Daphne du Maurier - Not After Midnight & Other Stories

'Thank you,' said Shelagh, 'thank you very much.'

She went out of the post office with the feeling that the postmaster was staring after her. What now? Better not risk it this evening. Better endure the doubtful comforts of the Kilmore Arms and indigestion. She returned to the hotel and came face to face with Mr Doherty on the doorstep.

'I suppose,' she said, 'you couldn't let me have a room for the night?'

'I could indeed, you'd be very welcome,' he told her. 'It's quiet now, but in the tourist season you'd be surprised-we've seldom an empty bed. I'll bring in your baggage. Your car will come to no harm there in the street.'

Anxious to please he limped to the boot of the car, brought out her suitcase, conducted her inside the Kilmore Arms and led the way upstairs, showing her into a small double room overlooking the street.

'I'll only charge you for the one bed,' he said. 'Twenty-two shillings and your breakfast. There's a bathroom across the passage.'

Oh well, it was rather fun-and mod. cons. after all. Later on the locals would come into the bar and break into song. She would drink Guinness out of an enormous tankard and watch them, join in herself, perhaps.

She inspected the bathroom. It reminded her of digs on tour. One tap dripping, leaving a brown stain, and when she turned it on the water gushed forth like the Niagara Falls. Still, it was hot. She unpacked her night things, bathed, dressed again and went downstairs. Voices drifted down the passage. She followed the sound and came to the bar. Mr Doherty himself stood behind the counter. The voices ceased as she entered, and everyone stared.

Everyone being about half-a-dozen men, and amongst them she recognised the postmaster.

'Good evening,' she said brightly.

A mumbled response from all, but uninterested. They went on talking amongst themselves. She ordered whisky from Mr Doherty and felt suddenly self-conscious, perched there on the stool, which was perfectly ridiculous, because she was used to going into every sort of bar on tour, and there was nothing very singular about this one anyway.

'Is it your first visit to Ireland?' asked Mr Doherty, still anxious to please, pouring out the whisky.

'Yes, it is,' she told him. 'I'm rather ashamed I've never been over before. My grandfather was Irish. I'm sure the scenery is lovely around here. I must do some exploring tomorrow, down by the lake.'

She glanced across the bar, and was aware of the postmaster's eye upon her.

'You'll be with us for a few days, then?' asked Mr Doherty. 'I could arrange some fishing for you, if that's what you like.'

'Oh well… I'm not sure. It rather depends.'

How loud and English her voice sounded on the air, reminding her of her mother. Like a socialite out of a glossy magazine. And the local chatter had momentarily ceased. The Irish bonhomie she had visualised was absent. Nobody here was going to seize a fiddle and dance a jig and burst into song. Perhaps girls who stayed the night in pubs on their own were suspect.

'Your dinner is ready when you are.' said Mr Doherty.

She took the cue and slipped from the bar-stool and so on into the dining-room, feeling about ten years old. Soup, fish, roast beef the trouble they had taken, when all she needed was a wafer slice of ham, but impossible to leave anything on her plate. Trifle to finish with, doused in sherry.

Shelagh looked at her watch. It was only half-past eight. 'Will you take your coffee in the lounge?'

'Thank you, yes.'

'There's a television set. I'll switch it on for you.'

The little maid drew up an armchair close to the television, and Shelagh sat down to the coffee she did not want while an American comedy, vintage 1950, flickered from the box. The murmur of voices droned on from the direction of the bar. Shelagh poured the coffee back into the pot and crept upstairs to fetch her coat. Then, leaving the television blaring in the empty lounge, she went out into the street. There was nobody about. All Ballyfane was already in bed or safe within doors. She got into the car and drove away through the empty village, back along the road she had travelled earlier that afternoon. A turning, the postmaster had said, a mile or so out of Ballyfane.

This must be it, here on the left. A crooked signpost with the lettering 'Footpath to Lough Torrah' showed up in the glare of her head-lights. The footpath, narrow and twisting, led downhill. Silly to attempt it without a torch, and the moon, three-quarters full, giving only a fitful gleam behind banks of racing cloud. Still… She could go part of the way, if only for the benefit of the exercise.

She left the car close to the signpost and began to walk. Her shoes, luckily flat, squelched in the mud. As soon as I catch a glimpse of the lake, she thought, I'll turn back, and then be up early tomorrow and come here again, bring a packed lunch, decide upon my plan of attack. The footpath was opening out between the banks, and suddenly before her was the great sheet of water, encircled by jutting lips of land, and in the centre was the island itself, shrouded in trees. It had an eerie, sombre quality, and the moon, breaking through the clouds, turned the water silver, while the island remained black, humped like the back of a whale.

Lamb Island…. Inconsequentially it made her think of legends, not of Irish chiefs long dead or tribal feuds, but of sacrifices to ancient gods before the dawn of history. Stone altars in a glade. A lamb with its throat cut lying amidst the ashes of a fire. She wondered how far it was from the shore. Distances were hard to judge by night. A stream on her left ran down into the lake, fringed by reeds. She advanced towards it, picking her way carefully amongst the pebbles and the mud, and then she saw the boat, tied to a stump, and the figure of a man standing beside it.

He was staring in her direction. Foolish panic seized her, and she backed away. It was no good, though. He walked swiftly up the mud and stood beside her.

'Were you looking for someone?' he said.

He was a young man, strongly built, wearing a fisherman's jersey and dungarees. He spoke with the local accent.

'No,' Shelagh answered, 'no, I'm a visitor to the district. It was a lovely evening and I thought I'd take a walk.'

'A lonely spot for a walk. Have you come far?'

'Only from Ballyfane,' she told him. 'I'm staying at the Kilmore Arms.'

'I see,' he said. 'You're here for the fishing, maybe. The fishing is better the other side of Ballyfane.'

'Thank you. I'll remember that.'

There was a pause. Shelagh wondered if she should say any more or whether she should turn and go, bidding him a cheerful goodnight. He was looking beyond her shoulder towards the footpath, and she heard the sound of somebody else's footsteps squelching through the mud. Another figure loomed out of the shadow and advanced towards them. Shelagh saw that it was the postmaster from Ballyfane. She was not sure whether to be sorry or relieved.

'Good evening again,' she said, her voice a shade too hearty. 'You see I didn't wait until morning after all, I found my way successfully, thanks to your advice.'

'So,' replied the postmaster. 'I noticed your car up there on the road parked by the turning, and thought it best to follow in case you came to harm.'

'That was kind of you,' said Shelagh. 'You shouldn't have bothered.'

'No bother at all. Better be sure than sorry.' He turned to the young man in the fisherman's jersey. 'It's a fine night, Michael.'

'It is, Mr O'Reilly. This young lady tells me she's here for the fishing. I've explained she'll have better sport the other side of Ballyfane.'

'That's true, if it's fishing she's after,' said the postmaster, and he smiled for the first time, but unpleasantly, too knowing. 'The young lady was in the post office this evening asking for Commander Barry. She was surprised he was not on the telephone.'