‘What’s the sum?’ Mulreavy asked when the cigarettes were lit, and a horn hooted because the vehicles were blocking the road. Neither man took any notice: they were of the neighbourhood, local people, the road was more theirs than strangers’.
When the extent of the money offered was revealed Mulreavy knew better than to react, favourably or otherwise. It would be necessary to give the matter thought, he said, and further considerations were put to him, so that at leisure he could dwell on those also.
Ellie’s mother knew how it was, and how it would be: her brother would profit from the episode. The payment would be made by her: the accumulated pension, the compensation from the time of the accident in 1978. Her brother saw something for himself in the arrangement he hoped for with the potato dealer; the moment he had mentioned Mulreavy’s name he’d been aware of a profit to be made. Recognizing at first, as she had herself, only shame and folly in the fact that his niece was pregnant, he had none the less explored the situation meticulously: that was his way. She had long been aware of her brother’s hope that one day Ellie would marry some suitable young fellow who would join them in the farmhouse and could be put to work, easing the burden in the fields: that was how the debt of taking in a sister and a niece might at last be paid. But with a disaster such as there had been, there would be no young fellow now. Instead there was the prospect of Mulreavy, and what her brother had established in his mind was that Mulreavy could ease the burden too. A middle-aged potato dealer wasn’t ideal for the purpose, but he was better than nothing.
Ellie’s mother, resembling her brother in appearance, lean-faced and with his tired look, often recalled the childhood he and she had shared in this same house. More so than their neighbours, they were known to be a religious family, never missing Mass, going all together in the trap on Sundays and later by car, complimented for the faith they kept by Father Hanlon and his successor. The Larrisseys were respected people, known for the family virtues of hard work and disdain for ostentation, never seeming to be above themselves. She and her brother had all their lives been
part of that, had never rebelled against these laid-down mores during the years of their upbringing.
Now, out of the cruel blue, there was this; and as far as brother and sister could remember, in the farmhouse there had never been anything as dispiriting. The struggle in bad seasons to keep two ends together, to make something of the rock-studded land even in the best of times, had never been lowering. Adversity of that kind was expected, the lot the family had been born into.
It had been expected also, when the accident occurred to the man she’d married, that Ellie’s mother would return to the house that had become her brother’s. She was forty-one then; her brother forty-four, left alone two years before when their parents had died within the same six months. He hadn’t invited her to return, and though it seemed, in the circumstances, a natural consequence to both of them, she knew her brother had always since considered her beholden. As a child, he’d been like that about the few toys they shared, insisting that some were more his than hers.
‘I saw Mulreavy,’ he said on the day of the meeting on the road, his unsmiling, serious features already claiming a successful outcome.
Mulreavy’s lorry had reached the end of its days and still was not fully paid for: within six months or so he would find himself unable to continue trading. This was the consideration that had crept into his mind when the proposition was put to him, and it remained there afterwards. There was a lorry he’d seen in McHugh Bros. with thirty-one thousand on the clock and at an asking price that would be reduced, the times being what they were. Mulreavy hadn’t entirely invented the dressmaker from Ballina in whom he had claimed an interest: she was a wall-eyed woman he had recently seen about the place, who had arrived in Moyleglass to assist Mrs. Toomey in her cutting and stitching. Mulreavy had wondered if she had money, if she’d bought her way into Mrs. Toomey’s business, as he’d heard it said. He’d never spoken to her or addressed her in any way, but after his conversation with Mr. Larrissey he made further enquiries, only to discover that rumour now suggested the woman was employed by Mrs. Toomey at a small wage. So Mulreavy examined in finer detail the pros and cons of marrying into the Larrisseys.
‘There’d be space for you in the house,’ was how it had been put to him. ‘Maybe better than if you took her out of it. And storage enough for the potatoes in the big barn.’
A considerable saving of day-to-day expenses would result, Mulreavy had reflected, closing his eyes against the smoke from his cigarette when those words were spoken. He made no comment, waiting for further enticements, which came in time. Mr. Larrissey said:
‘Another thing is, the day will come when the land’ll be too much for me. Then again, the day will come when there’ll be an end to me altogether.’
Mr. Larrissey had crossed himself. He had said no more, allowing the references to land and his own demise to dangle in the silence. Soon afterthathe jerked his head in a farewell gesture and drove away.
He’d marry the girl, Mulreavy’s thoughts were later, after he’d heard the news about the dressmaker; he’d vacate his property, holding on to it until the price looked right and then disposing of it, no hurry whatsoever since he’d already be in the Larrisseys’ farmhouse, with storage facilities and a good lorry. If he attended a bit to the land, the understanding was that he’d inherit it when the day came. It could be done in writing; it could be drawn up by Blaney in Moyleglass.
Eight days after their conversation on the road the two men shook hands, as they did when potatoes were bought and sold. Three weeks went by and then there was the wedding.
The private view of Ellie’s mother - shared with neither her daughter nor her brother - was that the presence of Mulreavy in the farmhouse was a punishment for the brazen sin that had occurred. When the accident that had made a widow of her occurred, when she’d looked down at the broken body lying there, knowing it was lifeless, she had not felt that there was punishment in that, either directed at her or at the man she’d married. He had done little wrong in his life; indeed, had often sought to do good. Neither had she transgressed, herself, except in little ways. But what had led to the marriage of her daughter and the potato dealer was deserving of this harsh reprimand, which was something that must now be lived with.
Mulreavy was given a bedroom that was furnished with a bed and a cupboard. He was not offered, and did not demand, his conjugal rights. He didn’t mind; that side of things didn’t interest him; it hadn’t been mentioned; it wasn’t part of the arrangement. Instead, daily, he surveyed the land that was to be his inheritance. He walked it, lovingly, at first when no one was looking, and later to identify the weed that had to be sprayed and to trace the drains. He visualized a time when he no longer travelled about as a middle-man, buying potatoes cheaply and selling at a profit, when the lorry he had acquired with the dowry would no longer be necessary. On these same poor acres sufficient potatoes could be grown to allow him to trade without buying in. Mulreavy wasn’t afraid of work when there was money to be made.
The midwife called down the farmhouse stairs a few moments after Mulreavy heard the first cry. Mr. Larrissey poured out a little of the whiskey that was kept in the wall-cupboard in case there was toothache in the house. His sister was at the upstairs bedside. The midwife said a girl had been born.