The Barracks by John McGahern

Author:John McGahern [John McGahern]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780571250226
Publisher: Faber & Faber
Published: 2009-10-10T16:00:00+00:00

The white sprouts of the potato seed forced their way through the earth about the barracks, grew leaves and green as they got the light, and the slender cabbage plants held their heads in the air. Most of the turf was cut and not firm enough to be handled. There was no rush. When the turf firmed their days would be a constant rush. Now they could sow beans and lettuce and parsley in little raked squares, and talk. A young pig that Mullins had been given as a bribe to keep his eyes shut to some stealing of timber he had noticed from the woods was much in those conversations.

He kept him in a shed that used hold old rubbish and his bicycle. He’d got a cartload of green rushes for bedding and levied buckets of skim milk each day from the creamery carts passing through the village; later in the year he’d get windfall apples to sweeten the bacon, he said; and he’d kill him in November.

Sometimes they talked about cancer and Elizabeth, they knew she had come through the operation, they expected a letter, and she’d be home. As always, the children sprinkled rushes and wild flowers on the doorstep for Our Lady’s Eve and kicked away their boots to go barefoot, it was May.

The turf dried. Mullins and Brennan switched their patrols of the imagination to the bog, where Reegan already slaved. He had hired several banks and day labourers to do the cutting but he’d have to save the turf himself if he was to make much profit. He’d sell it in the town and if it went lucky it’d more than pay for Elizabeth and he’d be able to leave the police. He didn’t want to have to go to the city to open and shut swing doors in some ice-cream parlour to supplement what pension he’d get. He’d buy a small farm and work how he liked for himself. With what he had saved and the gratuity he was owed he should be able to do this if the turf paid for Elizabeth: he wasn’t staying in the police till he was blind and weak at sixty, no matter what came or went, was the one thing he was certain of.

At daybreak he was out of bed to cycle the two miles to the bog, he’d work in a kind of frenzy there till eight, and rush back to shave and change into his uniform, gulp the breakfast the children would have prepared, to be in the dayroom to call the roll at nine.

Mrs Casey cooked their dinner all these days. Casey had his meal with them in the kitchen and was much loved by the children. He never forgot to pay them some attention, he was light and gay, and didn’t oppress them with the sense that he was being slowly crucified by time and care, as many did.

They had to go to the bog every evening after school. The work was

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