Wild Decembers by Edna O’Brien Read Free Book Online

cranberries on his marshy land. I have it this evening from his very own lips. But a word in your ear, Breege . . . Tricky Micky means to take us over. Treasons, stratagems, and spoils.”
    “What’s wrong with rye . . . What’s wrong with cranberries?”
    “Everything!”
    Turning to face the carved bowl of the mountain, glassy in the moonlight, he delivered his ode—
    “Who came first, Bugler or Brennan? The Brennans came first, the Brennans of the moor. The Buglers played bugles and came hence from Wales with the soldiers . . . Welsh men . . . And on the last day the Brennans will be first, for many are called but Brennans are chosen.”
     
    The dance hall was deserted, spare tables and folding chairs stacked in a corner, with Eamonn and two girls sweeping up the debris, sweeping it into the middle of the floor. There were cans, cigarette packets, a pair of red braces, and several odd earrings that sparkled untowardly in the dust. Rita is looking for Reena. Reena is looking for Rita. They miss because of going in two different directions, one to the ladies’ room, one to the car park. They meet back in the hall in a hail of risen dust.
    “Where’s Bugler?” from Rita.
    “He’s gone.”
    “He’s gone! Where to?”
    “He went with Magdalene . . . And the harp.”
    “Jesus Christ, in holy feck’s name, you mean to tell me that you let him go?”
    “I couldn’t stop him.”
    “You half-baked, big-arsed pollop, you let him go . . . You didn’t even try . . . All you had to do was hold your bush up against him.”
    “He wasn’t interested in me.”
    “Plan A—tell me what was Plan A.”
    “We were going to bring Bugler home and get our hooks in him.”
    “Plan A, we were going to bring Bugler home, and Plan B we were going to bring Bugler home and every fecking plan in the alphabet . . . Now he’s with that bitch with her lands in Tipperary . . . She’s loaded.”
    “Oh, Reet.” Reena starts to cry, the tears dropping onto the posy of chrysanthemums which she took from the table. Everyone grabbed something, but all she managed was this small bouquet and half a red candle. Eamonn sweeps around them while they outscream each other, tells them the party is over. Soon they are screaming at him, saying they are not fecking leaving, they want reimbursement. With shooing arms and the broom handle he herds them towards the exit, saying very quietly, and very gently, “Girls, girls,” then gets them to the front door, pushes them out, shuts the door, bolts it, and whistles a sweet Jesus of relief. The last thing he wants is to be up in court for assaulting them.
    Once out of the town they hit a fog so thick that it is impossible to see twenty yards ahead. The car is like a sled on the icy road, not a glimpse of a house or a light of any kind, only Rita cursing and plotting her revenge on one and all. She is driving recklessly, her cabbage crown askew, the little bubble car like a cauldron because of her invective.
    “I’m sorry, Reet,” Reena said, picking off shreds of the chrysanthemums as if they were coconut, then spitting them out.
    “Sorry, feck . . . Two times twenty-seven pounds fifty, the price of a load of hay.”
    When they passed their turning, at the top of the town, Rita tore down the hill, through the fog, knocking some tar barrels put there because of roadworks. “Where are we going, Reet?” “See if that tin of turpentine is in the back.” “Why?”
    “His fecking tractor is in for a surprise.” “How so?”
    “Teach that bastard Bugler a lesson while he’s getting laid in the luscious Golden Vale.”

 
     
     
     
    T HREE MEN ARE around the tractor, clutching it as though in a fervent embrace. Their hands and clothes already muddied and their faces taut with effort. They have been there the best part of an hour and tempers are fraying. At first it was quite jocular, Bugler giving the orders and the others complying, Joseph and the Crock at the back