The Dark Read Online Free
be made pay for it.
A second-hand bicycle was got and fixed up. In September he started.
He hadn’t long to wait for trouble. The new subjects didn’t leave him much time to give the help in the fields Mahoney had been used to. There was constant trouble, it rose to a warning when he refused to stop for the potato digging.
“I can’t. I’ll miss too much. Once you fall behind it’s too hard to catch up.”
“Go but I’m warning you that what I dig must be off the ridges before night.”
“I’ll be home quick. The evenings are long enough yet.”
“That’s your business. But I’m warning you it’ll be your own funeral if they’re not off the ridges before night.”
The first two evenings they were able to have the ridges cleared before dark. Mahoney seemed disappointed. He kept complaining, he wanted trouble, and he had only to wait for the next evening to get his chance. It came stormy, the sky a turmoil of black shifting cloud, and the wind so strong on the open parts of the road that not even stepping on the pedals could force the bike much faster than walking pace. The others were afraid in the kitchen when he came home late.
“Our father’s wild. We’ll never get what he’s dug picked before night,” they were afraid.
It started to rain as he gulped his meal, the first drops loud on the pane, and it was raining steadily by the time they were on their way to the field.
Between the lone ash trees, their stripped branches pale as human limbs in the rain, Mahoney worked. The long rows of the potatoes stretched to the stone wall, the rows washed clean on top by the rain, gleaming white and pink and candle-yellow against the black acres of clay; and they had to set to work without any hope of picking them all. Their clothes started to grow heavy with rain. The wind numbed the side of their faces, great lumps of clay held together by dead stalks gathered about their boots.
Yet Mahoney would not leave off. He paid no attention to them. He had reached close to the stone wall and he was muttering and striking savagely with the spade as he dug.
“He’ll never leave off now. There’s no knowing what he’ll do,” it was Joan.
“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all.”
Then they saw him come, blundering across the muddy ridges.
“Give me the bucket in the name of Jesus. Those bloody spuds’ll not pick themselves.”
He heaped fistfuls of mud into the bucket with the potatoes, in far too great a rush, and the bucket overturned and scattered his picking back on the ridge. He cursed and started to kick the bucket.
“Nothing right. Nothing right. Nothing ever done right. All lost in this pissin mess.”
The blue shirt was plastered to his body under the army braces and showed naked. They thought he was going to go for them.
“I’ll get me death out of this. Such cursed yokes to be saddled with. No help, no help,” he turned to the rain instead.
“I’ll get me death out of this pissin mess,” he cursed as he went stumbling over the ridges to the house.
“That itself is one good riddance,” was the harsh farewell after him in the rain.
They went on picking but it was hopeless, the dark was thickening. They were walking on the potatoes.
“We’re only tramping them into the ground, Joan.”
“But he’ll murder us if we stop.”
“Let him murder. We can pick no more. We’ll have to cover the heap before we go in, that’s all.”
“But I’m afraid.”
“It’s alright. I’ll tell him when I go in. There’s no need to be afraid.”
“I don’t want to go in,” it was Mona.
“It’s not the end of the world, you know, they’re only bloody spuds when all is said.”
But why had things to happen as they did, why could there not be some happiness, it’d be as easy.
“As I was going to the fair of Athy I met nine men and their nine wives, how many were going to the fair of Athy?”
“Only the one, the rest were coming.”
“Aren’t you clever now of
A second-hand bicycle was got and fixed up. In September he started.
He hadn’t long to wait for trouble. The new subjects didn’t leave him much time to give the help in the fields Mahoney had been used to. There was constant trouble, it rose to a warning when he refused to stop for the potato digging.
“I can’t. I’ll miss too much. Once you fall behind it’s too hard to catch up.”
“Go but I’m warning you that what I dig must be off the ridges before night.”
“I’ll be home quick. The evenings are long enough yet.”
“That’s your business. But I’m warning you it’ll be your own funeral if they’re not off the ridges before night.”
The first two evenings they were able to have the ridges cleared before dark. Mahoney seemed disappointed. He kept complaining, he wanted trouble, and he had only to wait for the next evening to get his chance. It came stormy, the sky a turmoil of black shifting cloud, and the wind so strong on the open parts of the road that not even stepping on the pedals could force the bike much faster than walking pace. The others were afraid in the kitchen when he came home late.
“Our father’s wild. We’ll never get what he’s dug picked before night,” they were afraid.
It started to rain as he gulped his meal, the first drops loud on the pane, and it was raining steadily by the time they were on their way to the field.
Between the lone ash trees, their stripped branches pale as human limbs in the rain, Mahoney worked. The long rows of the potatoes stretched to the stone wall, the rows washed clean on top by the rain, gleaming white and pink and candle-yellow against the black acres of clay; and they had to set to work without any hope of picking them all. Their clothes started to grow heavy with rain. The wind numbed the side of their faces, great lumps of clay held together by dead stalks gathered about their boots.
Yet Mahoney would not leave off. He paid no attention to them. He had reached close to the stone wall and he was muttering and striking savagely with the spade as he dug.
“He’ll never leave off now. There’s no knowing what he’ll do,” it was Joan.
“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all.”
Then they saw him come, blundering across the muddy ridges.
“Give me the bucket in the name of Jesus. Those bloody spuds’ll not pick themselves.”
He heaped fistfuls of mud into the bucket with the potatoes, in far too great a rush, and the bucket overturned and scattered his picking back on the ridge. He cursed and started to kick the bucket.
“Nothing right. Nothing right. Nothing ever done right. All lost in this pissin mess.”
The blue shirt was plastered to his body under the army braces and showed naked. They thought he was going to go for them.
“I’ll get me death out of this. Such cursed yokes to be saddled with. No help, no help,” he turned to the rain instead.
“I’ll get me death out of this pissin mess,” he cursed as he went stumbling over the ridges to the house.
“That itself is one good riddance,” was the harsh farewell after him in the rain.
They went on picking but it was hopeless, the dark was thickening. They were walking on the potatoes.
“We’re only tramping them into the ground, Joan.”
“But he’ll murder us if we stop.”
“Let him murder. We can pick no more. We’ll have to cover the heap before we go in, that’s all.”
“But I’m afraid.”
“It’s alright. I’ll tell him when I go in. There’s no need to be afraid.”
“I don’t want to go in,” it was Mona.
“It’s not the end of the world, you know, they’re only bloody spuds when all is said.”
But why had things to happen as they did, why could there not be some happiness, it’d be as easy.
“As I was going to the fair of Athy I met nine men and their nine wives, how many were going to the fair of Athy?”
“Only the one, the rest were coming.”
“Aren’t you clever now of