Cast A Cold Eye, page 11
“Ye’ll like it, girl,” Willy Egan told her. “Ye have my word on it. God knows, ye should have it all the time, and not only for a special occasion. I’ll treat ye right, ye’ll see.”
He patted her nose for a minute and she nuzzled at his shoulder, her breath puffing faint white from her wide nostrils.
“I wish it wasn’t so, girl,” he whispered, “but this is the way of it. Now, here, let me be started.”
He settled the collar of his suit jacket more snugly across his chest, then drew a wire brush from the pocket of his jacket and started to scrub her down with the water. The animal nickered in her throat a few times and shifted her feet. Then she settled down to the comforting touch of his hand on her flank and the sound of his voice as he sang her a tune from his childhood.
Jack had watched Grainne with a combination of pride and fascination as she took militant charge of the food shopping. First, she had made a quick survey of the few shops that Doolin offered, comparing their wares and prices, and assembling the meal in her mind from the best things she saw for sale.
“You’d best like fish,” she told him over her shoulder, when she’d decided on a particular shop and headed back there with Jack following in her wake.
“I love fish,” Jack answered dutifully.
“You will when I’m done with you,” Grainne had said, smiling, as they went into the shop.
She’d gone through the place systematically, knowing just what she was looking for, and casually refused the first piece of fish offered her by the shopkeeper. “I’ll have that one,” she said, pointing to where the one she wanted lay glassy-eyed on a thin bed of ice. When she was done and it came time to pay, she pulled money from the pocket of her jeans and started counting it out. Jack already had a twenty-pound note in his hand, but Grainne gave him a look that clearly warned him not to protest and make a scene in the shop. Outside, as they carried the parcels to the car, he insisted on paying for the food and Grainne stoutly refused. “It’s my treat,” she said. “I pay my way. You bought the meal last night and I’ll buy this.” And she’d listen to not a word more on the subject.
“All right,” Jack said at last, as they finished stowing the food on the back seat of the Escort. “I’ll agree, as long as you’re the one who handles that dead fish back there. It’s a little out of my line.”
“All you have to do is eat it,” she told him.
At home, she at once took charge of the kitchen. Jack kept trying to help, reminding her that she was a guest and he hadn’t expected her to be doing the cooking, and finally she shooed him away.
“Have you no work to be doing?” she said. “I heard nothing of any work you did yesterday, before I came, and you’ve done nothing at all today.”
“I’m allowed to take the weekend off,” he protested.
“That’s as may be,” she said firmly, “but I’ll not be responsible for keeping you from your work. You can write for two hours or more before the meal is ready, and still have time for tea in an hour or so.”
“Okay, okay!” Jack said, backing out of the kitchen in mock surrender.
“Go on with you,” Grainne said. She was smiling, and that same easy, mutual understanding that had touched them before was there in the room again.
An hour later, she appeared in the doorway of his office.
“I’ll have tea for you in a few minutes,” she said. “Can I come in?”
“Of course,” Jack said, glancing over his shoulder. “Just give me a minute to finish what I’m doing.”
He was sitting before the computer with a page of print on the screen. He looked at it for a few seconds, then typed another couple of sentences. Each time he completed a line of type, the print moved one line up on the screen. Jack changed three words in what he’d just written, thought about it, changed one more word, studied the screen again, then sat back in his chair.
“Can I see it?” Grainne asked. She’d been sitting on the arm of an easy chair in the corner near the door. Now she rose and came and stood beside him. “I’ve never seen a word processor up close.”
“No!” Jack said instantly, and turned his body so that he was between her and the screen.
Grainne, startled, took a step backward.
Jack touched a few keys on the keyboard and the screen cleared, then displayed a directory. He touched two more keys and the screen went blank. A moment later, a red light before him went off. He flipped the latch on the disk-drive door, removed the disk he’d been using, and slipped it into a protective sleeve. The fans in the computer went on humming.
Grainne watched him in silence.
“I’m sorry,” Jack said. “I didn’t mean to jump like that. I’m just not . . . used to having anyone around while I’m writing. I’ll let you read it when I’m done, I promise.”
“All right,” Grainne said a little doubtfully. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I’m just curious, that’s all, about the computer and about what you’re writing, too.” She tried a little smile on him. “I’m one of your greatest fans, you know. I buy all your books. Why, you’re probably getting rich on me alone.”
“Well, that won’t be so any more, because you’ll be getting them all for free from now on. Anybody who’s willing to handle a dead fish like that deserves something in return.”
“Don’t be disgusting,” Grainne said. “That’s your own meal you’re talking about. You should be glad there’s food on the table.”
He smiled too, and they silently agreed to close off the tiny awkward episode.
Grainne sent him out to the living room while she fixed the tea. He smiled when he smelled fresh-baked scones again, but his smile faded instantly when he realized that he’d been so lost in what he was writing that he hadn’t smelled them before. What he’d been writing had nothing at all to do with scones and hearty meals.
He went to the radio and tried the few stations it received, but both the Irish and British stations were broadcasting little more than American country and western music. He settled for something soft and innocuous from the BBC.
When Grainne came in carrying a tray with the tea things, she found him standing at the windows, looking out at the dark clouds that were just now starting to fly inland past the shore. Out over the water, the sky had darkened. A thick bank of fog was heading toward the coast.
“There’ll be rain tonight,” she said as she set the tray on an end table by the couch.
Jack came and joined her and Grainne poured the tea.
“This is nice, having tea like this,” Jack said after a moment. He turned to look at her. “It feels . . . very homey now that you’re here.”
“I’m glad of that. And I’m glad I came.”
“Put down your tea.”
“What?”
“Put down your tea.”
There was a smile playing at the corners of his lips now. Grainne put her cup on the tray.
Jack put his arm around her shoulders and drew her close. Grainne slid sideways on the couch and came into his arms as if she’d been waiting weeks for his touch. Their lips came together in sudden longing, hungry for the taste and feel of each other, eager to explore. His tongue touched hers and hers quivered in return, questing against the tender inside of his lips. His right hand went to the back of her neck, tangled in her hair, and pulled her closer still. Her fingers curled tightly at his shoulder and back.
Then they drew apart, each breathing heavily, each still holding the other. Grainne curled in close against him, her face on his shoulder, and kissed him on the line of his jaw. Jack brushed the hair back from her face and kissed the top of her head.
“You smell like scones,” he whispered into her hair.
“Hmmm,” Grainne murmured.
After a moment, still without moving, she added, “I thought you’d never take me in your arms, Jack Quinlan.”
“I thought Irish Catholic girls didn’t fool around.”
“Ah, that’s where you’re mistaken,” she said comfortably, snuggling closer still, her arms around him tight. “It’s only that we don’t talk about it so much as some others.”
He stroked the side of her face tenderly with his hand, stroked her temple with his thumb, felt her silken skin.
“You’re beautiful,” he said softly, “did I tell you that?”
“You did, I think,” she said, “somewhere along the line, but don’t let that stop you from telling me again.”
“You’re beautiful.”
“Hmmm. And you.”
He kissed her forehead and she turned her face up to him. Their lips met again, more slowly this time. He cupped her face gently in his hand and kissed her chin, her cheeks, her nose, her eyes. When she settled back against his shoulder, he lowered his hand and placed it on her breast, sighing at the touch of its wonderful softness, its firm weight against his fingers. Grainne moved her hand and placed it over his, pressing it tightly against her.
There was a knock at the door.
“Oh, Jesus!” Grainne cried and jumped away from him.
“Oh, God, what perfect timing!” Jack groaned. “I’ve been alone here since the day I moved in and somebody has to pick now to come visiting!”
“I’m sorry I jumped like that,” Grainne said breathlessly. She pressed one hand over her heart.
Jack strode across to the door and opened it with a harsh, “Yes?”
“God save all here,” said Father Malcolm Henning.
Jack saw the priest’s eyes at once pass beyond him to the sight of Grainne sitting on the edge of the couch, but the old man’s gaze immediately came back to Jack. “Good day to you,” he added to his greeting.
“Hello, Father,” Jack said. Behind the priest, standing on the gravel at the foot of the three steps up to the door, Jack could see a gray-haired older woman who clutched a dark blue winter coat around her thin frame and seemed to be looking anxiously at him. Beside her stood another, much bigger, woman who was peering at him and into the house with open curiosity. And, behind the two of them, stood a big man in heavy boots, coarse woolen pants, a badly worn and faded plaid wool jacket, and a peaked cap pulled low on his forehead.
The priest was still looking at Jack, his eyebrows slightly raised.
“Yes, well, uh . . . Won’t you come in?” Jack said. He held the door open and stepped aside. As he did so, Grainne rose from the couch and came to stand beside him.
Jack quickly introduced her to the priest, and Father Henning introduced Peggy Mullen, Deirdre Corcoran, and Peggy’s son Michael. They all bobbed their heads politely and shook hands. Father Henning and the women, Jack thought, were very busy looking not surprised at Grainne’s presence in the house and her obvious right of place, standing there beside him at the door. Only the big fellow, Michael, frowned a bit, his face darkening, but then he remembered to doff his cap along with the frown.
“Please,” Grainne said with a charming smile, “won’t you come in and sit? Here, Father, let me take your things. Come in and sit, all of you. We’re just at tea. It’ll only take a minute to put on more.”
While Jack was helping the women off with their coats and Michael was hanging his own on a peg he’d searched out and spotted near the door, Grainne was already leading the priest to the sofa and pressing him to take a freshly buttered scone.
While they were settling themselves on the sofa and chairs, Grainne found a moment when the others were all looking elsewhere to flap her hands at Jack, indicating he should make talk while she went to the kitchen for more tea.
As soon as they were seated, Father Henning told Jack he’d brought Mrs. Mullen to introduce her in the hopes of coming to an arrangement about keeping his house. Deirdre, he said, kept his own little place and had been good enough to drive them over in her car, and Michael was coming in this direction anyway. Jack had already decided he didn’t like the sullen look of Michael and that the man hadn’t been coming this way at all, but the two women seemed pleasant enough. He resented the crowd a little, since it was now neither suitable nor possible to interview Peggy Mullen, but there was no reason to doubt the priest’s recommendation. Jack explained what he needed, and at his request, Father Henning suggested a wage. He thought Mrs. Mullen looked a bit startled at the amount the priest named, but Jack thought it was quite reasonable. By the time Grainne returned with a new tray and enough cups from the kitchen, it was agreed that Peggy Mullen would start on Monday and everything was settled satisfactorily.
After that, the conversation was very general, although Jack found that Father Henning was just as adept today at drawing information out of him as he’d been the other time they’d met. Grainne easily took a leading part in the conversation, asking questions about Doolin, about the most scenic views in the area, and where were the best meat and fish to be had. Michael Mullen drank down his tea, then joined his big hands together, and confined his conversation to appropriate nods. No one asked about or even hinted that they’d like to know Grainne’s relation to Jack or what she was doing there or how long she’d be staying. It was all very pleasant. The visitors finished their tea without hurrying, stayed a polite few minutes afterward, then took their leave.
Jack and Grainne, by mutual consent, waited until they heard the car drive away before they spoke. They were both grinning.
“Well, the tongues’ll be wagging this night in the village of Doolin, I can promise you that,” Grainne said.
“I don’t doubt it. Your coming here is probably the most exciting thing to happen in Doolin all winter.”
“It may be. Well, I hope you’re as impressed as you should be.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ah, Jack, you have a lot to learn about the ways of the Irish. When the priest of the village sees fit to set his foot inside your door, and just at teatime to boot, it can mean but one of three things. First, it could mean that you’re terribly important and of a class with the priest himself. Second, it could mean that you’ve done something perfectly awful and he’s come to save your soul, or at least to put things right on his own. And the third reason for a priest’s visit to the house is that you’ve passed on to your eternal reward and he’s come to pay his respects.”
“Well, I don’t think I’m dead, not yet anyway. Which of the other two do you think it is?”
“There’s no telling,” she said with a hint of a sly smile. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”
They had another cup of tea together, but the visit of the priest and the others had taken up time and now Grainne had to get back to the kitchen and fix the meal. They had earlier agreed to visit the pubs after eating and sample the music.
Jack went back to his office to work until the meal was ready. He inserted the disk in the computer and got the last page he’d been writing on the screen. He read it through twice, then sat there for the rest of the time, staring at it. When Grainne came to announce that dinner was ready, she stood in the doorway and didn’t enter the room.
Deirdre Corcoran remained in the car, but Father Henning got out with the others in front of the Mullen farmhouse. They had all been silent on the drive back.
“Well, it’s done, then,” the priest said. “And good luck to you, Peg.”
“Thank you, Father, for your time and trouble,” she said. “I’m sure we’ll all be grateful to have a little extra coming in. And it’ll be taking my own mind off my troubles and the loss of himself, God rest his soul.”
“I’ll be off, then,” Father Henning said. “I’m just glad it’s all settled.” He looked at Michael Mullen and the two men exchanged a stony look, which was not lost on the woman.
“Goodbye, then, Father,” she said. “We’ll see you at church in the morning.”
“Father,” said Michael Mullen quietly, and touched the peak of his cap.
“God bless you both,” said the priest.
“She’s a nice girl, that Grainne,” said Deirdre Corcoran when he got back in the car and they’d driven away in the direction of the priest’s house. “Will the two of them be living here permanent-like, do you suppose?”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know about such a thing,” said the priest, and his tone cut off any further comments.
Willy Egan came into Nolan’s, got a pint of Guinness from Liam at the bar, wrapped his big farmer’s hand around the glass, and carried it toward the back of the pub, nodding to acquaintances on the way.
John MacMahon and Brian Flynn were in their accustomed place in the murky rearmost corner, and the others, James Brennan and Martin Gilhooley, were with them too. Willy Egan pulled over a low backless stool and set it before the small table, beside Brennan and Gilhooley and facing MacMahon and Flynn who had the bench against the wall. He took a slow drink from the pint, licked the foam from his upper lip, and set the glass before him on the table.
“Good evening to ye,” he murmured, his glance including all four men.
“And to you,” said John MacMahon. He lifted his own pint in a manner that appeared in no way special, but the others all lifted their own pints at the same time, as if at a signal, and all drank together in salute.
They sat in common silence for a while, lost in Celtic contemplation, and there was always one or another of them lifting a pint to his lips.
Around them, Nolan’s gradually grew busier, more crowded, as the local people filtered in. The benches along the walls filled up first, and then the stools facing them across the low tables. There was some changing of seats, and the murmur of low greetings, and movement to the bar with foam-streaked glasses and returns with freshly-filled pints.
And after another while, the music started. A farmer from over Ennistymon way, a little man who seemed swallowed by the size of his coat and whose cheeks were as hard and red as berries, pulled a tin whistle from his pocket and played first a lively reel to get attention and draw a smile, then settled into the sad old songs of his youth.
While the farmer was in his third number, a thickly-bearded young fellow who’d been sitting alone in the middle of the room lifted his fiddle case from the floor and carried it to the back of the pub, where he found a place on a bench not far from Brian Flynn. He took out the fiddle and, with it held up close to his ear and his head bent over it, plucked softly at the strings until they were properly tuned. Then he returned to the front area of the pub, seated himself facing the old man with the tin whistle, and waited until that number was finished. Liam Nolan took his bodhran from beneath the bar and loosened his wrist with a fast run of the beater against the tight goatskin. Old Seamus Curtin had meanwhile been putting his pipes together and getting himself settled as well.
