John McGahern - The Collected Stories

The jobs were light. He dug, cleared ground, made ridges, wheeled or carried. He had never worked in a garden with anybody before but his father, and by comparison it was a dream working for the Sinclairs. They explained each thing they wanted done clearly, would go over it a second or third time with good humour if he hadn’t got it right the first time, always pleased with what had been done well. Though he was uncomfortable at first over the formal lunch, the good hour they spent over a meal, they were so attentive and cheerful that they put him at ease. The hours of the Saturday seemed to fly, were far too short, and often he found himself dreaming of such a life for himself with a woman like Mrs Sinclair in the faraway future when he would grow old.

The wheel of the summer turned pleasantly. The seeds pushed above ground, were thinned. The roses and the other flowers bloomed. The soft fruit ripened and Mrs Sinclair started to make jams in the big brass pot. Each Saturday the boy went home laden with so much fruit and vegetables that he was able to supply Casey’s house as well as their own.

Beyond the order and luxury, what he liked best about the house was the silence. There was no idle speech. What words were spoken were direct and towards some definite point. At the barracks, the movement of a fly across the windowpane, Jimmy Farry pushing towards the bridge with his head down, and the cattle cane strapped to the bar of the bicycle, were enough to start an endless flow of conjecture and criticism, especially if Casey was around. ‘If you could get close enough to the “huar” you’d hear him counting, counting his cattle and money, counting, counting, counting …’

On one of the more idle Saturdays of the autumn, when they were burning leaves and old stakes and broken branches, the boy felt easy enough with the Colonel to ask him about war and the army.

‘The best wars are the wars that are never fought, but for that you need a professional army, so sharp that any possible aggressor would think twice before taking it on. Actual war is a sordid business, but once it begins the army has to do the job as efficiently as possible. It means blowing people’s heads off. That’s never a pretty business.’

‘Did you fight in the front lines?’

‘Yes. An officer has to be prepared to go anywhere he sends his men. It is a bad business no matter what civilian nonsense is talked about heroism.’ It was plain he had no intention of giving lurid detail and after a silence asked, ‘What do you think you’ll do when you enter the big bad world, Johnny?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You must have some idea of what you’d like to do when you finish school?’

‘It depends on what comes up.’

‘What do you mean by what comes up ?’

‘Whatever jobs are on offer.’

‘Have you ever thought of becoming a soldier — looking for a commission?’

‘I’d have no chance of that.’ The boy laughed lightly.

‘Why not? I thought you were rather good at school, especially at maths.’

‘It’s not that. I’d have to be a star athlete to stand a chance of a cadetship.’

‘For the Irish army?’ the Colonel laughed heartily. ‘The mile in four minutes.’

‘Of course, what other …?’

‘There are other armies.’ The Colonel was greatly amused. ‘What would you say to the British army?’

‘That must be even harder still to get into,’ the boy answered lightly again, certain that it could never be of any real concern.

‘I was trained at Sandhurst. There are some who think it the best military academy in the world. If you were offered a place there, would it interest you?’

‘Of course I would be interested.’ His own assent seemed far off, so unreal it hardly touched him.

‘Would you be interested in a military career?’

‘No, not more than any other.’ The boy smiled. ‘But it’d be more interesting than anything I’d have a chance of here.’

‘You know that you could be killed or badly wounded early in life.’

‘I know that, but it would be better than working in an office.’

‘There’s much office work in the military too — but I take it you are interested.’

‘Yes, Colonel, but you’d have to ask my father. It all depends on what he’d think,’ and it occurred to the boy that the father mightn’t take to the idea at all. The unreality was sure to end there. The years his father was most proud of were the years of the War of Independence when he was the commander of a small company of men on the run.

The leaves they were burning were catching light, and he went to get the baskets of leaves Mrs Sinclair had left waiting. It was one of the tasks he liked best. When he piled on the leaves he stood back to watch the thick white smoke lift slowly above the beech trees and, as there was no wind, hang like clouds in the dead air.

That evening the Colonel talked with Mrs Sinclair about the idea of getting a commission for Johnny. It was decided that the Colonel should go to the headmaster of the school secretly to find out exactly how fitted the boy might be.

The school and monastery had been once a British military barracks, though now it had a rounded ecclesiastical door in the high wall, and what had been the drilling square was now a lawn with a few evergreens, one lilac tree, white lawn blocks, and a concrete path that ran straight from the gate to the monastery door.

As soon as Brother Benedict appeared, they shook hands, introducing themslves; and, when the Colonel explained what had brought him, the Brother showed him into a large dining-room full of mahogany and leather, an array of polished silver on the heavy sideboard.

‘He does some work for us on Saturdays. Mrs Sinclair and I are quite impressed with him and would like to help him, if that’s possible. We just wondered how able is he. He is the type that doesn’t give much away.’

‘He’s the best student we’ve had for some years.’ Brother Benedict smiled. He was from the south, with a clever, handsome face. He wore rimless steel spectacles which he had the habit of polishing from time to time with a pocket handkerchief kept up his sleeve for that purpose alone, holding the spectacles at full length after polishing, while weighing up a situation or person. When not wearing spectacles he seemed to be always smiling, but there was calculation behind the smile. He had heard about the Colonel’s visits to Charlie’s and was curious to meet him. He was very fond of good whiskey himself and thought it a proper occasion to produce his own. From a large bunch hanging from his belt he selected a small key, unlocked the sideboard, took out a bottle of Redbreast, and poured two large measures. ‘So, naturally, we are interested in him too. The old Sergeant is our problem. He’s forever trying to push Johnny into what he calls “gainful” employment. But for all his quiet, he shouldn’t be underestimated. He’s a survivor and far from being without guile. Like the rest of the country he has a great store of negative capability. He’d much prefer not to.’

‘He certainly seemed positive enough about the army.’

After a second Redbreast, the Colonel left well satisfied and drove directly to the parsonage.

‘The boy is as bright as we suspected,’ he told Mrs Sinclair. ‘His headmaster turned out to be quite a remarkable man.’

‘In what way?’

‘Oh, clever, civilized, decent, very clever, in fact. Sort of man you’d expect to find high up in the army. He keeps an excellent whiskey. We mustn’t forget to leave him a bottle of Black Bush for Christmas. They don’t seem to live badly at all in there.’

That evening the Sinclairs left for Charlie’s a half-hour early. They did not have to go all the way to the barrack gate. The Sergeant was digging potatoes inside the line of sycamores. When he saw the Jaguar stop in the avenue, at once he came up to the wall, bringing the spade to lean on, a glow of pleasure on his face at the unexpected break in the evening’s work.