Redemption - Leon Uris [38]
“Oh Jesus, Jack, if you’d have been one day longer I’d have wet my knickers,” she cried in relief.
The cottage had a feel of a new inhabitant, a conversion to a mode of seriousness and resolve. Atty’s papers and practicalities had replaced doilies. Important thoughts and conversations emanated from it now, no longer a loafer’s and children’s romping place, but one for study and future rebellion. Nonetheless she had softened it for his visit with flowers and fireplace glow and the best of wines and whiskey. Although Atty made little formal effort, she was a gorgeous piece of work.
Jack Murphy had turned out well. He was not the irresistible handsome lad of memories, but slight and intense and very much in command. Atty’s apprehension melted. When he returned to Canada he would be on his way to Toronto to become the book editor of the country’s largest newspaper, and an occasional critic of music and art.
“Ah, Dublin is the place for the Journalist,” Atty tweaked.
“It’s far too fierce for me here,” he replied.
“Really, Jack. Isn’t there a mutated Orange crowd in Toronto, and don’t the Brits and French go at it all the time?”
“Aye, but their warfare is fought with cannonballs of pudding. Irish politics is like the Islamic religion, an all-consuming way of life. In Dublin, the culture, the sports, the religion, the politics are one in the same. In Canada we have interests other than perpetual warfare.”
As Jack talked on about his travels and his contentment in Canada, Atty finally realized what she had known all along but would never admit—that Jack had no desire for battle. Did that make him less of a man?
By the end of the evening all the main details of his father’s estate had been cleared lip. Atty would have her solicitor prepare the necessary documents.
As evening fell on the lough and the fireplace smoldered alive with intoxicating turf aroma it became awkward time.
Atty commented that she didn’t realize the Murphy library was so extensive. She told him to pull the books he wanted and she would ship them to Canada.
That would be lovely, just grand, he agreed. And what were Atty’s plans for the estate? Hard to really say, she told him, for it wouldn’t be hers legally for another three years. The horse-breeding operation had always done well and perhaps she’d focus on it. Would Jack be around long enough to look over a couple of applicants for the job?
“Do I know any of them?”
She rattled off a list of contenders. “None like Darby Murphy.”
“Let me give it some thought,” he suggested. “Well, my love, word has gotten all the way to Canada that a great star is rising on the Dublin stage.”
“Truth, Jack? I am tall and rather full-bodied. I am profound in presenting my case, enunciating crisply, shouting in righteous protest, and all in all I make an ideal figure of Mother Ireland. One old priest who marveled at my cleavage looked directly down my front and told me I could have fed an entire village during the famine. Mother Ireland, yes; a great actress, hardly. But I love it up there. The Brits have the guns and we have the words, and now the stage to shout them from.”
Jack caught sight of a guitar case on the bench under the bay window. He settled there and urged the instrument to give him a reasonable pitch. Atty watched, mesmerized.
His fingers did not stumble and his voice did not falter. He was well in practice. To whom did Jack sing his songs these days?
“Did you think of me often?” she asked with Atty-abruptness.
“Yes.”
“How often?”
“Always.”
“Did you ever feel that maybe you made a mistake about me?”
“All the time.”
“But not enough to love me…love me…love me!”
“Maybe, but I’m wise enough about Jack Murphy to realize it would do me no good at all. I never let my thoughts of you get a foothold. You are where you ought to be and doing what you should