The Old Jest by Jennifer Johnston

Author:Jennifer Johnston
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781497646438
Publisher: Open Road Media

13 August

My dream would be that the wind should catch up this old house and whirl it away as it whirls the seagulls. It could land us gently on the edge of the sea somewhere with a racecourse in easy reach for Aunt Mary and a curving horizon of railway line alive with shining engines, goods trucks, carriages, points, signals, sidings, the whole lot, within nice range of grandfather’s glasses. Nothing but pleasure for his last days, or years as the case may be. No anxiety, no sadness, just a miraculous happening. Silly dream. Still, like a child I have silly dreams. I can see them living here, a lovely pair, as Bridie will undoubtedly call them when the moment comes. He will keep the place up to the mark and she will play her white piano in the drawing room and they will never notice our bruised ghosts lurking in the corners. I suppose in fact that their corners will be too clean and well lit for ghosts to be comfortable in. There will be nothing left of mother or Gabriel or the child who has sat for so many years on the top step of the terrace, not getting piles. There used to be horses in the stables and Uncle Gabriel hunted twice a week, and there was a boy who kept the tack, polished the lovely shiny boots. There was a smell of saddle soap and horse dung. The saddles are flaking now, out in the damp tack room. The little fire in the corner is never lit and birds drop twigs down the empty chimney and they fall out from the fireplace and litter the floor. Sometimes though you can still hear the sound of a horse backing up on the cobbles, the stutter of hooves, a soft whinny. If you’re in the right mood of course. I was always afraid. I remember the thud my heart used to give when one of them would raise its head and move towards me. Martin was the boy’s name. He used to whistle between his teeth as he rubbed and rubbed, curry-combed and polished their gleaming coats. He would lean his head against their warm necks and kiss them with the side of his whistling mouth. He’s in prison in England now. He was caught after a raid on a barracks down near Cork somewhere. He was wounded, I think, and couldn’t get away. Something like that.

They will make a lovely couple. I don’t suppose he would ever love someone like me, even if I were five years older. She is so new and perfect and polished looking, and she won’t be really kind to him and he’ll probably never notice. They will both accept most graciously what the world has to offer. That’s no crime. It’s more of a crime I suppose to want to mess things up a bit. Oh God, don’t let me be too feeble and please help me to stop biting my nails! Amen.

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