“Something silly I’d suppose.”
“Trathnona means evening.”
“That’s rubbing it in all right.”
“Bill Evans is getting one of the houses,” Ruttledge said.
“They’ll be made up when they get him in the town. It’s about time ye were brought up to date out there at the lake and those buckets pensioned off.”
The receptionist behind the horseshoe reception desk in the Central greeted them warmly. “Susan,” the Shah spoke her name softly as they passed into the empty dining room. Three places were laid on the raised table in the alcove. As soon as they were seated the chef came from the kitchen in his tall chef’s hat to shake Ruttledge’s hand and tell them what was on the evening menu. They both had mushroom soup and the Shah had an enormous plate of vegetables with the wild salmon, but Ruttledge only wanted a green salad with the salmon. The Shah had ice cream and sherry trifle; Ruttledge had no dessert, and refused the wine or stout or whiskey that was pressed. Mrs. Maguire joined the table. She, too, chose wild salmon with a green salad.
“I don’t know how the two of yous eat that stuff,” the Shah remarked about their salads but otherwise was silent in the enjoyment of the food. Ruttledge recalled that the last time they had met was at the reception for John Quinn’s wedding.
“A good boy,” the Shah shook. “A warrior.”
“The marriage, I believe, hasn’t gone too well,” Mrs. Maguire said.
“She got some sense in the finish. She left that lakeside residence after a week,” the Shah said.
“Then he went for a while to her place in Westmeath but now he’s home again,” Ruttledge added.
“They ran him,” the Shah said succinctly.
“I have no quarrel with John,” Mrs. Maguire said. “The family all stay here when they come home from England in the summer. They are charming and have got on wonderfully well in the world.” It was clear Mrs. Maguire was closing the subject down and when the Shah remarked, “Often people like John Quinn have the best children,” it was pursued no further.
“How did you find things up at the centre of the world?” Mrs. Maguire asked Ruttledge in a voice that betrayed the purpose of the meeting. Its source was the same anxiety that had brought about his own visit.
“That’ll do you now. There are worse places,” the Shah said defensively.
Ruttledge looked from face to face before he spoke. This man and woman were very close. Every Sunday and holy day they drove to Mass together, every day he had his meals in the hotel. There were many married couples who were not so close. “How do you settle with the hotel?” Ruttledge had asked his uncle once. He had never seen money changing hands. “That woman needs a lock of pounds like everybody else from time to time and she tells me.”
From similar backgrounds they had risen in the town without ever quite belonging; both of them remained outsiders; neither had the interest or desire to join the bridge or golf club or any of the other circles in which people of their standing moved; both were too intelligent and independent to want to belong where they were ill-at-ease or at a disadvantage: their culture was that of the church and the family.
“What particular things had you in mind?” Ruttledge enquired carefully.
“How do you find Frank, the business, the whole place?” she asked plainly.
“Amazingly enough — exactly the same. Nothing has changed or seems likely to change. This man appears to be working harder than ever. Frank appears grateful and happy.”
“You’d want to give him a bit of a push when he’s starting out. You wouldn’t want to lie on him at this stage,” the Shah said.
“Of course he’ll never be the man the first man was,” Mrs. Maguire said, and it brought the release of laughter.
“That’ll do both of yous, now,” he shook happily, wiping his eyes with his fists.
“I was very worried when he first brought up the idea,” Ruttledge said. “Even Kate didn’t like to see him retiring or the place changing hands.”
“He told me,” she said. “I was worried. We were all very worried.”
“There wasn’t a bit of need,” the Shah said confidently.
“You can never be sure with people. Once they get the reins into their hands you don’t know what way they’ll drive.”
“When money and power are involved people can change very quickly. I’ve seen it happen too often,” she said.
“I imagine you’d think twice of handing everything over to your children,” Ruttledge said, and saw at once that he had blundered.
“More than twice,” she said, looking straight ahead.
“Anyhow this man was determined from the very beginning and it seems it couldn’t have turned out better,” Ruttledge said. “My only fear is that he’s doing too much.”
“He’s trying to hold on to his job,” she said, looking at his ash-marked forehead with pure affection.
“That’ll do you now. That’ll do yous all.” He shook with pure pleasure and rubbed his eyes with his fists.
The fields long sodden with rain hardened in the drying winds. Small flowers started to appear on banks and ditches and in the shelter of the hedges. Around Mary’s old house by the lake, with the ash tree growing in the middle of the living room, hundreds of daffodils and scattered narcissi met the spring again with beauty. Birds bearing twigs in their beaks looped through the air. The brooding swan resumed her seat on the high throne in the middle of the reeds. The otter paths between the lakes grew more beaten. In shallows along the shore the water rippled with the life of spawning pike and bream: in the turmoil their dark fins showed above the water and the white of their bellies flashed when they rolled. The lambs were now out with their mothers on the grass, hopping as if they had mechanical springs in their tiny hooves, sometimes leapfrogging one another. Jamesie helped Ruttledge harness the old horse plough to the tractor and guided the handles as they turned sods and tore up ground at both houses for spring planting. Jamesie had been in the bars of Shruhaun on Patrick’s Day and complained that people with big bunches of shamrocks in their coats who had been off drink for Lent were footless. The fruit trees were fertilized and pruned. Flowers were planted out. The bees were making cleansing flights from the hives and gathering pollen. Out on a bare rock, in the middle of the drinking pool by the house, the black cat sat as studious as a scholar amid all the spawn and stirring of the pool as she waited to scoop up with one white paw any amorous frog that rose too close to the rock.
Easter morning came clear. There was no wind on the lake. There was also a great stillness. When the bells rang out for Mass, the strokes trembling on the water, they had the entire Easter world to themselves.
“On such an Easter morning, as we were setting out for Mass, we were always shown the sun: Look how the molten globe and all the glittering rays are dancing. The whole of heaven is dancing in its joy that Christ has risen.”
They heard Jamesie’s racket out at the gate and his hand rattling the glass of the porch before he entered the house. “Christ has risen and God is good and Pat is earning,” he shouted out as he walked into the big room where they were sitting. “Take a break. Have a Kit-Kat.”
“Jamesie,” they said. “You are welcome, very welcome.”
In his Sunday suit he was shining and handsome. On the lapel of the dark suit was pinned an Easter lily.
“Kate,” he held out his hand. She pretended to be afraid to trust her hand to such strength. “God hates a coward, Kate,” he demanded, and she took his hand.
Not until she cried, “Easy there, Jamesie,” did he release his gently tightening grip with a low cry of triumph. “You are one of God’s troopers, Kate. Mister Ruttledge,” he bowed solemnly.