Redemption - Leon Uris [87]
Oh Lord, Conor moaned to himself. How many damned Irish pubs on how many waterfronts in how many shanty ports on how many continents have the Irish rovers gathered to slop in their beer and pine for all that dirty rock and hardship and British rottenness. What is its cursed hold on men! The memories are so bitter you’d think you’d close it off, once you escape. But no, it sneaks after you on the quiet watch in the crow’s nest. What the hell is it you long for…you don’t even know…you don’t understand it.
And here sits a lad who envisions it through a mist. His craving for it is worse because it is denied him by a bitter man.
‘Tis true that most men of ordinary cut have the wanderlust knocked out of them for fear of the unknown. But Rory lad is going to be no ordinary man. He will have to go after it.
What should I do? Conor wondered. It’s better to get out of New Zealand before this family blows like a volcano. My coming here has just brought salt into Liam’s open wound.
“I want to know about the sheilas,” Rory said, bending the subject to something more compatible.
“Women?”
“Jeeze, Uncle Conor, I’ve been watching rams and bulls fornicating all my life. I’ve even stuck RumRunner’s cock in a mare.”
“Well, then. I’ll talk to you, but only in generalities.”
Rory lay back and looked at the sky as his uncle spoke.
“What in life that is sublime, above everything, comes down to a simple proposition—a bed, or a place where a man and a woman make love.”
Rory began to line up the million and one questions about this most sublime subject.
“The thing you must remember about women is that you are holding a precious little bird in your hand. If you squeeze it too tightly, you’ll crush it. If you hold it too loosely, it will fly away. What women crave is patience. You must learn that, Rory. RumRunner can’t control himself. That’s why he’s a horse. The longer you can suspend time, the higher the flight, find that lovely balance between strong arms on the one hand and a velvet touch on the other.”
Huh, Rory thought, a bit different than he had reckoned, but surely Uncle Conor knew more about women than anyone, he was that handsome.
“Rule number one. It is always the woman’s choice to do it or not to do it. You present yourself charmingly…never try to overwhelm her, and let her size you up. She’ll let you know when she’s ready.”
“Sounds foxy to me.”
“It is. It’s fox and hounds. The more casual you are, the more interested they become. And once it’s a go, make her feel like a queen…before, during, and afterward. It’s called tenderness.”
“You ever been in love?”
“Of course,” Conor answered, “in a manner of speaking.”
“Desperately?”
“Aye, once.”
“With a queen?”
“Only a countess.” As Conor drifted into a schanachie’s tale of his unconsummated love, he found speaking of such things to the boy to be very easy. Conor had never spoken of his love of Lady Caroline to anyone but Seamus O’Neill. It seemed so wistful and lovely a memory that he wanted to share it with Rory.
As they horsed around, wrestling and boxing openhanded, Conor saw a bit of room for improvement. He had, after all, taught Liam the finer points of fisticuffs and his very prize pupil had been Seamus O’Neill.
“Your being left-handed gives you a distinct advantage. Now then, take your pose…always circle to your right, which takes away my right hand…that’s it…that’s it…to your right…I flick out my left jab…bob under it and throw a thunderous right hand to me ribs…aye, that’s the lad…under the jab…move to your right…under the jab, unleash that right to the body…good lad…now get away and circle right.
“After five or six slams to the ribs, your unworthy opponent will start to paw with his jab, fearing your blow to the body. When he starts pawing, go over the top to his face…poor chap won’t last long