At the dance that night all reticence left O’Muichin. He danced with one of the sisters, and then the other, with practised steps learned in a hall in Parnell Square. “You should go there. I go there every Thursday night,” he said, while he avoided as best he could the wilder antics of the lads, for O’Muichin was a resourceful and patient man and knew that a stranger there was an object of male contempt. He slipped away before the dance was over, skimmed through a version of the tale of Maire Rua and was already in bed with his candle burning and his personal sense of euphoria established, before the girls, set on a long conversation, got home. The next morning he was sad to be leaving. He hung about the house. He let the morning bus go. Then it was too late to bike it down to Castlebar in time for the train. He was up and down from his room finding things he had left behind. His voice was heavy and he was shaking somewhat in the manner of a man possessed of a religious hangover. The girls were entranced by his romantic needs. He drank innumerable cups of tea. And then, when they were left alone in the kitchen, he let his hands rest lightly on the back of Catherine’s head.

“Let me see now,” he said, “if we have any fleas.”

He sifted and nit-picked her hair with his fingers.

“Well, well,” he said, sucking in in mock surprise.

“Did you find some?” she asked.

“Hold on now,” he answered, “I think they’ve gone down the back of your dress.”

“Do you think so?” said Catherine looking at Sara, and then she threw up her eyes in the joy of conspiracy.

“A bad case, I’m afraid.” He shook his head.

The next thing he was tickling her under the arms and she fell to the floor laughing and screaming, and O’Muichin flailing after her. Then Sara jumped on top of him. Maisie Adams came in. Uncomfortably, the Irish speaker picked himself off the floor. “Sara Adams,” her mother ordered, “get up.” O’Muichin tried to speak and the girls laughed. Maisie Adams turned her back, her shoulders shaking with mirth.

“Are you respectable, Mr O’Muichin?” she asked.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he meekly whispered.

“Still here, O’Muichin?” the Sergeant called as he entered the kitchen. The teacher reluctantly said goodbye, took his blue bag by the strap, put it on his back, and turned towards Belmullet. He stopped once to wave, then cycled on till he reached Maumaratta, the Mountain Pass of the Young Hares. There he passed the night in a sleeping bag among the airy stones.

16. The Salmon of Knowledge

16

The Salmon of Knowledge