John McGahern - Amongst Women

‘Kavanagh said the steak wasn’t great but that the lamb was good,’ Maggie added but Moran was already on his way out again, muttering that not even simple things were made clear in this house and if simple things couldn’t be made clear how was a person ever to get from one day to the next in this world.

The two girls were quiet for a long time after the door closed; then suddenly, unaccountably, they started to push one another, boisterously mimicking Moran: ‘God, O God, what did I do to deserve such a crowd? Gawd, O Gawd, not even the simple things are made clear,’ falling into chairs laughing.

A loud imperious knocking came on the tongued boards of the ceiling in the middle of the rowdy relief. They stopped to listen and as they did the knocking stopped.

‘She’s no more sick than my big toe. Whenever there’s a whiff of trouble she takes to her bed with the asthma. She has books and sweets hidden up there,’ Mona said. They waited in silence until the knocking resumed, insistent and angry.

‘Boohoo!’ they responded. ‘Boohoo! Boohoo! Boohoo!’ The knocking made the boards of the ceiling tremble. She was using a boot or shoe. ‘Boohoo!’ they echoed. ‘Boohoo! Boohoo!..’

The stairs creaked. In a moment Sheila stood angrily framed in the doorway. ‘I’ve been knocking for ages and all ye do is laugh up at me.’

‘We never heard. We’d laugh up at nobody.’

‘Ye heard only too well. I’m going to tell Daddy on the pair of ye.’

‘Boohoo!’ they repeated.

‘You think I’m joking. You’ll pay for this before it’s over.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I’m sick and you won’t even bring up a drink.’

They gave her a jug of barley water and a clean glass.

‘You know what day it is and McQuaid is coming from the mart. He’s in and out like a devil. You can’t expect us to dance attendance up the stairs as well. If he comes in and sees you like that in the door he’ll have something to say,’ Maggie said but Sheila slipped back upstairs before she finished.

They draped the starched white tablecloth over the big deal table. The room was wonderfully warm, the hotplate of the stove glowing a faint orange. They began to set the table, growing relaxed and easy, enjoying the formality of the room, when Moran came in again from the fields. This time he stood in the centre of the room, plainly unsure as to what had brought him in, his eye searching around for something to fasten on, like someone in mid-speech forgetting what they had to say.

‘Is everything all right?’

‘Everything is all right, Daddy.’

‘Be sure the chops are well done,’ he said and went out again. No sooner had the door closed than Mona, released from the tension of his presence, let slip a plate from her hands. They stood watching dumbly in horrible fascination after it shattered. Quickly they swept up the pieces and hid them away, wondering how they would replace the plate without being found out.

‘Don’t worry,’ Maggie comforted Mona who was still pale with shock. ‘We’ll find some way round it.’ They were too sick at heart to mimic or mock this mood away. Anything broken had to be hidden until it could be replaced or forgotten.

Outside it was cold but there was no rain. It was always cold on Monaghan Day, the traditional day poor farmers sold their winter stock and the rich farmers bought them for fattening. Moran was neither rich nor poor but his hatred and fear of poverty was as fierce as his fear of illness which meant that he would never be poor but that he and all around him would live as if they were paupers. Moran had no work in the fields but still he stayed outside in the cold, looking at hedges, examining walls, counting cattle. He was too excited to be able to stay indoors. As the light began to fail he retreated into the shelter of the fir plantation to watch the road for McQuaid’s car. If McQuaid had a big order to fill he mightn’t come till after dark.

The light was almost gone when the white Mercedes came slowly along the road and turned into the open gate under the yew tree. Moran did not move even after the car stopped. In fact, he instinctively stepped backwards into the plantation as the car door was thrown open. Without moving he watched McQuaid struggle from the car and then stand leaning on the open door as if waiting for someone to appear. He could have called out from where he stood but he did not. McQuaid slammed the car door and walked towards the house. Not until he was several minutes within the house did Moran leave the plantation. He came slowly and deliberately across the fields to the back door. Though he had lived for weeks for this hour he now felt a wild surge of resentment towards McQuaid as he came into his own house.

McQuaid was seated in the armchair by the fire. His powerful trunk and huge belly filled the chair and the yellow cattleman’s boots were laced halfway up the stout legs. He did not rise from the chair or acknowledge Moran’s entrance in any way except to direct the flirting banter he was having with the girls to Moran.

‘These girls are blooming. You better have your orchards well fenced or you’ll be out of apples by October.’

The words were said with such good humour and aggressive sureness that it would have been impossible to take offence. Moran hardly heard; all resentment left him as quickly as it had come: McQuaid was here and it was Monaghan Day.

‘Michael.’ McQuaid reached out of the chair and took Moran’s hand in a firm grip.

‘Jimmy.’ Moran responded with the same simplicity. ‘Have you been here long?’

‘Not long. I had a fine talk with these girls. They are great girls.’

Moran walked across to the curtained press where he kept medicines and took out a glass and a full bottle of Redbreast. He poured out a large measure of the whiskey and brought it to McQuaid. Maggie placed a jug of spring water on the table. ‘Say when,’ Moran poured the water into the glass. McQuaid held out the glass until it was three-quarters full.

‘You’ll need it after the mart,’ Moran said.

‘I don’t need it but I’ll do much better than that. I’ll enjoy it. Good luck everybody.’

‘How did it go?’ Moran asked with a heartiness that didn’t suit him.

‘The same as every other Monaghan Day,’ McQuaid said.

‘Was it good or bad?’ Moran continued.

‘It was neither good nor bad. It was money. All the farmers think their cattle are special but all I ever see is money. If a beast is around or below a certain sum of money I buy. If it goes over that I’m out.’

‘I’ve often watched you in the past and wondered how you know exactly the right time to enter the bidding, the right time to leave,’ Moran praised. His fascination with McQuaid’s mastery of his own world was boyish. He had never been able to deal with the outside. All his dealings had been with himself and that larger self of family which had been thrown together by marriage or accident: he had never been able to go out from his shell of self.

‘I don’t know how I know that,’ McQuaid said. ‘All I know is that it cost me a lot of money to learn.’

The girls had the freshly cut bread, butter and milk on the table. The lamb chops sizzled as they were dropped into the big pan. The sausages, black pudding, bacon, halves of tomatoes were added soon after to the sides of the pan. The eggs were fried in a smaller pan. Mona scalded the large teapot and set it to brew. The two girls were silent as they cooked and when they had to speak to one another spoke in quick, urgent whispers.

‘This looks like a meal fit for a king. It makes me want to roll up my sleeves,’ McQuaid said in praise and plain enjoyment at the prospect of it as the plates were put on the table. He finished his glass of whiskey with a flourish before rising from the chair.