think you are, Gerald? That immoral Tolstoy who’d go strolling on his estate and push any passing peasant girl into the bushes and use her? Then dry himself on her clothing and stroll on? You’ll marry this pregnant Catholic girl, Gerald. Or you’re no longer my son.’”
McIntyre’s color was high, his keen eyes sparkled. “What a scene it must’ve been in that library! For Gerald Ashenden, it would be good-bye to the money to open his office on Merrion Street in Dublin, good-bye to the Ashen-den estate and its five hundred acres. Even good-bye to his mother. The doors of Ashenden Manor closed against him. Disowned. Cast out! Cast out like … like somebody in the Bible. Can’t remember. Some fellow. Who was it, Ms. Tunet?”
“Isaac? Jacob? I don’t remember either, Mr. McIntyre.”
* * *
By half past twelve, it had gotten noisy in O’Malley’s, and several people, beer glasses in hand, had come up to their table to say hello to McIntyre and things like, “Back from Australia, McIntyre? Seen any kangaroos? Waltzing Matildas?” But by one o’clock it was quiet again, customers gone back to work. An occasional clash of dishes from the kitchen; Sean O’Malley at the bar, washing glasses and watching a rugby game on the television, keeping the sound low. He had put more logs on the fire: the warmth enveloped McIntyre’s table. Replete, McIntyre mused, “It wasn’t any wonder that Kathleen Brady Ashenden came often to O’Malley’s. ’Twas the only warm place in her life. Coldness at home can turn a person to drink. Coldness and misery.” The once-beautiful Kathleen became not so radiant. “More on the thick side. Gray in her hair, hair that had been black satin. The blue eyes not so blue, the electricity diminished. They were wavering eyes, pleading eyes. Bewildered. It wasn’t Gerald Ashenden got trapped, but Kathleen Brady. Poor little hen!”
Torrey gazed at the fire, which flared up suddenly. “She died so young. A brushfire, wasn’t it? Rowena once told me about it. She was only about…?”
“She was thirty-one. Had that little girl, Caroline, eleven or so, at the time.”
A silence. Something about the silence made Torrey turn from the fire and look at McIntyre. He was watching her, an assessing look. Somewhere in the past she’d seen that look, doubtful, not quite sure, saying silently: Does she qualify, can I tell her? Torrey looked steadily back into the keen old eyes. “Tell me.”
McIntyre tipped up his pint and drank, a long drink. He put it down and wiped his mouth. He gave Torrey a nod. “She was here in the pub that night, before the brushfire started. The last night of her life. She sat where you’re sitting. She started to talk, low and halting. ‘When I was little, I would worry so. I would say to my mother, “When I grow up, who will marry me?” I thought no one would ever want to marry me. And my mother would laugh and say. “Don’t worry. Someday a knight will come along on a white horse and marry you.”’” McIntyre shook his head. “Blue eyes awash with drunken tears, yet tears to break the heart. ‘I thought Gerald was the knight.’ She raised her glass of beer to drink, and her hand shook so that half the beer spilled over the table and onto her skirt. I said, ‘Here, now,’ and tried to hand her a paper napkin to blot it, but she pushed my hand away and looked down at her skirt, ‘It’s done for, same as me. Done for.’ She left then. I didn’t think twice about anything deeper. But when I went to light my pipe, my folder of matches was gone.”
* * *
On the cobbled street outside O’Malley’s, Torrey stood in the bright sunlight beside her bike that she’d left leaning against the brick wall. Brilliant blue sky, white clouds, a fresh breeze. But she felt heavy with McIntyre’s story about Kathleen Brady. It seemed somehow to cast a shadow over the sunlit village street.
Pensively, she ran a finger down the side of her
McIntyre’s color was high, his keen eyes sparkled. “What a scene it must’ve been in that library! For Gerald Ashenden, it would be good-bye to the money to open his office on Merrion Street in Dublin, good-bye to the Ashen-den estate and its five hundred acres. Even good-bye to his mother. The doors of Ashenden Manor closed against him. Disowned. Cast out! Cast out like … like somebody in the Bible. Can’t remember. Some fellow. Who was it, Ms. Tunet?”
“Isaac? Jacob? I don’t remember either, Mr. McIntyre.”
* * *
By half past twelve, it had gotten noisy in O’Malley’s, and several people, beer glasses in hand, had come up to their table to say hello to McIntyre and things like, “Back from Australia, McIntyre? Seen any kangaroos? Waltzing Matildas?” But by one o’clock it was quiet again, customers gone back to work. An occasional clash of dishes from the kitchen; Sean O’Malley at the bar, washing glasses and watching a rugby game on the television, keeping the sound low. He had put more logs on the fire: the warmth enveloped McIntyre’s table. Replete, McIntyre mused, “It wasn’t any wonder that Kathleen Brady Ashenden came often to O’Malley’s. ’Twas the only warm place in her life. Coldness at home can turn a person to drink. Coldness and misery.” The once-beautiful Kathleen became not so radiant. “More on the thick side. Gray in her hair, hair that had been black satin. The blue eyes not so blue, the electricity diminished. They were wavering eyes, pleading eyes. Bewildered. It wasn’t Gerald Ashenden got trapped, but Kathleen Brady. Poor little hen!”
Torrey gazed at the fire, which flared up suddenly. “She died so young. A brushfire, wasn’t it? Rowena once told me about it. She was only about…?”
“She was thirty-one. Had that little girl, Caroline, eleven or so, at the time.”
A silence. Something about the silence made Torrey turn from the fire and look at McIntyre. He was watching her, an assessing look. Somewhere in the past she’d seen that look, doubtful, not quite sure, saying silently: Does she qualify, can I tell her? Torrey looked steadily back into the keen old eyes. “Tell me.”
McIntyre tipped up his pint and drank, a long drink. He put it down and wiped his mouth. He gave Torrey a nod. “She was here in the pub that night, before the brushfire started. The last night of her life. She sat where you’re sitting. She started to talk, low and halting. ‘When I was little, I would worry so. I would say to my mother, “When I grow up, who will marry me?” I thought no one would ever want to marry me. And my mother would laugh and say. “Don’t worry. Someday a knight will come along on a white horse and marry you.”’” McIntyre shook his head. “Blue eyes awash with drunken tears, yet tears to break the heart. ‘I thought Gerald was the knight.’ She raised her glass of beer to drink, and her hand shook so that half the beer spilled over the table and onto her skirt. I said, ‘Here, now,’ and tried to hand her a paper napkin to blot it, but she pushed my hand away and looked down at her skirt, ‘It’s done for, same as me. Done for.’ She left then. I didn’t think twice about anything deeper. But when I went to light my pipe, my folder of matches was gone.”
* * *
On the cobbled street outside O’Malley’s, Torrey stood in the bright sunlight beside her bike that she’d left leaning against the brick wall. Brilliant blue sky, white clouds, a fresh breeze. But she felt heavy with McIntyre’s story about Kathleen Brady. It seemed somehow to cast a shadow over the sunlit village street.
Pensively, she ran a finger down the side of her
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