Himself(33)

‘Don’t tell her that.’ She looks at him. ‘Shauna is soft on you. But of course you already know that.’

Mahony grins. ‘And?’

‘Don’t lead her astray. She’s a sweet girl, Mahony.’

‘And you trust me to take her into the forest?’

‘I do.’ Mrs Cauley stretches. ‘While I stay here and have a quiet day with me squirrels.’

‘And a game of cards with Bridget Doosey?’

‘The thought hadn’t crossed my mind,’ she says slyly.

Mahony smiles and on impulse kisses Mrs Cauley on her cheek. ‘You’re a rare beauty, Mrs Cauley. Better looking than Dr Watson even.’

She is delighted. ‘Ah, go on with you.’

Johnnie glowers at Mahony from the hydrangeas.

Shauna changes her clothes three times. She eventually puts on one of Mammy’s good dresses, a navy shift dress that’s too big for her, so she pulls it in at her waist with a cream plastic belt and puts on her good cream shoes with the heels. The rushing makes her feel hot and the clothes make her feel awkward. Shauna has a sense that she’s unravelling as she walks out along the veranda.

Mahony jumps up out of his chair. ‘Here she is.’

Shauna attempts a smile. ‘Will I need a wrap?’

‘For the forest?’

‘Is that where we’re going?’

Mrs Cauley looks up from the racing pages. ‘Mahony needs a bit of help finding Tom Bogey; I told him you’d be delighted to show him the way.’

Shauna scowls across at her. ‘Did you now? Is that what you meant when you said Mahony wanted to bring me out for a bit of a run?’

Mahony puts down his jacket. ‘Ah, Shauna, if you can’t spare the time – it’s a bit of a long shot—’

‘Ah no, that’s fine, Mahony,’ says Shauna, wishing she could go back in and change, but then she’d look an even bigger gobshite. What was she thinking? That Mahony wanted to bring her down into town on his arm and perch her up on a stool in Kerrigan’s?

He smiles at her; his eyes are kind. ‘Will you be all right in those shoes?’

‘These are grand shoes. Just the thing for walking.’

‘Like a cat on scissors,’ says Mrs Cauley under her breath.

Shauna throws the old lady a withering look.

On the way to the forest Shauna tries to remember the stern talks she has had with herself. There is one theme: a romance with Mahony would only ever end badly. For having a man like Mahony would be like wearing slingbacks in a cowshed. Mahony is a luxury that she can’t afford and doesn’t need.

Mahony is not for her.

She will write it out a thousand times and chant it in her sleep.

The man she marries will paint window frames and round up chickens, grow turnips and poison rats, fix plumbing and plaster walls. When she thinks of Mahony stumbling around in overalls, broken by her nagging, hunched by duty, she could cry. He’d be a wild thing domesticated, his tomcattery shattered, his wicked grin the grimace of a yoked man.

Or else there he’d be at the doorway with his bag packed, turning up the collar on his leather jacket. There she’d be crying after him, tears falling on her big-again belly, the house falling around her ears, the dark-eyed twins in her arms bawling and Mrs Cauley roaring for a toasted teacake.

Mahony is not for her.

But still he’s in her head when she’s washing up the dinner plates, or filing Mrs Cauley’s corns, or taking Daddy out his tea. Her senses search for him night and day, in the sound of closing doors and creaking floorboards, in the striking of a match and the pipes filling the cistern. She’s put him out like a cat a million times but like a cat he has a habit of slinking back and curling up in the warm corners of her mind.

Now he’s walking beside her; she glances across at him and there he is. With his dark eyes and his forearms brown against the white of his rolled-up sleeves. And a glimpse of hair through his half-open shirt and the way his shoulders fill the shirt.

He looks back at her with a smile on his lips. He’s telling her stories about Dublin. She doesn’t hear a word; she’s listening to the sound beyond his words, to the thrilling low notes and the rough music in his voice. She can’t help herself.

They find Tom’s camp where Shauna thought it would be, in a thickly wooded area of the forest. At the centre is a caravan, bricks wedged behind its wheels. All around is the equipment for some sort of life: a chipped Formica table stacked with pots and dishes and covered with plastic sheeting, and a gas burner on a wooden workbench. The caravan door is propped open and a curtain hangs in the doorway.

‘Come on.’ Mahony takes Shauna’s hand and they walk forward. There is no one inside; they know that even without looking, for the objects have the look of a beaten dog waiting for its owner.

‘Stand here and keep watch.’

‘Ah no, Mahony, don’t go in. It wouldn’t be fair on him.’

Mahony climbs through the curtain.

Inside the caravan there’s a powerful smell of damp. When Mahony’s eyes adjust he makes out piles of hoarded rubbish. Thick fans of flattened crisp packets, sour chains of milk-bottle tops, piles of crushed tin cans and empty bottles. A single mattress with no sheet or blanket lies in the corner.

Shauna calls in to him. ‘Mahony, please, let’s go, I don’t have a good feeling about this.’