Over The Wall
Mary's hands were trembling violently when she placed the receiver in its cradle. For a long while, she just stared off into space, then she put her head in her hands and wept.
Up in Dublin, Fudge would be forced to think up an excuse for Lilly, while here on Birch Rise she couldn't even think up one for herself. There was nothing in the world stopping them from coming down to Loughrua and, in fact, there was nothing that Mary wanted more--but she couldn't. She couldn't sit opposite him without touching his hand, nor walk beside him without taking his arm. It would be impossible to talk to him without looking into his eyes, impossible to listen without hanging on his every word. Everyone would see it, recognise it, know it. And Charlie, too. He wasn't blind, nor was he a fool, and he didn't deserve to be treated like one either. She was his life, and he, for that matter, hers. He'd given her a home and happiness, a past and a future. They'd shared the joys of parenthood and the heartbreak of it, too. Each had sworn to love and respect the other, and love and respect him, she would.
Out through the living room window, Mary watched as a single rain shower, a cold and dreary sheet of metal, moved away from Birch Rise and across the Brackens towards the hills beyond Loughrua Lake. The patchwork of fields, still vivid green in the deepest winter, were surrounded by hedgerows of dirty grey, as if autumn had sucked the very last drop of colour out of the tangle of woody briars. Only here and there, a holly bush laden with scarlet berries, or a wall of ivy, leapt out in contrast. Though the Irish never dared to share Bing Crosby's dream of a white Christmas, a fine powdering of snow lay over the distant hilltops like a greying, diaphanous tablecloth, and the sluggish, low-lying bank of cloud held the promise of more. Soon Christmas would come and go, and with it the old year making way for the new.
A new year? Another year. Not new. What was new when you were back-pedalling towards your forty-eighth birthday? When your children had found their wings and the nest was growing cold? Already the socks drying above the range no longer filled a whole row, and the number was shrinking as fast as she could blink. And when the only ones left belonged to Charlie and herself? What then?
A clutter of heifers stood crowded together on the stretch of bumpy fallow land behind the stables, their hindquarters turned towards the wind. As Mary watched them chew the cud in mesmerising monotony, the great heads dipping occasionally to tear bunches of grassy stalks from the lush green hummocks dotting the muddy ground, she wondered if animals ever felt lonely, or longed for something they couldn't have. Did they look into the future and shudder at the uncertainty of what lay ahead, or regret what might have been?
The sound of hefty winter boots clomping up the corridor made her start. A second later Charlie appeared in the doorway behind her. Quickly, she wiped a last tear away and blinked back those threatening to come.
"All right, love? You look a bit wistful." His face was glowing from the chilly fresh air, his hair windswept. He didn't hear his wife sigh, but saw her broad shoulders rise and fall heavily.
"I was just wondering if cows ever felt lonesome."
Charlie knew not to scoff at such statements. Instead he joined her at the window and laid his hand on her waist. Together they gazed out over the yard to the fields behind.
"I wouldn't think so. Cows are gregarious animals, happy enough to be standing around all day chomping away."
"Wouldn't that be nice?"
"What then?"
"To be happy enough standing around all day. I ask myself if we humans are really blessed with all our senses, our awareness, our sentiments. Sometimes I think it would be grand not to be burdened with emotions, not to be enslaved by feelings."
As a quiver of uncertainty scurried through Charlie, he considered she might be just right. It'd be a fine thing not to know this dull weight of disquiet that settled in the depths of his stomach every time he found his wife staring blankly off across the gorse-studded countryside.
"That's a very sombre attitude altogether, Mrs. Ginnane," Charlie said, pulling Mary a little closer. "Isn't there a lot of joy in our lives?"
"There is, of course." She rested her head on his shoulder, and the weight in his stomach lifted. "And a lot to be thankful for, too."
"Indeed, there is." The farmer gave his wife a little squeeze. "I'll go and put the kettle on."
"Do that, love."
She watched as he pottered back towards the kitchen, smiling affectionately at the sight of his worn corduroy trousers sagging sadly at the seat.