The Boatman's Wife(32)

‘Sure, I might catch a fish,’ her father had told her. ‘But we always put them back in.’

‘What’s the point, then?’ Niamh had asked.

‘That is precisely the point,’ her father had laughed at her. ‘It’s about the journey, not the destination.’

‘What are you on about?’ Niamh had demanded.

‘I mean, my darling, the reason Tadhg and I go fishing is not to tot up how many fish we’ve caught. It’s about sitting together in silence, enjoying the lake. It’s about a bit of peace.’

‘That sounds totally boring,’ twelve-year-old Niamh had said at the time.

‘We’ve always done it, since we were boys.’

Niamh had rolled her eyes. ‘Boring!’

But inside, she’d been a little jealous. She’d wished she and her cousin Brendan could have gone fishing with them too, but her daddy was always insistent: adults only. It was the way things always were. Her daddy would go off fishing with Tadhg two or three times during the summer, and the same evenings her mam would make jam from summer fruits they’d gathered. Niamh’s job was to help her mam collect raspberries – consuming and collecting in equal quantities, until their lips were stained so pink her daddy always said they looked like a couple of harlots when he got back.

So many times, Niamh had tried to drag every last moment of memory from that day before her father died. But the truth was, there were so many gaps. She couldn’t remember breakfast, or going out with her mam to collect raspberries in the morning. Her dad had been in the shed, working on the table, she remembered that. She’d brought him a cup of tea in his big BEST DAD mug she’d given him for Father’s Day that year. She’d sat on a stool and watched him work for a while. Fascinated by how he shaved the wood, as if he were peeling vegetables. She remembered the scent of wood resin, and the sawdust spinning in the air like tiny particles of gold glitter as sunlight shafted through the dusty window. Every time she looked at that half-finished table now, she saw her daddy wearing his blue work shirt, the same colour as his eyes. Bent over, so focused she’d wondered if he even knew she was still there, watching him.

She couldn’t remember what they’d eaten for tea that day, but it was not long after that her dad had gathered up his fishing rod and tackle and laid them on the back seat of his car.

‘Will you be making jam with your mammy, my little ray of light?’ he’d said to Niamh, tickling her under the chin.

‘Don’t call me that any more, Daddy, it’s silly.’ Niamh had wriggled away. She’d felt she was too old for her dad to tickle her.

‘But that’s what your name means, Niamh – radiant – and that’s what you’ll always be to your daddy.’

Her father had kissed her on the forehead, and she’d stepped back.

‘Too grown up for Daddy to give you a hug, too?’ he’d asked. She had never forgotten the hurt look in his eyes.

‘Course not, Daddy.’

Niamh had fallen into her father’s embrace. For years, after he was gone, she’d dream he was still hugging her.

‘Can I come with you?’

‘Ah, darling, I told you – men only, and anyways, you’ll be bored silly,’

‘I won’t, I promise.’

Her daddy had cradled her face with his hands. ‘I tell you what, how about next year, right?’ he’d said. ‘You and Brendan can come along. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ she’d said, disappointed.

Her daddy had got into the car, and her mam had come running out the house, a Tupperware box in her hands, packed with cheese and salad sandwiches for the two men.

‘You forgot your sandwiches! Got your thermos of tea? The hip flask of whisky?’

‘Thanks, darling.’

Niamh remembered her mam bending down, and her daddy kissing her through the open car window. Her mam stepping back, and the car setting off down the bumpy lane. A jaunty wave of his hand was the last she saw of her daddy as he turned out of their front gate.

Niamh had gone over in her mind so many times what she’d heard had happened next.

Her daddy would have been whistling as he drove along the country lanes, bumping up and down as he traversed old bog land. Perhaps slowing down to let Paddy O’Mahony’s bullocks amble past the car, escaped yet again from their field. Looking out at Aghavogil Bog as he sped by its marshy contours, the earth rising black and fecund, gatherings of reeds sharp and high. Pools of still water reflecting the slow, gentle descent of the summer sun. He would have been driving towards the summer moon, looming ahead in the pale blue. Looking forward to sharing his night of peace with his cousin, away from his work shed, and his women. Solitude, the still lake, and perfect companionship in silence.

Usually, it was Tadhg who drove over the border, from the north to the south, and they met on the southwestern shores of Lough Melvin. But they’d changed their minds this time. Tadhg had explained to Niamh and her mam at the funeral: he’d been out earlier in the fishing season and had left the boat tied up on the northern edge of the lough. Where they lived, it wasn’t dangerous to cross over the border. It was only irritating, because the British Army had blown up most of the roads, so you had to either pick your way over craters, or drive on a long detour, as her daddy had that night, to pass through a checkpoint and backtrack all the way to the lake.