He looks at me, expectant.
We won’t be cutting off any legs tomorrow. Will you still come?
He thinks again, puckering his lips. Yis, he says & gravely takes my hand & shakes it.
Day following
The lad & I got away early & the rain held off until we were nearly done with our calls. We had a bite of mutton stew with Granny Moore & a fine soda bread to sop the gravy. He ate as if famished, then watched intently my ministrations to a nasty sore on Bridie Flaherty’s knee. Bridie had limped to the Moores to meet the doctor. Here, I said, offering him the nasty bandage that had been on near a week. He looked at it, aghast, then took it. Put it in the fire I said & he did. And wash up in the basin, I said & he did. In any case, the wound was nearly healed. To celebrate Bridie did a jigging hop on the other leg, which caused the lad to laugh.
We drove homeward in a misting rain.
After a long silence, he says, I don’t care to go back to Mullaghmore.
And why is that?
I like it here very fine.
His mother is one of the glum sisters-I could understand his reluctance.
We were trotting along by the great stand of bracken, on one of the smoothest carriage roads hereabout-I had my own men render it so.
How did you come by the name Eunan?
Me granda got it off an oul’ saint.
The boy looked over at me, serious as a monk.
Where is your father?
Me da has got no legs.
No legs!
But stumps like Danny Moore.
My God, I say. How did it happen?
’t was th’ stones fell on ’im when he was layin’ a wall.
He’s a mason, then.
Yis. His legs was trapped under th’ stones a full day & th’ part of a night.
Can he work?
No. He has th’ coughin’. He’s with my oul’ granny who makes medicine for ’im to stop th’ coughin’.
Does it stop, then?
No. Yis. Sometimes.
My thoughts fly to the many aggravations of the Lungs.
If it had been me at th’ cuttin’ off of ’is legs, he says, twould be a better job than them butchers done.
He looks suddenly thrice his age & turns his head & stares at the lough.
How do you get by?
Mam takes in sewin’.
Aye.
For them as goes from thin to fat & back th’ other way.
Twould be mostly the other way these days, I say.
I nick out the oul’ stitches, she puts in th’ new, too fine for th’ naked eye to see, they says.
How old are ye, lad?
Siven, soon to be eight.
Are you the eldest?
Yis, an’ th’ onliest.
Just yourself, then?
He turns to me now & smiles but weakly. Mam says they only done it th’ once.
To be polite I laugh at the little joke he has clearly been trained to put forth.
Are you schooled, then?
Yis.
I’m sorry about your Da, I say.
With all the suffering I’ve seen I should be able to deliver a greater consolation but I am dumb as a spoon for all that.
There’s a man, I say, Arthur MacMurrough Kavanagh, whose Seat is Borris House in Carlow. He was born with stumps for legs, an’ only a bit of arms. Tuck your thumbs deep into your armpits.
The boy looks at me, wondering.
Yes, do as I say I’m going to show you something.
I drop the reins & tuck my thumbs into my armpits.
Follow suit I say, & he does.
Are your thumbs deep in your armpits, so?
Yis.
Do your fingers meet over your chest?
No.
I pick up the reins.
Exactly! I say. Tis the kind of arms MacMurrough was born with. Very short & no fingers to speak of, yet he’s fearless for all that.
The lad looks desolately at his hands upon a thin chest.
He’s traveled to India & hunted tigers & according to the talk that goes round, he’s a very fine shot.
This sets the lad to thinking long thoughts.
Fishes, too, & quite fierce on horseback, I say, aspiring to suggest some hope for those without proper limbs.
The boy’s face is frozen with astonishment.
Well, now, there’s more to the story of Arthur MacMurrough Kavanagh, would ye believe it? Into the bargain, he’s said to be a poet & an artist.
He gawps at me. How does he hold ’is brush, so?
In his mouth, I’m told.
What about his gun, does he do it th’ same?
I’m dashed if I know, I say.
How does he ride if he has no legs to grip ’is mount?
In a little chair strapped upon the horse’s back, they say.
The rain pelting us now, drumming the top of the open carriage.
Giddyap, ye brute, I say to Adam, which is what Uncle’s driver Mercy always said to his horse, & always in a kind manner.
At the house, Keegan is there to greet us with a gnarly apple for Adam. I hand over the reins.
Drive to Rose McFee with all speed, I say. Take a large jug & tell her to make a fresh portion of her cough Nostrum. First thing the morrow, fetch it back to me-tis going with the lad- & easy on the carriage, I say, for Keegan has little patience.
We were greeted in the rear Hall by A & a blast of cooking odours to make the mouth water-twas roasted pork shoulder & the sweet scent of baking bread. I lately learned that Fiona has taken a shine to the lad & is trying to put meat on his bones.
Come & wash, A says to Eunan, & tell us about your doctorin’.
She takes the lad’s hand in hers & they walk away, chattering.
I burned th’ rag, I heard him say as they went along the stair hall. Twas a desperate fester on her oul’ knee.
She turns then & looks back & smiles at me.
I watch them pass out of view & find my heart thundering strangely. I do not know the cause & then-I am suddenly enfeebled by the power of a yearning long hidden.
A pesky turn for O’Donnell, he thought. And amazing, this reference to a man believed to be of his own Kavanagh line. A small-world sort of thing, which he would tell Henry in a forthcoming letter. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes-the faded ink demanded a price.
He thought of his own lad who, like Fintan’s, hadn’t wanted to go home again. Dooley had instead come to live at the rectory, and both their lives were changed forever.
He closed the journal and gazed at the innocence of Cynthia’s utter absorption in the book. She moved her lips, silent as any school-girl at memory work. Her ankle had given severe pain in the night, shortening their sleep. She confessed she had slipped in the shower the day before, felt a twinge, but thought little of it. It was only a small slip, she said, and nothing to worry about.
He stood and stretched his limbs, yawned. ‘I’m going down and call Dooley.’
‘Dooley?’ she said, not looking up.
‘You remember him. Tall, skinny as a rail, red hair.’
‘Um,’ she said from the distant continent she occupied.
‘Freckles.’
Rain drummed the panes.
‘Anything I can bring you from below?’
‘Did you say something?’ Still reading, brow puckered.
‘Anything I can bring you from below?’
She looked up, blinked, smiled. ‘A pot of tea.’
‘Any swelling?’
‘A little. Nothing to worry about.’
‘Have you come to the piece in the journal about the Kav’na with no arms or legs?’
‘I’m a few entries short of your bookmark-they’re just getting ready for the Feast. The one who was a member of Parliament and the father of seven?’
‘The same.’ He slipped his feet into the brown loafers; Pud appeared from beneath the bed.
‘Feeney will be along this evening.’ He went to her side of the bed and kissed her forehead. ‘Back in a flash.’
‘If you see Bella, tell her I send my love.’
He was mildly startled-it seemed a trivializing gesture.
‘What will she think of such a thing?’
‘I don’t know. But she needs to hear that word today, I just feel it.’