“Ah, c’mon now. Sure I was only aiming a stroke at that Englishman.”
“Well, now you’ll have a stroke aimed at you—you son of a clappy whore.”
Several of the man’s friends grouped round him, threatening Flurry with words and gestures. Instantly Seamus was in front of them, hand in coat pocket.
“If anny of you lousers interfere I’ll plug him in the belly,” he said, his voice as deadly calm as Flurry’s. The group shrank back a little.
“Will you fight then,” said Flurry, in a voice so cold it would have taken the skin off your hand. Once again, in this shambling, drifting man, I saw the commander of the flying column who had over-matched the Black-and-Tans in ruthless savagery. “Will you fight? or will I put a rope round your neck and drag you home to your poxy mother’s sty?”
Enraged, the man lashed out. Flurry blocked the blow and countered with a swing that nearly sent him over the counter. The man snatched a pint glass from it, smashed it on the counter’s edge and thrust it at Flurry’s face.
“Drop that or I’ll plug you,” shouted Seamus.
“Let him be,” Flurry commanded. “Keep out of it, boy.” He backed a step, then let fly with his boot at the man’s knee. In jumping back from it, the man got off balance: before he could recover, Flurry brought the side of his hand down on the man’s wrist and the tumbler fell to the floor.
“Now he’ll have him destroyed,” Seamus said to me happily.
Flurry’s opponent had sobered up and he was a powerful fellow. But Flurry began to demolish him. He took a few round-arm swings himself to the side of the head; and then his huge fist shot out, with an impact that must have broken the man’s nose. As he covered up, head in hands, Flurry hit him low in the belly. The man bent double, retching in agony, which enabled Flurry to lock his neck under one arm and drive the other fist into the man’s face—four times in a couple of seconds. He then flung the fellow reeling to the floor, and before he could roll away stamped the heel of his boot down on to the man’s crutch.
What Flurry would have done next to his victim, I hardly dare contemplate. But Seamus dragged him away from the writhing, screaming hulk on the floor.
“That’s enough, Flurry! Stop now or you might hurt the bugger.”
Flurry looked round the bar, panting. “Anyone else like a work-out?” The offer was declined. Those who had not jumped over the bar counter were standing stiff against the far wall. “All right then, Seamus. March.”
He led the way out of the pub. As we walked back up the street, I said to Seamus, “Lucky you had that gun.”
“Gun? What’d I be doing with a gun? I borrowed this out of your car.” Seamus pulled a spanner from his pocket and handed it to me with a slight flourish.
“I need a drink,” said Flurry.
“You’re out of condition,” Seamus told him. “If that fella’d persevered, he’d have stretched ya.”
“Well,” said I, “he’ll not rob you of fifty pounds again.”
“Wha’s that?”
I repeated the words. I shall never to the end of my days forget the look Flurry gave me then—a look of amazement, which turned slowly into the most naked, shattering contempt.
Chapter 8
Three days later, Flurry and I fetched Harriet from hospital. She seemed quite well again. There had been no repercussions from Flurry’s brutal assault on the man who had lost her the race—in Ireland, I could well imagine, private quarrels would be kept private: to go to the police would stamp a man as an informer.
The afternoon of her return, Harriet walked over to my cottage. She asked me to tell her all about the fight, and listened with sparkling eyes as I did so. No woman, I suppose, dislikes being fought over; but I found her reactions rather crude.
“I’d never have thought Flurry had it in him. Not now.”
“Well, he beats you—so you used to tell me.”
She lowered her eyes. After a moment’s silence, she asked, “Are you windy? Afraid he might do the same to you?”
“He’d have a right.”
“But he likes you. He’s not a jealous man, give him his due.”
“How do you know? Have you talked to him much about me?”
“He never talks to me much.”
“Oh, come off it! Stop being evasive.”
“We don’t have intimate conversations any more,” she said stubbornly.
I knew we were on the edge of a quarrel. Ridiculously, I felt myself on Flurry’s side, wanting to pierce through her indifference. “But for God’s sake, don’t you have any feelings for him at all?”
“That’s good, coming from you!”
“I’m asking you, Harriet. You may not be highly articulate, but he’s your husband—”
“Don’t be so bloody rude.” She got up to go, but I pushed her back into the chair.
“Does he or doesn’t he know that we are lovers? Surely the point is of some interest to you?”
“I don’t know. And I couldn’t care less.”
A thought struck me. “Why do you suppose he used such violence on that chap in the pub?”
“Because he’d lost him a lot of money, I suppose.”
“That’s what I thought. Now I wonder. I believe he’s been boiling up with resentment about you and me, and he took it out on that fellow.”
“What an absurd idea! You would think up something intellectual like that.”
“It’s not intellectual, you dumb cluck. You say he likes me. Possibly he ‘likes’ you too. Therefore he restrains himself from beating up your pretty boy. Therefore he unleashes himself on someone else.”
“Oh, balls!”
“How complaisant do you think a husband can get? Do you imagine he’d just sit back and accept it if—if you and I ran away together?”
That was a mistake. Her face changed. “Would you run away with me?” she said seriously. “That would be romantic. We could—”
“Oh Harriet, do come out of your woman’s-magazine fantasies. You know I couldn’t marry you.” And, having said it, I knew it was beyond any question true.
“Why not? Don’t you love me any more?”
“It’s not a matter of being in love,” I replied uncomfortably. “You’d soon get bored with me—like you did with Flurry. We’re not—not suited for each other.”
“So you’re tired of me already.”
“Marriage doesn’t all take place in bed.”
“You mean your intellectual friends would despise me.”
“Oh, damn my intellectual friends! In a year, we’d have nothing to talk about. What interests have we in common? You won’t even talk about Flurry.”
There was a long silence. At last she said, “So you’ve stopped wanting me.”
“No, love. Indeed I haven’t.”
“Come here then.” …
So she had her triumph. My body was still in thrall to her. Whistle and I’ll come to you, my lass. Afterwards, I could rebel against my servitude—against the idea of being dragged down to Harriet’s own level (this time it had been the cottage floor, where we mauled each other like wild animals). But my rebellion was tempered by the tenderness which, for me, was still an aftermath of each love-making. Every time, the naked sex-object became, when we lay back exhausted, this particular woman—vulnerable, unaccountable, but my dear accomplice—an accomplice all the more intriguing because I never absolutely trusted her.
A few days later, the three of us met in the Colooney bar. I happened to mention that I was going into Ennis the next day. Harriet, who had seemed rather preoccupied, soon asked me to drive her home. She told Flurry she had a headache, and we left him soaking in the bar.
Half-way back to Lissawn, Harriet asked me to stop the car. I assumed she wanted to make love on the back seat—we had done it often enough before. But she said, “Will you buy me something in Ennis, darling?”
“Yes. What’d you like? A gold necklace?”
“I need some quinine.”
“Quinine?”
/> “Yes. It must be quinine powder.”
“But why?”
“I don’t want to buy it here.”
“What d’you want quinine powder for, my love?”
“If you must know, I’m going to have a baby,” she answered flatly.
My first, unworthy reaction was—the old trick. Then I grew ashamed of myself. I was filled with remorse, and fright.
“Are you sure? How long have you—?”
“Two months.”
“You should have told me, darling. We were mad, not to use—”
“Well, you’ve done it now,” she said good-humouredly. “But one Dominic is quite enough for me.”
Was she lying about the whole thing? Suddenly, I did not care. A gush of tenderness spread over me: I felt absurdly protective.
“But isn’t it dangerous?”
“Oh, it’s worked before.”
“Quinine powder?”
“Yes.”
“With whose baby?” I asked suspiciously. “I thought Flurry—”
“Never you mind. Just get me some. I thought falling off that horse’d have done it.”
“And if it doesn’t work this time?”
“I’d have to pretend it’s Flurry’s. A miracle. Like what’s-her-name in the Bible.”
That took my breath away. To father this putative child on Flurry! Yet I also felt an ignominious relief.
“You couldn’t do that!”
“I’ve done it.”
“What do you mean ‘done it’?”
“Must I spell it out? I gave Flurry an occasion to think he might have begotten a child. A month ago.”
“But I thought—”
“He’s still capable. Just.”
I was staggered by all this. My picture of Harriet changed once again. If she’d really been set on running away with me, she’d have used her pregnancy as a lever on me, not made plans to deceive Flurry.
“Well, you seem to have everything worked out,” I said ungraciously. “You might have told me sooner, though.”
“If I had, you’d have run away. Without me. Wouldn’t you? It’d have given you a lovely excuse.”
“I shall still have to go home before long,” I replied, nettled by the accusation in her voice.
“Sufficient unto the day. I’ll have had another month or two with you, anyway.” Harriet said it so sadly, so honestly, it nearly reduced me to tears. Her mood changed again. “Well, at least you could say it, even if you don’t mean it.”
“Say what, darling?”
“Wouldn’t you like to have a baby by me?”
Here she is again, I thought—once repulsed, and infiltrating back.
“I—I hadn’t thought about it.”
Her face turned to me, mysterious in the darkness. “Well, you’d better go to bed and think about it now. Go on! Start the car, or Flurry’ll be here on his motor bike.” Her voice blurred into sobs. “God knows why I ever fell in love with you.” …
I bought Harriet what she needed. Two days later, Flurry sent down a message by Seamus: Harry was poorly and wanted me to come and cheer her up. I put aside my book—it had been moving slower these last weeks and now had reached a block: my characters seemed unreal to me, dwindled like a fire in the hearth when strong sunlight pours in on it.
Flurry took me up to their bedroom. She lay in the big bed, pale and childlike without her make-up.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Oh, just a tummy upset,” she replied, grinning at me.
“The silly fool won’t see a doctor. Feel her skin, how hot she is.”
I put the back of my hand against her cheek. It was burning.
“My head’s making ringing noises,” she complained.
“Well, Dominic, I’ll leave you to persuade her to call in the doctor. She’s so bloody obstinate, she won’t be told by me.”
When he had left us alone, I said, “Has it worked?”
“Not yet. I took three times the dose you’re allowed,” she added with her gamine smile. “Flurry’s in a great state. He thinks I’m dying.”
“Does he know?”
“Don’t be a bloody fool. He’d kill me if he thought I was trying to get rid of a baby he’d believe was his own. Don’t look so gloomy, darling. I want to be amused.”
I told Harriet a dream I’d had last night. I was a fly caught in a web. All round the edge of the web was a cordon of spiders, whose faces turned into the faces of my neighbours—Flurry, Seamus, Father Bresnihan, Kevin, Maire. They began advancing towards me. I struggled to get away, but it was like walking through a quicksand. Suddenly I was myself, alone on that fatal strand, and the waves were creeping towards me.
“And then I came and rescued you?”
“Then I woke up.”
“Wasn’t I in the dream at all?” she asked with a touch of pettishness.
“You can’t be everywhere, love.”
Harriet stroked my hand. “You could give me a kiss. I’m not infectious.”
It was like kissing a child good night.
“I’m worried about you. Are you sure that stuff isn’t dangerous—such a big dose?”
“I lived last time.” After a pause, she said, “Don’t you want to know who it was last time?”
“If you want to tell me. Not Flurry?”
“It was Kevin.”
“Good lord! Him?” I thought she must be light-headed. Or was she pulling my leg?
“Yes. I seduced him. Like I seduced you,” she said gaily. “Only it didn’t take me so long. Don’t frown, darling. I gave him up when you came along.”
“Not till then?”
“I expect I could get him back when you go home,” said Harriet, with her sublime sexual arrogance.
“I expect you could,” I said dully.
“You’re not jealous?”
“Aren’t I? I daresay he’s more jealous, though.”
“Oh, he doesn’t know about us.”
“I should think everyone in Charlottestown knows about us. Suspects anyway. Jealousy feeds just as well on suspicion as on fact.”
“Aren’t you pompous!” …
And the quinine powder did not work. Harriet seemed undistressed: her craving was unabated. It was August, and a break in the weather prevented us making love out of doors. She would come to my cottage, slinking over the pastures like a vixen. Each time, I said to myself feebly, “That must be the last time.” Yet I was prevaricating. I knew I ought to leave at the end of the month—why break it off till then?
The mountains kept their heads hidden in shawls of mist. I felt claustrophobia in my little cottage, with the vast, empty countryside weighing on it all round.
My book was at a standstill: one day I drove into Galway to find reading-matter, having exhausted the meagre facilities of local bookshops. I also borrowed books from Maire Leeson, who was welcoming but preoccupied: Superintendent Concannon had been on at them, she threw out, “asking eejut questions.” I found myself making excuses to go into Charlottestown—shopping, a chat with Sean at the garage—simply to meet other human beings. Perhaps I was not made for the solitary life after all. I also found that I was going into the Colooney bar at times when I was pretty sure Flurry and Harry would not be there. Haggerty had become a little more distant, if no less deferential: I seemed to be a fixed object now in his landscape.
Harriet’s visits to the cottage were the only other breaks in my boredom. Short breaks, too, for once we had made love there was little to say. I was bored by her chatter about trivialities, the coarseness of her sensibility: this made me feel like a traitor: I tried to conceal it, but less and less could I respond to her except physically. The old magic was gone, and I was left with the expense of spirit in a waste of shame. Yet I felt a responsibility for her, and could not steel my heart against the essential pathos of her life.
I was in this doldrum state of mind, counting the days like a schoolboy before I would go home, almost wishing that something would h
appen—some new melodramatic attack upon me, even—to break the monotony and bring me alive again, when one night I heard a tapping on the door. My heart gave a lurch: but I forced myself to the window. There was just light enough through it from my oil lamp to identify the figure of Father Bresnihan outside. I unlocked the door and let him in.
“The weather’s clearing. We’ll have a fine day tomorrow.”
I set him down with a glass of whiskey, feeling I had an ordeal before me.
“You’ll be going home soon, Dominic?”
“At the end of the month, I expect.”
He asked me about my mother, my life in London, my new novel.
“It’s got hopelessly stuck. I doubt now if I could ever write here—anywhere in Ireland.”
His intelligent eyes were fixed on mine. “Too much drama outside, the inner drama is crowded out?”
“I dare say you’re right.”
The Father deliberated for a few moments. “I’m sorry I spoke to you intemperately that day in Charlottestown. You are not of our persuasion, after all.”
“I think you had every right.”
“It’s very kind of you to say so. It encourages me to ask two questions I know are impertinent.”
“Ask away.”
“You’re not planning to—people you’ve met over here, friendships you’ve formed—you wouldn’t be collecting material for fiction?”
“Most certainly not, Father. Of course, one never knows what experience of one’s own may not find its way into a book one day. But it’d have suffered a sea-change. I can promise you, I should never want to traduce you, or betray any confidence—”
“You misunderstand me.” A slight frown had knitted his brow. “To put it bluntly, I can imagine nothing so—so despicable as making up to a young woman for the sake of getting material for a—”
“Nor can I,” I replied indignantly. “I’m not that sort of exploiter.”
Father Bresnihan lit another cigarette, his hands shaking. “No, I’d never have believed that of you.”
“And you’ve asked your second question before—am I living in sin with Harriet Leeson?”
His eyes held mine. “Well, are you?”
Why I decided to fence with him no longer, I shall never know. I was tired of fencing. And he was a good man.