The Rye Man (17 page)

‘God, I'm sorry. I didn't know. No one ever told me. But what has this got to do with Hennessy?'

‘Liam Hennessy's the oldest of five brothers – the word in the town was that it was Danny, the youngest brother, who did the job. He was never charged but the police believed he was the man. About a year ago the army shot him and another man in an operation out on the Middle Road. It's thought they were on their way to kill Martin Cash, a part-time policeman. The Hennessy family squealed about a shoot-to-kill policy and at the funeral McWilliams called for a public enquiry. Nobody ever mentioned Robbie Ivors.'

They both sat in silence staring at their plates. Neither of them had eaten very much.

‘But Mrs Ivors never said anything, never objected to Lucy participating.'

‘No and she's a remarkable woman – very strong and very in control. Not a drop of bitterness in her. I've spoken to her and she's happy for Lucy to take part in anything you organise. She's not the problem. It's others with less sense than she has. You know something, when Robbie was buried less than a week she got letters from some sick bastard, making fun of what happened. And if you don't believe that I've seen them.'

‘What're we going to do?'

‘Listen, John, I've nothing against Liam Hennessy. I run into him up at the races sometimes or in McDermott's when
he's
open after hours. He's a decent enough soul and a bit of a character but as far as some people in this community are concerned all they know about him is he walked behind a coffin draped in a black beret and gloves.'

‘It was his brother, George, what option did he have? Are you saying he approved of what his brother did?'

‘No, I'm not, and I know he's spoken out against the people in the shadows who recruited his brother, but we're not talking about what I know. Most of our parents will be happy enough for their children to have a few outings with Holy Cross kids, some might even think it's a good idea but there's some, too, who don't want it and when they get themselves organised then we'll have trouble.'

‘I know I've been away from town for a while but by and large people here have always got on pretty well – there haven't been that many incidents compared with other places. And do you not think that just maybe what we've started here might be good for the place?'

‘Do me a favour. You think kids getting in buses and going to the zoo or the American Folk Museum is going to make any difference to anything? There's more chance of shit from a rocking horse.'

He could feel the tension rising between them and he needed George's support if he was to make anything of the job. ‘Look – what about if we had a carol service somewhere neutral – the town square round the Christmas tree or somewhere like that? No clergy at all. Would that help?'

‘It'll not help the Reverend Houston and it doesn't solve the problem of Hennessy. I suppose it'd be something. Is there no chance of quietly ditching Holy Cross and taking up with someone else?'

‘How can I, George? What am I supposed to say to Hennessy?'

‘
It'd make life a lot easier in the long run.'

‘George, it's not even as if we're going to be coming together very often – two or three times a year maybe, that's all. And something that might appeal to you as a business man – there's a lot of money floating about for it. If we don't tap it, somebody else will.'

‘Bugger the money – you'll end up bleeding for every penny of it.'

There was not time to discuss the matter further and on the drive back to school little was said. He did, however, agree to reconsider the whole thing. It wasn't even as if it was a great point of principle and he would have been embarrassed if he thought he was coming across in some naïvely idealistic way. It was just a good idea with a range of benefits for both schools. But the thought of dumping Hennessy was difficult to contemplate – what could he say that wouldn't leave him looking like some mean-minded lackey of small town prejudice?

A simple lunch together had given his staff a momentary sense of unity. It would have been a good thing but for the fact that he didn't feel included in it, and as he stood up to talk about assessment there was a drowsy, disinterested feeling which made his job even more difficult. His own interest had waned and he saw his best course as being to reach the finish as quickly as possible.

While explaining the legal requirements, making the safe assumption that some of them hadn't read the documentation sent out to schools, he found himself speaking the arid language of acronyms: at the end of each key stage there would be a CAI (common assessment instrument); teachers would have to decide the relevant TOE (tier of entry) for each pupil; to do this they would be helped by the evidence produced by EARS (external assessment resources). For a ludicrous second
he
felt he was making it up, as if he was telling them a fairy story where at any moment he might talk about a troll guarding a bridge, or mirrors which spoke, and he didn't doubt the expressions on their faces would have remained unchanged if he had. Nothing was registering, nothing permeated their tired indifference, and nothing he could say was stronger than their preoccupation with their plans for the coming holidays. He was in the way, the final lesson of the afternoon and he sensed their boredom transmitting into a sullen frustration as he rambled on, cutting corners in his discourse, becoming increasingly disjointed as he abandoned his planned structure. Mrs Haslett looked at her watch without disguise or subtlety. Anything now to be finished – he left out great chunks of his notes, obliterating record-keeping, records of achievement, formative and summative reporting. Then with a final few, rushed sentences he ground to a halt like a train at station bumpers and purely out of habit asked if there were any questions. The silence stretched taut and omnipotent, a thick sheet of ice frozen over the moment.

For a second it looked like Miss McCreavey was about to say something but she hesitated and then replaced the unspoken words with a vacant smile. Cutting short the embarrassment he thanked them and, before anyone could move, stood up and poured a glass of water.

In a few minutes only Mrs Craig remained, uncharacteristically hesitant, even nervous. He wondered if he was going to get an earbashing over the hole in her roof or some question he couldn't answer on assessment.

‘John, I thought this would be as good a chance as any to let you know. I wanted to give you as much time as possible. I'm pregnant and I'll be applying shortly for maternity leave.'

He mumbled a congratulations with a forced smile and after giving him some dates she joined the others in the car park.
He
listened to the sound of the starting engines and sat in silence for a few minutes then gathered up his things, only pausing long enough to pull Reynolds' postcard off the board and shred it into the waste paper bin.

*

It was still early when he drove over to the McQuarrie place. There seemed no other way of getting to speak to them – it was obvious they had no intention of coming to school. Though he had tried to find out about them he hadn't made much headway. McQuarrie had bought a small farm on Moss Road about ten years earlier and that made him a newcomer to the area. They had one other child, a boy of about seventeen who helped out on the farm and that was about all anyone had to report about them, except that they kept themselves to themselves. Because they didn't attend any of the local churches it eliminated one of the usual sources of information. Even his mother had been unable to provide anything more, except that she'd heard those who had cause to do business with him described him as dour and ‘not given to wasting the time of day with you if he could avoid it'.

He thought that if he could call early enough he might be able to speak to them without causing too much disruption to their working day, but as he drove the short distance down country roads where a swathe of mist brimmed the fields he wondered how they would react. The car's wipers flicked away a clinging film of moisture as a dark clutch of crows glided across a whitened field before vanishing like spectres. The house number was painted crudely on a stone at the bottom of a long pot-holed lane which was rutted and bisected by a seam of grass. On either side a straggling barbed wire fence
sagged
where poles had worked themselves loose and sodden feathery heads of grass brushed the sides of the car.

As he reached the top of the lane he slowed down to get a look at the place before his arrival was noticed. It was an older, two-storey farmhouse, parts of it pebble-dashed and parts with what looked like recently rendered plaster – the new uncovered work squatting like scabs on the skin of the house. A porch extension had been built at some stage and its tiles were a different colour from the roof. In the windows of it hung blue, checked curtains and some spider plants in crocheted holders.

All around the house and sheds was a strewn junkyard of rusting farm machinery – tractors with their guts cannibalised, tyres piled on top of each other like a giant rubber toy, trailers and broken-backed ploughs. White-throated geese padded about and pecked at themselves in puddles, and smirched cats slinked through the fading wisps of mist which lingered round the base of the buildings. Out of an open-mouthed shed peered baled rows of black-polythened silage like rotting teeth and a straight line of milk churns stood stiffly reflecting the rising sun.

He parked his car beside the ancient Volvo estate which sat close to the porch door but as soon as he got out a shaggy mongrel set up a fierce barking and growled menacingly at him. He stood still, unable to gauge if it was bluff or for real, but knew that someone would soon appear to check the arrival of a stranger and decided caution was the best policy. In a few seconds a woman he assumed to be Mrs McQuarrie came out of the porch and without looking at him chased off the dog, flapping a faded towel. Only when it had reluctantly retreated and crawled under a tilting tractor did she turn to acknowledge him, apologising for the noise of the dog, and
he
sensed immediately that without them having met face-to-face before, she knew who he was.

She was a slight woman, perhaps in her late thirties but looking older, with fine brown hair pulled back tightly into a ponytail. Her thin, pale face bore no trace of make-up. She wore loose, shapeless jeans and a cheap sweat-shirt. He followed her into the kitchen which still had the uncleared breakfast things on the table and worktops, and as she offered him a cup of tea he almost stood in one of the metal dishes which was filled with slops for the dog – chunks of stale bread coated with milk and cornflakes. Pairs of muddied Wellington boots stood on old newspapers beside a clothes horse buckling under the weight of drying clothes. She was flustered, embarrassed, and as she cleared the table kept apologising for the place. He tried hard to put her at her ease, to close whatever distance she felt existed between them, to use words which would put them on an equal standing.

‘You wouldn't worry if you could see the kitchen I've just left. We still haven't got the house sorted out – it takes a brave while to get things ship-shape.'

She made him a cup of tea and neither of them mentioned the purpose of his visit as if his presence in her kitchen wasan everyday occurrence.

‘Do you like your new house Mr Cameron?'

‘Aye it's fine but you get a lot of problems with an older house. We're having a bit of trouble with the septic tank at the moment.'

She rummaged in biscuit tins and set some down on a saucer. ‘Hugh's down working in the back field – you'll be wanting to speak to him.'

‘I'd like the chance to speak to you both but I don't want to take up too much of your time. If it's not convenient I'll call back another time.'

‘
I'll get Jacqueline to run over and get him.' She shouted into the hallway and before the final word of her call had faded her daughter was standing beside the clothes horse, twisting the sleeve of a jumper like a strand of hair. It was strange seeing her in her own environment and they glanced at each other with mutual curiosity.

‘Hi, Jacqueline, you enjoying your holiday?'

She nodded her head without looking at him and under her woollen jumper he could see the outline of her Celtic cross. She was in her socks and a toe peeped out from a tiny hole.

‘Are you going to do anything special?'

She looked up at her mother and fingered the outline of the cross.

‘You know what it's like on a farm Mr Cameron – you don't get much chance to get away.'

‘I know all about it, I grew up on a farm myself. Even when my father did take a break he worried about the place so much it wasn't worth going away.'

She smiled, and beckoning Jacqueline towards her and touching her hair gently, told her to go and fetch her father. She helped her put on the wellingtons, the two linking arms to form a balance, then searched down the boots to pull up her socks as far as they would go. As Jacqueline took her first steps the sheet of newspaper went with her, stuck to her sole, and everyone laughed. He stood up and with Mrs McQuarrie placed a foot on the newspaper on either side of the wellington until she was freed. As she ran off across the yard they smiled at each other, the simple act of help forming a fragile bond between them. After it she seemed more comfortable with him, less openly uneasy about his presence, but she still fussed round the table and unwashed dishes, using her activity as an excuse not to sit down. He felt a little more comfortable too, flicking through all the impressions he had carefully filed away
since
the moment of his arrival, anxious not to miss or misread anything. The woman was not an actress, too obviously un-calculating to carry off a deception. They made small talk and he asked her how the farm was going. From time to time as she answered she glanced discreetly through the kitchen window, anticipating the arrival of her husband, and he could sense her growing nervous again. As she became quieter he carried the burden of the conversation and he knew her concentration was not on what he was saying.