'From Dublin,' she said.
It's a pleasant drive. I was in Dublin myself a week ago,' he told her. 'My wife, Mrs Doherty, has relatives there. She's away sick at present.'
She wondered whether she should apologise for giving trouble, but he had already disappeared to get the tea, and she went down the steps into the dining-room. Six tables laid ready, but she had the impression nobody had eaten there for days. A clock on the wall ticked loudly, breaking the silence. Presently a little maid emerged from the hack regions, breathing heavily, bearing a tray that had upon it a large pot of tea and, not the scones and cherry jam she had anticipated, but a plate with two fried eggs and three fat slices of bacon, as well as a heap of fried potatoes. A full tea…. She would have to eat it, or Mr Doherty would be offended. The maid vanished, and a black and white cat that had made its appearance with the tea arched itself against her legs, purring loudly. Furtively she fed it the bacon and one of the eggs, then tackled the remainder. The tea was piping hot and strong, and she could feel it searing her inside as she swallowed it.
The little maid emerged once more. 'Is the tea to your liking?' she asked anxiously. 'I could fry you another egg if you're still hungry.'
'No,' said Shelagh, 'I've done very well, thank you. Could I see your telephone directory? I want to look up the number of a friend.'
The directory was produced and she thumbed the pages. Barrys galore, but none in this district. No Commander. No Nicolas Barry, R.N. (Reid.). The journey had been in vain. Her mood of high expectancy, of daring, turned to despondency.
'How much do I owe for the tea?' she asked.
The little maid murmured a modest sum. Shelagh thanked her, paid, and went out into the hall and through the open doorway to the street. The post office was on the opposite side. One last enquiry and then, if that was unlucky too, she would turn the car round again and make for some hotel back on the road to Dublin, where she could at least relax in a steaming bath and spend the night in comfort. She waited patiently while an old woman bought stamps and a man enquired about parcels to America. Then she turned to the postmaster behind the grille.
'Excuse me,' she asked, 'I wonder if you can help me? Do you happen to know if Commander Barry lives anywhere in the district?'
The man stared. 'He does,' he said. 'He's lived here these twenty years.'
Oh joy! Oh, the relief! The mission was on again. All was not lost.
'The thing is,' Shelagh explained, 'I couldn't find his name in the telephone directory.'
'That isn't surprising,' the man said. 'There is no telephone on Lamb Island.'
'Lamb Island?' repeated Shelagh. 'You mean he lives on an island?'
The man stared as if she had asked a stupid question. 'It's on the southern side of Lough Torrah,' he said, 'about four miles from here as the crow flies. You can't reach it except by boat. If you want to get in touch with Commander Barry you'd best write for an appointment. He doesn't see many people.'
The chip on the shoulder… The recluse…
'I see,' said Shelagh. 'I hadn't realised. Can one get a glimpse of the island from the road?'
The man shrugged. 'There's a turning down to the lough a mile or so out of Ballyfane,' he told her, but it's no more than a rough track. You can't take a car there. If you have stout shoes it's an easy enough walk. Best done in daylight. You would miss your way if it came on for dusk, and the mist rises too over the lake.'
'Thank you,' said Shelagh, 'thank you very much.'
She went out of the post office with the feeling that the postmaster was staring after her. What now? Better not risk it this evening. Better endure the doubtful comforts of the Kilmore Arms and indigestion. She returned to the hotel and came face to face with Mr Doherty on the doorstep.
'I suppose,' she said, 'you couldn't let me have a room for the night?'
'I could indeed, you'd be very welcome,' he told her. 'It's quiet now, but in the tourist season you'd be surprised-we've seldom an empty bed. I'll bring in your baggage. Your car will come to no harm there in the street.'
Anxious to please he limped to the boot of the car, brought out her suitcase, conducted her inside the Kilmore Arms and led the way upstairs, showing her into a small double room overlooking the street.
'I'll only charge you for the one bed,' he said. 'Twenty-two shillings and your breakfast. There's a bathroom across the passage.'
Oh well, it was rather fun-and mod. cons. after all. Later on the locals would come into the bar and break into song. She would drink Guinness out of an enormous tankard and watch them, join in herself, perhaps.
She inspected the bathroom. It reminded her of digs on tour. One tap dripping, leaving a brown stain, and when she turned it on the water gushed forth like the Niagara Falls. Still, it was hot. She unpacked her night things, bathed, dressed again and went downstairs. Voices drifted down the passage. She followed the sound and came to the bar. Mr Doherty himself stood behind the counter. The voices ceased as she entered, and everyone stared.
Everyone being about half-a-dozen men, and amongst them she recognised the postmaster.
'Good evening,' she said brightly.
A mumbled response from all, but uninterested. They went on talking amongst themselves. She ordered whisky from Mr Doherty and felt suddenly self-conscious, perched there on the stool, which was perfectly ridiculous, because she was used to going into every sort of bar on tour, and there was nothing very singular about this one anyway.
'Is it your first visit to Ireland?' asked Mr Doherty, still anxious to please, pouring out the whisky.
'Yes, it is,' she told him. 'I'm rather ashamed I've never been over before. My grandfather was Irish. I'm sure the scenery is lovely around here. I must do some exploring tomorrow, down by the lake.'
She glanced across the bar, and was aware of the postmaster's eye upon her.
'You'll be with us for a few days, then?' asked Mr Doherty. 'I could arrange some fishing for you, if that's what you like.'
'Oh well… I'm not sure. It rather depends.'
How loud and English her voice sounded on the air, reminding her of her mother. Like a socialite out of a glossy magazine. And the local chatter had momentarily ceased. The Irish bonhomie she had visualised was absent. Nobody here was going to seize a fiddle and dance a jig and burst into song. Perhaps girls who stayed the night in pubs on their own were suspect.
'Your dinner is ready when you are.' said Mr Doherty.
She took the cue and slipped from the bar-stool and so on into the dining-room, feeling about ten years old. Soup, fish, roast beef the trouble they had taken, when all she needed was a wafer slice of ham, but impossible to leave anything on her plate. Trifle to finish with, doused in sherry.
Shelagh looked at her watch. It was only half-past eight. 'Will you take your coffee in the lounge?'
'Thank you, yes.'
'There's a television set. I'll switch it on for you.'
The little maid drew up an armchair close to the television, and Shelagh sat down to the coffee she did not want while an American comedy, vintage 1950, flickered from the box. The murmur of voices droned on from the direction of the bar. Shelagh poured the coffee back into the pot and crept upstairs to fetch her coat. Then, leaving the television blaring in the empty lounge, she went out into the street. There was nobody about. All Ballyfane was already in bed or safe within doors. She got into the car and drove away through the empty village, back along the road she had travelled earlier that afternoon. A turning, the postmaster had said, a mile or so out of Ballyfane.
This must be it, here on the left. A crooked signpost with the lettering 'Footpath to Lough Torrah' showed up in the glare of her head-lights. The footpath, narrow and twisting, led downhill. Silly to attempt it without a torch, and the moon, three-quarters full, giving only a fitful gleam behind banks of racing cloud. Still… She could go part of the way, if only for the benefit of the exercise.
She left the car close to the signpost and began to walk. Her shoes, luckily flat, squelched in the mud. As soon as I catch a glimpse of the lake, she thought, I'll turn back, and then be up early tomorrow and come here again, bring a packed lunch, decide upon my plan of attack. The footpath was opening out between the banks, and suddenly before her was the great sheet of water, encircled by jutting lips of land, and in the centre was the island itself, shrouded in trees. It had an eerie, sombre quality, and the moon, breaking through the clouds, turned the water silver, while the island remained black, humped like the back of a whale.
