John McGahern - Amongst Women

‘Who is she?’ They asked when they were quiet again.

‘It must be Miss Brady that’s home from Glasgow.’

‘She’d never have him.’

‘They say she’s wild after him. She goes every evening to the post,’ and they began to laugh again at what they saw as a mocking mirror of their own flowering.

Moran took the small blue Ford out of the shed after Mass on Sunday, tested the engine and tyres, then washed the car down, dried it and waxed it till it shone. At three o’clock he drove the four miles to Rose Brady’s house. The lane into the house was narrow and winding with too many gates so he parked the car on the wide grass margin beside the platform for the creamery cans. The car could not be seen from the house because of the shelter of trees. He walked slowly down the lane, enjoying the feel of the pressed brown suit he so seldom wore, this new excitement midst the humdrum of his life. It was as if he were going to the edge again of something fresh and new.

Rose saw him at the heavy red gate of the yard. So intense was her relief at seeing him come that she stood stock-still in the doorway. As relief spread to pure pleasure she waved and came towards him across the yard like a young girl. She was already by his side before she thought of how her face and hair must look.

She had gone through bad days. In the evenings, with painful vividness, she had seen the small congregation in the post office, the mail van crossing the bridge, Annie sorting the letters, the stretch of empty road to the sycamores where they had stopped to talk. Such was the restlessness of her longing to go there that she had had to struggle to stick to her resolve. She could not go. She had given signs enough, perhaps too many, and she could only wait. Now he had come to her.

Though her mother disliked him the custom of hospitality was too strict to allow any self-expression or unpleasantness. Her brother he had met before and the two men talked about the year’s hay saving and the price they expected for sheep and wool and cattle. A white cloth was spread on the table, homemade bread and jam, a fresh apple tart. Tea was made. He praised the bread and the blackcurrant jam.

‘The garden is choked every year with blackcurrants. The birds get most of them. Your girls should come here to pick them next summer.’

‘That would be too much,’ he said.

‘If the girls don’t pick them they’ll just waste in the grass or go with the birds,’ the mother said as amiably as she could.

‘Are you interested in football?’ her brother asked.

‘Not so much but it’s nice to see a good match.’

‘Would you like to hear the end of the game then?’

‘Sure I would,’ and her brother turned on the Sunday game he had been listening to when Moran entered the yard. After ten minutes or so it seemed to end satisfactorily. Moran was unassertive and attentive in the few minutes they discussed the game afterwards.

‘Now that I’ve eaten and drunk my fill it’s time for me to beat away,’ he said after about an hour.

Rose’s mother and brother shook his hand politely. She got a cardigan and walked him all the way out the lane. Above them rose the poor fields, littered with rock and gorse, the lower slopes of the mountain. Below the lane was the small lake ringed with reeds.

‘Are there fish in the lake?’

‘There used to be plenty — small perch, and pike, and eel — but they never seemed to grow to any size.’

When they went through the first gate at the bottom of the hill they were out of people’s eyes for the first time since they had met. There were just the whitehorn and brier of the hedges, the green ridge of the lane inside the wheel tracks, the wild strawberries starting to darken on the banks.

‘Was I all right in the house?’ he asked.

‘You were perfect. You could not have been better. It was lovely that you came,’ and she took his hand and raised her mouth eagerly to his as he bent to kiss her for the first time.

‘I’m not used to going out,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to come to meet my crowd now.’

‘I’d love to meet them.’

‘One of these evenings I’ll arrange it. I hope they’ll know how to show manners.’ Responsibility visibly descended on him again as he walked.

‘I didn’t know you had a car,’ she said with surprise when they reached the road.

‘I don’t take it out very often but it’s nice to have, to know that you can go anywhere you want if you feel like it.’

Secretly she exulted that he had the car. It was just one more sign of his separateness from the people around who would buy a cow or a few more fields. In these parts a car was prized more than flowers or an orchard or a herb garden: it was the symbol of pure luxury.

She walked slowly back down the lane, savouring the rich peace, the strength she felt. This narrow lane was dear to her. Sleepless in Scotland she had walked it many times in her mind. The wild strawberries, the wiry grasses, the black fruit of the vetches on the banks were all dear presences. Out of the many false starts her life had made she felt they were witnessing this pure beginning that she would seize and make true. No longer, exposed and vulnerable, would she have to chase and harry after happiness. From a given and confident position she would now be able to move outwards.

‘Where’s Tom?’ she noticed her brother’s absence as soon as she got back to the house.

‘He said he was going over to O’Neill’s for an hour.’

‘I didn’t meet him on the lane.’

‘He must have just gone over the fields.’

After a long silence the mother said, ‘That was a bit of a surprise visit.’

‘I asked him to call if he was ever this way. Did you like him at all?’

‘If he suits you I’m sure he suits me. He has a large family.’

‘I don’t see how that can be held against him.’

‘You used to have many admirers,’ the mother changed.

‘The admirers are all gone.’ Both women were glad to let the conversation drop. They would not change.

She did not go to the post office the next evening or the next. No longer had she the ache of longing for that stretch of white road leading round to the sycamores. By coming to the house on Sunday Moran had made that stretch of road like all roads. She would go on the day she judged best. She did not want to appear either too eager or too casual.

All her nervousness came back as she approached the post office just ahead of the mail van. The small room was full. Moran was there and smiled on her and spoke. Whether Annie and Lizzie had heard of the Sunday visit or had marked her absence wasn’t clear but they appeared almost conciliatory compared to previous days. She did notice too that Moran was more carelessly dressed than she remembered and hadn’t shaved for at least a day. It was as if he were truculently stating that he had gone as far towards her as he was prepared to go. Outside the post office he made no apology for the roughness of his appearance but he was as friendly and charming as he had always been.

‘There’s a concert in the hall on Sunday. It’d be easier if we met my troops for the first time at the concert,’ he said. ‘Then you can come to the house any time you want to afterwards.’

‘Whatever you think is best.’ She was glad to do whatever he wished.

On Saturday night at the end of the Rosary Moran said, ‘I want to offer a final prayer to God that He may guide your father on the right course,’ and they all knew, even to the boy Michael, to what he was referring. ‘There’s a very special person I want you to meet at the concert tomorrow. I hope you’ll all like her. She’s Miss Brady,’ he told them as soon as they rose from their knees. They made vague general noises about how glad they would be to meet her. ‘I want everybody dressed in their best clothes,’ Moran demanded.