Wild Decembers by Edna O’Brien

diesel tank . . . that’s why it wouldn’t go.”
    Bugler had showed it to her out there, pointed to the black-green spew of oil, the higher blades of grass leaky with it, and for some reason she had felt ashamed, as if it was their doing.
    “He makes waves and he makes enemies,” Joseph said, then drew his watch up close to his face to confirm the time the squatter had left.
    Much later she stood in the place where the tractor had stood. There was only the patch of trampled grass, the spew of spilt diesel, and a pullover which he had forgotten. She would miss it. It had been company. She would hear him at all hours doing things to it, making improvements to the inside. Once she was in her plantation, she’d gone out there to think, and when he passed by, it gave him a start to find her in the leafed darkness, on a bench. He asked her what the hushed border of flowers were and she told him that they were dahlias, deep-red dahlias.

 
     
     
     
Dear Rosemary,
I know you’re cross. The thing is, I work from dawn till midnight and after. You’d be surprised with the amount that there is to be done. Everywhere I look there’s another job, another problem, another. No time off. Today for instance was a drama. The tractor wouldn’t go. Someone poured turpentine into the diesel, one of those dear friends and gentle people who live on this mountain. It’s ten o’clock and I’m sitting down to my supper of leftovers. Don’t be cross. We will have a wonderful house yet, but everything takes time. I intend to go into farming in a big way so we will be rich. I miss my little ducky, especially at night! But it is better that my little ducky does not come until the spring, the daffodils and all that. Don’t ask about the weather. Rain rain rain. It’s dropping onto this letter. Your fiancé is builder, builder’s mate, carpenter, plumber, and farmer, but he is still your Shepherd.
     
    He signed it, read it over, and for some reason added, “Don’t expect miracles.”

 
     
     
     
Where in Paris can you see a glass pyramid?
What is the Swahili word for journey?
Which county in Northern Ireland is known as the Orchard County?
What nut is used in the manufacture of dynamite?
Patrick H. Pearse led the 1916 Rebellion—what does H stand for?
According to the Ordnance Survey, at what point does a hill become a mountain?
Where did Michelangelo depict God’s creation of Adam?
What chemical element is the sun partly made from?
     
    By the time they had got to round eight of the final quiz night, the tension and excitement had escalated, as those who supported Joseph’s team and those who supported the schoolteacher’s were at loggerheads, shouting each other down, some accusing Dunny, the quizmaster, of rigging, of favouritism, even nepotism. “What the hell is nepotism” came from the back of the room. It was because there had been a question as to which Greek god was conceived through a shower of gold, and with Joseph being something of a Greek scholar, he would know the answer easily.
    “Jesus Christ,” shouted one of the hecklers, but he was hushed. For nine weeks they had assembled every Tuesday, sat themselves at their appointed tables, joked, sparred, bit on their pencils, smote themselves for not knowing such and such an answer, and vociferously objected to questions such as how many windows in the vocational school or which classroom had a picture of Granuaile the pirate queen. Those who had dropped out along the way had been given consolation prizes of pottery mugs which they banged on the table to confirm or withdraw their support. Speculation abounded as to what the prize would be, the biggie, as it was touted. Some thought a cut-glass bowl, others in the know said it was massive.
    During the lull after the first batch of questions, Derek the barman passed around plates of sandwiches as a surprise gift. It was neck and neck. Joseph and Alfie, the schoolteacher, fighting it out alone because they were so