John McGahern - Amongst Women

‘It’s just ten, Daddy. There’s only an hour till the Mass.’

‘I think I know it takes an hour to get from ten to eleven.’ The sarcasm seemed to relieve him a little and he took the black strop of leather from its nail and opened the razor. The blade flashed as it was drawn over the leather. He lathered and started to shave. They all fixed in a pure tenseness of watching as he shaved but he did not cut himself. He washed and towelled himself dry. ‘Your uncle didn’t put in an appearance yet?’

‘No, there’s no sign of him.’

When he started to dress in front of the fire the two older girls turned away and when he looked for a collar stud the boy ran to attend. Once Maggie caught a glimpse of him in the shaving mirror, trouserless but with his shirt and socks on and in spite of her fear she was tempted to laugh. Trouserless men looked absurd in socks. He dressed with great care. He had refused to buy any new clothes for the wedding but the brown suit had been brushed and pressed. The white shirt was starched and the shoes shone. He went back to the shaving mirror to comb his hair and when he had finished he pushed a folded handkerchief into his sleeve with quiet satisfaction.

‘Of course, that uncle of yours didn’t have the manners to write, never mind the decency to come; but I’ve long learned never to expect anything from an ass but a kick.’ The increasing nervousness showed in his voice. ‘I don’t know why people can’t write a note.’

They were all dressed. There was nothing to do but wait for their uncle. Moran had decided that they would go to the church in their uncle’s big old car. They hadn’t seen him in months. Moran had written to him and assumed that he would come. Several times Moran went to the front door to look towards the road. He changed his handkerchief from his left sleeve to his right.

‘I should have learned by now never to rely on anybody.’

‘He must have got a puncture,’ Michael offered.

‘You’d think he’d allow for that on a day the like of this.’

‘He might never have thought …’

‘You can rely on that. The man’s head was designed to keep his ears apart. Anyhow we can’t wait much longer.’

He went out and started the small blue Ford, backed it out of the shed and left the engine running.

‘We better be going. We can’t wait about like this any longer. God, O God, did you ever see such people!’ They all crammed into the car. ‘You’d think people would have heed, but no heed, never any heed, no care for anybody else,’ he complained as he drove; but before the bridge he startled them by driving the car into the space in front of McCabe’s and announcing that they would walk the rest of the way through the village.

‘We’re early. This way we’ll meet the man on his bloody way if he’s coming.’

Michael sniggered behind Moran as soon as they were on the road together but it drew such a quelling look from Maggie that he went quiet. All the girls were deeply ashamed. No one had ever seen a bride or groom walk to their wedding; even the very poor found a car for that day and in the old days they had gone by trap or sidecar. Fortunately the bridge was empty as was the long road of sycamores to the church in its dark evergreens. After crossing the bridge Moran checked his watch and to their infinite relief started to walk quickly. They wished their uncle would come and they could vanish into the huge car but no motor could be heard in the direction from which he would come. They walked on in silence. It had not rained for a week and the white dust of the road started to dull the shine of all the shoes. At the end of the long road Reynolds’ was the first house they had to pass and they started to cringe into themselves behind Moran even before they got to the little hedge of privet above the whitewashed stones. Mrs Reynolds was in the doorway, almost ready herself to go to the wedding — she never missed a wedding or a funeral — but seeing the procession that approached withdrew back into the shadows of the room to observe better the old cockerel go by followed by his dismayed pullets.

‘And the bloody madman is walking to his own wedding with all the children,’ she said, more in sympathy with the children than in laughter.

Each step seemed to take an age as they passed the forge. Only the boy looked at the two men sledging a length of iron on the outside anvil. Then they had to brace themselves to pass the few people standing along the church wall. None of them looked up as they passed. Moran did not turn to speak. There were curious villagers waiting for the wedding to begin in the back seats of the church but they did not look to left or right. All the children blessed themselves from the fount and went straight up to the altar. It was like the beginning of healing to get into their seats and kneel beside Moran, no longer exposed. None of the bride’s party had come yet. The priest came through the sacristy door in soutane and surplice and Moran went up to the rails.

‘The best man hasn’t come. Would the boy do?’ Moran asked. They both looked towards Michael.

‘He’s a bit young,’ the priest said. ‘We can get one of the bride’s brothers to stand in.’

Then a car was heard pulling up at the gate; either the bridal car or their uncle had come. All turned to look back at the door as the footsteps approached on the flagstones. The relief showed instantly on their faces as the small round figure of their uncle filled the doorway. He hurried up the aisle of the church, showing his palms by way of apology when he reached his place. There were dirt and grease stains on both palms with bits of grass stuck to the grease.

‘I thought you’d never get here,’ Moran said.

‘I got broke down,’ he whispered apologetically as he slipped in beside Moran, putting his oily hand on the head of one of the girls. From the altar the priest nodded a smile of recognition to the best man. Finally Rose’s family filed into the pew across the aisle and Rose came behind on her brother’s arm. There was no music. The priest beckoned Moran forward. He motioned to them when to kneel, to stand, to be seated, when to take the ring, the gold and silver, to ‘repeat these words after me’. A sister of Rose’s sobbed briefly. The girls’ eyes filled with tears. A man in the side-chapel took photos. The bride and groom returned together to the front seat for the nuptial Mass. Everybody except the best man went to the rails for Holy Communion. Outside, in the clear day, as the couple stood beneath the bell rope, a small box of confetti was thrown. They stood together, separately, and then in groups for photos that one of Rose’s sisters took, headstones and evergreens rising out of the background of thick laurel. The uncle’s car was an old Ford V8 with enormous fins and there was more than enough room for all of them in the back. The bride and bridegroom rode in front.

‘You gave us all a start,’ Rose said happily. ‘For a few minutes our hearts were in our mouths. We thought you weren’t coming but it’s wonderful you got here.’

‘I got this puncture. She just went flat,’ he turned his grease- stained hands upwards again on the wheel as he drove.

‘You’ll have hot water for them as soon as we get to the house.’

‘You must have left it very tight to get here so late,’ Moran said.

‘You never think you’ll get anything.’

‘Of course nobody ever thinks. That goes without saying.’

‘Everything is fine now. Their uncle got here and that is all that matters,’ Rose smoothed, turning to chat to the girls in the back.

The car was too large for the lane so they walked in. The April Saturday was mild, with just the faintest threat of showers. Everywhere in the low briers and hedgerows was the clatter and singing of small birds. The little lake below the house was still ringed with its winter reeds, the colour of rained-on wheat. Everybody waited to eat until the priest arrived. He was the only one to risk his small car on the lane. He would have to leave early on a sick call, he said.