He shifted what had become ‘his’ wing chair to face the view, and sat with his notebook and pen.
… are staying here at Broughadoon.
He completed the sentence that had dangled for-how long? It seemed weeks.
Much has transpired since this letter was begun.
In brief, Cynthia was surprised by an intruder in our room, which caused her to wrench her bad ankle-all this followed by police, fingerprinting, and the visit of a local doctor who ordered her to stay off her foot for up to ten days. This, of course, cancels a good bit of our tour with Walter and Katherine.
Happily, W and K don’t mind the upset of plans. They arrive day after tomorrow to spend one night, then on to Borris House and beyond, after which we join up for the last leg (north to Belfast, down to Dublin).
A bit of an expense to cancel rooms on short notice, but worth it, and fortunately our room here remains available. W and K insist they’re grateful for time to themselves, W having been consumed for months by a disagreeable legal case.
C in good spirits and learning to navigate on crutches and true grit. She sends her love along with this watercolor view from our bedroom window. As ever, the very soul of her subject is called forth by her brush.
Goethe said, ‘One ought, every day at least, to hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and, if it were possible, to speak a few reasonable words.’
I have heard a little song, as my good wife rattled off a verse or two of Danny Boy this morning. I have read what I believe to be a good poem by Patrick Kavanagh, and looked out to a fine picture on every side. Further, I have spoken, and am trying to write to you, a few reasonable words. In this way, Goethe might agree that I have enjoyed a full day’s pleasure though it is but four in the afternoon.
Just learned that I’m to be questioned by a detective, yet another component of our vacation saga, so will sign off for now with an Irish proverb useful to alclass="underline"
‘A light heart lives
Something nudging his leg.
‘Pud?’
The little guy was looking up at him, the shoe fastened in his jaws.
‘I forgot to tell you,’ said Cynthia. ‘He slipped in when Liam came to the door and hid under the bed.’
In terms of never giving up, this was a very Churchillian dog. No, go, get away, heel-what difference would it make? No dog had ever obeyed his commands; his Bouvier-wolf hound mix, in the long years of puppydom, was disciplined only by an emphatic vocalizing of scripture, preferably from the KJV.
Lie… down, he might have commanded early in the game.
Result: Walking about, licking the empty food bowl, possibly scratching.
For God so loved the world, he learned later to proclaim, that he gave his only begotten son…
Result: Instant lying down or, if required, bounding forth into a despised torrent of rain to take care of business. Dog Disciplined by Scripture-it was a show people lined up to see, worth taking on the road. His gut feeling was, it wouldn’t work in this application.
‘Drop the shoe,’ he said.
Pud did not drop the shoe.
‘Roll over.’
Pud blinked.
‘Sit,’ he said.
‘He is sitting.’ Obviously starved for entertainment, his wife was watching this hapless demo.
‘Try fetch,’ she said.
‘Fetch.’
‘You have to throw the shoe first, Timothy.’
‘If I throw the shoe, there’ll be no end to it, I won’t have a minute’s peace.’
‘You don’t have a minute’s peace anyway, since what transpired the other evening. I would throw the shoe.’
‘So you throw the shoe,’ he said.
‘He doesn’t want me to throw the shoe.’
He threw the shoe.
Glee and jubilation, full Jack Russell style. Pud returned the shoe, placed it at his feet, looked up. Two shining brown orbs of hope and expectation…
He sighed; thought of his own good dog; calculated how long he could hold out against a terrier.
‘We’ll be back,’ he told his wife.
On his passage through the entrance hall, he gave a salute to Aengus Malone’s hat. Then he and Pud crunched over the gravel and around the lodge to the head of the lake path. The water’s surface was golden now, hammered by afternoon sun. Bees droned in the flower beds; the trunks of the beeches convened like patient elephants.
It was a wonderland out here, in summer air moved by a breeze off the water. In Blake’s words, his soul felt suddenly threshed from its husk. With no effort, he drew a deep breath; the straitjacket fell away like William’s overcoat.
When he stepped to the mound, the crowd rose to their feet, cheering. He was pitching for the Mitford Reds, and they were winning.
Before he delivered the pitch, Pud was racing ahead of it on the path.
He burned the shoe straight down the middle. Pud leaped like a salmon, spun in the air, caught it.
‘Man,’ he said.
Pud dashed back, dropped the shoe at his feet, looked up.
A curve shoe up and away.
A fast shoe high and in.
A sinker low and away.
The aerodynamic of a shoe was unpredictable, to say the least. A rivulet of sweat ran along his backbone.
He smoked a high, looping pitch down the path, sank to his haunches, watched Pud bring it back.
‘Way to go, buddy!’
After the game, the Pitch would have a hot dog with everything but onions, thanks. Ditto for the Catch.
He turned his Reds cap around with the bill shading his neck from the beating Irish sun, and gave Pud a good scratch behind the ears.
Vacation. He was finally on it.
Ten
They lingered at their table and watched a boat on the evening lake. On his first visit, he’d never sat still long enough to watch a boat on a lake. Such lulling meditation as this gave room to an interesting possibility-all Feeney wanted, after all, was a warm body.
‘Anybody play bridge?’ he asked the anglers.
‘I’m a poker man,’ said Pete O’Malley, pining toward the empty travel club table. ‘But I play a little gin with these turkeys.’
‘My mother-in-law’s a bridge nut, my wife’s a bridge nut,’ said Hugh. ‘Me, I’m gin and poker all th’ way.’
‘No bridge for me,’ said Tom. ‘I’m a bloody eejit at that game. Say, how about th’ guy stealin’ O’Malley’s pullover?’
‘That pullover caught many a big one,’ said Pete. ‘I’d rather he stole my Rolodex.’
‘Your Rolodex?’
‘Rolex,’ said Pete, who had, in his own words, been at the jug. ‘We saw the detective come in, heard you may have spotted th’ guy who did it.’
‘Maybe. They can’t pull somebody in without hard evidence. The good news is, the so-called suspect has a record of aggravated assault and unlawful possession of a firearm-they’ll be looking to see if his fingerprints match any they found here.’
‘They dusted my room,’ said Pete. ‘Asked for a complete description of the pullover. Lands’ End, maybe 1998. Tear on right sleeve from a fishhook. Stain on front, fish blood.’
‘Overall smell,’ said Tom, ‘-fishy.’
‘So, how did it go today?’
‘No fishin’ today,’ said Tom. ‘Saw a castle, drove over to Rosses Point, fooled around. Spent the afternoon with Jack Kennedy up th’ road. You ever sample poteen?’
‘No way.’
‘It’ll turn you forty shades of green,’ said Hugh.
‘So I’ve heard. My barber says whatever I do, stay away from poteen.’
‘With advice like that, I’d be lookin’ for another barber,’ said Pete.
Laughter at the fishermen’s table.
‘We’re sorry about th’ crutches,’ Pete told Cynthia. ‘Sorry about th’ whole thing.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Hugh.
‘Terrible,’ said Tom. ‘Really sorry.’
‘Thanks. I’m glad to hear nothing else was missing from your rooms.’
‘Zero,’ said Hugh.
‘Nothin’ in Finnegan’s room to go missin’,’ said Pete. ‘A sweater with a moth hole you could stick your leg through, a pair of britches he wore in high school, a pack of Camel Lights.’