— Ah but it’s a lovely day, Tantey. Can we go, can we?
— I suppose so. But mind now and be careful. And you’re not to stay out late.
She closed the missal and kissed reverently the tattered binding. Groaning she pulled herself up from her chair and hobbled to the door. There she paused and turned, and said to the boy who still sat on the floor with his legs crossed:
— Mind what I say now. Be back here early.
When she was gone the girl went and sat in the armchair, and with her shoulders bent she mimicked the old woman, intoning:
— Achone achone the Lord and all his angels are coming to damn us all to hell.
— Ah stop that, said the boy.
— Nor you needn’t be afeared of the devil in the day. Achone achone O.
— I told you to stop it.
— All right. All right. Don’t be always bossing me around.
She made a face at him and tramped from the room, saying over her shoulder:
— I’m going to get the bikes and if you’re not out before I count ten I’m going on my own.
The boy did not move. Sunlight fell through the tiny window above the stove. The radiance of the summer afternoon wove shadows about him. Beyond the window a dead tree stood like a crazy old naked man, a blackbird hopping among its twisted branches. The boy stood up and went into what had once been the farmyard — the barn and the sties had long since crumbled. After the dimness of the kitchen the light here burned his eyes. He moved across to stand under the elm tree and listen to the leaves. Out over the green fields the heat lay heavy, pale blue and shimmering. In the sky a bird circled slowly. He lifted his head and gazed into the thickness of the leaves. Light glinted gold through the branches. He stood motionless, his arms hanging at his sides, listening, and slowly, from the far fields, the strange cry floated to his ears, a needle of sound that pierced the stillness. He held his breath. The voice hung poised a moment in the upper airs, a single liquid note, then slowly faded back into the fields, and died away, leaving the silence deeper than before.
— Are you coming or are you just going to stand there all day?
He turned. The girl stood between the two ancient bicycles, a saddle held in each of her small hands.
— I’m coming, he grunted.
They mounted and rode slowly down to the gate, where he halted while the girl swung carelessly out into the road. When he was sure of safety he pedalled furiously after her.
— You’ll get killed some day, he said when he was beside her again.
The girl turned up her nose and shook her hair in the warm wind.
— You’re an awful scaredy cat, she said contemptuously.
— I just don’t want to get run over, that’s all.
— Hah.
She trod on the pedals and glided away from him. He watched her as she sailed along, her bony knees rising and falling. She took her hands from the handlebars and waved them in the air.
— You’ll fall off, he shouted.
She glanced over her shoulder at him and pulled her hair above her head, and the long gold tresses coiled about her pale arms. Her teeth glinted as she laughed.
Free now they slowed their pace and leisurely sailed over the road, tyres whispering in the soft tar. The fields trembled on either side of them. Sometimes the girl sang in her high-pitched, shaky voice, and the notes carried back to him, strangely muted by the wide fields, a distant, piping song. Tall shoots of vicious grass waving from the ditches scratched their legs. The boy watched the land as it moved slowly past him, the sweltering meadows, the motionless trees, and high up on the hill the cool deep shadows under Wild Wood.
— Listen, the girl said, allowing him to overtake her. Do you think they’ll let us see him?
— I don’t know.
— Jimmy would. He’d let me see him all right. But there’s bound to be others.
She brooded, gazing at her feet circling under her.
— How do you know they’ll find him? the boy asked.
— Jimmy said so.
— Jimmy.
— You shut up. You don’t know anything about him.
— He’s dirty, the boy said sullenly.
— You never saw him.
— I did.
— Well he’s not dirty. And anyway I don’t care. I’m in love with him, so there.
— He’s dirty and he’s old and he’s mad, too.
— I don’t care. I love him. I’d love him to kiss me.
She closed her eyes and puckered her lips at the sky. Suddenly she turned and pushed the boy violently, so that he almost lost his balance. She watched him try to control the wobbling wheels, and she screamed with laughter. Then she sailed ahead of him once again, crying:
— You’re only jealous, you are.
The girl disappeared around a bend in the road, and he stepped down from the machine. He plodded scowling up the first steep slope of Slane Hill.
When he came round the bend he found the girl standing beside her bicycle waiting for him, her hands at her mouth.
— Listen, she said, and grasped his arm. There’s somebody up there.
At the top of the hill a dark figure was huddled in the ditch at the side of the road.
— It’s only a man, the boy said.
— I don’t like the look of him.
— You’re afraid.
— I am not. I just don’t like the look of him.
— Not so brave now, the boy sneered.
— All right then, smartie. Come on.
They began the climb. Sweat gathered at the corners of their eyes and on their lips. Under their hands the rubber of the grips on the handlebars grew moist and sticky. Flies came and buzzed about them. They lowered their heads and pushed the awkward black machines to the crest of the hill. Below them now was the sea, warm and blue and glittering with flakes of silver light. A cool breeze came up over the sandy fields, carrying a faint bitterness of salt against their mouths. A stirring beside them in the ditch. A hoarse voice. Panic stabbed them. They leaped into the saddles and careered off down the hill, while behind them a ragged, strangely uncertain figure stood dark against the sky, querulously calling.
The air whistled by their ears as they raced along the pitted road. The sea was coming to meet them, the dunes rose up green and gold, sea salt cutting their nostrils, the sun whirling like a rimless spoked wheel of gold, sea and dunes rushing, then abruptly the road ended, their tyres sank in the sand and they toppled from the saddles.
For a while they lay panting, and listened to the sea whispering gently on the shore. Then the girl raised her head and looked back up the hill.
— He’s gone, she whispered hoarsely.
The boy sat up and rubbed his knee.
— I hurt myself.
— I said he’s gone.
— Who is?
— The fellow up on the hill. He’s gone.
The boy shaded his eyes and gazed back along the road. He pursed his lips and murmured vaguely:
— O yes.
She caught his wrist in her bony fingers.
— Did you hear what he was shouting? Did you hear what he called you?
— Me?
— He was shouting at you. He called you mister.
— Did he?
— Didn’t you hear him?
He did not answer, but stood up and brushed the sand from his faded cord trousers.
— Come on, he said, and grasping her hand he pulled her to her feet. The tide is up. We’ll leave the bikes here.
He walked away from her, limping slightly. She stared after him for a moment and then began to follow. She scowled at his back and cried:
— You’re a right fool!
— Come on.
Through a gap in the dunes they passed down to the beach. The sea was quiet, a bowl of calm blue waters held in the arms of the horseshoe bay. Lines of sea-wrack scored the beach, evidence of the changing limits of the tide. They walked slowly toward the pier, a grey finger of stone accusing the ocean.