Except for his isolation with Annie May and Lucy in the stone house, the war found William Kirkwood little better off than his Catholic neighbours, poorer than some Catholics already on the rise. He had a drawing-room and library and lawn and orchard and spreading fields within stone walls, but the lawn was like a meadow and many of the books on the high shelves of the library had been damaged by the damp. The orchard was wild, his father’s beehives rotting away unseen in the high grass at its foot. The many acres had been understocked and half farmed for too long, and there were broken gaps in the stone walls. Nearly all the other Protestant landowners, friends of his parents, presences in his youth, seeing the erosion of their old ascendancy, had emigrated to Canada, Australia, or moved to the North. William Kirkwood stayed, blessedly unaware that he had become a mild figure of fun, out watching the stars at night as a young man when he should have been partying with the Protestant blades or parading their confident women among the prize floral arrangements and cattle and horses and sheaves of barley of the shows; now struggling on miles of good land to support himself, an old servant woman and her illegitimate child. But this laughter was based on no knowledge of the man. It came from casual observation, complacent ignorance, simple prejudice, that lazy judgement that comes more easily than any sympathy, and it was to receive a severe jolt because of the war away in Europe. A neutral Ireland declared it The Emergency. Local defence forces were formed. William Kirkwood saw no division of loyalty and was among the first to join. He was given a commission, and the whole local view of him — humorous, derisory, patronizing — changed. He proved to be a crack marksman. He could read field maps at a glance.
His mother’s father had been old Colonel Darby, half deaf, with a stiff leg and a devotion to gin, who was not much mentioned around the stone house because he had never let slip a single opportunity to pour sarcasm and insult on his gentle sober son-in-law, William’s father. The Darbys had been British officers far back, and once William Kirkwood put on uniform it was as if they gathered to claim him. Men who had joined for the free army boots and uniform, for the three weeks in Finner Camp by the sea on full pay every summer, got an immediate shock. The clipped commands demanded instant compliance. A cold eye searched out every small disorder of dress or stance or movement. There were mutterings, ‘Put one of them back on a horse and it’s as if they never left the saddle. They’d ride you down like a dog,’ but they had to admit that he was fair, and when he led the rifle team to overall victory in the first Western Shield, and was promoted Captain, Commanding Officer for the north of the county, a predictable pride stirred and slow praise, ‘He’s not as bad as he appears at first,’ began to grow about his name.
Out of uniform he was as withdrawn as before and as useless on land. Lucy was with him everywhere still. Though school and church had softened her accent, it still held more than a hint of the unmistakable Protestant bark, and she took great pride in William’s new uniform and rank. She had caused a disturbance at school by taking a stick and driving some boys from the ball alley who had sneered at William’s Protestantism: ‘He doesn’t even go to his own church.’
‘He has no church to go to. It was closed,’ she responded and took up her stick.
Annie May had lost all control of her, and often William found himself ruling in favour of the mother, caught uncomfortably between them, but mostly Lucy did William’s bidding. To be confined with her mother in the house was the one unacceptable punishment. To be with William in the fields was joy. She helped him all that poor wet summer at the hay. She could drive the horse-raker and was more agile than he. Beyond what work she did, and it was considerable, her presence by his side in the field was a deep sustenance. He shuddered to think of facing the long empty fields stretching ahead like heartache, the broken sky above, without her cheerful chatter by his side, her fierce energy.
And it seemed only right that she was by his side on the morning that the long isolation of the Kirkwoods ended.
The hay had been turned in the big rock meadow but rain was promised by evening. What lay ahead of them, even with the help of the horse-raker, was disheartening. They would have to try to save as much as they were able. What still lay on the ground by evening would have to take its chance of better weather. They could do no more.
Suddenly, there was a shout in the meadow, and Francie Harte came swaggering towards them. Francie had given William much trouble in the early days of the Force. He had been forever indulging in practical jokes.
‘Is there anything wrong with me dress today, Captain?’ he shouted out as he came close. His walk was awkward because of the hayfork hidden behind his back.
‘No, Francie. We are not in uniform today,’ William Kirkwood replied mildly, not knowing what to make of the apparition. Then a cheer went up from behind the roadside hedge and the whole company of men swarmed into the field. Another man was opening the gate to let in an extra horse and raker. Haycocks started to spring up the field before the shouting, joking, cursing, jostling tide of men. Lucy was sent racing to the house to tell Annie May to start making sandwiches. William himself went to Charlie’s for a half-barrel of porter. Long before night the whole field was swept clean. After the men had gone William Kirkwood walked the field, saw all the haycocks raked and tied down.
‘That would take you and me most of a week, Lucy, and we’d probably lose half of it,’ he said in his reflective way, almost humbly.
The promised rain arrived by evening. Its rhythmic beating on the slates brought him no anxiety. He heard it fall like heartsease and slept.
The same help arrived to bring the hay in from the fields, and they came for the compulsory wheat and root crops as well. Not even in the best years, when they could afford to take on plenty of labour, had the whole work of summer and harvest gone so easily. To return the favours, since none of the men would accept money, William Kirkwood had to go in turn to the other farms. Each time that she wasn’t allowed to go with him Lucy was furious and sulked for days. He was no use at heavy labouring work on the farms, and he was never subjected to the cruelty of competition with other men, but he had an understanding of machinery that sometimes made him more useful than stronger men. As well as by his new military rank, he was protected by the position that the Kirkwoods had held for generations and had never appeared to abuse. He was a novelty in the fields, a source of talk and gossip against the relentless monotony of the work and days. His strangeness and gentle manners made him exceedingly popular with the girls and women, and the distance he always kept, like the unavailability of a young priest, only increased his attractiveness. After the years of isolation, he seemed very happy amid all the new bustle and, for the first time in years, he found that the land was actually making money. At Christmas he offered Annie May a substantial sum as a sort of reparation for the meagre pay she had been receiving unchanged for years. This she indignantly refused.
‘It was pay enough for me to be let stay on here all these years without a word. I wouldn’t ever want to insult you, but I’ll throw that sort of money on the floor if you force it on me.’