I realise that this is quite long; if you can suffer reading it all, I'd be very grateful if you could leave a comment as to how it could be improved or changed. Thanking you...
Unlike the others, David had forgotten about the Tractor Run that Sunday. It wasn’t until his mother had asked him if was he ready to leave that it occurred to him that today was the day. His younger brothers had already left with his father, she said, and they would need to hit the road soon if they were to be in the small village of Kildysart, where the Run was to briefly stop on its way from Coolmeen, before them. David didn’t have much choice here. The Run was for his cousin after all.
“What’ll I wear?” he asked his mother.
“What does it matter what you wear? ‘Tisn’t that they’ll be looking at your clothes above on the tractors.”
David took out an old pair of jeans and a worn out grey hoodie. It didn’t matter. It was only the locals.
“Come on, let you,” he heard his mother say, “We’re late enough as it is, and I’ve to collect the money from the church as well.”
He picked up an album from his cupboard before he left. It was the new one he had picked up before he finished college for the summer holidays. Buying CDs had a novelty about it now. He’d get a chance to listen to it while they were looking at the tractors. He thought to bring his book, but that might be taking it too far. Dostoyevsky would hardly be appreciated in the thick of the machinery. He ran out to the door where his mother stood, waiting to lock the door.
He went into the car and put in the CD. Not too loud: he couldn’t be too peremptory. They lived near the church, which stood on a hill, and could be seen clearly from their house. David looked from the car at the car park, emptier than usual because of the day that was in it. He supposed there had been a big crowd last night at mass. They had gone to a different mass: a month’s mind for a relation of a friend of his mother’s who had killed himself. The poor bugger was in fifties, a nice wife, few kids, successful business; but then again you never know what’s going on in a person’s head. Anyway, David wasn’t too worried to have missed mass at home. He avoided the rattle of the others that way, going on about the Run today. Whose tractors they’d be driving, and all that shite. And why aren’t you driving yourself, and it for your cousin, they’d say. No it was a lucky thing to have had the mass away last night, and today he’d be able to stay in the car and pretend nothing. Smile away for the few hours, and that’d be that.
“I hope we won’t be late for the money,” said his mother, entering the car. “They’re leaving over, are they?”
“Ah, not yet, I don’t think,” said David, peering his head. “They’re just coming out now, it seems.”
They drove over to the church and pulled up outside the sacristy door. David lowered the volume slightly. His parents had been given the job this year of managing the finances for this side of the parish. It meant collecting, counting, and lodging the money every week. It sickened David, but he said nothing. Every week he would sit down with his father and count the euros as they fell out of the little envelopes. The reason for each week’s collection was written on the envelopes. Most weeks it was for the Parish Fund, but sometimes you would get the Catholic Education Fund or something like that. “The Indoctrination Fund,” he said to his father one week. His father said nothing. They would write down the amount given on every envelope beside the little number for each household. These would then be given to the priest who would write up the amount donated from every family for that week. It was so you could claim back taxes on charity donations, or something. His mother arrived back into the car with the loaded down bag from the two days of masses.
“Jesus, it’s twenty-five to twelve. They’re leaving Coolmeen at twelve, you know. Or is it half twelve? You can never be sure with these things.”
“Ah, you know now it’ll probably be later than they say anyway,” said David, turning the volume back up a bit. “They’re good, aren’t they?” he said, pointing towards the CD player. “New Irish band from Waterford, I think. They’re supposed to be at Electric Picnic this year. Always nice to be discovering new bands, you know.”
“Yeah,” said his mother.
They travelled for a while with noise only from the CD player. The roads were quiet for a few miles until about halfway towards Coolmeen, where they met a small, blue vintage tractor on its way over to the Run.
“Who’s that now?” said his mother.
David didn’t answer. How would he know? His mother overtook him, slowly. David didn’t recognise the face.
“Ah, it’s Gerry Casey,” said his mother. “Well now, I didn’t know he had a vintage tractor. Sure, isn’t he right good now to support it?”
“I’m sure he’d be going in any case, regardless of Jack,” said David. “Those people are only looking for a day out.”
“Ah, yes, I know, but still, it’s nice to see people making an effort. You see, they need to do more things like this. It’s all well and good asking people for donations, but when you give them something back in return for their money it makes all the difference. I hope the crowd will be good now. There’s a few of your friends going, isn’t there?”
“Yeah, there’s a few all right. John, Gerry, and two of the Fitzpatricks, I think.”
“That’s great.”
“‘Tis, I suppose.”
It was a pleasant enough day, a bit windy, but the rain had held off which was the main thing. The men in the vintage tractors without cabs would be especially hoping for a dry day. It didn’t so much matter for the others, but a nice day always encouraged a few more to sit outside and enjoy a pint when they’d stop in Kildysart. That was the most important part of the day, much more important than Jack was, David knew that much.
“Did you get much read yesterday?” his mother asked. “That’s a frightfully big book I see you with.”
“Ah, a bit here and there.” He had read about ten or twelve pages and given up. He wasn’t in form for heavy reading yesterday.
“And what about the writing? Are you getting any of that done?”
“Small bits, yeah.” He hadn’t written anything worthwhile since he left college for the summer. Just a few lines that were quickly thrown away.
“That’s good, no harm to keep up the practice. Have to keep pushing yourself, I suppose.” David nodded.
They fell silent again for another while before his mother shouted out:
“Oh, look! Up there, up past the hill there.”
David’s mother was pointing towards a long line of tractors slowly making their way into Coolmeen. There must have been at least ten in the line, and by the looks of things the car-park outside the pub was already full. In the line were tractors coloured green, red, orange, blue and everything in between. David stopped himself from being unduly ignorant; he did know the names, at least of some of them. New Hollands were blue, Massey Fergusons were red (his father had one of them), and the green ones were probably John Deeres. So he did know something. No point apotheosising his lack of knowledge – there was enough of people in the world to do that.
“Well, that’s a brilliant crowd by the looks of things. Did I tell you the O’Briens have sent over four tractors to it? That’s eighty euro given by just one family. People can be great, there’s no doubt.”
“It’s great all right,” said David. They were approaching the end of the line into Coolmeen, and could make out a few people in the cabs. “No sign of Dad and the lads?” he said.
“No, I can’t make them out. They could be gone down to the G.A.A. pitch; I think that was the plan if it got overcrowded here. And it certainly has, it seems. Look, there’s not a space outside the pub.”
All around the front of the pub there were people jumping out of tractors, all smiling, laughing, clapping each other on the back, nodding their heads towards the tractors. David saw a few familiar faces, though many of them he couldn’t make out. Most striking was the age of them: most were his age or younger. Although there were plenty of adults and old folk, it seemed that this was a day for the young farmers to show off their driving capabilities more than anything else.
His mother turned to David, a look of concern in her face, and said in a low voice, “Do you want to go out with them?”
“What?”
“Do you want to get out, and go with one of them?”
“But sure Dad has the lads; he wouldn’t have space.”
“You don’t have to go with Dad. Look over there, isn’t John there. He’d only love a bit of company. Go on, it’ll be good for you.”
“Ah, no, what would I want going for?”
“What do you mean? You’ve no need being ashamed of where you come from. It’ll look worse you not going.”
“No, stop now, I’m grand where I am.”
“Ah, David, for God’s sake, what is stopping you? Wouldn’t it be a great experience for you? Wouldn’t it be something to write a short story about? You need to go out and experience the world, David.”
“Stop it now! I don’t want to; I’d feel awful awkward and stupid. And will you stop with your ‘it’ll be something to write about’. Not everything deserves to be written about. What’s wrong with me staying here as we’d planned?”
“I’m just trying to get you socialising is all. And why would you feel awkward? Haven’t you as much right as any of the rest of them to be up there? And it for Jack, as well. You’ve more a right, in fact . . . Well?”
David looked around at all the tractors monstering over him, their lights glowing like nefarious eyes in the dark at him. He couldn’t get out now like some child and ask could I please, sir, go on your tractor. Why was this so much a problem to both of them?
“Well, come on, are you? We’ll be gone now. Come on.”
“No. No, I’m not. Keep going.”
“Ara, all right so,” his mother pushed the accelerator, and the car lurched forward. “I’m only trying to get you out and about with your friends.”
David said nothing. They weren’t supposed to be his kind of friends. His friends should be the ones in College who wrote stories in their spare time, read volumes of books, and listened to good music by bands he had never heard of. But that, too, was a lie. Like a seed has no choice where it is sown, here he was planted, and here he must grow. There was no point pining for other more nourishing soil when roots had already taken hold, for good and glory and otherwise. This was his home, and no amount of idle theorising would change that.
They sat in a silence which lasted a long time. His mother got a phone call from his grandmother asking if they were calling to collect her first. They were. At least it would be someone to talk to. His grandmother was a jovial character. She had an irresistible lust for life and a constant desire to make game whenever possible. His grandfather was quieter, but had a similarly positive attitude to life. He was part of the G.A.A. in his own parish since he was a teenager and was known by someone almost everywhere he went, be it Dublin, Cork or Donegal. David was said to take after the other side of the family. He didn’t argue with that.
Things had changed in the last year following Jack’s accident, however. His grandmother, while still bubbly, would sigh every so often, and look at the ground. His grandfather said very little, and couldn’t bring himself to go to G.A.A. matches anymore. It was tough to accept for his mother and her siblings: that two healthy elders should be brought down by the ill-health of one so young. But such are the complexities of blood.
They approached the old cottage where his grandparents lived. It was a well kept little house, supposedly over two hundred and fifty years old. The garden outside was neat, with a huge apple tree looming over the back of the house. The ground outside had rough gravel strewn across it. Sheds, bigger than the house itself, kept cattle and cows right beside the house. On the hill behind the house sheep grazed the terraces of harsh land covered with reeds. The inside of the house, while having all the modern equipment one could hope for in a home, still retained that archaic feel to it. David loved it; it was like stepping back in time once you crossed that threshold.
Standing at the door was his grandmother. She had a ragged, old, white tea towel in her shaking hand which she waved at them. Her smile lit up her wrinkled face as it shook. She looked unfamiliar wearing a nice purple coat and other ‘good’ clothes. She would be the best dressed lady at the Tractor Run. She was also muttering something.
David got out of the car. “What are you say . . . Oh!”
“ . . . Mother of God, Pray for us sinners, Now and at the hour of our death. Amen,” she beckoned at David to come in. As usual, she opened her arms, wrapped them around his back, and planted a wet kiss on his cheek. “How are you?” she whispered into his ear. Inside, his grandfather was seated on the couch with his rosary beads in his hands, ripping through the Fifth Glorious Mystery - Mary’s Coronation. He saluted David mid-prayer.
“Bridget . . .” his grandmother saluted David’s mother. “Sit down inside, we’re nearly finished. We said we’d get it out of the way early in the day.”
“That’s fine, take your time,” said his mother.
David sat down beside his grandfather on the couch. His grandfather held his dead brother’s wooden rosary beads in his hands, almost stretching them out before him in reverence. David joined in the prayers with them. He didn’t mind it. He mouthed along to the parts he didn’t know. All the time his grandmother held his arm with her shaking hand in an almost protective manner. They moved through the last mystery and onto the seemingly never-ending mantra of “Pray for us”. David remembered the holidays he used to spend in the house with his cousins when he was younger. They used to always enjoy this part, shouting the “Pray for us,” over the rest of the house. Their grandparents only laughed at their carry on. Religion was important in this house, but never a punitive exercise. In a way, David’s rebellion was always quelled when he was here. It seemed joyous, hopeful and, most importantly of all, harmless. Why rebel against the harmless, he asked himself. That feeling would last until the next Sunday came around, when he saw it all again in its most irascible and basest form. Sitting here now, though, it was just a story, and a beautiful one at that.
They finished up the prayers, and David’s grandmother turned to him. “How’re you keeping?” she said, smiling.
“Ah, I’m okay. It’s nice these days anyway.”
“‘Tis, and tell me: Are you still reading?”
“I am.”
She laughed and held his arm even tighter. “Aren’t you great? I don’t know how you do all that reading. But isn’t it a great pastime, all the same? I sometimes think when we’re above with Jack that wasn’t it a great pity that he never was into the reading. ‘Twould make a great pastime for him now, I always say. Sure, I know he was good with the books and learning his studies, but he never read as a pastime the way you do. He’d be out playing football, or something like that. But ‘tis a pity now, for ‘twould knock away the hours no bother. But all those things he was into are gone now.” She raised her hands in a slow, despondent fashion.
Turning to David’s mother she said: “Bridget, are they coming this way, do you know?”
“No, sure didn’t I say that on the phone. They’re going straight into Kildysart. We’ll drive into the village in a while, another ten minutes or so. They haven’t left back in Coolmeen yet, and you know how long it’ll take them to get all of them going. We’ll be in plenty time.”
“I thought they’d come this way on account of Jack.” His grandmother turned to David. “Are your father and brothers gone in it?”
“They are. I think he said he’d give us a text when they were leaving.”
“Well, isn’t that lovely. I’m sure the lads are only delighted to be off with him. Sure, isn’t it a lovely day out when you think of it?”
David nodded away. He didn’t look up in the direction of his mother. Just then his grandfather made a sudden rise from the couch and announced that he would drive into Kildysart himself now.
“Will you not come with us?” said David’s mother.
“No, I’ll go in myself.” He walked towards the front door and shook some holy water on his forehead before he left.
They stayed quiet in the house until the car moved away. His mother turned around and shook her head. “What does he want driving in himself for?”
“Ah, leave him,” said his grandmother. “He doesn’t want to be around a crowd today. He’ll be happier sitting in the car on his own. He’ll see the tractors, and that’ll do him.”
“I’m surprised it’s still getting at him at stage. I mean, it’s over a year now.”
“It’s not that, Bridget,” said his grandmother. “It’s the begging, that’s what gets him. The shame of it. I’ve told him that there’s nothing to be ashamed of, that people are only too happy to be able to help out whatever way they can, but he won’t listen. It’s begging to him, and nothing else.”
“Begging? Wouldn’t it be the same for anyone else around if it had happened to them. There’s very few could afford to cope with the burden they have.”
“I know, I know, that’s what I’m the whole time saying. He doesn’t hear it.”
David’s mother’s phone went off just as his grandmother was speaking. She read the text and looked up. “It’s them. They’re after leaving just there. He makes off that it’ll be a good twenty minutes before the first of them arrive into Kildysart. We may as well leave now anyway. But listen to this: He says there’s supposed to be over two hundred in it!”
“Oh, Jesus!” said his grandmother, holding her hand across her mouth in shock. “Two hundred?”
“That’s right, isn’t it brilliant?”
“My God.” David could see her eyes begin to water ever so slightly. She held herself together, though, and smiled at David. “All for Jack,” she said.
David nodded. He wouldn’t say anything.
“Come on now,” said David’s mother. “We may as well head in to Kildysart.”
David’s grandparents lived about five minutes from the village of Kildysart. His grandfather drove in almost every morning to get the paper and his daily bottle of orange. He was in his mid-eighties but still drove very well. The journey into Kildysart every day kept him in practice, and just the previous year he had driven to David’s uncle in Kilkenny on his own. All his children had confidence in his driving and never worried about these long voyages. He never drank alcohol or smoked, the daily bottle of orange being his only indulgence.
They soon arrived in the village. The place was almost a small town at this stage. It had a bank, a chipper, a community centre, an impressive church, about three small shops, and nearly ten pubs. That day there were streamers hanging across the main street to welcome in the tractors. The local team’s colours of light blue and dark navy also adorned the street at almost every lamp post. There were already many people out of their cars waiting for the Run to arrive. They spotted David’s grandfather in his car facing out from the village, clearly waiting for the first opportunity to get out once they Run had passed.
They parked up near him and got out of the car. A few people saluted his mother and grandmother. David didn’t know them. Some came up and spoke to them, quietly asking his mother questions in her ear. He knew it was about Jack. They would place their hand on his mother’s shoulder and nod in an understanding manner. They’d offer the few usual heartening words. He’ll be right as rain in no time; he’s a real fighter; if anyone will, he will; ye’re so strong, I don’t know how ye do it; and all the rest. They meant well, he supposed. And they also wanted news. But that was the way; he would be the very same, he told himself . . .
They had not to wait for long. Past the bend out of town came the first sight of an enormous blue New Holland entering the village. A big cheer went up from the crowd. They all waved at the driver who had his young son sitting on his lap. The driver and boy waved and smiled down at the crowd. David looked around at the people near him. They were mostly women, it seemed. More tractors passed, along with more waves and smiles. The local drivers seemed to make a special effort to wave at his grandparents. But they were few; most didn’t know either of them or the sky above their heads. After a few passed David could make out his father and two brothers arriving. They almost went into a frenzy smiling and waving at them. “Aren’t they having a great time?” said his grandmother.
It dragged on and on. They were right when they said there was over two hundred in it. David looked at his watch. Over twenty minutes had passed since the first tractor had arrived, and the line looked as long as ever. And then he saw the Fitzpatricks one after the other. David fidgeted with the sleeve of his hoodie. He would have to give them a strong wave. Maybe smirk as well. Show that he wasn’t put out by them. Confident, that’s what he would have to be.
They caught sight of him immediately. Paul, the younger of the two, glowered down at him with that familiar sardonic smile. He raised the hand like a man would, and picked up speed as he strode past him. The older one, Martin, had the same mirthful glare to him and made some gesture at him. David couldn’t make out what he was trying to do. His grandmother looked at him, as if to say ‘Do you know them?’ David felt his cheeks glow and kept his head down. This was their day, and they were making sure to let him know. Their smirks had said it all: the sun shines on us now, David. Who was there to protect him from the boorish and the philistine? His grandmother couldn’t hold his arm here. This was how things worked. Those who were meek in cultivation had inherited the earth, as the Great Son had promised. And this was their Kingdom. Their domain. Their laws.
He continued to wave, almost mechanically. More young ones passed, some three or four years younger than himself. And then he could see John and Gerry arriving. He made a real effort to smile at them. Both waved respectfully back. “They’re lads from home,” he said to his grandmother. She smiled. David stopped himself. He could be proud of saying they were from home, couldn’t he? He could be proud looking at them driving, couldn’t he? Yet were they any different from the Fitzpatricks? They were out here for the same reasons surely. And yet they were different. They had inherited the earth as well, but theirs was a Kingdom to share. They were munificent lords. Yes, and they would not judge with sardonic glares. Being uncultivated did not mean being boorish, he had to tell himself that. It was sometimes easy to forget.
The last tractors passed by. It had been a very long line. His grandmother turned around to his mother and sighed. “Well, aren’t they very good now?” she said. Her eyes grew darker and flicked towards the ground. David could hear the quiet sighs as she crossed the road. Oh, God, sure. What can you do? Only he could hear them. Quiet, ever so quiet.
“Will we go down to Cahill’s so? I think they’re stopping in there for a while,” said his mother.
Oh, Jesus, not more, thought David. He could see his grandmother was the same. The Run had been long enough. The last thing they needed to see now was a boozing session. He’d have to listen to the Fitzpatricks going on, and humour their ignorance. He just wanted to be away from here.
“We can, sure,” said his grandmother.
“I’ll go away home, anyway,” David’s grandfather said as he walked back into his car. He was right, too. No point putting himself through any more of it.
They passed down onto the main street. Tractors lined the right-hand side of the street, barely leaving space for any passing cars to make their way down. Young men jumped out of them and chattered like they had in Coolmeen earlier. There was much scrutinising of engines and kicking of wheels, because that’s what you do. Down at the end of the street, past the bank and the Church, was Cahill’s pub. Already there was a large crowd gathered outside it. Yelps and laughs and ohos rose through the air from them. Surely they would not have to stay too long . . .
“Look, David,” said his mother, pointing to one of the tractors near them. “Is that John?”
She was right. Standing behind a red Massey Ferguson was John, his mobile in his hand, texting someone or other while he struggled to put on a jacket at the same time. He towered over everyone else, being well-built, though awkward. Gerry appeared around the side of the tractor, looked up and said something to him. John smirked.
“Go on away over to them,” she said.
John spotted him. He had no choice now. John saluted across the road with his giant hand, his huge blocks for fingers pointing at him. David walked across and smiled. He heard his mother say hello and then walk on. He was left to them now.
“How’re you John, Gerry?”
“Good now,” said John.
“Ara, not so bad,” said Gerry.
“What about yourself?” added John.
“I’m all right now. . . . Fine crowd, isn’t there?”
“Great crowd. Sure, they’re only looking for the excuse to be out . . . like ourselves! ‘Twill be some session tonight, I can tell you. Here, do you want a lift back home in the tractor with me? I meant to say it to you earlier.”
“Ah, I will so. I was going to get out in Coolmeen, but I didn’t get the chance to stop. Sound. Are you sure you’ll be able to bring me home?”
“I will, of course. Will we go down to the pub here? I think there’s a bit of food as well.”
“Yeah, sure. How’re you Gerry?”
“I’m good now. Yourself?”
“I’m all right now. How’s school going?”
“Oh, sure . . . ‘tis going anyway!”
“There mustn’t be much left now.”
“Only a week and a bit with the tests. But I’ll knock a few days out of that with the silage next week!”
“Good man, only too right.”
“Come here, David,” said John. “Do you want a drink? The two of us are driving, so we’ll have to take it easy, isn’t that right Gerry? Not that that is stopping Fitz over with the head on him. He’s after having two before we left in Coolmeen, and he’ll knock a few more back by the looks of him, here. But anyway, will you have one?”
“Ah, no, I’ll be all right.” He couldn’t. His poor grandmother walking around. What would she say. The poison that felled Jack being embraced by another grandson: No.
“You’re sure now?”
“Ah, I am. Thanks anyway.”
John went inside and left David and Gerry beside the oldest of the Fitzpatricks, Martin. He turned his bulging belly towards David and sneered at him with his pint in hand.
“Well, would you look at himself? And tell me now, David, for I’m very disappointed, so I am, but why, oh why, is it that you weren’t in your father’s tractor today. Hmm?”
Say something. “Ah, sure,” David tried to shrug it off, smile, anything. “I didn’t want to.” You didn’t want to? That was just bait for them. Christ.
“You didn’t want to?” he said, incredulous. “You didn’t want to? No, you couldn’t, that’s why.” He turned and smirked at the others. “Dragging your poor father back here when you could have done it yourself. Did you see young Meehan? He’s only fourteen . . . or fifteen, I can’t be sure. No bother to him to drive a tractor. You’re a gas man, David, I’ll give you that. Will you have a drink?”
“No, I’m fine, thanks.” Thanks. How supplicant.
“Oh, he won’t drink either! Is the mother here, or something? I dunno about you.”
He heaved himself away again and continued talking to the crowd around him, towering over them in voice and body. Stupid cunt. There was more air in his head than the tyres of his tractor. Ha! Why could he not have said that to him just there? He couldn’t say it now. He wouldn’t have anyway. Push it too far. No going back then, and he wasn’t made for that. There was a lot he wasn’t made for, it seemed. John arrived out with a pint in his hand. Oh, no, he hasn’t, has he? After he telling him and everything. No, thank god, he took a sip himself.
“I said I’d just have the one before we set off again. Wet the tongue, you know?”
“Ah yeah, no bother. How’s the ESB going, by the way? Or are ye still in college?”
“Still in college. Another two weeks of it now, and then we’ll be back out as normal. Jesus, I don’t know how ye stick it. We’d only to do ten weeks of class work. What do ye have? Is it twenty-something?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Christ, I couldn’t do it. Drives me demented to be in a classroom. I swore after the Leaving Cert that I’d never set foot in a classroom again, but sure, we’re nearly finished it now. How’s your own course going? Art, is it?”
“Arts. It’s just a few different subjects. English, French, that kind of stuff. Yeah, it’s fine. Got the results back last week, and everything was fine, so yeah . . .”
“Good man. Jesus, Gerry here won’t feel till ‘twill his turn to do the big LC. Another year is all.”
“Will you g’way!” said Gerry. “I don’t even want to think of it.”
“What are you thinking of doing, actually?” David asked.
“Hopefully the Agricultural College in Galway. There might be one in Cork as well. Anything to get out of here for a small while, at least.”
“And do a bit of drinking!” added John as he sipped.
“That as well!”
David’s phone went off. It was his mother. ‘R u alright 4 a lift home?’
‘John has said he’ll bring me back,’ he texted back. John was knocking back his pint. He hoped that he’d keep his promise.
Paul, the younger of the Fitzs, arrived out loaded down with drink. He placed one pint into John’s hand.
“What are you doing that for?” said John.
“Will you drink up, and don’t mind your talk!”
“Fuck it, I’ve to drive home, Paul.”
“Haven’t we all to do that, sure.”
“Jesus Christ, that’s the end of it now, though.”
David looked at Martin. He was looking over at his brother. Paul nodded back. Martin started walking back in towards the bar. David knew what they were at.
A musty, urinous smell began to drift up behind David. He felt a hand grope around his shoulder. Turning around, he saw a frail old man, wearing a heavy yellow jacket and a thick woolly cap, despite the heat. David had seen him around the village before. He had a crumby white beard with red cheeks underneath. His yellowish eyes stood out like an eagle’s. He didn’t look well.
“Ye wouldn’t have a bob, boys, would ye?” he asked. He bent down as he asked it, making his head look abnormally small. Gerry turned around and said nothing. David made to do the same. The hand kept holding his hoodie. Keep calm, he’ll go away. See how he doesn’t bother Gerry. Just keep looking on.
But the hand wouldn’t let go. He shook it again. “Ha? A bob, lads, that’s all I want. Go on, just for a small sup, is all.” David could feel his heart thump. Bet that old fucker could feel the vibrations, too. He’d know he had him. He had a fiver in his pocket. It’d be all finished with if he just gave it to him. There’d be no problem then. But you weren’t supposed to do that. It was for their own good that you didn’t give them money. He kept tugging at the hoodie. “Go on, my boy, please,” he said. The poor fucker.
“Fuck off, let you!” said Gerry. The old man scampered back, cowering from Gerry. He limped along to the other side of the street. David let out a big breath. He looked at Gerry but said nothing.
“Fucking idiot,” said Gerry.
John shook his head and sipped on the pint. “Low-lives,” he said.
Martin arrived out from the bar and approached John from behind. He snuck another glass into John’s hand, and stood back and laughed.
“What the fuck . . . ?” said John.
“Ha! Ha!” said Martin. “Drink up, drink up!”
“I’ve to drive home,” said John again.
“I told you,” said Paul, “that we all have to. Now do as the man says and drink up to fuck!”
“Christ, but ye’ll be the death of me,” said John.
The Fitzpatricks laughed and took large gulps from their own glasses.
John shook his head and looked down at the two pints in his hands. He smiled a smile of bewilderment. There was no sign of his mother or his grandparents. They’d be gone home. And who could blame him? For these people Jack was just a name: a name to drink to. For his grandmother, her withered sunken face staring at the ground, that name was an image, one of helplessness and futility. Her wrinkled, shaking hands had held his freely pivoting head and spoken of times she had made him his favourite cake and times she had brought him in from school. She had told him about how her heart had given her that little electric buzz when she saw him winning the county championship last year, or when he had got the highest in the school for his Leaving Cert. So much that she told him . . . But she didn’t tell him about the frenzied darkness that dropped all around that morning as she put down the phone. And she didn’t tell him how everyday she would wait for them all to leave for the farm so she could light her candle and watch as it burned down to its wick through her watery eyes. And he: he told her nothing. And for that she thanked his wide smiling eyes.
How could John drive home at this rate? The Fitzpatricks were going to continue along with this until it became inevitable that a taxi would be needed. Wasn’t it the same every year? Tractors lined along the street until the following afternoon, waiting like discarded animals for their owners to return. Soggy heads trudging back home, radios blaring out aural sewage to quell the cacophonous vituperation inside of themselves. Wouldn’t he love to see that Martin tomorrow, heaving, belching, groaning his way home. He assumed that it’d be like that, though they had been known to drive through worse.
Gerry looked at his watch, at the Fitzs, and at his watch again. He waited for the appropriate lull to speak up. Their little circle laughed. He hadn’t caught what it was they were on about, but now they were quiet.
“Lads, I’ve to be home for the milking, so I’d want to be leaving now.”
“Ah, Gerry,” said Paul, “will you not have a drink?”
“No, no, better not now.”
“Ah, alright. Good luck!”
“Good luck.”
“Good luck.”
This’d be David’s only chance home. He grabbed a hold of Gerry’s arm just as he was turning to go. Shouldn’t be too obvious.
“Eh, Gerry, might it be easier, maybe, if I got home with you. I think I’ve to be home soon, as well. Milking and all that.” Lie. And obvious.
“Of course, of course. That’s no problem at all. And,” he added in a hush, “it doesn’t look like John is leaving anytime too soon either.”
Saw right through it. “Sound, thanks a million, Gerry.” Decent sort, Gerry. Of course, like the others, he’d have his judgement, but he wouldn’t say it. And what isn’t said isn’t really there at all.
They walked back up the street, past kids with ice-creams, making the most of the first bit of sunshine of the summer. Gerry’s father’s New Holland was towards the end of the street. It had only just been bought, David had heard his father say. David would have to say something about it.
“Well wear,” he said.
“Ah, sure, thanks,” said Gerry.
“Is it going well?” Pointless question. Display of ignorance.
“It is, then. Much nicer than the older model. You can do forty-two in her.”
“Can you, then?” Whatever that was.
“Yeah, the old one now would only give you thirty-eight at most. This is a fine one, though. Lovely suspension on the seat as well. You don’t feel a thing.”
“That’s handy.”
“Yeah, right good now. Sit yourself there on the ledge. It’ll be a bit rockier for you, but we’ll take it handy.”
“Thanks.” A small ledge folded out from the side and acted as a seat. David looked around for a seat belt but there wasn’t any. He hoped he’d take it handy. Gerry started up the tractor and drove in the opposite direction from Cahill’s. The village was quiet here. Everyone else had gone home. He couldn’t keep up talking about tractors all the way home. What else had they a mutual relationship to? What year was he? Fifth year, that’s right. He’d probably be going to the Gaeltacht for the summer. Didn’t everyone, sure?
“Looking forward to being finished for the summer now?”
“Oh, Christ, I am.” Clunk! David’s arse hopped two inches from the seat as they went over the ramp outside the village. “Sorry, bit bumpy. But yeah, I can’t wait to be finished with it. Just the tests now.” He threw his eyes skywards.
“Ah, not so bad. Any plans then for the summer? Or are you going to the Gaeltacht?”
“The Gaeltacht? Jesus, not a chance. I couldn’t put up with a month of speaking that shite. Oh Lord, no way. You went a few years ago, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I did.” An Spidéal. Connamara Irish: An Shhhpidheaaal. Arse end of nowhere. Like here, suppose. Rocks, rocks, rocks. The stony grey soil of Monaghan, and all that. Ar chuala mé Béarla? The thief’s tongue, isn’t that what they told us? Dirty robber language, not like the almost virginal purity of our natural tongue. As if speaking was natural. Speak the speech I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue. Beauty doesn’t demand natural obligations, it just is in and of itself. Yeah, he had been to the Gaeltacht. “You’re as well off not to bother, I think.”
“Well, I couldn’t stick it anyway. ‘Tis enough to be in school the length we are, not to mind asking for more.”
“True for you.” What need had he for school? Nothing he would see in a book would be of any use. David didn’t want to farm, and so he didn’t. Gerry didn’t want to go to school, but he had to. But what hope for the eradication of ignorance otherwise? Was it not alive and well anyway, despite all the schooling? The most important things in life can’t be taught. Who said that? Some wise man, Yeats probably. Someone who had been taught plenty anyway.
“Have you the provisional licence, David?”
“What? No, not yet.” Of course he hadn’t. “I haven’t a bull’s notion, to be honest with you. Have you it long?”
“Yeah, I did it as soon as I could, back there before Easter. It’s easy, only a few questions. You should do it, ‘twould be no bother to you.”
“Sure, like . . .” He might as well be honest. “I can’t drive or nothing, Gerry. It’d be pointless.”
“But sure, you’ll learn. This summer, sure. We’ll have you out drawing in the silage with us.”
Not a hope. The eternal optimist, Gerry. “I dunno about that, then. You see, Gerry, when I was younger, like fourteen or so, when people usually start driving, I had no interest. Couldn’t see the point. Now that I need to, I don’t . . . you know?” Gerry looked at him, not knowing what to do or say. He hadn’t meant to say that. What had he meant to say?
“Ah, no, don’t mind that talk,” he said after a few seconds of silence. “There’s nothing to stop you learning. There’s a Tractor Run on in a few weeks. We’ll have you out with us, driving your father’s Massey.”
Nothing to stop him, except himself. Why this notion that he wouldn’t be able? Just a notion. That was all it was. And yet . . . drive your father’s tractor. Why? Which is more, you’ll be a Man my son! Fathers don’t feel threatened by their sons growing up and taking over: it’s when they stay small that they become frightening. If, if, if.
“We’ll see, sure.” Yes, they’d all see.
“I meant to ask you, by the way,” Gerry turned from looking at the road and stared at the ground around David’s trousers, it seemed, “How is the cousin? Jack, isn’t it?”
The only one to ask. Jack, how was Jack? Simple question.
“He’s not too bad now at all. Coming along grand. And in great form too.”
“That’s good, that’s good. How long is it now?”
“It’ll be a year May 19th.”
“That long? Jesus, ‘twas a tough year they put down. Is there any hope, you know, of him . . . getting up . . . and . . .”
“No, there isn’t, if I’m being honest, Gerry. They’re still clinging onto the hope that he’ll twitch his leg or curl his toe or something, but I can’t see it now. All the doctors are saying the same thing. Chest down paralysis. Sure, I don’t see how you could have that one day, and it be gone the next.”
“Ah, yeah, ‘tis tough, but you never know. Keep praying, and hope to God, sure.”
“Yeah, that’s all you can do, sure.”
“Yeah, no one knows, do they?”
“They don’t.”
“They don’t, ‘tis true for you.”
“Yeah.”
“We made good headway, didn’t we?”
“You did, then. Roads are nice and quiet now.”
“Have ye a new gate there near the western field?”
“Yeah, I think Dad put that up yesterday.”
“‘Tis nice.”
“‘Tis grand, I suppose.”
“A grand job now.”
Gerry stopped the tractor at the front gate, and waited for David to make his way down the steps.
“Yeah, anyway, thanks a million for the lift. Eh, I suppose I’ll see you at the silage next week.”
“Oh, you will, sure. We’ll probably need the bit of help.”
“No problem. And, eh, best of luck with the few exams as well.”
“Ha! Ah, we won’t think about that.”
“No, don’t . . . Alright, we’ll be talking to you.”
“Alright, good luck now.”
“Good luck, good luck.”
David closed the door of the tractor and turned to the house. Half five. They’d be above having tea. What happened today? Ah, nothing much. Did you enjoy the craic with the tractor crowd? Ah, sure, ‘twas alright. And you that didn’t want to go. Didn’t I say you’d like it? You did, you did. A good experience, though, wasn’t it? You need to experience different things. Yeah, yeah. I do, sure.
The ward in Dublin Mater Hospital was quiet after the day’s visitors. His parents were gone for another day. They’d probably get mass again tonight. A nurse fluttered around scribbling notes on each patient’s file. What would she scribble on his? Same as yesterday, and day before, and day before that. Legs: calm. He: calm. Why? What else could he do? All the cards from his twenty-first lay on his table beside him. Granny’s one at the front. She had given him the fifty euro, as usual. Whatever she thought he would do with it. They had all written long essays on the cards, all except her. She just had “Jack, we miss you, come home to me and I’ll have some of your favourite cake made. Love Granny.” He wanted to see her writing. He hadn’t seen it yet today. Why didn’t he remember when they were here? He willed his hand to move. Slowly it slid across the pillow. They loved telling everyone how his hands were so good to move. Come on, God dammit, move! Slow now, slow. A sudden jerk would destroy it all. He opened his fingers like a flower blooming slowly. Opening his fingerly petals around the thin card with the rose on the front. Slow, slow. Grip and lift. The card scratched along the wood. Slow, slow. Scratch along. Her writing, there it was. The shake of her hand made it look rivers scattered on a map. “Jack, we miss you, come home to me . . .” No! For fuck sake!
“Are you all right, Jack?” The nurse. “Do you want your Granny’s card, yeah? Here, I’ll pick it up for you. That’s okay. Don’t worry . . . Don’t worry, Jack.”
David’s fingers gripped the pen. The page lay pure white in front of him. Words fell like soft snow, drifting slowly before his eyes, slow enough to be plucked out from their descent. He sat down at the table and whispered that some things didn’t deserve to be written about.
