John McGahern - By the Lake

“They had the age,” Jamesie said. “There was nothing wrong with them except they weren’t fed.”

Mary poured Ruttledge a whiskey but was sparing with Jamesie’s measure. When he protested, she poured a few drops more but he was already too tired and happy to notice how little she added.

“He always has to go and make a meal of things. He’ll be even worse when Johnny comes home,” she complained.

“Some of these ladies are far too precise,” he protested. “They’d have you clipped and circumcised before you’d notice.”

Mary made a hot whiskey for herself. Then she removed a damp cloth from a platter with a border of white and blue flowers on which small squares of ham and chicken sandwiches were sprinkled with sprigs of parsley. Before she sat down again she refilled the kettle with fresh water and set the aluminium teapot to warm on the chimney box.

“The year’ll start to fly soon,” Jamesie said tiredly as they ate and drank. “In a few days the Lent will be in and before you’d find it’ll be Patrick’s Day and Easter. Everything will have started to grow. It’s all going to be very interesting.”

The cycle of lambing had started. The lights were left on all night in the lambing shed; they rose every two or three hours. The tiredness turned into muted satisfaction when all the ewes came safe.

Jamesie crossed the lake to look at the new lambs. He was incredulous when told that Bill Evans would soon be on his way to a house of his own in the town.

“What good will it do him? He’ll be lost. He’s been too long the way he is.”

“He’ll have a life of his own,” Kate said.

“None of us has a life of our own,” he answered dismissively.

“At least he won’t be abused,” she said.

“Dogs and cats around the lake were treated far better. Those people could have no luck.”

“I don’t think luck has much to do with it. They could be as lucky as anybody. The bad go with the good, in and out the same revolving doors,” Ruttledge said.

“If there’s a God above they could have no luck. And look at them now!” Jamesie said. “They had no luck.”

Ruttledge went into town one evening to see what was really happening at the railway sheds. As cover he took in a broken drive shaft of a mower to be welded. On his way through the town he discovered it was Ash Wednesday. To his surprise not many were wearing ash. He remembered when everybody in this town would have worn the mark of earth on their foreheads, and if they had failed to attend church would have thumbed their own foreheads in secret with the wetted ash of burned newspapers. The Shah’s forehead was marked with ash when he found him under the arch of the main shed. The sheep dog was by his side. They seemed delighted to see him.

“I think we can put a spot on it all right,” he said after examining the drive shaft.

“I see you didn’t neglect your duty,” Ruttledge observed the mark of ash on his forehead.

“That’ll do you now,” he laughed. “That woman down in the hotel wanted to go to Mass and I got the job done as well. She said a while ago that she’d like to see you if you were in.”

“About what?”

“She didn’t say. She wouldn’t be likely to tell me.”

“How is Frank doing?”

“He hasn’t hit any rocks but I suppose it’s a bit early in the day yet,” he declared.

“How do you feel since the changeover?”

“Great. Should have got out sooner. It was a big responsibility to be carrying around,” he said importantly.

The conversation was interrupted by customers a number of times and by the ringing of the telephone in the tiny office. The Shah seemed to greet and serve each customer with much greater friendliness than when the business was his. “You’ll have to see the boss about that,” he would say whenever there was a question about price, and direct them to Frank Dolan, who was working somewhere deep within the sheds.

He took up the drive shaft and turned it round a number of times as he examined the break and got out the small welder and the shield. The blue light of the welder was blinding and Ruttledge went in search of Frank Dolan, picking his way among the half-dismantled skeleton of trunks and engines and all kinds of machinery.

Far back in the shed he found him sorting small parts and placing them on shelves within an arched alcove that must have served some similar purpose in the time of the trains. He explained meticulously that he was reorganizing the storage of the spare parts so that they could be more easily found and also gradually reducing and dismantling much of what was piled in the scrapyard.

“I take it you’ll not be employing young people,” Ruttledge said. The only answer Frank Dolan gave to the gentle thrust was a broad quick smile.

“How do you find Himself since the changeover?” Ruttledge asked.

“I don’t know how I’d have managed without him. He couldn’t have done more.” His voice was emotional, the gratitude showing clearly.

“Then everything is going well?”

“So far anyhow,” Frank Dolan said, and the talk moved to other inconsequential things.

When he returned to the forecourt the Shah had changed out of his work clothes and was waiting to go to the hotel. With his shoe he pointed out the welded drive shaft lying on the ground. “I’d say it’s not too bad,” he said with pride as Ruttledge examined the neat and skilful welding.

“It looks like new.”

“You never can tell for sure with the old drive shafts till they are working,” he said. He cleared his throat: “I was on the phone to that woman down in the hotel while you were talking to that man. They’re expecting both of us.”

As they were leaving, Frank Dolan appeared silently in the forecourt and the sheepdog went to sit by his side. On the way to the hotel the drive shaft was dropped into the boot of the car. In off the square a new development of tiny houses was being completed. The houses all had front gardens and walls and gates. A raw concrete mixer stood in the middle of the road into the small cul-de-sac.

“It’s for old people,” the Shah said dismissively. “They’re calling it some Irish name.”

“That must be Trathnona . Do you know what it means?”

“Something silly I’d suppose.”

“ Trathnona means evening.”

“That’s rubbing it in all right.”

“Bill Evans is getting one of the houses,” Ruttledge said.

“They’ll be made up when they get him in the town. It’s about time ye were brought up to date out there at the lake and those buckets pensioned off.”

The receptionist behind the horseshoe reception desk in the Central greeted them warmly. “Susan,” the Shah spoke her name softly as they passed into the empty dining room. Three places were laid on the raised table in the alcove. As soon as they were seated the chef came from the kitchen in his tall chef’s hat to shake Ruttledge’s hand and tell them what was on the evening menu. They both had mushroom soup and the Shah had an enormous plate of vegetables with the wild salmon, but Ruttledge only wanted a green salad with the salmon. The Shah had ice cream and sherry trifle; Ruttledge had no dessert, and refused the wine or stout or whiskey that was pressed. Mrs. Maguire joined the table. She, too, chose wild salmon with a green salad.

“I don’t know how the two of yous eat that stuff,” the Shah remarked about their salads but otherwise was silent in the enjoyment of the food. Ruttledge recalled that the last time they had met was at the reception for John Quinn’s wedding.

“A good boy,” the Shah shook. “A warrior.”