Across the River by Alice Taylor

he thought.
    It had surprised her greatly that Fr Brady had brought upthe subject of the hay burning at mass on Sunday. She would not have thought that he had the courage. He was too good-looking for his own good, but apparently there was more to him than a handsome exterior. When Lizzie had passed that smart remark behind her back in the post office, she had ignored her, but it was no wonder that there were rumours going around about himself and Kate. If he had been an overweight, plain-looking man like Fr Burke, there would have been no gossip. She knew Kate well enough to know that Kate would not dream of having a fling on the side. Besides, she had been long enough setting her cap at David Twomey before they finally got things sorted out. It just went to show that people could get any kind of a rumour going. Still, it amused her that do-gooding Kate could be the victim of wagging tongues. She followed the path at the bottom of the field down into the small wood overlooking the river. The trees were like huge umbrellas screening out the sun, and she was glad to walk along in the cool green shadows. She had often played here as a child, solitary games with imaginary people who lived under the trees. As a teenager this had been her refuge when she had found it difficult to be one of the crowd. If Mark and herself were different from each other, they were also different from other people. But whereas Mark was tolerant of people, she, for the most part, found them slightly irritating. To go her own way and do her own thing had always been her choice.
    She might never have got married if Ned had not come to the house most nights with Mark, and slowly she had found herself looking forward to seeing him. Once she had decided that Ned was the one she wanted, she went about achieving her aim with single-minded determination. They had been very happy together. Ned had neveropposed her because when he did she made life so uncomfortable that he soon fell into line. Although her father had died when she was young, she had seen him getting his own way and Agnes agreeing for the sake of a quiet life. She had been determined that she would be the one in control if she ever got married.
    Leaving the river behind, she climbed up the steep path using the tree trunks as hand rails. How quiet it was in here with only the birds and the occasional rustle in the undergrowth. She came out of the wood into the field below her old home, and as she followed the winding path she thought over what she was going to say to her mother and Mark.
    The house was an extraordinary colour. How Agnes could have let Mark put that amazing yellow on the house and that crazy red on the door she could never understand. Agnes opened the door with a welcoming smile on her face. When Martha thought about it, which was seldom, she wondered how a pretty, small-boned little person like Agnes could be the mother of herself and Mark. She had once heard old Molly Conway say that “all the oddness came from the Lehanes”. That old lady had been a bad-minded cow!
    “Martha, it’s great to see you; you seldom call by at this time of day,” Agnes greeted her.
    “I have a reason,” Martha told her. “Is Mark here?”
    “He’s out in the back painting. I don’t like to disturb him when he’s stuck into something,” Agnes said gently.
    “Won’t do him any harm,” Martha told her, going to the back door and out into the garden.
    Martha could just see Mark’s back through the high flowers down at the bottom of the garden. She wound her way down through Agnes’ idea of a garden towardshim.
What a mix up,
she thought as she viewed the potato stalks, cabbage, rhubarb and flowers all growing through each other.
How can anyone tolerate a garden like this?
Her father had had such law and order here in his day, but her mother had let it go higgley-piggley and all over the place. She watched Mark for a little while. He was completely engrossed in what he was doing and had not