Across the Pond in Mitford, tourists were strolling Main Street, languid and bemused in mountain air far sweeter than the August haze they’d left behind. Dooley would have finished up his day as a vet’s assistant, and gone into Mitford, perhaps, to take his three brothers and sister for pizza-with-everything. He thought of the tall, lanky boy with inquisitive eyes and the way he laughed and the way his laughter infected others. He prayed for Dooley’s wisdom and discernment, and for the safekeeping of all the siblings, reunited after years of loss.
He had just found the sweet spot in his pillow when he felt movement beneath their bed. He lay frozen with alarm, listening.
Then, the rapid thumping sound, known to him as the Scratching of the Odd Flea.
‘Pud,’ he hissed. ‘Come out of there.’
Eight
‘I’m so sorry for all of it,’ said Anna. ‘Most guests would have been dreadfully upset by last night, and no power to boot. They’d be packin’ up this morning, sure enough. You’re a very kind man.’
He was often called kind, and never knew what to say in response. He certainly didn’t think he was very kind-curious more like it, interested enough in what was going on not to complain of discomfort within reason.
‘And then to have our dog sleeping under your bed. He’s done it only once before-adopted himself out to a schoolteacher on holiday from Cavan.’
‘I’m his first Yank, then.’
Anna smiled a little. ‘We got him from a shelter. They said he belonged to a very hard man; Pud doesn’t like the raised voice.’ She sighed, then straightened herself. ‘Still and all, I shall give you rhubarb every morning if that would make it up a bit.’
‘No need to make it up,’ he said, ‘but I’ll gladly take it.’
They sat at the breakfast table, waiting for Liam to bring out Cynthia’s fry.
‘How is Cynthia this morning?’
‘She slept well, and was singing a little before I came down.’ Where Christ is, Dorothy Sayers had said, cheerfulness will keep breaking in. A description, in toto, of the woman who shared his bed.
‘Do you think she might like to move rooms?’
‘She hasn’t mentioned it.’ Unloading drawers, schlepping their jumble-an aggravation he wasn’t up to.
‘We don’t have an extra room available, but one of the anglers may be willing to make an exchange. I could ask Pete, his room would give you a larger bath and a lovely writing table.’
‘Same view?’
‘Ah, no. Blocked by the beeches, I’m afraid. I’ve given you our prettiest room, really, with hardly a twig to obscure the scenery.’
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Unless you hear otherwise, we’ll stick where we are.’
‘Two of the travel club will be bunking together tomorrow to free up the room for your cousins. That was understood when the ladies booked.’
‘Musical chairs,’ he said.
‘Always.’ Anna ran her fingers through a reckless mass of red curls. ‘Forgive my appearance, Reverend, I’ve somehow not put the comb to my head this morning. It’s as much to keep as the garden.’
She was a beautiful, big-boned woman, intense and present to the moment, with eyes that appeared to take in a horde of details and sort them at lightning speed. Their eyes met as he lifted the cup and polished off his coffee-she looked worn, conflicted, and for a brief moment made no effort to conceal it. He felt there was something she wanted to say to him-four decades of counseling had honed a certain skill at sensing trial behind the forced smile, the hard jaw, the stiff upper lip.
‘I hope you won’t regret not getting about ’til the cousins arrive. There are so many grand places to see-Ben Bulben, of course, and the lovely Knocknarea walk to Queen Maeve’s grave, and Lissadell House and Inishmurray Island, and, oh, the Tubbercurry Fair coming…’
She went on, dutiful in limning the list. Even if they could get about, he lacked the grit to look at anything grand or affecting just now-the view of the lake was enough. He’d never been much of a tourist, and anyway, he’d seen a lot of Sligo on the previous trip. A day in the library would be a banquet of sorts, with a jog by the lake in the afternoon. He had no idea what to do about Walter and Katherine showing up full of vim and vigor, unscathed, as usual, by jet or any other lag. Bottom line, James Feeney was in possession of their immediate future. If Cynthia couldn’t ramble over hill and dale, neither would he.
He was leaving the dining room when Anna dropped a fork, which hit the wood floor, bounced, and skidded under a dish cupboard. He set the tray down.
‘I’ll get it,’ he said, dropping at once to his hands and knees.
‘No, no, please,’ she said. ‘Let me, please.’
‘I can see it, it’s right back…’ He tried to reach the thing, but it eluded him. ‘A broom,’ he said. Peggy had taught him the efficacy of the broom handle-useful for everything from removing spiderwebs in ceiling corners to adjusting a high-hanging picture on the wall. Anna supplied a broom.
He retrieved the fork, embarrassed that he couldn’t shoot to his feet like a young curate. Halfway up, he took the hand she offered.
‘There,’ she said, smiling.
‘There,’ he said, handing over the fork.
They burst into laughter, the nonsensical kind that felt good and didn’t strain anything in the process.
He was passing through the library with the breakfast tray, noting that the fire had been poked up.
‘Yoo hoo, darling, over here. Scooted down the stairs on me bum, then found an umbrella in the stair hall and used it as a cane.’
There she sat in a chair by the open window, looking up-for-anything. He was foolishly happy. ‘You heedless woman.’
He set the tray on the lamp table and rounded up one of the several footstools and placed the tray on it and shook out her napkin and draped it across her lap.
‘Wait,’ he said, ‘’til your doctor hears about this.’
‘I’ve just heard about it from Maureen.’ James Feeney strode in from the hall with a pair of crutches and propped them against the wall. ‘Good morning to all. We have here a very clever woman. Stays off her foot, as the doctor ordered, and still gets about like a field hare. Did you rest?’ Feeney asked his patient.
‘Well enough, thanks-the little pills are a godsend.’
‘Sorry to interrupt your breakfast, I’ll have a quick look if you don’t mind.’ Feeney squatted by the chair. ‘Have you ever used crutches?’
‘Yes, just recently. And before that, when I was ten years old. I painted one red and one yellow, and added green ribbons.’
‘A harbinger of things to come. I’m told you’re a famous children’s book illustrator.’ He examined her ankle. ‘Swollen, inflamed, stiff. All to be expected.’ He gave the ankle a slight turn. ‘How does that feel?’
‘Not bad.’
‘This?’
She flinched. ‘Ugh.’
‘When you were ten-was it your ankle that put you on crutches?’
‘Yes. The same one. Sprained badly.’
‘And your recent fracture. How did that happen?’
‘Missed a porch step,’ she said.
‘I broke my ankle entirely when I was nine. I was learning to fly with my older brother, Jack.’
‘Did you learn?’
‘Ah, no, but Jack did. Royal Air Force. We lost him in France.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Feeney cleared his throat. ‘Yes, well, I recommend you stay off it for at least ten days. You have history with this ankle and must treat it with due regard. Ten days should do the trick, but absolutely no hobbling about or you’ll put it in a worse muddle than we have here.
‘As for the other piece of business, I can’t recommend you go on the car trip. Sorry. ’t would be begging trouble, in my opinion.’ Feeney stood more slowly than he’d squatted. ‘Practice with the crutches before going full steam, if you will, I’m no good at mending bones. Reverend, if you’d give a thought to our bridge party tomorrow, I’d be delighted. You’ll make me a hero in the eyes of our hostess, not to mention the village priest.’