听听听听听Crows graze on the rich
black soil beyond the wall, their wings fluttering up from
time to time like funeral gloves. Frank watches them as
he lifts a flat, rough-edged stone from the pile at his
feet. He feels the dried mud flaking off it and working
its way into the deep lines that cross the palms of his
hands and his finger tips. One of the crows rises into the
air, carving a perfect arc through the sky, and then settles
on the wall nearby. Frank hefts the stone onto one shoulder,
the workings of his muscles visible beneath the aged and
weathered skin of his forearms. Dust mingles with sweat
as he wipes a hand across his face and leaves a brown smear
above the bridge of his nose. He takes a step forward and
lowers the stone into position, turning it from left to
right until it rests securely on top of the smaller stones
beneath. The crow crawks and shakes out its wings as it
hops a few feet further along the wall.
听听听听听The pile of stones lies in
the shadow of the wall and Frank pushes the top few aside,
searching for one that is the shape and size he needs. He
has been building dry stone walls for most of his life like
his father and his grandfather before him. Dry stone walling
is in his blood; it is in the blood of generations of Donnellys,
a long line of them stretching back further than Frank can
see. He chooses a stone and as he lifts it, he feels the
sharp pain again in his chest and across to his arm. He
straightens slowly and circles his shoulder blades, listening
for the crunch of sinew and muscle.
听听听听 It鈥檚 a good life, Frank thinks.
It鈥檚 good to look out from his small cottage window
over the steep fields that lead down to the ocean and see
them criss-crossed with the walls that his family has built;
walls that are still standing despite everything that time
and the weather have thrown at them. He loves everything
about this island: the warm, meaty smell of summer soil;
the scratch of tough couch grass against his legs; the steadily
changing shape of the coast. It is good to stand not a stone鈥檚
throw away from his own front door and stare out to the
west, over miles and miles of empty space so big that it
feels like he can see the very curvature of the planet.
听听听听听 Frank wipes the beads of
sweat from his nose with his shirt-sleeve and goes inside
the cottage. The small front parlour feels chilly despite
the fire that is burning in the grate. Frank leans against
the mantelpiece and stirs at the flames with a long stick.
The cottage has always been cold but he and Sheelagh never
felt the need to put in any central heating. They enjoyed
the excuse to sit close together, sharing their whiskey
in front of the fire. And the cold had never followed them
to their bed.
听听听听听Frank tries not to look at
the thin blue envelope he set above the fire that morning.
But its bright U.S. stamp and airmail stickers stand out
against the pale beige of the wall behind and demand his
attention. He finds it difficult to ignore and it annoys
him to be reminded of the burden he has become.
听听听听听He and Sheelagh never had
any children of their own. His fault of course. She would
have been as ripe as the apricot tree that survived in the
relative shelter of the back yard and threw down its fruit
each year to burst and spread a warm orange glue across
the paving stones. Sheelagh would gather up those pungent
apricots and turn them into jams and chutneys to feed her
wheen of nieces and nephews when they visited from the mainland.
Whenever Frank asked her about it, she claimed that they
were more than enough to satisfy her maternal feelings.
听听听听听鈥淪ure, how on earth
would I cope with children of my own when I can鈥檛
wait to hand back that shar o鈥 hallions at the end
of the day?鈥
听听听听听But Frank had seen the look
on her face on those occasions when the children stayed
over and she was able to tuck them into bed at night and
stroke their hair as she sang them a nursery rhyme. And
he loved her all the more for never once telling him how
she really felt.
听听听听听Frank picks up the envelope
and slides a finger into the triangular opening at the back.
He walks over to the seat by the low wood-framed window.
The sky outside is darkening, clouds rolling in from the
horizon, but the ground beneath it is lit with that unnatural
light that turns the green fields around him fluorescent.
Frank turns back to the letter and starts to read it for
a second time.
听听听听听" You can鈥檛 go
on living in that old cottage now that Mum has gone. Come
and at least spend winter with us here where the weather
is warm. The apartment is easily big enough for the five
of us and the boys would love to spend time with their granddad.
You never know, Da, you might find you like it."
听听听听听Frank rises and crosses to
the tiny kitchen to set the kettle on the hob. As he lights
the flame the pain that has been bothering him all morning
comes again; a hot pain high up, close to his armpit. He
rubs at his chest with the flat of his hand. He wishes that
Connor hadn鈥檛 sent the ticket 鈥 a one-way ticket
at that. But then Connor had never been the sort of child
to take 鈥渘o鈥 for an answer. The boy was nearly
three when they鈥檇 agreed to foster him but even after
they decided to adopt him, there was always something that
held Frank at a distance. He thought of himself and the
boy as being a little like the earth and the sky 鈥
connected along all points, yet giving the impression of
there being a great deal of space between them.
听听听听听Frank grimaces and places
his hand on his chest again. He begins opening doors in
the kitchen dressers, searching for the battered biscuit
tin Sheelagh used for storing medicines. A chill draft blows
in through the gap beneath the kitchen door and Frank hears
the sad sound of the wind in the telegraph wires behind
the cottage. The pain grips him hard. He breathes deeply
and focuses on a photograph of Sheelagh amongst a pile at
the back of the kitchen drawer. It鈥檚 black and white
and she鈥檚 standing at the edge of the sea, looking
like little more than a child with her hair and dress blown
backwards by the wind. There鈥檚 a smile on her face
and her arm reaches out over the ocean to where the sea
and sky blur into the horizon.
听听听听听Sheelagh, he is sure, was
disappointed that her two boys were never closer. Frank
tried to interest Connor in his work, but building walls
simply wasn鈥檛 in the boy鈥檚 blood. Frank straightens
up and turns back to the kettle. He pours hot water over
the tea-leaves in the pot and mashes them with the handle
of a fork. He fills a cup right up to the brim and carries
it outside.
听听听听听Connor had been an impatient
child and an even more restless young man. As soon as he
was old enough he left the island for school on the mainland
and then university in the city. Later he moved from place
to place and job to job, but was never satisfied. Eventually
he applied to train as a pilot and quickly discovered that
he was in his element in the sky. On his rare visits home
he would talk about flying, and the way he described it
鈥 moving amongst the air currents and cloud formations,
the changing colours of dawn and dusk 鈥 reminded Frank
of the way he himself spoke about the smell and feel of
the earth and the ever-changing texture of the grey stones
that came from it, which he loved so much.
The sky over the green fields is heavy now with thick black
clouds, and the crows, sensing rain, have taken shelter
on the branches of the ash trees that spread from the cottage
down to the coast.
听听听听听Frank sips his tea, elbows
resting on the top of the unfinished wall. The sky is somehow
lower, as though it has shifted closer to the ground, sagging
under the burden of the rain-clouds. Frank can feel the
weight of it, heavy, pressing down hard on his chest so
that he can hardly breathe. The tea cup falls from his hand
as his knees buckle beneath him. The noise of the cup smashing
on the stone path sends the crows into a flurry of black
wings and feathers that pass close over Frank鈥檚 head
and away behind the cottage.
听听听听听Frank feels the shape of his
body on the ground, hips and heels and shoulder blades pressing
into the damp soil. He turns his head to look at the broken
tea cup, tea running away down the path. The cup bears the
slogan of the airline Connor works for, 鈥淵ou鈥檙e
Going Places. So Are We鈥. Frank gives a wry smile
then his face contorts as the pain comes again, strong,
as though someone has placed his chest in a vice.
听听听听听Lying on the ground before
the black sky closes in completely around him, Frank reaches
a hand across the damp soil towards the wall. Slowly, carefully,
his fingers open and then close tightly around a smooth-edged,
flat, grey stone.
