at the back and stand for a moment. Almost nonchalantly, Jamesie moved along the cart path, bending low to pass the big window on the bank. Once past, he stood and listened intently, like a bird or an animal. Then he began to check the sheds, examine tools left lying around, test the posts of the unfinished shed, shaking his head in silent disapproval as he surveyed the skeleton of the roof. He entered the orchard and then the glasshouse. He spent a long time examining the herbs and flowers, picked and ate a ripe tomato, chewing studiously, and then headed out to the land towards the cattle and sheep. He had to pass very close to where Ruttledge stood. He was chewing on a long stalk of grass.

“Hel-lo,” Ruttledge called softly as he passed.

He whirled around, startled. “Blast you anyhow. Why hadn’t you the manners to show yourself?”

“I was taking a leaf out of your book.”

“It was a poor leaf, then,” he answered and held out his hand.

“Why didn’t you go into the house?”

“The big Englishman is there. He’s asleep in the porch, a book on his knee,” and he imitated a deep snoring sound.