IX
Another
Match
They could feel her coming half way across the Channel. If they hadn’t
heard the stories the lads brought across with them the day before, one might
have been surprised by the Old Woman’s passing. Surely, she was mean enough to
live for another thirty years.
Bridey found Mrs. Keenan standing in a thick mist, watching her own
burial. Mourners, drenched to the bone, crossed themselves and repeated the
prayers Patrick led them in. The rain drizzled through Mrs. Keenan, placing her
in another realm. When they set the casket above the open grave, the woman
trembled. Bridey came up behind her, placing both hands on her shoulders. The
old woman took one. “Was it this odd?” Old Mrs. Keenan asked, “To see yourself
be buried?”
“Aye. Odder still because it would only be Patrick and a hand full of
others. Brendan was in hiding then.”
“I remember how sick he was not to be here. Sean, too.”
Bridey patted her shoulders. “Come, Mrs. Keenan, it’s easier staying together.”
They turned away from the scene as the false bottom was pulled from the old
fashioned famine style coffin. Patrick quoted the 23rd Psalm as the
wool wrapped body tumbled into a shallow grave.
“Tell me Liam has calmed down,” Mrs. Keenan commented.
“Of course not. He’s just as mean as always. Only that he isn’t as
crabby.”
* * *
When Brendan saw his wife traveling along the pebbled way, he attempted
to catch up. With her head down and her shoulders slumping, she seemed more
intent on the contents of her basket. “Enid!” She glanced over her shoulder at
him, and then hurried off. “Enid!” She pulled her basket tighter against her
body with one hand and raised her skirt with the other. She did not look back
at him again. Her skirt bellowed behind her as she ran, and nearly caught in
the door when she ducked into their cottage. Brendan sped up. Chickens squawked
at his feet and that little black cur that played with his son now snapped at
his heels. He reached the door of the cottage and forced it open. She snatched
an egg from a bowl on the table. It flew over his shoulder and smashed against
the door. Brendan glanced into her eyes once, acknowledging her hurt, and
assuming the next egg she readied herself to throw would smack him in the head.
He backed out and slammed the door.
*
In the excitement of the last two days, Patrick had almost forgotten the
horse. He housed it in an alcove behind the Church. Where did it come from? And
should he see that it gets back there? He brushed it and fed it oats he had
bartered eggs for. Brendan found him at work back there, examining wounds in
the old animal’s rump. Some were old and poorly healed, and others, looked sore
and oozed yet. The poor old thing looked as if it had been beaten again and
again, with a crop or a whip of some manner.
A bit of salve maybe? Or a crust of moldy bread? “Wendall and Lady Talbot
rode it in here,” he explained to his friend. “I haven’t quite made up m’mind
whether we should be trying to return it to wherever it came from, or we should
keep it.”
“I’m sure we could come up with a good use for it,” Brendan commented, as
he patted its snout.
“That’s what I’m thinking. So what brings you across this morning?”
“Come over to see Enid, considering she wasn’t at the wake or the
funeral. But it seems we aren’t on speaking terms at the moment.”
“I wonder why,” Patrick commented, turning away. “We’re only speaking
about adultery here. ‘Tisn’t something the Lord, Himself would object to.”
“I didn’t’ say I didn’t deserve it.” Brendan, hands in pockets, smiled
that crooked smile of his. Patrick fished about for the horse’s bridle. Once in
hand, he slipped the bit into the horse’s mouth and buckled the bridle around
her snout and brow, and under her ears. Then he led her away from the alcove
and out into the clover. Brendan followed. Patrick patted the horse’s neck and
allowed it to graze. “You’re here to ruin m’day, is it?” Patrick asked his
friend.
“You’re angry with me, too?”
“No more than usual. What is it you want from me, Brendan?”
“Nothing. Just thinking we take off for Naughtonby tomorrow, we should
let this beast take us. ‘Tis a long walk.”
“’Tis at that.” Patrick turned to study Brendan from an angle. He had
something to discuss. “What is it?”
“I’m thinking that maybe I should be getting back to the Island. Is
Michelene about? I could take him with me.”
“In with Canon Hanrahan. The bairne could use a change from the old man’s
meanderings. Take him.” Brendan nodded, his expression not changing to either
acceptance, delight or dismay. Again Patrick wondered what this man had on his
mind. “I’m thinking,” Patrick began, “That it has been quite some time that
herself has been gone.”
“She’s left him before.”
“Not for this long. I’m thinking that one of us has to consider his
future. What if she doesn’t come back?”
Brendan rubbed his chin first, and then the back of his neck.
“That’s it?” Patrick demanded, heat rushing into his cheeks.
“What?”
“That’s your response? You’d be contributing to that child’s conception,
but you aren’t willing to do anything about his future?”
Brendan stepped closer as Patrick straightened. “What would you be
wanting from me, Patrick?”
“I’m wanting you to be the lad’s father.”
“If you could know how badly I want that. If Enid would let me..”
Patrick nodded, and turned back towards the old horse. “Enid I’m not
worrying about. She’ll do the right thing in the end. If only for your sake.”
“Humph.” Brendan grunted and turned away. He retreated towards the
Parochial House.
No comments:
Post a Comment