The trailer was full of boxes. Ruttledge started to laugh quietly. The mood and its reason fell into place. A few months before he had done an assignment for a wine company. A payment in wine had been agreed.
“They should have delivered all this to the house here,” Ruttledge said. “They weren’t told to dump it on you.”
“They said the lorry was too big to get in round the shore,” he said angrily. “If I knew what they were carrying I’d have run them to hell.”
“You could nearly start up a pub with this,” Ruttledge said.
“There are several taverns in the town operating with far less,” the Shah said disagreeably.
“I suppose we better get it into the house out of harm’s way.”
“Unless you want to dump it in the lake. I’m glad you can see the funny side of it anyhow. I suppose it pays to have a sense of humour when you’re giving the party.”
Kate hadn’t heard the motor’s approach and was surprised to see the car and cattle trailer outside the porch. She went towards the Shah in welcome but was taken aback by his abruptness. “What are all these boxes?” she asked.
“I suppose your man didn’t tell you either,” he said accusingly. “You should ask him. He appears to know it all.”
“Tell me what?”
“About these boxes he’s ordered for himself. He must be planning to have one whale of a time. It’ll be no time now till you see the whole place going up in smoke.”
She looked towards Ruttledge.
“You remember the work I did for the wine company?”
“Of course.”
“They left it with this man in the town instead of delivering it here to the house.”
“I never thought it would come to so many boxes,” she said.
“They won’t go to loss,” Ruttledge said humorously.
“You can say that again,” the Shah said. He had been watching Kate’s face intently and was reassured by her manner.
They began to carry the boxes into the house. The Shah stayed by the trailer, opening and shutting the door as if to guard against anybody seeing the shameful cargo. Ruttledge carried the boxes through the porch and into the spare room. Kate found the boxes heavy and put them down in the porch. When all the boxes had been carried in, she saw the Shah staring at her little stack of boxes.
“Am I doing something wrong?”
“Can’t you put them where nobody will see them? Can’t you put them where your man is putting them, where they’ll be out of sight?”
Ruttledge said quietly under his breath, “If they are too heavy leave them alone. I’ll carry them into the room. We couldn’t have done worse if a cargo of fallen women had been delivered to the railway sheds.” He was having difficulty presenting a straight face to the world and was glad to hide behind the carrying.
The Shah closed the trailer door and dropped the pins into place with a firmness in which anger and relief were mixed. Patrick Ryan had not looked their way. With a pencil and metal tape he was studiously measuring and marking the various lengths of wood.
“I see you have that drunken sally back working. If he gets wind of this cargo he’ll never leave from around the place,” the Shah said as he entered the house, somewhat mollified to see that the boxes had been removed and put away.
“He doesn’t like wine,” Ruttledge said.
“I suppose he’s no sooner here than he’ll be gone again. I’ve been telling you for a long time that you should run him to hell from around the place and get a proper tradesman.”
“He’s all right. He’ll do for now.”
At first, the Shah had been taken by Patrick Ryan’s easy charm, his effrontery, his mimicry, a delinquency he was partial to, but eventually he went too far and the Shah withdrew and watched him as coldly as if he were evaluating a hand of cards. On his way out to the lake one evening he gave Patrick a lift from town. Patrick was the worse for drink and in foul humour. In this mood he was given to lecturing people.
“You have gathered a sight of money. What do you think you’ll do with it? You can’t take it with you. The shroud has no pockets. Have you made decisions?”
Patrick Ryan could not have staggered into a more dangerous territory. The Shah continued to drive in silence; he had not been spoken to like that in years. His money was a source of pride and satisfaction and a deep security. He did not speak at all until the car reached the two bars in Shruhaun beside the little river and the roofless abbey. He stopped the car at the stone bridge while Patrick continued his lecture.
“I’m not stopping here. I’ve had enough of the bars for one day, bad luck to them. I’m going on to the lake.”
“Out!” the Shah said while looking straight ahead.
If Patrick Ryan had been more sober and more watchful he would not have been so taken by surprise.
“There’s no need to take things so seriously. What were we doing but a bit of aul ravelling? They’re no cause to get so het up.”
“That’s enough. Out.”
When Patrick Ryan saw that his attempt to smooth things over would not work, his mood swung round again. “I can tell you something for nothing. You may have money but you’re as thick and ignorant as several double ditches.”
“Out, I said. I’m not one bit interested in what you think.”
“He should be run to hell,” the Shah repeated now as he entered the house. Once he was seated he asked for tea but would have nothing to eat. He was going down to the hotel as soon as he got rid of the trailer.
“You are a great girl, Kate. We have no doubt about you — unlike your man here,” he said as he took the tea, returning to the subject of the wine.
“What doubts?”
“Who’s giving the party?” he demanded half-humorously, anxiously, disapprovingly.
“What party? ”
“Someone has to be giving the party with a cargo like that in the house. I never saw the man giving the party yet that lasted long.”
“Visitors come. There are times for celebration. It will last for years,” Ruttledge said.
“It’d be some party all on your own. I wouldn’t be surprised if it ended with Kate here throwing you out.”
“She may well do that anyhow.”
“And she mightn’t be too far out,” he started to shake gently, his good humour restored.
They walked him to the car and trailer. Kate gave the sheepdog a biscuit, which he carried with importance to the front seat.
“I’m sorry it was dumped on you. It should have been delivered here,” Ruttledge apologized.
“Anyway it’s safe now. It’s hid,” the Shah said.
As he turned the heavy trailer in the space between the house and the bare iron posts, he raised a slow hand in a version of an episcopal blessing to a grinning Patrick Ryan, who was all mock attention beneath the posts. Patrick answered with a blasphemous sign of the cross — on forehead, on both shoulders, on breast, in mock gratitude, and then raised his own hand in a smart military salute as the car and trailer swung around. The performance was superb, but its intended victim did not even glance in the mirror as the car and trailer crunched past the porch and out the gate to go slowly round the shore. Patrick had been acting for himself. There was no response or applause to drown out the empty echo, and he turned away in disgust.
“A worse thing could not have been left at the sheds,” Ruttledge said to Kate as he prepared to rejoin Patrick Ryan. “I’m sure he’ll be counting now to see if we’ve sold any cattle.”
“What was the Shah doing with the trailer?” Patrick Ryan asked when Ruttledge returned. “He’s unlikely to be heading into the cattle business at this stage.”
“Some things for the house were delivered to the railway by mistake.”