Walk the Blue Fields by Claire Keegan

isn’t theirs.
    Sometimes, sitting in the wood with his flask and sandwiches , Deegan regrets what happened with the dog but most of the time it doesn’t cross his mind. The consequences , not their origin, strain him most for his wife no longer speaks to him, no longer sleeps at his side.
    Sometimes Martha sees herself back in that morning in the wood, throwing stones at Judge. His tail is between his legs and he is running away. He is looking back and she is feeling sorry but she knows she is doing the right thing. So much of her life has revolved around things that never happened. She grills cheese on toast but the girl won’t have it. Martha sits on her bed and tries to convince her that she should get another dog, a little pup who can be the girl’s own, a dog that she can love.
    â€˜We can look at the paper. There’s a litter for sale outside Shillelagh. Jim Mullins has them. You’d love a –’
    â€˜What would you know about love?’
    This strikes her sore. ‘I do know about love,’ Martha insists.
    â€˜You don’t even love Daddy. All ye care about is money.’
    *
    One evening when Deegan is crossing the hill, more smoke than usual is rising. Deegan sees it. Somehow he had almost suspected it. In the yard, eleven cars are parked. He recognises every one. He has never known so many neighbours to come in the one evening, nor any tocome so early. Davis is here, and Redmond. And Mrs Duffy, the ‘Evening Herald’. The maroon hatchback belongs to the priest.
    When Deegan steps over the threshold, a massive fire is throwing waves of heat across the kitchen floor. Deegan, feeling fragile in his old clothes, bids them all good evening and takes his hat off.
    â€˜Ah, there’s the man himself!’
    â€˜No man like the working man!’
    â€˜Have you enough space to get in there for your bit of dinner, Victor?’
    â€˜We’re intruding on ya.’
    â€˜Not at all, sure weren’t ye asked?’ says Martha.
    She puts a warm plate down in front of him. There’s a well-done sirloin, roast potatoes, onions, mushrooms. A bowl of stewed apples is brimming with custard. Deegan sits in to his dinner, blesses himself, picks up the knife and fork. He doesn’t know how to eat and be hospitable at the same time. There is no sign of the children. His wife is handing round the stout, the Powers, smiling for the neighbours.
    â€˜Drink up!’ she says. ‘There’s plenty. Wasn’t it awful about that young Morrissey chap?’ Her voice is strange. Her voice is not the one she uses.
    The neighbours sit there chatting, talking about the budget , the swallows and the petrol strike. They are warming up, ripe for an evening’s entertainment. A little gossip begins to leak into the conversation. Redmond starts it, says he went up to the Whelan sisters for the lend of a billhook after he broke the handle on his own and caught them eating off the one plate. ‘Dip to your own side, Betty!’ he mimics. There is a little laughter and, in the laughter, a little menace.
    The shopkeeper tells them how Dan Farrell came down and ate five choc ices, standing up. ‘Five choc ices! Wouldn’t he have a nice stool? And then, when he’d slathered the last, he tells me to put them on the slate!’
    Martha smiles. She seems genuinely amused. She reaches for a cloth, takes tarts and queen cakes out of the oven. The pastry is golden, the buns have risen.
    â€˜Would ya look at this?’ Mrs Duffy says. ‘They’d win prizes at the show. And there was me thinking you didn’t bake.’
    Martha stacks them high on Deegan’s best serving plates and hands them round. She’s acting, Deegan realises. She’s acting well. Nobody couldn’t believe this didn’t happen every day. The cows stand bawling at the gate to be let in but Deegan cannot move. Everything in his body tells him to get up but his