Across the River (2 page)

Martha had given into the yowls of protest whenever she had threatened to throw out the enormous old dresser, but she had ignored all opposition a few years previously when she had got rid of the open fire and put in an Aga. She had hated the smoke and ashes of the open fire. Jack and the others had prophesied that they would be frozen, but of course with the kitchen warm early and late the opposite was the case. Sometimes people did not know what was good for them. The Aga had set her back a bit, but it had been worth every penny, and when they were doing the plumbing she had put in a bathroom, with a downstairs toilet off the scullery. It had all been money well spent.

Shaking the flour on to the timber table, she flattened out the cake, rounding the edges with the palm of her hand. Opening the top oven of the Aga she eased the cake in and returned to the table where she rubbed her hands together to ease the clinging dough from between her fingers. Now she felt better; the inner turmoil had subsided. She wiped off the table and took the baking utensils out to the sink in the scullery and washed them. When she came back to the kitchen, she went to the parlour to open the window. As she crossed through the small porch, she opened the front door and sunlight poured in.

The parlour was a large low-ceilinged room, and the mirror-backed sideboard against the back wall reflected the lace-curtained window on the wall opposite. The shelved overmantel above the black marble fireplace, to the right of the door, held a collection of family bric-a-brac, school photographs of Peter and Nora and little presents that they had brought home from school tours. On the wall opposite was a large painting of old Edward Phelan. She had never liked this room because the ghosts of former Phelans seemed particularly strong in here, more so since Kate had brought back that painting.

Going over now she stood in front of the portrait and studied it. The original photograph must have been taken when he was well past his prime, but he was still a fine looking man. Kate’s conscience must have been bothering her about having taken the old photograph in the first place. Even though Martha might not have hung it up, it still annoyed her that Kate had taken it. Then Kate had got Mark to paint this portrait from it, and he had certainly done a great job, but then that should not have surprised her. Everyone was at great pains to impress her about her
wonderful artist brother. She sometimes felt that Mark was more acceptable to the Phelans than she would ever be. Her mother thought that they should all encourage him, so as his sister she had little choice but to hang old Phelan in the parlour. She hoped that one day the twine keeping him up would break and he would crash to the floor in smithereens!

Viewing the parlour as she had so many times in the past, she decided that it could not be made to look well with its low ceiling and the uneven walls. Old houses were impossible, all shadows and corners. She remembered, shortly after coming to live in Mossgrove, looking at this room and all the old Phelan photographs. They had eyed her from every wall, but she had soon relegated them to the cupboard on the upstairs landing.

This was the room where all the big events in the life of Mossgrove were celebrated. Special meals were partaken of in here for christenings, holy communions and confirmations. It was here Nellie Phelan had spent her later years when it was no longer feasible that they share the one kitchen. Here too she had been laid out when she died, and it was back to this room they had brought Ned’s body after the accident.

She recalled the first family get-together after his death. She had brought them all in here for a special tea and to tell them that their beloved Mossgrove was safe because she had changed her mind about the sale. If the walls of this old parlour could talk, they would tell the story of Mossgrove and of the generations that had lived and died here.

Returning to the kitchen, she looked out the back window and saw Peter and Jack in deep conversation across the yard. Jack had a serious look on his weather-beaten
face as he listened intently to Peter, who was sitting on the grass under the hedge with Bran wedged between his knees. Jack had been edging the blades of the mowing machine, but that operation was suspended while he gave Peter his undivided attention.

After Ned’s death he had become Peter’s father figure, and Martha knew that he was a listening ear for all Peter’s problems. She could guess the topic now under discussion. Peter would be frothing at the mouth with temper and Jack trying to calm things down. But whatever they cooked up between them, they were not going to pour her money into this bloody land. She had other plans for that money.

J
ACK
SAT
UNDER
a tree in the corner of the haggard. He had been able to feel the hot sun penetrating through his tweed cap and overheating his bald head, and the deep shadow beneath the tree had looked cool and inviting. Bran had already decided that it was the place to be on this hot day.
Wasn’t it great to have a day so good that dog and man had to be looking for shelter!
He scrope the legs of the cow stool along the ground to make sure that the three legs were on level surface and then put his bag of hay on top.
Always better to take the levels before trusting yourself on a cow stool; never do to finish up with your legs in the air. Now to get down to business.

He lined up the mowing machine blades against the wall beside him, placing the edging stone and a rusty gallon of water at his toes. Then he settled himself comfortably on the bag of hay.
It’s good
, he reflected,
to get yourself properly organised before you begin anything.
He had been trying to drum that into Davy Shine’s head for years, but so far it had failed him. Peter, now, was a different man altogether: sharp as a needle, that young fellow, and Davy and himself such good friends. Davy had come here eight years ago when he was twenty and Peter was twelve, and there was no doubt but that he had helped Peter get over the loss of Ned. Davy had lost his own father when he was young, so he understood what Peter was going through. As well as that, Davy had worked in Mossgrove when he was a young fellow going to school, so there was little he did not know about the place. He understood the situation between Martha and Peter very well and of course was totally on Peter’s side. Peter could do no wrong in his eyes.
So it is
up to me to keep the balance,
Jack thought.
Strange to be in Martha’s corner, but if someone does not try to calm things down around the place, they’ll have holy murder!

He remembered once hearing Kate say that if they did not handle Peter properly there could be trouble because he had a lot of Martha and his grandfather, Billy, in him, a volcanic combination. Funny how Martha could only see his grandfather in him and nothing of herself.
There is no doubt about it
, Jack thought,
but we only see what we want to see.
But Peter, like a thoroughbred, would have to get his head or he’d kick the sides out of the stable. Strange that Martha could not see that. If she would only give him a bit of rein, he had the makings of a great farmer. He had tried to tell Martha that, but she was convinced that he had a blind spot where any Phelan was concerned.

Jack was not denying but that he had a great respect for them, which he had first gained from Edward Phelan who had been the head of the household when he had come here as a lad of fifteen, all of fifty-eight years ago. The old man had been mighty but as hard as nails in some ways. His son, Billy, was never designed for farming and Mossgrove nearly slipped from their fingers when he was in charge. But Billy’s wife, Nellie, was great, and even though there were times when he thought that it would kill her, she kept the place going. She primed Ned for the job and he put Mossgrove back on its feet. God, he was a mighty loss! When Ned died Jack had thought that they were finished, but Martha rose to the occasion and kept the show on the road. She was no easy woman to work for because given half a chance she would walk all over you. The secret was to avoid confrontation. Peter, however, had no notion of doing that and constantly locked horns with her. He remembered old Edward
Phelan once saying, “Sometimes it takes your own to level you”. Maybe his words were coming true now.

Jack dipped the edging stone into the gallon of water and worked it along the blade. It gave him immense satisfaction to see the brown froth gather and the steel turn from a dull wedge to a silver edge. He worked his way along the blade, leaving behind him a pointed row of shining steel.
This is a grand job,
he thought,
for a fine day.
He loved the haggard of Mossgrove. It did his heart good to look around at the fine stone buildings that he had helped to build and the solid timber doors that the old man and himself had hung years ago. Everything that the old man had done had to be perfect.

The bang of the back door crashed him back to reality.
Good God,
he thought,
is Peter trying to bring the bloody door with him or knock down the back wall
? His sight was not what it used to be, but he could still read the danger signals across the yard. The scratching hens squawked in protest and ran for cover as Peter kicked a path through them. Bran, who had been stretched out in the shade, anticipated trouble and gathered himself to slip behind Jack.
Sound dog, Bran
, Jack thought. Peter was fond of him, but Bran was taking no chances.

Peter kicked a big stone across the yard and it bounced off the wall beside Jack, bringing a shower of loose stones cascading down.

“Easy, lad,” Jack soothed, “or you’ll kill someone.”

“I know who I’d like to kill,” Peter breathed through clenched teeth as he threw himself on the grass beside Jack: “that jade of a woman inside.”

“That wouldn’t solve much,” Jack said easily.

Peter threw his eyes to heaven and slapped his hands together.

“Sometimes, Jack, you drive me bloody mad, you’re so
goddamn reasonable,” he complained.

“It takes years.” Jack smiled, waiting for Peter to wind down. Peter lost the head easily but usually cooled down quickly enough.

Bran rested his snout on his paws under the cow stool and looked out enquiringly at Peter where he lay on the grass. After a few minutes, when Peter sat up and started to chew a sop, Bran judged it safe enough to emerge from behind Jack. He slunk over to Peter with his tail between his legs and started to nuzzle into his hand.

“What are you so apologetic about?” Peter demanded, cupping Bran’s head in his hands and looking down into his eyes. “You did nothing out of the way.”

“He’s apologising for the world,” Jack told him. “Dogs are the greatest comforters of all.”

“It would take more than Bran to bring me right after that episode,” Peter told him.

“What was it this time?” Jack asked.

“You know, Jack,” Peter began in frustration, “that I have it in my head to get a tractor and milking machine in here to cut down the work and waste of time, and for God’s sake, Jack, it’s 1960, not the middle ages! Well, when I told herself inside about it she nearly lost her head over it.”

“Ah, Peter, don’t tell me now that you came out about the two things at the same time?” Jack protested.

“Yerra, for God’s sake, Jack, where was the point in beating about the bush? We need the two of them and that’s it, isn’t it?” Peter demanded.

“And you finished up with neither.”

“I’m not beaten yet.”

“Listen to me now, my lad,” Jack instructed. “Going in there demanding what you did off your mother in one go would be a bit like Fr Brady telling you when he is lining
you up to take a penalty that he wanted you to score two goals instead of one. You couldn’t do it and neither could she.”

“Jack, that’s the strangest comparison I ever heard,” Peter told him, but a smile started to spread across his face.

“Do you think that my mother has the makings of a full forward?”

“God help the backs,” Jack smiled.

“She’d never stick to the rules.” Peter grinned, amused at the whole concept. “She’d kick a fellow on the ground and abuse the referee and lead her team off the field.”

“But she’d never score an own goal,” Jack declared.

“That’s for sure,” Peter agreed. “She’d have it all figured out in advance. She is what Fr Brady calls a strategist.”

“Now you have it, lad,” Jack told him, “and you must play her game and dodge ahead of her with the ball, not try to blow it through her, because she’ll block you down every time.”

“Jack, you’re a wily old devil.”

“I’ve survived here for over fifty years,” Jack smiled. “I’d never have done that if I was a ‘Johnny Head in Air’.”

“Dad used to recite that poem.”

“Maybe he was telling you something.”

“Maybe,” Peter agreed, “and now that I come to think about it, you are a lot like Dad or he like you. I’m not sure what way around that should be.”

“Either way will do,” Jack told him. “I suppose in many ways I had a lot to do with the rearing of your father.”

“And me too.”

“And yet you’re very different.”

“Do you think so, Jack?” Peter asked in a troubled voice, and Jack realised that he was treading on sensitive ground.

Herself inside must have done the devil about the Phelans
, he
thought.

“Well, yes and no,” Jack told him. “You have his clear thinking and you’ll make a great farmer just like he was, but you don’t have his patience. But then he did not get that from old Edward Phelan. A mighty man but would walk over you if you came in his way.”

“He’s the one who had the tangle with the Conways, wasn’t he?” Peter asked.

“He was indeed,” Jack agreed

“Tell me about that again,” Peter asked thoughtfully.

“Dad told me a long time ago, but I’m not so sure I understood it at the time.”

“I’ll give it to you short and precise now, lad,” Jack said.

“Your great-grandfather, Edward Phelan, and Rory Conway across the river grew up together and were great friends. Conway got into financial difficulties and your great-grandfather secured him in the bank for a loan.

When Conway got out of the financial hole, instead of paying back the loan he bought land at the other side of the hill with the money. Edward Phelan was left holding the baby, but not for long. He went and measured the piece of land that Conway had bought and then fenced off the exact same amount of Conway land along his own boundary by the river and took possession. There was a court case and your great-grandfather won and got those two fields, but they have caused trouble ever since.”

“But wasn’t it strange that those two fields ever belonged to the Conways in the first place, because they are at our side of the river? It would make more sense if they were our land because the river is usually the boundary.”

“That was probably the case away back, because my father always said that the Conways moonlighted those fields off the Phelans when that kind of thing was going on.”

“In ancient times,” Peter said.

“But not forgotten.”

“The young crowd don’t want to remember any of that kind of thing.”

“Not always wise,” Jack advised, “because if you know the seed and breed of a crowd, you’ll have a fair idea what to expect from them.”

“Do you really think so, Jack?”

“Well, I wouldn’t take it to extremes now,” Jack cautioned, “and there are exceptions to every rule, but usually you don’t get apples off a crab tree.”

“If it was properly pruned, Jack, you might,” Peter laughed.

Just then they heard the sound of hooves and the pony and cart came into the yard with Davy Shine sitting on the setlock. His smiling round face under a pudding-bowl haircut was aglow with good health. When he saw Peter and Jack sitting in the corner, he shouted across at them, “Ye two lazy bums dossing in the shade and me and poor Paddy here dead from work.” He guided the pony over close to them and whipping off his cap he aimed it at Peter. Peter ducked and the cap hit Jack, who shot it back at Davy, getting him on the side of the head.

“Bad job,” Jack laughed at him, “when an old fella like me has a better aim than a young lad like you. You can’t be much good on the football field.”

“We’ll give you a place on the Kilmeen team,” Davy teased.

“Is there training tonight?” Peter asked.

“There is, so get up off your bum, young fellow, and help me get these churns out of the cart so that we’ll get finished early this evening. This is no time for lazy lumps sitting in the sun,” Davy said as he pulled the reins and
guided the pony over to the milk stand, scattering hens before him.

“That’s no way to talk to your elders and betters,” Jack called after him.

“I’d agree about the elders whatever about betters,” Davy shouted back. “Are you going mowing after dinner, Jack?”

“Why do you think I’m edging the blades — to go shaving?” Jack asked him.

Peter laughed and jumping to his feet he ran across the yard to help Davy, his bad humour forgotten. Jack watched them unload the churns out of the cart: Peter tall and blond, Davy dark and blockier. Peter played full forward on the Kilmeen team and Davy full back, and Jack thought that the two positions suited their personalities. They were good lads and he was fond of the two of them, but it was Nora who was the light of his life.
As I get older,
he thought,
it is good to have the young around me. They keep the life in me.

After the dinner Davy rounded up the two horses while Jack oiled the mowing machine from the long nozzled can. As he replaced the can, he checked that he had all the wrenches he might need in the box of the machine. Never do to have a breakdown with no tools to get going again. As he straightened up he heard the clattering of horses hooves and Davy led James and Jerry, dancing with energy, into the haggard.

“It’s easy to know that it’s the first day’s mowing,” Davy declared as they tackled them to the mowing machine.

“These two are ready for action.”

Jack clambered into the iron seat, secured his bag of hay beneath him and then guided the horses towards the gate. The wheels made a noisy journey out of the haggard with the blade section standing upright beside him.

“By God, Jack,” Davy told him, standing back in admiration, “you’re like a fellow driving a chariot. Ben Hur isn’t in it with you.”

“Out of my way now, lad, or I might mow you down.”

“Don’t get carried away,” Davy laughed. “I might come in handy again. The gates are open down along and I’ll be down after you.”

Once he got on to the soft sod of the Moss field the journey was smoother. Jack loved the feeling of heading off down the fields to start the first mowing of the season. The furze bushes were a blaze of yellow over in Conways’ and the whitethorn was pouring off the ditches into the dykes beside him. He had lost track of the number of years that he had come down these fields at the beginning of summer to begin the mowing, and always it lifted his spirits.
God’s in his heaven,
he thought,
and all is right with my world.
He turned into the big meadow along by the river and raised the lever to let down the long blade.
Now, Jack my man,
he thought,
this will test your edging.
The blade cut through the hay like a hot knife through butter.
You have not lost your touch, old man
, he told himself.