The Story of Lucy Gault

When he’d heard from Bridget that the boy who had come that day was to return, Henry had said nothing. His impassive features remained undisturbed, but the lack of response seemed in no way significant to his wife, since often he chose not to comment when news was passed on to him. On occasion this reticence reflected the run of Henry’s thoughts; on occasion it concealed what he did not wish to reveal. When the information came that Ralph was to return there was concealment.

He raised his left hand in a salute, answering Ralph’s greeting. With his right he returned matches and the Woodbine packet to his trouser pocket. IF 19, he noticed, as he had before. A big old Renault the car was.

A few Sundays ago, after Mass in Kilauran, Henry had asked about the car. He’d asked a man who worked on the roads, who told him the car was Mr Ryall’s, that once a week Mr Ryall made the journey from Enniseala to Dungarvan in it, to the Bank of Ireland’s sub-office. How it was that this boy would be driving it, stranger that he appeared to be, the roadworker did not know. From what Bridget had overheard the last time the boy had been here, she said it seemed he was a teacher, but the loose ends in all that had not yet been gathered up.

‘He’s here,’ Henry said in the kitchen, and was aware when he spoke that his wife was pleased to about the same degree that he was not.

‘What it is, he’s teaching the Ryall boys,’ Bridget said. ‘She told me that this morning. He’s staying in the bank.’

‘So he’ll go back to where he emerged from one of these days?’

‘It’s why she wrote a letter to him – to say come out again before he’d go.’

‘He has an easy way with him.’

‘Ah, he’s a nice young fellow.’

‘I don’t know is he.’

Bridget knew better than to take the disagreement further. She said instead:

‘She has a honeycomb brought in for their tea again.’

‘I’ll put the table up outside.’

The boy was waiting, leaning against the side of the car, when Henry crossed the gravel with the slatted table. As he had on the previous occasion, he unfolded it on the hydrangea lawn and drew up the same two white-painted chairs. Passing by the boy as he returned to the yard, he said:

‘You’re over from England, sir?’

‘I live near Enniscorthy. I’ve never been to England.’

‘Arrah, why would you bother yourself?’ Henry nodded a reluctant approval before inclining his head in the direction of Mr Ryall’s car. ‘She moves all right for you, does she?’

‘I don’t go fast.’

‘There’s a few dinges on the mudguards, nothing only that. I was noticing them the other time. She’s well looked after.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’d like to see anything well looked after. I keep the trap up to it myself. I painted the old dog-cart a couple of years ago, but she’s shaky all the same.’

The dickey was opened for him so that he could see the greenupholstered seat. The bonnet was unlatched and folded back so that he could inspect the engine. Henry wagged his head in admiration. That car would be worth a bit, he said.

‘It’s Mr Ryall’s.’

‘I heard you were stopping there. Here’s the missy for you now.’

Henry walked slowly away. He felt better now that he’d had the conversation about the car. He listened to what was being said, the exchanges stuttering and nervous. The boy apologized for being early and was told it didn’t matter.

*

‘I thought maybe you’d have gone away already,’ Lucy said. ‘I thought maybe my note would have missed you.’

‘I have a few more weeks in Enniseala.’

‘I was glad to get your letter.’

I will come on Wednesday, Ralph had written, hurrying to catch the evening post. Six days had gone by then, during each one of which he had imagined what was happening now. While Caesar’s Gallic War progressed and geometry bewildered Jack, Ralph had wondered if she would smile in that same way, and had resolved that silences should not develop. Would she tell him, this time, what others had told him since last they met? Would it bore her to hear about himself? About the friends he’d made at boarding-school? About the timber yards and the sawmills he would one day inherit? Would any of it interest her, as everything about her interested him?

‘I keep bees,’ she said. ‘Did I tell you that before?’

‘No, you didn’t.’

‘I didn’t even tell you my name. But you know it now.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘You will have heard about the Gaults.’

‘Oh, not much.’