Loopy (5 page)

Ignoring the outburst, Brona had eyes only for her son and the strapping on his leg. When she asked him if he could walk on his own, he managed to hobble from the door to a chair beside the fire without falling over.

“I'm okay, Ma. It's only a bang of a hurley. Like Mr. Norbert says, it'll be fine in a day or two. I've got to go to hospital though.”

Brona, still in shock, now felt as though she had been stabbed through the heart. “Oh, mother of Jesus, what for?”

Norbert thought to intervene but Brona silenced him with a glare.

“Larry, I'm asking
you!
Why do you have to go to hospital?”

“Dunno really. The doctor said it must be x-rayed. That's all he said. Then he strapped it up and told me to rest it.”

Norbert again tried to cut in, this time with more success. “I was kind of hoping he could make it to the ceili tonight, missus. 'Twould look bad if he didn't show up.”

They both knew that one of the main attractions of the ceili had always been the presence of those who had played their hearts out earlier in the day. Being injured was no excuse for not showing up—quite the opposite in fact. Scars of battle quickly became badges of honor that drew admiring glances from the girls and pints of foaming stout from supporters who could afford it.

Brona still thought to ask Norbert for whom exactly it would look bad, but decided against it. After all, he seemed to have the boy's best interests at heart, despite the injury. Hadn't he given him a job after school in the supermarket and wasn't he mad keen to take him on full-time the quicker the better. The Maltings were leaving more men go at the end of the month if the rumors racing through the village were true.

The Makings had employed the men of Trabane and its hinterland for as long as anyone could remember. Drying barley was labor-intensive for the grain had to be raked level, then turned constantly on vast pine floors over a long period. Later it would be bagged and loaded onto trucks for delivery to the parent distillery. Of late, demand for the product had fallen to a point where outright closure was in the cards. To make things even worse, there were rumors of the bank downsizing, if not actually closing. She wondered if this would make any difference to her own situation. Judging from the tone of Leo Martin's letter, she thought probably not.

They chatted for a while until, despite Brona's misgivings, it was agreed that Norbert would collect Larry and drive him home again after the ceili.

That night Larry was feeling much better, though still unable to walk properly—much less dance. News of the debacle in Lisbeg had spread like wildfire. Feelings were running so high among the Trabane supporters that the Lisbeg team wisely declined to put in an appearance at the ceili. The community center where the dance was being held did not have a drinks license. However Foley's pub across the road catered for most needs until closing time, which on Sundays was a strictly observed 10 p.m. Larry did not drink but was for once tempted to, if only to ease the throbbing ache in his leg. He was perched uncomfortably on a stool when Maire sidled up to him.

“Are you badly hurt?”

“Not really. Just a bruise.”

“They told me you have to go to the hospital. Ma says you'd want to be in the whole of your health going in there if you want to come out alive!”

“Ah, it's all right. I have to go there for an X-ray, that's all.”

“By the look of you, you won't be doing much dancing tonight.”

As it was a statement rather than a question, Larry did not feel obliged to answer. Maire pressed on, “Tell me, honestly, is it hurt bad?”

“Bad enough I'd say.”

“Is it true that some sheep-shagger took a flake at you with the butt end of his hurley after you put the free over the bar?”

“I don't know anything about that. I passed out when he hit me. Are you sure the ball went over, though?”

“All of Trabane say so, and that's good enough for me.” She could see by the faraway look on his face that that he hadn't heard a word she had said. After what seemed an age to her, she moved a bit closer and whispered, “You were miles away there—what were you thinking about?”

“Ah, nothing, nothing at all.”

“Nothing my arse!” she snorted. “Are you going to tell me or do I have to drag it out of you?”

He tried to hold her angry gaze for a moment, then looked away, reddening with embarrassment but still silent as a tomb. He made as if to say something, then changed his mind again.

“Maire…” Again he hesitated, afraid that she would laugh at him, before blurting out, “You know the old fort at the end of the main street? Well, I go there now and again whenever I need a bit of energy.”

“How do you mean
energy?
”

“I dunno really. My Da told me he used to do it when he was my age. Anytime he felt tired or fed up, he'd sit in the middle of the old fort and somehow he'd feel the better for it. I only tried it a few times, but it seemed to work okay for me, too. I forgot all about going there before the match and look what happened!”

Maire was about to laugh out loud when she realized that he was serious. Trying hard not to giggle, she asked innocently, “Do you think it might do any good to go there now?”

The noise from the band was ear-shattering, and some of his teammates were beginning to show the effects of frequent trips to Foley's pub. Someone who'd witnessed the attack was about to tell him how he'd exacted revenge on the sheep farmer in the general melee that had developed after Larry had passed out from the pain. In the circumstances, despite having to limp the short distance to the fort, it was far better than having to endure the drunken recollections of a complete stranger.

As for Maire, she looked sexy as she jigged and reeled with an easy fluidity. Others must have thought the same because she was hardly ever off the floor as men queued up to dance with her. By now he almost felt grateful for his injury. First, it had saved him from making an exhibition of himself on the dance floor, and now it was giving him the chance to take Maire outside. The moon was still high in the dark sky as they approached the fort. They made their way in through the small gap in the briar-covered earthworks made by cattle that sought shelter. At this time of year, however, the cattle were still in their wintering sheds, so they had the fort to themselves.

“What do you do exactly—when you come here on your own, I mean?”

“Well—and you must give me your word of honor that you won't tell a soul about this—I stand about here”—he was standing in the middle of the fort, surrounded by stone slabs that looked in the moonlight like giant gravestones—“and I just feel the force. I know it sounds crazy but I swear I can feel it even now.”

She got up from the flat rock where she had been sitting and stood close to him. Her body felt soft and warm as she pressed close to him, her chin resting on his shoulder. He could not find the words to tell her how marvelous she looked in the soft glow of the moon. Nor could he pluck up the courage to tell her how much his body ached for hers. Suddenly she put her arms around his neck and kissed him full on the lips. It seemed to last an eternity, and while it did, he felt a stirring in his body, a force that had nothing to do with the fort or its strange powers.

After an age she broke free and whispered mischievously, “What does it feel like now—the force I mean?”

He grabbed at her as she pretended to move away from him and buried his mouth in her neck, reeling from the heady scent of her body and the softness of her hair. As he tried to steady himself, he put weight on his left leg and fell heavily. As he did, he jarred his thigh on the ground. He yelped, “Oh, Christ, Maire, it's bloody agony!”

She was kneeling beside him, her hand on his as he clutched his thigh, squeezing it hard to drive away the red-hot needles that were lancing into it. Suddenly they were kissing again, this time with even greater ferocity. Her hand was still on his thigh but moving slowly upward until he thought every fiber in his body was about to explode. Her soft breast inside the blouse was rubbing against his cheek. Fearing rejection, he nonetheless found the courage to slip his free hand inside her blouse and fondled the nipple, suddenly grown hard as a berry. Emboldened by his success, he moved his other hand along her inner thigh. The ache of wanting her was almost unbearable, but then she moved his hand away gently but with an undeniable firmness.

“Ah, for God's sake, Larry, give it a miss!”

With that she got to her feet and was about to stalk off when she realized he was having trouble getting to his feet. She offered her hand to pull him up off the grass, but try as she might, she couldn't hide her amusement at his discomfiture.

“Will you look at Romeo now—can't even stand up by himself!”

Annoyed, as much with himself as with her, he ignored the helping hand and struggled painfully to his feet on his own. His ham-fisted attempts at seduction had yielded nothing but embarrassment, and now she seemed to be laughing at him. Worse still, the pain in his leg was almost unbearable as they made their way back to the community center in silence. When they got there, they found Norbert was about to close up for the night.

“I was wondering where the two of you had got to. I thought I'd shut this place up early before the lads got too drunk. As it is, someone will have to take Mikey Kelly home—he's pissed out of his mind. You wouldn't be a darling and do it for me, would you, Maire?”

She nearly had apoplexy. “Bring that tub of lard home in my mother's car, is it? Are you gone clean out of your mind? He'd be sick all over the backseat before we'd gone 'round the first corner. Not to mention his roving hands! No thanks, Mr. Norbert, I've had enough of those for one night.” Then, turning toward Larry, she gave him a forced smile for Norbert's benefit. “Good night Larry, I hope your leg gets better.”

With that, she was gone. Norbert looked inquiringly at Larry, then thought better of asking whatever he had in mind before shaking his head sadly. “I didn't really think she would drive Mikey Kelly home, but it was worth a try anyway. Now we'll have to drop him off ourselves. Then I'll run you out home.”

This time Larry sat up front with Norbert. Stretched out the length of the backseat, the goalkeeper snored loudly. Occasionally he would break off to burp, causing his bulk to shudder ominously. This made Norbert nervous as a kitten.

“Keep an eye on him for Jaysus' sake. If you think he's going to throw up, let me know in good time. I don't know why I'm always the one to drive these bastards home. I never get one bit of thanks for it, I can tell you. Still”—Norbert brightened as he remembered the goalkeeper's spectacular save in the first half—“he's one hell of a great goalie. We'd have lost only for him.”

Soon they were at the goalkeeper's home, where his sister and mother would put the burping hero to bed. Later as Norbert dropped off Larry outside the thatched farmhouse he said, “Don't worry about Wednesday. I'll take you to the hospital in the van. We can do a few deliveries on the way.”

His mother and the three younger children were long gone to bed as Larry struggled upstairs to his bedroom. Just before he closed his eyes, the memory of what had happened in the fort returned. Flushed with embarrassment, he buried his head in the pillow and prayed for sleep to drive away the pain and the shame.

*   *   *

The thirteenth hole was the most difficult of the eighteen. It required a better than average drive to clear a wide ravine that had a stream meandering through it. The green lay behind the stone wall of a disused graveyard, an arrangement that had caused much comment down the years. The golfer, having successfully negotiated the ravine, was now faced with a testing second shot over the corner of the graveyard and onto an elevated green. Anyone getting a par here had reason to be well satisfied.

The twosome paused on the tee to regroup and take stock. Pat O'Hara announced happily, “I get another shot off you here Tim. Why don't you go for the green?”

Tim Porter brayed happily and snorted, “I think not, old chap. I leave that sort of thing to Joe Delany. Anyway, he had the wind behind him when he did it, or so I am told.”

O'Hara turned to his caddy and said, “Larry, I need another drop of Lucozade if I'm to get across that bloody thing.”

After taking a swig from the bottle, O'Hara put it back carefully in one of the pockets of his golf bag and watched as Tim Porter swung smoothly at the ball. It soared effortlessly across the ravine and came to a halt in perfect position on the narrow fairway, a short iron from the green. O'Hara asked Larry for the driver and, as he was teeing up the ball, remarked casually, “There was no wind the day Joe drove the green. I know because I was with him. He hit an unmerciful flake of the ball in those days, with a hint of a slice. Just the perfect shape to land the ball short of the green. From there it just trickled onto the front. Never been done before or since. Most of those that tried ended up in the graveyard.”

Tim Porter was about half O'Hara's age. Larry had seen him every now and again. His father owned a large estate nearby and a wine-importing business in which Tim worked. A good golfer, he had plenty of time to sharpen his skills as his sales job in the family business was none too demanding.

“No wind, you say. Well, that makes it even more impressive. He wouldn't do it today though, not into a wind right in our faces like this one.”

O'Hara hit the ball and was delighted to see it land on the far side of the ravine. “I think that calls for a celebration.” Without waiting for anyone to agree with him, he took another deep draft from the Lucozade bottle and suddenly turned to his caddy.

“Would you like to have a go? You don't mind, do you, Tim?”

Tim shrugged. If the schoolteacher wanted his caddy to try to hit it across the ravine, that was his affair. Not that Tim had anything against the lad. Quite the opposite, in fact. Despite being in obvious difficulties with a game leg, he kept up with them and didn't speak unless spoken to.