To fulfil a long-held ambition, Cormac took the train from Carlingford to Glenore. Cormac had never ridden on anything other than a donkey-cart. From the carriage window, he watched the farm chug past through the smoke from the engine. The plume of pungent, sulphurous anthracite-smoke that he had watched so often from the hill was different from the sweet peat-smoke from home. In Glenore, he changed to the Dundalk to Glenore Railway. The whole journey took two hours. Dundalk was a rabbit-warren of streets, with many houses having two storeys and slate roofs.

It was March and unusually warm. Thirsty, he passed several public houses, dawdling at their doors to look inside. Choosing one that looked more friendly, he strode in with what he thought was a confident air. His exaggerated swagger gave the lie to that. He moved up to the bar, his attention fully concentrated on his own reflection in the big mirror behind the gantry filled with bottles of spirits. Not noticing a sheepdog lying at the foot-rail, he stepped on it’s tail.

"Can you not mind where you’re putting your feet young fella? You blind or something?" The dog’s owner, a farmer, put his tobacco-stained clay-pipe back in his mouth.

"I’m sorry. I never saw the poor beast." Cormac reached down to comfort the dog and was treated to a snarl and curled lip.

"He’s not to be trusted. Better leave him be." The farmer pushed his grey felt-hat to the back of his head and wiped beer-foam from his moustache.

Cormac stood up to see the barman leaning over the bar towards him.

"What’ll it be lad?"

"I’ll have a glass of beer."

"What kind of beer would that be now? We have porter, stout, strong ale and Indian pale ale."

"I’ll have the porter, please."

"Would that be a half-pint or a pint?"

"A pint. I’ll have a pint of porter."

The barman pulled a pint of dark porter into a glass and set it on the bar before him. "That’ll be tuppence-ha’penny."

Cormac drew his money from his trouser pocket. Selecting a half-crown, he handed it to the barman who turned to the cash drawer under the gantry. Cormac returned the rest to his pocket. The half-crown was thrown into the drawer. The barman turned back and slapped threepence ha’penny on the bar. Cormac drew the coins towards him through the spilled dregs of beer and made to put them into his pocket.

"Let me see that, young fella."

The owner of the dog took him by the hand holding the money. Cormac, surprised by the assault, tried to shake free of the farmer.

"Easy there young ‘un. I’m not trying to rob you. The other way round, if you’ll just let me see what you have in your hand." He let the hand go, and suspiciously Cormac put the coins back on the bar.

"Oy, you, come here."

The barman ignored him.

"Oy, I said come here. Aye, you." The farmer was a big man with an authoritative manner. The barman came over.

"What’s this?"

"That’s the lad’s change. What’s it look like?"

"It looks like change from sixpence to me."

"And that’s just what it is. The lad gave me a sixpence for a pint of porter that costs tuppence ha’penny, and he gets threepence ha’penny back."

"The lad gave you a half-crown. Now you give him his two shillings."

"No he never. It was a sixpence."

"Give him his two shillings." The farmer repeated harshly, looking at the barman.

The barman looked at Cormac. Then at the farmer who took a drink of his stout. He looked at Cormac again and turned to the cash-drawer and took out a two shilling piece. He put it on the bar in front of Cormac.

"It was sixpence he gave me. That’s my profit for the day there."

"Son, if that was your profit for the day, you’d never have given it back. Now I came in here because I thought it was a reputable house, but I won’t be back, and neither will the lad here. Will you?"

"I will not indeed. I thank you sir. I was not watching the rascal and didn’t notice he’d cheated me."

"You mind your tongue young fella. You call me a rascal again and I’ll teach you a lesson. Drink your beer up there and get out. I don’t want to see you here again."

‘The lad called you a rascal, for that’s what you are. And if there’s going to be any lessons taught, I’ll be the one teaching them. So just you mind your manners. The lad and me’ll finish our drinks in our own good time, and we won’t be back. You can be sure of that."

Cormac left the pub with the farmer.

"You watch out for the likes of him. The world’s full of his type."

"I will sir. I will. And thanks again for your help. Good day to you."

The amount of traffic on the streets was almost the death of him. Watching the heavy drays coming from one direction, he was almost crushed under the hooves of a great Clydesdale hauling a wagon loaded with kegs of beer coming the opposite way.

The traveller returned to Thomas’ house after his day out, feeling that he had been abroad in the world. He had bought a pint of porter in a public house in a real town. The misadventures were retold with the same delight as the other sights and sounds of the day. Thomas heard it all with the same wonder. He had never been to Dundalk either.

With nothing to do, Cormac took to taking long walks. He walked the twelve miles along the side of the Lough to Newry. No stranger to towns any more, he negotiated the traffic and had his pint of porter in the pubs. He checked his change every time.

*****

Returning to Thomas’ house one evening as dusk was falling, he found that Thomas had a guest; Fergus Sweeney, the shanachie.

"There’s an old friend of yours staying for the night."

"Fergus, how are you? It’s grand to see you again."

"Hello Cormac. I wasn’t sure if you’d be pleased to see me or not."

"Now why would I not be pleased to see you?"

"Sure I had a conversation with your father yesterday. He blames me for you leaving the farm."

"Ah for God’s sake Fergus, pay no attention to him. He’s an old fool. He thinks you’ve perverted my mind. If it wasn’t for you I’d still be thinking like him."

"That’s no way to talk of your father. The man has lived his life the way he learned. You cannot blame him for being what he is. As soon get angry with the cat for catching the mouse. It’s the nature of the beast. In his own eyes he’s had a successful life. He did as good as his father. He married and had sons and still has the farm to pass on. That’s all he wanted out of life. Don’t condemn him for it."

"I don’t condemn him. I just think he’s a fool."

"You’re judging him by your standards. You must judge him by his own. It was never my intention to come between fathers and sons, but times are changing, and the young are changing faster than the old."

"I still think he’s a fool."

"Then all I ever told you has been wasted on you, and it’s you that’s the fool. You’ve a receptive mind young Cormac, but you’re making exactly the same mistake you’re accusing your father of."

"And what’s that?"

"You’re locked into a way of thinking and are not looking at things with an open mind. Any fool can learn the words of a song or a poem. They can learn the ways of the sea, or the seasons and their weather. Mostly they learn the ways of their fathers. Songs, seas and seasons never change. Ways are changing. Learning to change Cormac; that’s real learning. Learn to think in a different way. Take folk for what they are, not for what they do or say. Most folk do and say what they have learned to do and say. Wisdom is different. Wisdom is from experience; from inside yourself; not from imitating, or spouting the same ideas as, others."

Thomas came through from the kitchen with a stew of mutton, carrots turnips and onions.

"Get the plates and spoons from the dresser Cormac. I’ll bring the praties through."

The old man drew his chair up from the fire to the table. His dress was from the time of Cormac’s grandfather; a woollen brat, or cloak, over a coarse woollen tunic, all stained brown. His old, grey felt-hat lay on the floor beside the fire. His youthful, bright eyes had no place in his aged, wrinkled face. He was seventy-three years old, but Cormac guessed him at over eighty. Thomas brought the potatoes and joined them at the table.

"Bless us oh Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive through thy bounty, through Christ Our Lord. Amen."

"Amen."

"Will you make peace with your father Cormac?"

"If he will with me."

"Will you make the first move?"

"No."

"You know Hugh will not make the first move."

"I do."

"Then, you have no intention of making peace with him?"

"If he will with me."

"You disappoint me Cormac. You have not understood what I tried to explain. I hope it will come to you in time."

"He won’t listen to me."

"You are not speaking his language."

"He’s not speaking mine."

"He cannot Cormac. Only you speak both languages; his and your own."

"And what language am I supposed to speak?"

"The language I tried to teach you; the language of reason, though you often forget it."

"I cannot go back to him Fergus. I would be denying my own self-respect."

"I can accept that. I still think you should make your peace with him. If you can find a way to do that and keep your self-respect, I would do it."

"I’ll think about it. Can you tell me how?"

"No my boy. That you must do for yourself." The old man bent to his plate.

"A grand stew Thomas. I should come more often."

When Cormac rose the following morning, Fergus had gone.

*****

On a rainy Tuesday morning in the middle of April, Cormac boarded the Rourke boat which would take him to Scotland. As happened every now and then, fishing was good in the Lough, making for a poor price for the catch. Larry Rourke’s boat was sturdy enough to make the crossing to the Ayrshire coast. They planned to fish the Lough in the early morning and take the catch to Girvan, where hopefully, they would get a better price than at home.

Harry, Biddy and Thomas had come to take their farewells. Cormac embraced them and put his bag in a safe place in the wheelhouse. The boat cast off.

On Thursday afternoon, he watched the Mary Ellen sail out of Girvan harbour. Sitting on a bollard, he waved to Larry, Paddy Joe, Robbie and Kevin sailing back to Carlingford with a good price for the catch. Keeyaa....keeyaa....kyaa...kyaa...kyaa...kyeekyeekyeekyeekyee.

Seagulls dived, fought and screamed over the entrails of the day’s catch being thrown overboard by the crews gutting what they had not been able to clean on the way back to port.

"You waant a joab Paddy?" A seaman came and stood beside him.

Cormac, concentrating on his departing friends, did not look round.

"Ur ye deef Paddy? Ur ye lukkin’ fur wurk? I wis watchin’ ye gettin’ aff that Irish boat. Ur ye no’ goin’ back wi’ them?"

"Are you listenin’ to me son?" The big man nudged him.

"You talking to me?"

"Aye, who else would I be talking to Paddy?"

"I’m Cormac, not Paddy."

"Weel you’re Paddy on this side of the water son. All you Irish are Paddy to me. Are you looking for work?"

"Depends on what kind of work," said Cormac sizing him up.

"At the fishing. What other kind of work is there in a fishing harbour?"

"I was going to Glasgow to find work there. How do I get to Glasgow?"

"Weel, there’s a train twyst a day. But there’s nane noo tae the morn. Whit dae ye waant tae go tae Glesca fur? It’s a durrty big toon, fu’ o’ thieves, hoers, bad whisky and no’ a breath ae good fresh air. It’s nae place for a clean-living young man like yersel’."

Cormac had difficulty understanding what the big man said. The south Ayrshire accent sounded very different to that of Carlingford. He realised that he was being offered work at the fishing.

"Have you got a boat, then?" he asked to gain thinking time.

"Son, would I be offering you work at the fishing if I didnae have a boat? That’s her there; the Kestrel. She’s as fine a wee lugger as you’ll find up and doon the Ayrshire coast."

"Wee lugger? That’s nearly twice the size of the Mary Ellen."

"I need a man on the nets. Have you been on the nets before?"

"Well, I’ve just worked the last six months with Larry Rourke there, in Carlingford Lough." Cormac nodded towards the Mary Ellen slipping out past the breakwater. "We went after herring."

"Weel son, we fish for cod out in the firth. Cod needs a boat that’s a wee bit sturdier than what’s needed for herring. You’ll find the cod a fair bit heavier than the herring."

"What are you paying?"

"Shilling a day at sea and a twenty-fifth of the catch."

"I was getting a twentieth of the catch with Larry." Cormac had very quickly learned how the payment of his wages was split up in the six months he had been with Larry. There was more to be made from the share of the catch than from a higher daily wage.

"If you want a bigger share then you’ll no’ be getting a shilling a day. Sixpence and a twentieth, then."

"Ninepence and I’ll do it," he said thinking, he’ll not pay me that, and he’ll go away and leave me in peace..

The big man looked at him. "For ninepence, you’ll have to pull your weight. I’ll give you a try. If you can’t do the work, I’ll pay you off right away."

"Aye, that’ll be fine. Start tomorrow?"

"Five o’clock, and that’s when we cast off. So be here at half past four. I’m Alec Stewart by the way," he said sticking out his hand. "Come on and I’ll buy you a drink."

So Cormac went back to the fishing. Stewart took him to the Ellingham family. They had an out-house with a roof that leaked. Here, he and Jackie Todd, an apprentice in the Ellingham butcher’s shop, shared a dry corner with Dixie, the family dog. For threepence a night, he could sleep there. For another sixpence, he got a breakfast of porridge, bread and tea together with an evening meal with meat three times a week.

Cormac often had reason to curse that leak.

*****

"Jesus. I’m buggered. I thought I’d done some hard work with Rourke, but that was heavy." Cormac sat in the Thistle and Rose pub in Girvan with his new workmates after his first trip on the Kestrel. Alec Stewart, as usual, stood the first round. It was four o’clock in the afternoon.

"Five pints there Archie." The barman pulled the pints, put them on the bar, and set a double Bells whisky in front of Big Alec. Sammy Hanna, Donny Campbell, wee Tam Auld, Frank McLaren and Cormac drank their beer.

"Cheers Alec."

"Good health boys."

At seven o’clock, Cormac staggered off to the Ellingham’s. Dead drunk, he collapsed onto the sack filled with hay that was his bed. He dreamed of uncle Thomas’s hay-byre in Carlingford, where he had first slept off too much drink.

"So Cormac, ready for another day at the fishing?"

Cormac leaned over the edge of the quay and was very sick. He earned his wages, and the respect of his fellow crew, by doing his full share of the work on the nets that day. There was no drinking for him that afternoon. He went straight to the out-house and collapsed in exhaustion.

In the course of the following months, having no other friends than his work-mates, and there being no other means of diversion in Girvan, Cormac joined them each afternoon in the pub.

He learned to hold his drink.

*****

"So do you not go to church on a Sunday?"

"I’m a Catholic. I think I’m the only one in Girvan. There’s no Catholic church nearer than Ayr. And I can’t get to Ayr on a Sunday. There’s no trains. But I always went at home."

Cormac wanted to impress Maisie Wilson, the young girl who was the maid at the Ellingham’s where he had lodgings. Maisie was nineteen, from a good family, but a bit wild. Maisie worked six days a week from eight in the morning till eight at night. She, Cormac and Jackie ate together in the kitchen each evening.

"We’re Prodisants. My faither says that all Cathliks are useless, feckless and lazy. Cathliks’re heathens. They eat God. And they bow down to statues and adore them."

"Maisie, we don’t. We take the Holy Communion. But that’s a piece of bread that’s been turned into the body of Christ by the Mass. We do have statues in the church, but that’s just to remind us of the saints and Our Lord and that. We don’t adore them."

Maisie was not convinced.

"Was that you sniffing around Maisie Wilson yesterday?" big Alec wanted to know in the pub the next day .

"Me? You must be joking. If old Ellingham caught me with his maid he’d skin me alive. I’ve more sense. Anyhow, she’s just a wee lassie."

"She’s not such a wee lassie," Tam Auld said. "She’s a bloody handful that one. Her father’s had to warn off quite a few of the young bucks in the town. And I know a couple that he hasn’t managed to warn off. She’ll have the pants off you before you know what’s hit you.

I bet you’re a bugger for the women. I’ve heard all about you Paddys. If it moves, fuck it. That’s why there’s so bloody many of youse. Youse are all at it like bloody rabbits. And that church of yours. All them priests on at youse to have a bairn every year."

Cormac reddened, which made them laugh louder.

Later that week, Cormac and Maisie were together in the kitchen.

"It’s a fine night for a walk. Will we go down by the harbour when you’ve finished?"

"I’m awful tired Cormac. It’s been real busy today. She’s had me polishing all the furniture for his brother and his wife coming for their dinners on Sunday."

"Will we go tomorrow then?"

"Aye, if I’m not too tired we’ll go for a walk tomorrow night; if the weather’s fine."

Cormac was quite taken by Maisie. Maybe she’ll be my girlfriend, he thought as he gutted the fish on the way back to the harbour. He worked on with half his mind on the girl. That evening, they walked along the beach throwing skiffers over the surface of the sea.

"That was seven," he crowed, watching the splashes making a line towards Ailsa Craig out in the firth.

"It never was. It was no more than five."

"You do better then." He was like a fifteen year-old trying to impress her with his prowess at skipping flat stones on the surface of the water. He walked her home and left her at the mouth of the close where she lived.

"See you tomorrow."

"Cheerio."

I should have kissed her tonight. I’m sure she’d have let me. Frustration racked him. I’ll do it tomorrow, he vowed. He had no idea how to approach a girl, and had no-one whom he could ask for advice.

Next evening while Jackie was in the shop, she put her arm round his shoulder as she cleared the dishes from the table. Cormac tried to catch her round the waist, but she turned away to avoid his grasp. Later, while she washed the dishes, Cormac dried and stacked.

"D’you think I’m pretty," she asked.

" I think you’re awful pretty," he blurted. "You’re really nice. I think you’re the nicest, prettiest girl I know."

"Well, that came all of a sudden." She scooped some suds from the sink and dabbed them on his nose.

He flicked the damp tea-towel at her backside. He chased her round the table and cornered her by the big dresser.

"Now what are you going to do sir?"

Clumsily he put his lips on hers. He stood back and looked at her.

"Have you ever kissed a man before? I haven’t. Kissed a girl I mean." He reddened.

"Aye. You’re not very good at it, are you? I’ll have to give you some lessons." She leaned forward and kissed him. He tried to put his arms round her but she danced out of reach.

"Not here. Later."

*****

"Have you ever been fishing?"

It was Sunday afternoon. They had arranged to meet by the harbour-master’s office.

"Fishing? What would I want to go fishing for?"

"Not out in a boat. In a burn; for trout. Fishing’s great sport. You sit there and wait for the fish to bite, and then when the wee trout takes your fly you’ve got to play him till he’s tired. Then you can land him. Have you ever tasted fresh trout straight from the river? My mother makes grand fresh trout baked in oatmeal. You’ve never tasted anything so good."

"I don’t like fish."

"I went up the hill behind the town last Sunday. There’s a grand wee stream with a pool that’s just teeming with trout. I cut myself a bit of a birch rod and bought some fishing line and a couple of hooks in the town. Come on up there with me and I’ll show what it’s like to catch trout."

"Well, they’re all in the house sleeping their dinners off. They’ll not wake up till the sun’s well down. Just for an hour or that. I’ll need to be back when they wake up."

They climbed the hill to where Cormac had found the trout-pool and hidden his birch-rod. He attached the line he had bought, and knotted on a hook. He tied some dry grass and a feather around the hook in a rough attempt at making a fly. As a youngster, Hugh had taught him to fly-fish in the burns in the hills above Carlingford. Now the knack quickly came back to his wrists.

"Do you want to have a go?"

"Me? I wouldn’t have a clue how to do that," said an already bored Maisie.

"Here. Come and I’ll show you how it’s done. It’s easy." He put the rod into her hands. Standing behind her he put his arms round her and guided her movements to demonstrate how to cast the fly. They tried several casts before Cormac realised the pain in his groin was an erection.

"This’s no good. Look I’ll show you how it’s done." He disengaged himself from her. But Maisie had already realised the effect she had had on him.

"I used to come up here when I was wee. In the summer when it was awful warm, I used to go for a swim here. There was never anybody here but me. Just like now. You couldn’t move for the heat. I used to go in just here and I could feel all the wee trouts swimming along my body. I could fair go for a swim right now."

"Don’t be daft."

"Are you feart?"

"Feart of what?"

"Feart of seeing me with no clothes on." She looked at him defiantly.

"Maisie, don’t be daft. It wouldn’t be right. What would your father say? They’d skin the pair of us alive if anybody found out that you’d gone swimming in front of me without any clothes on."

"I don’t care. I’m going for a swim."

She sat down and took her shoes and stockings off. Standing up, she stepped out of her dress. She unlaced the front of her bodice and pulled it off. Standing there in her knickers and vest she looked at him boldly, then pulled the vest over her head revealing her breasts with their nipples in their small pink aureoles. Brazenly she threw the vest on the ground and, bending over, she pulled her knickers down. She stood up straight, stepped out of them and kicked them beside the vest.

Cormac, astounded, looked at the first naked woman he had seen. Maisie was a true red-head. Cormac had never seen anything so wonderful. She shivered slightly in the breeze, goose-pimples rising on her white skin. She flaunted herself aggressively in front of him before walking down to the edge of the burn. She waded into the pool till she was thigh-deep and launched herself into the water. She gasped.

Catching her breath she said, "Jesus it’s cold. I had forgotten how cold it was. It’s always cold. Are you coming in?"

Cormac felt a sense of loss as she moved below the surface of the water. The ripples she created disturbed the surface of the burn hiding her from him, leaving only an indistinct pink blur in the water. Standing upright on the bank, he had watched her breasts wobble as she moved then become hard and the nipples pop up, as much from the cold as from the eroticism she felt at being naked in the presence of a man. She reached the other side. He imagined the cleft hidden by the bush between her legs which appeared as she turned to face him.

Cormac’s erotic imaginings, based on scraps of conversations overheard between older men, had been wide of the mark. He had not even had a sister who might have afforded him some glimpses and clues. He stripped off his clothes and joined her in the burn. He dared not touch her, staying at a distance. She had no qualms. She came beside him and grasped his cock which was huge, rigid and painful.

"Maisie, this is wrong. Your dad’ll murder us if he finds out. What if somebody comes along and sees us."

She led him out of the water and drew him down beside her on the bank. He reached for her nipples which were hard against his chest. She opened her legs and guided him into her. He thrust and thrust till it was done; shudderingly, all too soon. Expended, he lay upon her breast, his chest heaving.

"Again. Do it again."

Slowly, he began to build his rhythm; stronger, deeper, faster, his toes digging the grass for purchase. She joined him, thrust for thrust. Her explosion surprised and frightened him. At first he thought he had done her a mischief. Her appetite and active participation shocked him. She clung to him, wondering at the force of the experience. Her previous liaisons had been quick, furtive and unsatisfying.

A blackbird perched amid the hawthorn blossom above them fled, flying low along the burn, shrilly scolding them for disturbing his peace on a Sunday afternoon.

"Again. Do it again."

She came quickly the second time, and this time Cormac was ready for her. He thrust into her depths as she squirmed and bucked under him, shrieking her ecstasy to the cows and the curlews on the hills.

Her orgasm triggered a second ejaculation and he joined her, shouting, "Yes, yes, yeeessssss."

They lay for a long time in each others arms, exploring each other’s bodies. Each curve, nook, cranny, appendage and orifice was found, fondled and, where possible, entered. The burn gurgled past them. They lay in a carpet of dandelion-clocks. The yellow gorse, with its vicious green spikes, formed the walls of their bridal suite, hiding them from the prying eyes of the curious sheep coming down to the burn to drink in the evening of the dying day.

A cow lowed continuously in the distance.
Lost her calf, he thought lazily. The laziness changed to panic. Jesus, a calf. Maisie’ll get a bairn from me. Oh Christ. Oh Christ.

He jumped up. They dressed; their bodies had been dry long since. Cormac collected the few trout they had caught, and they returned to the town.

*****

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