at Kathleen's smooth blond head, bent over the cutlery drawer, and thought of five years, and of fifty.
The front door crashed open; the boys' voices went up like dogs'. Orla opened the oven and lifted out the sizzling, black-edged salmon.
Síle picked up the pot of honeyed carrots and said, "I'll bring this in, will I? Kieran," she called out, walking into the dining room, "Dermot, Paul, John, c'mon lads, dinner!"
Human Habitation
If ye will still abide in this land,
then will I build you,
and not pull you down,
and I will plant you,
and not pluck you up.
—JEREMIAH 42:10
Síle was parked illegally, helping Marcus pack all his worldly goods into a borrowed van. She picked up a box of glass fisherman's floats and slid it under an antique sewing-machine table. "I thought you said Eoghan and Paul and Tom were coming too?"
"Mm," said Marcus, "then I realized there wouldn't be enough room in the van for all of us. But I trust your muscles. Since I left the airline, my arms have turned to goo."
Síle deposited an armchair upside down on a small sofa. "It'll be worse now you're moving hundreds of miles from civilization. Country bumpkins drive everywhere and get fat."
Marcus laughed. "I'll risk it: It's time to put my roots down. That awful Basingstoke boarding school never felt like home, and my dad had so many postings I never knew whether I'd be spending the summer in Prague or Mexico City or Jo'burg."
"Pity about you. It's not like you stopped moving the minute you grew up."
"Oh, travel's a bad habit, an itch. An unnatural lifestyle," he pronounced with priestly relish.
"Didn't you see Winged Migration? " She was crawling to the back of the van with a nodding asparagus fern.
"The birdie thing? I prefer my film stars human."
"They spend most of their lives on the wing, back and forth; it's like this secret pulse throbbing through the planet."
"They have brains the size of peanuts," Marcus pointed out.
"It's even written into our language. Uplifted —" She searched for more examples. " Moved, transported, carried away ... Doesn't ecstasy mean something like 'out of place'?" she wondered.
"Dunno, but Eoghan and Tom are bringing some down tomorrow to celebrate my move."
She laughed.
There was barely room for the two of them in the front of the van, with their seat backs very upright. "Just as well we're used to confined spaces," said Marcus, pulling out into traffic. "Remember that time in the forty-seater, stuck on the tarmac at Shannon, waiting for them to change a bulb?"
Síle groaned. "Two hours of apologizing, creeping up and down that aisle like Quasimodo. I thought my neck would never straighten again."
"See? You're not going to lose me as a friend, not after times like that."
They edged through the capital's westward sprawl, and it began to drizzle. They discussed Marcus's work doing exquisite drawings of improbable inventions people wanted to patent, his dying sister in Bath—"liver disease, and the poor girl never had more than the odd sherry"—and Síle's nephews. "The irony is, Orla had two boys and was desperate for a girl, so she and William tried again and had twins, John and Paul—named for the Pope."
"That'll be Our Lord's famous sense of humour."
"Here's Kieran making his first Holy Communion, in a cummerbund," said Síle, holding up the photo. "Isn't that the cutest pair of trousers you've ever seen?"
"And I've seen some cute trousers in my time."
"Speaking of which, isn't it going to reduce your social prospects, holing up in the wilds?"
"Well, the thing is," said Marcus, rubbing his shaved head, "I've already slept with all the Dublin guys I'd ever have any interest in."
"What, all of them, you slag?"
"It's not that big a city." He turned off the wipers as the sun struggled through the clouds.
Síle stared at some unkempt horses grazing along the verge of the motorway. On the green horizon, a ruined tower kept appearing in glimpses. "You sound so world-weary."
"Do you remember
The front door crashed open; the boys' voices went up like dogs'. Orla opened the oven and lifted out the sizzling, black-edged salmon.
Síle picked up the pot of honeyed carrots and said, "I'll bring this in, will I? Kieran," she called out, walking into the dining room, "Dermot, Paul, John, c'mon lads, dinner!"
Human Habitation
If ye will still abide in this land,
then will I build you,
and not pull you down,
and I will plant you,
and not pluck you up.
—JEREMIAH 42:10
Síle was parked illegally, helping Marcus pack all his worldly goods into a borrowed van. She picked up a box of glass fisherman's floats and slid it under an antique sewing-machine table. "I thought you said Eoghan and Paul and Tom were coming too?"
"Mm," said Marcus, "then I realized there wouldn't be enough room in the van for all of us. But I trust your muscles. Since I left the airline, my arms have turned to goo."
Síle deposited an armchair upside down on a small sofa. "It'll be worse now you're moving hundreds of miles from civilization. Country bumpkins drive everywhere and get fat."
Marcus laughed. "I'll risk it: It's time to put my roots down. That awful Basingstoke boarding school never felt like home, and my dad had so many postings I never knew whether I'd be spending the summer in Prague or Mexico City or Jo'burg."
"Pity about you. It's not like you stopped moving the minute you grew up."
"Oh, travel's a bad habit, an itch. An unnatural lifestyle," he pronounced with priestly relish.
"Didn't you see Winged Migration? " She was crawling to the back of the van with a nodding asparagus fern.
"The birdie thing? I prefer my film stars human."
"They spend most of their lives on the wing, back and forth; it's like this secret pulse throbbing through the planet."
"They have brains the size of peanuts," Marcus pointed out.
"It's even written into our language. Uplifted —" She searched for more examples. " Moved, transported, carried away ... Doesn't ecstasy mean something like 'out of place'?" she wondered.
"Dunno, but Eoghan and Tom are bringing some down tomorrow to celebrate my move."
She laughed.
There was barely room for the two of them in the front of the van, with their seat backs very upright. "Just as well we're used to confined spaces," said Marcus, pulling out into traffic. "Remember that time in the forty-seater, stuck on the tarmac at Shannon, waiting for them to change a bulb?"
Síle groaned. "Two hours of apologizing, creeping up and down that aisle like Quasimodo. I thought my neck would never straighten again."
"See? You're not going to lose me as a friend, not after times like that."
They edged through the capital's westward sprawl, and it began to drizzle. They discussed Marcus's work doing exquisite drawings of improbable inventions people wanted to patent, his dying sister in Bath—"liver disease, and the poor girl never had more than the odd sherry"—and Síle's nephews. "The irony is, Orla had two boys and was desperate for a girl, so she and William tried again and had twins, John and Paul—named for the Pope."
"That'll be Our Lord's famous sense of humour."
"Here's Kieran making his first Holy Communion, in a cummerbund," said Síle, holding up the photo. "Isn't that the cutest pair of trousers you've ever seen?"
"And I've seen some cute trousers in my time."
"Speaking of which, isn't it going to reduce your social prospects, holing up in the wilds?"
"Well, the thing is," said Marcus, rubbing his shaved head, "I've already slept with all the Dublin guys I'd ever have any interest in."
"What, all of them, you slag?"
"It's not that big a city." He turned off the wipers as the sun struggled through the clouds.
Síle stared at some unkempt horses grazing along the verge of the motorway. On the green horizon, a ruined tower kept appearing in glimpses. "You sound so world-weary."
"Do you remember
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