“Thanks,” Frank repeated again and walked to his old car without another word or look. He walked slowly and naturally, as if any possible acknowledgement of the Shah’s presence in the day was unimaginable, and his very separateness was as impressive as the Shah’s own. The car had already been turned around and he did not wave or look either way as he drove towards the scrapyard and the old railway sheds, all of which he now owned.
“Whether he makes it or not I doubt if he’ll ever come to look the part,” the Shah said as he watched the old Toyota drive away.
“The two of you are never going to kill one another with talk,” Ruttledge remarked.
“You wouldn’t know where to begin,” the Shah said. “You could be taking your life in your hands.”
The weeks following Christmas were mild and damp. Then the storms came, breaking branches, uprooting small trees in the hedges, lathering the road round the shore with foam. Between the storms they had precious days of frost when the light was dry and clear and sounds carried. Thin ice glittered along the shore and clinked and chimed when there was any movement on the water.
In all these weathers Bill Evans went every day to the lake. Jamesie counted the twenty-six times he had to set down the buckets and rest on the steep climb between the lake and the top of the hill and he imitated the sideways, crab-like gait and the way he blew on his hands and folded them into the long black sleeves and wrung them against his breast.
They had never seen Bill Evans in better spirits. He was often condescending, as he smoked and ate and took tea in his huge wellingtons and roped black crombie and the shiny sou’wester tied beneath his chin, and talked of the bus and Michael Pat the driver and all that travelled on the bus and how they would nearly cause any normal enough person to laugh. He was no longer living from moment to moment, from blow to blow, pleasure to pleasure, refusing to look forward or back: he was now living these bus rides on Thursday in the mind as well. The seeds of calamity were sown.
On a Thursday in February, with the rain pouring down, he came to the porch holding on to the two buckets instead of leaving them in the fuchsias at the gate. He would have carried them into the house except for the narrowness of the porch door.
“Bring them into the house if you want, Bill, but they’ll come to no harm in the rain.” Kate saw at once that there was something very wrong.
“I was stopped,” he cried out as he entered the porch.
“Stopped from what?”
“Stopped from going on the bus.”
“Why?” She had never seen him break down before or weep, the small choked cries of a child.
“I was stopped,” he repeated, tears slipping down his face, catching in the deep lines.
She made tea, adding biscuits and fruitcake to the plate of buttered bread and jam. He drank the tea but he wasn’t able to eat. “Somebody or something must have stopped you or did the bus not come?” she asked.
“They stopped me,” he admitted reluctantly.
“Why did they do that?”
“They stopped me,” he cried out and rose. “Did he leave any fags?”
She gave him the ration of cigarettes from a mug on a shelf above the stove and walked him to the door. She watched him lift the two buckets outside the porch and go in the heavy rain towards the open gate and down past the fuchsias towards the lake.
“We’ll have to do something. You’ll have to go to the house and confront them,” Kate said when Ruttledge returned.
A cold, appraising look came over his face that she normally liked but now felt uncomfortable with. “Why?” he asked.
“You know well that I’d be no good.”
“Neither of us would. We’d only make matters worse.”
“We’ll have to do something. It means the world to him. It was like looking at somebody who has lost everything.”
“The only person with power in this case is the priest.”
“Why don’t you go to him? The two of you get on well together.”
“I’ll go to him tonight.”
The church was in darkness but there was a light above the door of the presbytery. It was a strange place to have built this church and presbytery, far from any human habitation. Its natural place should have been beside the bars and post office and school and the old monastery at Shruhaun. The sound of trees waving in the darkness and the steady rain increased the sense of night and isolation. Ruttledge let himself in through the small gate beside the sacristy and rang the bell. The hall lights came on immediately. The priest appeared glad to see him, inviting him in. He was wearing a heavy black pullover and an open-necked shirt. Newspapers and bills and letters and a few books were scattered about the large oval table in the sitting room. A coal fire burned brightly in the grate. The rest of the furniture was old and dark and comfortable and must have served many undemanding masters.
“We haven’t met since Christmas Eve,” Ruttledge remarked.
“If everybody paid me as well as that man I’d never stop calling to the houses. Will you have tea or something stronger?”
Ruttledge asked for tea. The cups and tea bags stood on a silver tray on a dark mahogany sideboard with an electric kettle. The priest made tea, offered biscuits, but he himself drank only warm water.
“I should state my business,” Ruttledge said. “You know Bill Evans?”
“I know all my parishioners,” he answered.
“For some time now the bus has been coming to the house on Thursday and taking him into the Home.”
“I know that.”
“It’s been his one great pleasure. The whole week is spent looking forward to Thursday. Now he has been stopped. I came to see if you could get him back on the bus.”
“Who stopped him?”
“They stopped him, as far as I know.”
“Why would they? It’s not costing them anything.”
“I’m not sure I want to know. They may miss him for drawing water, for the various jobs he does about the house. They may have even come to resent the pleasure he gets from those Thursdays.”
The priest continued looking at Ruttledge after he had spoken and then turned away to take tongs and arrange coals on the fire. “They don’t know it yet — and naturally he doesn’t know — but his days out there by the lake are numbered,” he said. “A housing development has already begun in the town to provide small apartments for the elderly, for people still able to manage on their own but in need of help. All of it is state-funded. I’m on the board and our friend is one of the first names on the housing list. We are going to call the development Trathnona. What do you think of the name?”
“The evening of life,” Ruttledge translated for his own ears. “Somehow it doesn’t sound so bad in English. Next stop: night. I think it’s pretty awful.”
“I thought you might say that,” the priest laughed. “They could call it Bundoran as far as I’m concerned, as long as it serves its purpose and the deserving people get the accommodation. We have quite a few Fenians on the board and they thought the name both patriotic and appropriate.”
“I’m sure it doesn’t matter. Not many will know what Trathnona means. In time it’ll just become another name.”
“I don’t care. Bill Evans and two other homeboys are on the list. When the development is completed he’ll get one of the houses.”
“He’ll be in heaven,” Ruttledge said.
The conversation moved to the cattle both men kept, the price of cattle and the animals they intended to take out and sell in the mart on Monaghan Day. John Quinn’s name came up. The priest smiled but was slow to judge. “He’s been consoling himself with a few ladies. He takes them up to the front seat at Sunday Mass and sometimes to the empty church where they light candles at Our Lady’s shrine. At a distance it is a most touching and romantic ceremony. If I’m around he always introduces them.”