at length and sometimes a little boringly about environment, the pollution in their rivers and streams. The need for cosmic consciousness.
Madge had first sighted him in the hall dancing with an elderly woman, looking into her face and dancing the slow sedate steps that she knew, oblivious of the tempo around them. ‘I bet that boy loves his mum,’ Madge had said and remarked on his arms that were a little too long for his body. It was Madge that spotted him and it was Madge that eventually threw them together. How inevitable it seemed once it happened, yet before that, Eily scarcely noticed him, had given him a lift the odd time, had once seen him in the landlord’s grounds, the pair of them walking up and down the avenue debating heatedly. And then, that spell, that flounder, then an instant of capitulation and not a word uttered. It was his birthday and while everybody was celebrating Madge had sent them into the kitchen to make a pot of tea. Suddenly they were kissing and he was kicking a nearby door for them to avoid the inevitable guffaws from the other room. Accidentally they bumped into and overturned a heater and as he told her afterwards in his confiding way, he left it overturned to prolong the sweetness of the moment.
Kilcash became their haunt, the oldest of all the woods, a timelessness in its rustle, in its vastness, in twig and leaf and bole, moss a thick boucle of velvet on tree trunks, herds of wild goats fleeing at the first sight of an intruder. Their wood. Sven had fixed up a hammock inside a fort of trees and covered it with a canopy of green tarpaulin. Nearby was a well which he insisted was a magic well and where someone, other lovers perhaps, had left a little pewter egg cup for passers by to drink from. On their third or fourth visit she brought a medal and threw it into the well and they wished, jointly wished, then watched the silver sparkle down there, the medal settling itself on a bed of fawn silt . . .
‘Hi stranger,’ Madge said, fixing the last peg to the sheet with a snapping sound.
‘I haven’t been because I’m working on the place day and night.’
‘When is the housewarming?’
‘Soon ... I want to borrow that dream book from you ... I had the oddest dream last night.’
‘What?’
‘Monkeys. They were swinging inside my skull . . . frantic to get out.’
‘Sven borrowed it.’
‘Oh he’s back,’ Eily said, trying to sound casual.
‘Yes he got back last night ... he called here ... he crashed out, but before you erupt let me explain, he was tired, we talked, we smoked a joint, I made a bit of supper and presto, it’s midnight.’
‘I see,’ Eily said, but what she saw was a sheet hung up, water dripping from it in little piddles, a sheet as she believed that they had slept on.
‘Get a grip . . . you sulked when he left for Dublin, now you’re sulking because he’s back . . . he’s a kid . . . he’ll go off you.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Well his family think it’s all wrong ... an older woman, solo with a child . . . they have bigger things in mind for him.’
‘He told you that?’
‘He trusts me, he confides in me, he runs to me, then you run to me . . . tea and sympathy . .. you’re like children the pair of you . . . sometimes I wish I’d never flung you together.’
Eily had been sitting sideways, half in and half out of the car, bantams like little ballerinas pecking at the canvas of her shoe, when suddenly she swings her feet back in, trembling, but adamant.
‘Why are you doing this. Why are you so suspicious?’ ‘I love him, Madge.’
‘Oh Jesus. Love! All I meant was don’t be such a Princess,’ and with that she reached in and tried to snatch the keys and they bickered, Madge insisting, ‘I only want to be his friend, I want to do a painting of him, I don’t want to make babies with him.’
Eily reversed the car, startled some hens in the dust baths and trampled over a new flower-bed to get on to the rutted
Madge had first sighted him in the hall dancing with an elderly woman, looking into her face and dancing the slow sedate steps that she knew, oblivious of the tempo around them. ‘I bet that boy loves his mum,’ Madge had said and remarked on his arms that were a little too long for his body. It was Madge that spotted him and it was Madge that eventually threw them together. How inevitable it seemed once it happened, yet before that, Eily scarcely noticed him, had given him a lift the odd time, had once seen him in the landlord’s grounds, the pair of them walking up and down the avenue debating heatedly. And then, that spell, that flounder, then an instant of capitulation and not a word uttered. It was his birthday and while everybody was celebrating Madge had sent them into the kitchen to make a pot of tea. Suddenly they were kissing and he was kicking a nearby door for them to avoid the inevitable guffaws from the other room. Accidentally they bumped into and overturned a heater and as he told her afterwards in his confiding way, he left it overturned to prolong the sweetness of the moment.
Kilcash became their haunt, the oldest of all the woods, a timelessness in its rustle, in its vastness, in twig and leaf and bole, moss a thick boucle of velvet on tree trunks, herds of wild goats fleeing at the first sight of an intruder. Their wood. Sven had fixed up a hammock inside a fort of trees and covered it with a canopy of green tarpaulin. Nearby was a well which he insisted was a magic well and where someone, other lovers perhaps, had left a little pewter egg cup for passers by to drink from. On their third or fourth visit she brought a medal and threw it into the well and they wished, jointly wished, then watched the silver sparkle down there, the medal settling itself on a bed of fawn silt . . .
‘Hi stranger,’ Madge said, fixing the last peg to the sheet with a snapping sound.
‘I haven’t been because I’m working on the place day and night.’
‘When is the housewarming?’
‘Soon ... I want to borrow that dream book from you ... I had the oddest dream last night.’
‘What?’
‘Monkeys. They were swinging inside my skull . . . frantic to get out.’
‘Sven borrowed it.’
‘Oh he’s back,’ Eily said, trying to sound casual.
‘Yes he got back last night ... he called here ... he crashed out, but before you erupt let me explain, he was tired, we talked, we smoked a joint, I made a bit of supper and presto, it’s midnight.’
‘I see,’ Eily said, but what she saw was a sheet hung up, water dripping from it in little piddles, a sheet as she believed that they had slept on.
‘Get a grip . . . you sulked when he left for Dublin, now you’re sulking because he’s back . . . he’s a kid . . . he’ll go off you.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Well his family think it’s all wrong ... an older woman, solo with a child . . . they have bigger things in mind for him.’
‘He told you that?’
‘He trusts me, he confides in me, he runs to me, then you run to me . . . tea and sympathy . .. you’re like children the pair of you . . . sometimes I wish I’d never flung you together.’
Eily had been sitting sideways, half in and half out of the car, bantams like little ballerinas pecking at the canvas of her shoe, when suddenly she swings her feet back in, trembling, but adamant.
‘Why are you doing this. Why are you so suspicious?’ ‘I love him, Madge.’
‘Oh Jesus. Love! All I meant was don’t be such a Princess,’ and with that she reached in and tried to snatch the keys and they bickered, Madge insisting, ‘I only want to be his friend, I want to do a painting of him, I don’t want to make babies with him.’
Eily reversed the car, startled some hens in the dust baths and trampled over a new flower-bed to get on to the rutted
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