“I have bad news. The black lamb is dead.”
“What happened?” She went still.
“I dosed them for fluke. I was late and in a hurry. I didn’t think how small the lamb was. I should have thought.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“Nine times out of ten he would have been all right. It was bad luck he fell. I could have picked him out and put him safe.”
“That’s easy to know now.”
“At least it was a male. We couldn’t have kept the lamb.”
In the silence they could hear the loud calling of the mother at the back of the house.
“One good thing. They are not like us. She’ll have completely forgotten him in another day. Tomorrow it will be as if he never existed.”
In spite of the knowledge that it was indulgent and wasteful, they were not able to ward off a lowering cloud. It was as if the black lamb reached back to other feelings of loss and disappointment and gathered them into an ache that was out of all proportion to the small loss.
Jamesie came without knocking, calling out softly, “All work, no play — finding it much easier; take a break.” He was halfway across the room to the big armchair beneath the window with his head held low when he stopped. “What’s up?” he asked.
“We had a bit of bad luck.”
“What sort?”
“There was a late black lamb,” they said.
“You can quit that,” he said. “These things happen. Anybody with livestock is going to have deadstock. There’s no use dwelling. You have to put all these things behind you. Otherwise you might as well throw it all up now and admit that you’re no good.”
As he spoke, the black lamb became an instant of beauty, safe by the side of the young ewe on the bank in the sun, and was gone. The beauty of that instant in the sun could only be kept now in the mind.
Jamesie himself had come to the house on a troubling errand of his own. In earlier years Jim and Lucy and the children had often visited the Ruttledges but in more recent years the visits had ceased. This had come about naturally, without incident or unpleasantness, in the ebb and flow of human relations: standing invitations had remained in place without being taken up by either side.
Now Jim and the family were coming from Dublin at the weekend. The child Margaret had seen Ruttledge cooking steaks on the iron grill the Shah had made for the old fireplace in the front room. They wanted to know if they could come over to the house and if Ruttledge would cook meat on the fire. Jamesie was so unsettled that he rose to leave even as he made the request. Ruttledge forced him back down into the chair by the shoulders.
“We’ll have a feast.”
“Too much. Too much,” he protested.
“It’d be better if they can come on Saturday. The Shah is always here on Sunday.”
“They can come either day. It makes no differ. They are coming for the whole weekend and are staying in the Central. The house is too small.”
They talked of the pleasant times they all had together when the children were small, and he grew easier. They walked him down to the lake. As the heron rose to lead him out along the shore, out of pride he protested again. “I didn’t want to ask but Mary said ‘Have they ever refused you anything?’ That’s all the more reason not to ask, I told her. It’s Lucy that wants to come over. Jim wouldn’t care. It’s she that wants it more than the children.”
“What does it matter who wants. Isn’t it a great excuse? We’ll have a feast. It’ll be as good as Johnny coming from England. Unless we hear differently we’ll expect you all at two o’clock on Saturday.”
“Too much. Too much,” he protested.
“You were like an angel coming today,” Kate said. “I was a bit down.”
“No good, Kate. No good and I thought you didn’t believe,” he countered sharply.
“There are lay angels,” she said.
“No wings. Can’t fly,” he called out as he cycled after the disappearing heron.
Ruttledge recognized Bill Evans’s loud knocking on the porch but not his step or walk. There was no sound of the stick on the floor, no swishing from the big wellingtons. When he reached the doorway he stood transformed. He had a new haircut, was cleanly and expertly shaven. He was wearing a fine new wool suit, a white shirt, a dark tie with white spots, and new black shoes that creaked.
“You’re shining.”
“Not too bad anyhow,” he grinned as he shuffled towards the white rocking chair.
The sharp features were refined by hardship, but the eyes had learned nothing, not seeing any further than what they looked at.
“I’ve never seen you better. Where did you get all the finery?”
“In the town,” he answered readily. “Father Conroy got them. I’m leaving yous. I’m going to the town to live.”
“How did that come about?”
“Father Conroy,” he said.
Automatically, Ruttledge reached for the small ration of cigarettes, set the kettle to boil and got sweet cake from a tin.
“Have you nothing better than tea today?”
“You’re right, Bill. It’s a special day. There’s whiskey and brandy.”
“Brandy,” he said.
He had already lit one of the cigarettes and was inhaling slow deep breaths, releasing each breath haltingly. Ruttledge poured a careful measure of brandy. Bill Evans downed it in a single gulp and demanded more. Another small measure was poured and a token measure poured into a second glass. “That’s all, Bill,” Ruttledge said firmly. “We can’t have you staggering around when the priest calls.”
“I’ll be topping,” he argued.
“I hope you’ll be very happy in the town,” Ruttledge raised his own glass.
“Good luck, Joe. And may you never go without.”
“What do you think you’ll do in the town?”
“I’ll do lots,” he said, and then a stubborn look crossed his face. He would say no more.
“What’s happened to your old clothes?”
“They’re above in the house.”
“Will you be taking them with you?”
“No,” he laughed. “You’re getting as newsy as Jamesie.”
“Will you come back out to see us at all?” Ruttledge asked as he walked him to the gate.
“I’ll not,” he laughed again as if the very idea was ridiculous. “Everything is in the town.”
“Don’t forget to say goodbye to the missus for me,” Bill Evans said when they reached the alder tree.
“She’ll be sorry to have missed you,” Ruttledge said. “I’ll not say goodbye to you myself as I’m sure to see you in the town.”
“Don’t forget the fags when you come.”
“I’ll not forget.”
In his new shoes and clothes he walked slowly and never looked back. The branches along the lake had long become intertwined overhead, and as they were now in full leaf the lane had turned into a green tunnel shot through with points of light. From time to time, in his slow walk uphill through this green shade, he stood and rested as if he was still carrying the buckets.
In the evening the priest’s car drove past the porch and turned under the unfinished shed to roll back down to a stop outside the porch door. Ruttledge went at once to greet him. Inside, he accepted a chair but would not take tea or coffee.
“Is Herself away?” he asked.
“No. She’s outside somewhere.”