“No, lad. I’m not here often enough and the fire is no trouble and heats the place.”
“You heard that Mary and Jamesie have gone to Dublin for Christmas?”
“I heard.” Patrick laughed, mimicking Jamesie’s inarticulate wonderment. “Crowds, you see … creatures in thousands … all shapes … lights … buses.”
“And Johnny was made redundant at Ford’s but then sort of fell on his feet. He is going to caretake a block of flats.”
“I heard,” he said with unusual grimness. “Was it you wrote the letter for them?”
“No,” Ruttledge lied. “We talked about it. It would have been bad for everybody had he come home. It’s great how it all worked out.”
“Alphabetical,” he said sharply as he stared at Ruttledge, and then knotted his red silk tie and pulled on the jacket of the dark suit. He would not have looked out of place in the foyer of a great hotel. “Here. Take this back with you,” he tried to get Ruttledge to take back the bottle of Powers he had brought.
“No. Leave it. We’ll have a drink for Christmas from the other bottle.”
“That makes more sense, lad.”
Two measures were poured and the glasses raised to “A Happy Christmas.”
“I’m going to the Harneys above in Boyle for Christmas. I go to them every Christmas Day.” He told Ruttledge what he already knew. “I’ll bring them your bottle. What goes round comes round. The car could be arriving at the corner of the lake for me any minute now.” He slipped the bottle together with a small package wrapped in Christmas paper into a plastic carrier bag and then put in his shoes. He wore wellingtons to walk the rutted and torn path to the lake. “You see the wife and family,” he gestured towards his small herd of cattle which was sheltering under whitethorns on the far hill.
“They seem to be doing all right. They have a big run,” Ruttledge said carefully.
“I often come at night with whoever I happen to be working for. I get them to drive me and we throw them a bale,” he said somewhat defensively. “I suppose no more than ourselves, lad, it doesn’t make all that much differ whether they live or die.”
What do we have without life? What does love become but care? Ruttledge thought in opposition but did not speak.
At the lake, Patrick Ryan changed out of the Wellingtons into the pair of black shoes and hid the wellingtons upside down in thick blackthorns. Beyond the reeds, a car was already waiting at the corner of the lake. “I go to entertain them in their own houses,” he said as he walked towards the waiting car, carrying the plastic bag.
The Shah rolled up to the porch at his usual Sunday time with the sheepdog in the front seat that Christmas Day and they ate at four. Kate put out a tablecloth of embroidered linen and lit two candles in silver candlesticks. The black cat with the white paws sat high on the back of an armchair, surveying the sheepdog’s movements with a wary eye. The small roast turkey was carved in the kitchen and placed on a large white oval platter. The meal began with leek soup. There was a dry white and red wine and to their surprise the Shah asked for a glass of sweet white wine. There was little conversation. As with heavy people who can move with lightness on a dance floor, the Shah ate with great delicacy. His enjoyment was palpable and it was as much a pleasure to be part of as lively speech. Not until the plum pudding and cream arrived did he relax and ease back.
“I hope four o’clock wasn’t too late for you to eat,” Kate said. “It’s well past your usual time at the Central.”
“Myself and that woman went to Second Mass instead of First and had a late breakfast in the hotel. Both of us were fasting.”
He sighed with pleasure; then the talk turned to the sale and transfer of the business. The final papers had been agreed and were expected to be ready for signature as soon as the offices opened after the holidays.
“Will he be able for it though?” he asked several times.
“Anyhow you’re sitting pretty no matter what happens,” Ruttledge said.
“You can swear,” he said. He produced a few cigars and offered one to Kate.
“I’d love to but it’d be the same as if I never stopped.”
“They’re good. I was given them by a traveller.” He left two big cigars on the table. “They’ll be there for the other man. He won’t have any trouble.”
Ruttledge drank a brandy while the Shah smoked the cigar. Then the Shah called the sheepdog, rose and left without abruptness or awkwardness. They watched from the porch as the headlights turned on the water and went slowly out along the shore.
“He probably has another call to make. He could be on his way to see Monica.”
“I never guessed he’d become such a dear presence.”
“That’s what happens,” Ruttledge said, looking away.
Late in the evening a loud rapping sounded on the glass of the porch. It was Bill Evans. He was wearing shoes, and in his Mass clothes he looked well. He rested the heavy blackthorn stick against the side of the rocking chair. He wanted brandy. Downing the glass quickly, he demanded another. Ruttledge gave him three glasses, each time pouring a smaller measure, and then refused him any more. When he was leaving, he was given the two cigars and he tried to light the wrong end. Kate cut and lit the cigar for him. He watched her impatiently and when he took it started smoking furiously. Ruttledge walked him all the way up the hill in case he would fall.
“How do you feel now?” he asked when they were close to the house. In the darkness he could only see the outline of his shape and the red glow of the cigar.
“God, I feel lovely. Couldn’t feel better. A very happy Christmas to yourself.”
“And a happy Christmas yourself.”
The days were quiet. They did not feel particularly quiet or happy but through them ran the sense, like an underground river, that there would come a time when these days would be looked back on as happiness, all that life could give of contentment and peace. They would cross the lake together in the morning, let out the hens, loose and feed the pair of dogs, clean out and feed the cows, let the calves to their suck. Each morning the mule came to the little gate beside the pond and bared his teeth as he was thrown hay. As Kate was staying to make some sketches, the dogs did not have to be put back in the house and the brown hens could pick about in the dirt inside the netting wire. The place fascinated her and she was using their absence to work near the house undisturbed.
Because they were so bounded, the days of Christmas slipped by quickly. In the evenings they put down a fire in Jamesie and Mary’s yellowed Stanley to keep the dampness out and the house warm for their return, and wound the clocks. No two clocks were the same or told the same time but all were running. Each one had its separate presence and charm.
A few visitors called to the house. The Ruttledges spent an evening with Monica and her children. The Shah had visited her late on Christmas Day, bringing many presents.
On some days Bill Evans called twice to the house. When the brandy was no longer forthcoming, he took tea and cake and cigarettes without a murmur. The bus to the Home had been suspended for the week of Christmas. He was anxious that the trips might not resume once Christmas was over; what was once given could be taken back in the same mysterious way it had come.
“It’s going to be a normal Thursday next week,” he predicted after the Thursday of Christmas had passed. “The bus will be back.” The words highlighted his anxiety.
“Jamesie will be back from Dublin by then as well.”
“Begod he will. He’ll have lots to tell,” he remarked without a flicker of interest.
Jamesie and Mary were returning on the early afternoon train from Dublin. Ruttledge dropped Kate at their gate on his way to the station. She was putting a fire down and bringing flowers to the house, a sheaf of red and yellow chrysanthemums.