Across the River (13 page)

“What exactly does that mean?” he was asking in a shaky voice.

“Exactly what it says. You will be party to all decisions. Your mother cannot act without your consent and you cannot act without hers. That applies to all management and working decisions on the farm. Now, as regards the financial side of things, both your names will go on to the Mossgrove bank account.”

There would be no new house. She heard Mr Hobbs voice from a long way off.

“And now for you, Miss Phelan,” Hobbs continued, smiling at Nora who smiled back uncertainly, not quite sure of all the implications unfolding around her, “you will have right-of-residency in Mossgrove until you decide to marry. If you never marry, it will continue for life.”

“What is right-of-residency?” she ventured.

“The right to live there,” he said.

“But, sure, of course she’ll have that,” Peter broke in indignantly.

“Of course,” Hobbs said agreeably, “but it has another implication. Mr Phelan, should you ever decide to sell Mossgrove, she could prevent it.”

“That won’t arise,” Peter told him shortly.

“Glad to hear it,” Mr Hobbs told him.

Martha’s mind snapped back into alertness. Now it would come out about Kate’s objecting to the sale of Mossgrove, and whatever hope herself and Peter had of working together would be blown away for ever. She could see Peter straining to take in all the implications, and with his next question she held her breath.

“When Nana Nellie left the farm to Dad, did she make the same arrangements?” he asked.

It would be important for Peter that he was being treated the same as his father.
Now
, she thought,
he is going to find out!

Then to her amazement she heard Old Hobbs say, “Your aunt had a very good job when you father died and could support herself.”

It was not a lie, simply an evasion of the truth. She looked at him in amazement, and he returned her gaze with an expressionless face and then smiled vaguely at the three of them.

“Will we get a copy of the will?” Peter asked.

“You know, Mr Phelan, sometimes wills are like life and it is better to deal with them when the relevant events unfold,” he said evenly, and Martha knew that they would not get a copy and for that she was grateful. But Peter was still in search of details.

“But what if my mother and I run into difficulties?” he
persisted.

“And that may be a possibility,” Hobbs told him, and Martha felt that he had the situation well sized up.

“More than a possibility,” Peter assured him.

“Well, in that event, we have two executors, Mr Jack Tobin and Mrs Sarah Jones, both lifelong trusted friends of your grandmother’s. They will see that the will is administered fairly,” he told them.

Martha’s feelings were in disarray. What she had dreaded most had not happened, but the will had presented her with another problem. What was it that Jack used to say? That worries are often overcome by events. It had just happened.

Mr Hobbs was rising to his feet, letting them know that the interview was coming to a close.

“Your minds are probably reeling with unasked questions,” he told them, “but maybe it is better to go home and get used to things and then come back at a later date if you want another discussion. In the meantime, I will be sending you the relevant details and will be writing to Mr Tobin and Mrs Jones.”

He shook hands politely with each one of them and they left his office in a bemused state.

When they gathered around the table in the Ross Arms, Nora, the only one to have recovered her equilibrium, was ordering fancy cakes and gooey pastries with gusto. Martha was silent and Peter seemed uncertain as to what was expected of him. Finally he blurted out, “I’m simply floored by that.”

“Can you imagine how I feel?” Martha snapped.

“Well, I suppose you could say that the playing pitch is level anyway,” he suggested.

“With two referees: Jack and Sarah,” Nora chirped in.

“Both of them on your side,” Martha told Peter.

“I’d say that Jack won’t be on either side, only Mossgrove’s,” he said, “and Sarah will agree with Jack.”

“So Mossgrove is the winner,” Martha said.

“Won’t everyone be surprised?” Nora said, but Martha cut in, “There is one thing I want to say to the two of you now, not a word about this to anybody. We will keep it to ourselves for a while.”

“But why?” they chorused.

“I have my reasons,” she told them.

D
ANNY
C
ONWAY
WATCHED
his father stride down the field and rest his arms on the stake over Yalla Hole. Matt Conway never tired of staring across the river. The sight of the black burned rings, his sign of victory over the Phelans, seemed to give him immense satisfaction.

His father had been in a dreadful temper after Fr Brady’s sermon and his mother had a black eye to prove it. When he came home and saw the state of her, Danny had been sorry that he had stayed on to play the match. He should have anticipated that there would be a backlash. If he had been at home, he could have taken the brunt of it, but he had been so carried away by the game that he forgot.

Playing in goal as he did, it would not have been easy to miss the final, and once the game got started there was no time to think of anything else. It was great to have Davy Shine in front of you, because very little got past Davy. If Davy thought that he might not be able to block the ball, he shouted back instructions. Between them they had saved Kilmeen in many a nail-biting finish, and if ever anything got past them, Davy always shouldered the responsibility with him.

Davy was a good friend, but Danny was always cautious around Peter. He felt that Peter blamed him for his father’s carry-on. Nora on the other hand was always friendly. She had been like that even when they were going to school. If there was a fight between the big boys, he and she often hid behind a ditch until it was over.

He had started writing to Kitty and Mary and went to Sarah Jones’ to collect the reply every week. She was such a kind person, and it was just so good to be catching up on the girls’ news. Imagine having a flat all to themselves in
Dublin. Some day he was going to visit them.

Matt Conway turned and walked up the field, as Danny watched him through the broken window of the pigs’ house. He had followed his father everywhere since the burning of the hay. It was only a matter of time before he struck again, and Danny wanted to be there to stop him. He had stood outside the door the night that his father had threatened Jack Tobin, hoping that Jack would use his shotgun.

The thing that worried Danny most was that his father had now taken to hiding below the path that the Phelans used to take a short cut back to Lehanes’. The first day his father had let Martha Phelan see him, but since then he had remained hidden. He watched Martha and Nora, and Danny watched him. If his father was out in the haggard, he could see Martha or Nora leaving their own yard, and then he went down and crossed the river and came up through the wood and hid below the path.

In recent days it was only Nora he went to spy on, mostly late in the evening when she went back to see her grandmother. It worried Danny sick in case he might do something dreadful. On a few occasions he was tempted to confide in Sarah Jones, but he was too ashamed to tell her. Maybe he was only imagining it and his father had no notion of doing anything only spy on them. But why was it only Nora that he watched now?

Soon after his father saw her leaving Mossgrove, he would leave the haggard, and Danny would follow him at a safe distance. He wondered what he could do if anything happened, because his father was as strong as a horse and could easily get the better of him, so he hid a hurley under a bush just beyond where his father stood watching the path. Hopefully he would never have to use it, but if he had to he would need the element of surprise.

Now his father came into the house where he was feeding
the pigs.

“Are you finished there yet?” he demanded.

“Nearly,” he said quietly

“You weren’t worth rearing,” his father told him, walking amongst the pigs and kicking them squealing out of his way. Danny continued pouring the meal into the trough and then went out to bring in another bucket. Mostly he could ignore his father’s aggression when it was directed only at himself.

“What’s wrong with you lately?” his father demanded.

“You haven’t a word to throw at a dog.”

“Nothing,” Danny answered.

“I’ll give you more than nothing if you don’t straighten yourself up and get a bit of a move on around the place,” his father threatened.

Danny was tired because, when the old fellow often got up at night to ramble around the fields, he followed him, and then afterwards he could not get to sleep because he had his ears strained listening for movement. Being an unseen bodyguard to his father was draining his energy. His mother knew that he was following him, but Danny did not want to worry her by giving her any details. She had enough to put up with, and if she knew nothing he could beat nothing out of her. It did not seem so long ago since she had been shielding him. Living with his father was like living with a time bomb.

Today there was a suppressed excitement about Matt that worried Danny. He was like a volcano, about to erupt and do something crazy. Danny could not leave his father out of his sight, especially at the time that Nora went along the path. Usually she came home before the cows were driven out after milking in Mossgrove because she got the supper ready for the rest of them.

That evening when his father brought their own cows in
early for milking, Danny became more uneasy. It looked as if his father was planning to be finished earlier than Mossgrove. Could it be just a coincidence or had he some ulterior motive? His father and mother milked silently, each moving between their own cows, and he too had his allotted ones. When they were all finished, he drove the cows up into the field behind the house. When he came down, his father was not in the haggard or yard, and when he checked the kitchen, he was not there either.

“Did he come in?” he asked his mother.

“No. What’s wrong, Danny?” she asked.

“Nothing, I’ll be back later,” he said hurriedly.

He walked carefully down through the back field, keeping in by the ditch until he reached the river further upstream from Yalla Hole. Part of the river was shallow here so he crossed easily until he came to the deep water, where he had to balance himself carefully as he walked along the plank his father had thrown across to the far bank. He was glad to get into the shelter of the wood where he could not be seen. Following the winding path that climbed upwards, he drew near his father’s hiding place and slowed, moving silently from tree to tree. If a twig cracked beneath his foot, he was in trouble. He hid for a few minutes behind a large tree with tufts of ivy hanging off the trunk. Without being seen he could see through the ivy. At first he thought that there was nobody there and started to breathe more easily, but then a slight movement caught his eye. He watched steadily for a few minutes and saw that his father was hiding in a cluster of bushes just beside the path.

Danny moved quietly to the piece of raised ground where he had hidden the hurley. He could hear his heart thumping with fear. Now he had no doubt but that his
father intended to do something.
Dear God!
he thought,
I should have told Sarah Jones. It’s all my fault and now it’s too late to do anything.
But maybe Nora had not gone to her grandmother’s; she didn’t go every evening. But the old fellow wouldn’t be here if he had not seen her walking back.

From where Danny was hiding, he could oversee the path and his father. His only chance was to wait and move at just the right minute and catch the old fellow off guard. Otherwise his father would get away with whatever he had in mind and lay himself out as well. His heart was thumping so loud that he felt it could be heard all over the wood, but his father never moved.

Maybe she would not come or her Uncle Mark would be with her. If that would only happen, he would go straight to Sarah Jones and tell her the whole story.
Dear God, give me that chance,
he prayed. She was seldom this late and he was just beginning to breathe easy when he heard her singing. He could feel his throat tighten and his mouth go dry. She was walking along the path picking wild woodbine and sniffing it as she sang happily to herself. Her yellow dress was the same colour as her bunch of woodbine. She snapped off a piece with a long stem and pushed it into her blond hair, where it settled in a nest of green leaves. As she passed beside him, she was smiling happily and he recognised her song as “The Young Ones”. They had danced to it in the village a few weeks ago. She gave a little twirl along the path to the rhythm of her singing. Then she was right in front of where his father was hidden. Danny could feel the blood thumping in his head. To his horror, she reached up to pluck an overhanging bunch of woodbine, and his father’s hand shot out and caught her wrist. Danny could
see the stunned look on her face as she opened her mouth to scream, but his father was out on the path with his hand over her mouth and the scream turned into a stifled gurgle.

“Take it easy now, little girl, and nobody will get hurt.” His father voice came hoarsely up to Danny.

Nora’s eyes were dilated with terror as she flailed with her hands and legs. His father was able to hold her with one arm while he pulled a dirty rag out of his pocket and rammed it into her mouth.

“Now, Miss Phelan, we’ll see who’s boss here,” and catching the yellow dress he ripped it down the front.

Danny’s vision blurred with terror, but he could not move. He had to wait until his father was more at a disadvantage. If he moved too soon and got it wrong, he would be useless. Nora was hysterical, belting out with her arms and legs, but she was powerless against such brute strength. His father threw her on the ground and put his boot on top of her to keep her there while he grappled with the buckle of his belt. He swung his belt free, tossed it into the briars, and then went down on his knees straddling Nora, who reached up and clawed his face. Danny moved down silently with the hurley in his hand. Nora was dragging at his father’s hair and his father was thumping her with his fists. Now was the time. Danny crashed the hurley down on his father’s skull and he toppled sideways on to the path. Danny dragged Nora to her feet and whipped the rag out of her mouth.

“Run,” he shouted.

She stood staring at him with a glazed look in her eyes, and he could hear his father grunting behind him. She was rooted to the ground.

“Nora, Nora,” he shouted shaking her, “will you run, for
God’s sake, run!” He faced her for Mossgrove and gave her a push, and then she was running, a lop-sided shunting run, as if her co-ordination were gone askew. Her torn dress dragged behind her. He turned to find his father clambering to his knees with blood streaming down his face.