the bullâs field, she could walk up and take the ring out of his nose. And she had taken a liking to her brother, the simple one. Always she was urging him on to do the things nobody else believed him capable. Sheâd taught him how to knot and cast the hook, how to strike a match and write his name.
Seldom did neighbours come into that house but whenever they did, Martha told stories. In fact, she was at her best with stories. On those rare nights they saw her pluck things out of the air and break them open before their eyes. They would leave remembering not the fine old house that always impressed them or the man with the worried look that owned it or the strange flock of teenagers but the woman with the dark brown hair which got looser as the night went on and her pale hands plucking unlikely stories like green plums that ripened with the telling at her hearth. After these stories they were sometimes too frightened to go back out into the night and Deegan had to walk them as far as the road. After such nights, he always took his woman to bed to make not only her but himself sure that she was nobodyâs but his. Sometimes he believed that was why she told a story well.
But in that household as in any other, Mondays came. Whether the dawn was blood red or a damp, ash grey,Deegan got up and placed his bare feet on the cold floor and dressed himself. Often his limbs felt stiff but, without complaint, he milked, ate his breakfast and went to work. He worked all day and some days were long. If, in the evenings, his eyes of their own accord were closing while heâd yet again the cows to tend, it was a solace to drive over the hill and see the lighted windows, the tusk of chimney smoke, to know his work was not for nothing. Before he retired, the bank would give back the deed and Aghowle would, at last, belong to him.
The fact that it stood in a hollow, that the walls within it were no thicker than cardboard didnât matter. Now that his parents were dead and his brothers had gone, Deegan was becoming sentimental. He remembered not how his mother had spent so much of his youth in bed with the curtains drawn or the nights when his father took down the strap saying he couldnât have it all his own way, but simpler things, plain facts. The line of oaks on Aghowleâs lane were planted by his great-grandfather. No matter how hard or high his children swung, those limbs would never break. Secretly, he knew that the place gave him more satisfaction than his wife and children ever would.
Deegan is now middle-aged. If it is a stage when some believe that much of life is over, and assume that whatâs left is a downhill slope to be lived within the restraints of choices made, for Deegan, it is otherwise. For him, retirement will be the reward for all the risks heâs ever taken. By the time his pension comes, his children will be reared. He envisages himself in Aghowle with one Shorthorn for the house. He will get up when it suits him, sort through stones and repair the orchard walls. He will take out the spade, plant more oaks on the land. He can already feel the dry stone, the oaksâ blue shade. The eldest boy will marry,have children, and carry on the name. But in the meantime , before he can take his early retirement and retreat into this easy life he craves, there are children to finish rearing, bills to pay and years of work yet to be done.
*
One wet day while he is working beyond Coolattin pruning a line of Douglas fir, Deegan stumbles across a gun dog. The retriever has sheltered for the night under the trees and the forester has, in fact, roused him from a dream of ponies chasing him through a bog. Puzzled at first by the presence of a stranger, the retriever looks around and then remembers yesterday. OâDonnell tried to shoot him but then OâDonnellâs rage was always sharper than his aim. It was, quite simply, a case of the bad hunter blaming his dog. Now this bearded stranger
Seldom did neighbours come into that house but whenever they did, Martha told stories. In fact, she was at her best with stories. On those rare nights they saw her pluck things out of the air and break them open before their eyes. They would leave remembering not the fine old house that always impressed them or the man with the worried look that owned it or the strange flock of teenagers but the woman with the dark brown hair which got looser as the night went on and her pale hands plucking unlikely stories like green plums that ripened with the telling at her hearth. After these stories they were sometimes too frightened to go back out into the night and Deegan had to walk them as far as the road. After such nights, he always took his woman to bed to make not only her but himself sure that she was nobodyâs but his. Sometimes he believed that was why she told a story well.
But in that household as in any other, Mondays came. Whether the dawn was blood red or a damp, ash grey,Deegan got up and placed his bare feet on the cold floor and dressed himself. Often his limbs felt stiff but, without complaint, he milked, ate his breakfast and went to work. He worked all day and some days were long. If, in the evenings, his eyes of their own accord were closing while heâd yet again the cows to tend, it was a solace to drive over the hill and see the lighted windows, the tusk of chimney smoke, to know his work was not for nothing. Before he retired, the bank would give back the deed and Aghowle would, at last, belong to him.
The fact that it stood in a hollow, that the walls within it were no thicker than cardboard didnât matter. Now that his parents were dead and his brothers had gone, Deegan was becoming sentimental. He remembered not how his mother had spent so much of his youth in bed with the curtains drawn or the nights when his father took down the strap saying he couldnât have it all his own way, but simpler things, plain facts. The line of oaks on Aghowleâs lane were planted by his great-grandfather. No matter how hard or high his children swung, those limbs would never break. Secretly, he knew that the place gave him more satisfaction than his wife and children ever would.
Deegan is now middle-aged. If it is a stage when some believe that much of life is over, and assume that whatâs left is a downhill slope to be lived within the restraints of choices made, for Deegan, it is otherwise. For him, retirement will be the reward for all the risks heâs ever taken. By the time his pension comes, his children will be reared. He envisages himself in Aghowle with one Shorthorn for the house. He will get up when it suits him, sort through stones and repair the orchard walls. He will take out the spade, plant more oaks on the land. He can already feel the dry stone, the oaksâ blue shade. The eldest boy will marry,have children, and carry on the name. But in the meantime , before he can take his early retirement and retreat into this easy life he craves, there are children to finish rearing, bills to pay and years of work yet to be done.
*
One wet day while he is working beyond Coolattin pruning a line of Douglas fir, Deegan stumbles across a gun dog. The retriever has sheltered for the night under the trees and the forester has, in fact, roused him from a dream of ponies chasing him through a bog. Puzzled at first by the presence of a stranger, the retriever looks around and then remembers yesterday. OâDonnell tried to shoot him but then OâDonnellâs rage was always sharper than his aim. It was, quite simply, a case of the bad hunter blaming his dog. Now this bearded stranger
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