held it there — a frozen farewell. Rose’s hand lifted a small distance in response. Nothing more. Then Brennan pulled the horse’s neck around and headed away at a steady walk.
On went the bride, clip clop, to the wedding. But a silence had drifted into the carriage; a slow haze of sadness that hovered all day, settling like dust on the ceremony and the celebration that followed. Nolly Hanratty, who might have fancied himself as replacement groomsman, quietly pushed his cousin forward, but even Goldie McGuire’s evident delight at this last-minute promotion did little to lighten the event. Michael drank too much and managed a few cheerful jokes, but later he picked a fight with Doldo Scobie over something, and if Arnold hadn’t bundled his boy out by the scruff things might have turned ugly. The Arnold Scobies were all there, expecting to hear a good speech by their nephew, and a bit of good music too. Brennan’s disappearance was a surprise to everyone, it seemed.
Michael predicted that Brennan would return after a day or two. ‘The groomsman is off to groom a different horse,’ he joked, ‘called Grumpy. He can’t stay away, though. He’ll be back before the week’s out, bet you a guinea.’
TWO weeks later there is still no word of Brennan. Then a scrap of Burnett’s Face gossip reaches Henry. Brennan has found a good job and lodging in Christchurch.
‘Michael!’ he calls from the school-house door. ‘Come in a minute! I have news of Brennan!’
Michael pulls on the reins. ‘Eh? I can’t hear a thing with all this rumbling.’ His cart, loaded with sacks of oats, slows to a stop and he jumps down, grinning and slapping the dust out of his clothes. ‘Brennan, did you say? I knew he’d be back.’ Michael looks cheerful enough today, swinging down the path, dapper as usual, but only last night Henry saw him surly and aggressive outside Hanrattys’, trying to pick a fight with his own friend Slap Honiball. An unsettling sight: that big ox Slap turning this way and that, embarrassed at the dancing taunts, obviously unwilling to fight back yet hurt by his friend’s public assault. In the end he walked away and left Michael almost screaming at his back. Henry had no idea what had provoked such a frenzy.
‘Come in, come in, the kettle’s on the stove,’ says Henry now. He puts a hand on Michael’s shoulder to guide him in. Michael comes readily enough, and stands leaning against the doorway as Henry fusses with tea and mugs.
‘What’s the news, then? Wouldn’t you know I’d be the last to hear? Is he back already?’
Henry, sweeping papers aside and searching for a biscuit, fails to see the excitement in Michael’s face. ‘Sit down, sit down. No, no, you have it wrong, he’s not back.’
Michael takes his mug of tea but stays on his feet. He frowns. ‘What then? What news?’
‘Sounds like he won’t be back, Michael. He has found good work and lodging in Christchurch.’ Henry announces this with some pleasure.
Michael jerks upright. Hot tea flies out of his cup and down his trousers. He cries out in anger or pain and dashes a hand at the wet wool.
‘Damn! The devil!’ He slams his mug down on the table and, when Henry tries to mop at the stain with a damp cloth, pushes the hand away. ‘I’m all right, can’t you see, you old fusspot? It hasn’t burnt. Get off me!’
Henry steps back, unable to speak. Pieces have suddenly fallen into place. He takes the pipe from his mouth, waves it vaguely in Michael’s direction and then jams it back between his teeth. He stares at Michael. Michael stares back.
At last Henry finds his voice. He speaks with great gentleness. ‘Sit down, Michael.’
Michael sits. His hands are shaking. He looks down at them. His usual bravura, the easy good humour, are completely lacking. Henry pulls up a chair and sits next to him. He hardly dares breathe; he would dearly love to take one of those shaking hands but his own are in a worse state. He
On went the bride, clip clop, to the wedding. But a silence had drifted into the carriage; a slow haze of sadness that hovered all day, settling like dust on the ceremony and the celebration that followed. Nolly Hanratty, who might have fancied himself as replacement groomsman, quietly pushed his cousin forward, but even Goldie McGuire’s evident delight at this last-minute promotion did little to lighten the event. Michael drank too much and managed a few cheerful jokes, but later he picked a fight with Doldo Scobie over something, and if Arnold hadn’t bundled his boy out by the scruff things might have turned ugly. The Arnold Scobies were all there, expecting to hear a good speech by their nephew, and a bit of good music too. Brennan’s disappearance was a surprise to everyone, it seemed.
Michael predicted that Brennan would return after a day or two. ‘The groomsman is off to groom a different horse,’ he joked, ‘called Grumpy. He can’t stay away, though. He’ll be back before the week’s out, bet you a guinea.’
TWO weeks later there is still no word of Brennan. Then a scrap of Burnett’s Face gossip reaches Henry. Brennan has found a good job and lodging in Christchurch.
‘Michael!’ he calls from the school-house door. ‘Come in a minute! I have news of Brennan!’
Michael pulls on the reins. ‘Eh? I can’t hear a thing with all this rumbling.’ His cart, loaded with sacks of oats, slows to a stop and he jumps down, grinning and slapping the dust out of his clothes. ‘Brennan, did you say? I knew he’d be back.’ Michael looks cheerful enough today, swinging down the path, dapper as usual, but only last night Henry saw him surly and aggressive outside Hanrattys’, trying to pick a fight with his own friend Slap Honiball. An unsettling sight: that big ox Slap turning this way and that, embarrassed at the dancing taunts, obviously unwilling to fight back yet hurt by his friend’s public assault. In the end he walked away and left Michael almost screaming at his back. Henry had no idea what had provoked such a frenzy.
‘Come in, come in, the kettle’s on the stove,’ says Henry now. He puts a hand on Michael’s shoulder to guide him in. Michael comes readily enough, and stands leaning against the doorway as Henry fusses with tea and mugs.
‘What’s the news, then? Wouldn’t you know I’d be the last to hear? Is he back already?’
Henry, sweeping papers aside and searching for a biscuit, fails to see the excitement in Michael’s face. ‘Sit down, sit down. No, no, you have it wrong, he’s not back.’
Michael takes his mug of tea but stays on his feet. He frowns. ‘What then? What news?’
‘Sounds like he won’t be back, Michael. He has found good work and lodging in Christchurch.’ Henry announces this with some pleasure.
Michael jerks upright. Hot tea flies out of his cup and down his trousers. He cries out in anger or pain and dashes a hand at the wet wool.
‘Damn! The devil!’ He slams his mug down on the table and, when Henry tries to mop at the stain with a damp cloth, pushes the hand away. ‘I’m all right, can’t you see, you old fusspot? It hasn’t burnt. Get off me!’
Henry steps back, unable to speak. Pieces have suddenly fallen into place. He takes the pipe from his mouth, waves it vaguely in Michael’s direction and then jams it back between his teeth. He stares at Michael. Michael stares back.
At last Henry finds his voice. He speaks with great gentleness. ‘Sit down, Michael.’
Michael sits. His hands are shaking. He looks down at them. His usual bravura, the easy good humour, are completely lacking. Henry pulls up a chair and sits next to him. He hardly dares breathe; he would dearly love to take one of those shaking hands but his own are in a worse state. He
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