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Authors: Peter Cunningham
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because you did?’
‘And my father, and his father.’
‘So?’
Ronnie’s eyes emptied. ‘Tradition may well have ended in your family with you, but here we still value it.’
‘What a despicable thing to say! You’re not capable of discussing the matter on its own merits without dragging in a personal attack!’
‘Does what I say not reflect the truth? Did you not ensure that everything your family held dear would end in one most unlovely debacle?’
‘You… pig!’
‘Am I?’
‘I hate you, Ronnie.’
‘Is that all you can say?’
‘What on earth does my family matter when it comes to deciding where Hector should go to school? For that matter, why should the fact that you and his grandfather went to one school mean that Hector must now go there too? I think, in fact, he’s right. This is Ireland, our own country. Why must everything still relate to England? You’re out of touch.’
‘We’re talking not just about tradition, but about standards, about the type of person you want as your friend, about connections. You think he’ll get that in any school here?’
‘The point he makes is that he will. What connections did you make that are now so vitally important?’
‘More than you imagine,’ Ronnie said, getting up and looking at his watch. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to.’
‘You’re ridiculous. We live here in a tiny lighthouse, we own less than one half of the land we did when I married you, we must watch how every penny is spent, you dart here and there like a mouse, trying to be the first to latch on to the newest person who comes into the area and has money. A lot of good going to school in England did you!’
Ronnie turned, his misaligned face all at once white and set.
‘If you’d had any style, we mightn’t be as we are. You let us all down, every day, simply by being you.’
‘What did you say?’
‘You heard me.’
I caught up a cup and hurled it; it bounced from his shoulder and smashed on the floor.
‘Get out!’
Ronnie stopped, then, eyes wild, he went to the stove, snatched up the pot of soup, and hurled it out through the open window into the sea. I picked up a vase and launched it for his head; although he ducked, it caught him high on his temple before disintegrating against the wall. Ronnie, panting, began to throw the furniture the same way as he had the soup. Picking up a heavy chair, I flung it at him, my strength a wonder. The chair caught him full square and he went down, winded. I picked up the breadboard, a generous piece of polished walnut, and went to stave in his head, but he caught my ankles and dragged hard so that I fell back and the board merely hit him in the chest. As if he had been interrupted in some serious task, Ronnie scrambled up and began to pitch every item of cutlery, glassware and crockery out the other kitchen window, many of them landing on his car that was parked below. I was bleeding from my mouth, yet I felt strangely empowered and elated. I picked up a pot stand and made a run at him. Ronnie went down again. I kicked him hard in the jaw. He winced and I wondered if I’d undone all the work of the unspeakable Mr Hedley Raven. I drew back again to kick harder.
‘ Stop! ’
I froze.
Hector was standing there.
‘You’ve both gone mad!’
The boy’s eyes were huge. Each time I tried to take a breath, my chest screamed.
‘It’s all right, Hector,’ said Ronnie, getting up, wincing. ‘We were just airing our differences.’
Hector looked from one of us to the other.
‘And have you stopped, now?’
‘Have we stopped, now?’ Ronnie asked, his teeth bared in pain.
‘Yes, we have stopped now,’ I panted.
In the months that followed, when Hector had gone away to school in England and I was forced to confront my true feelings for my husband, I always came back to our fight that day and, when I did, I always smiled. Like a storm that clears the atmosphere, I had felt immeasurably the
‘And my father, and his father.’
‘So?’
Ronnie’s eyes emptied. ‘Tradition may well have ended in your family with you, but here we still value it.’
‘What a despicable thing to say! You’re not capable of discussing the matter on its own merits without dragging in a personal attack!’
‘Does what I say not reflect the truth? Did you not ensure that everything your family held dear would end in one most unlovely debacle?’
‘You… pig!’
‘Am I?’
‘I hate you, Ronnie.’
‘Is that all you can say?’
‘What on earth does my family matter when it comes to deciding where Hector should go to school? For that matter, why should the fact that you and his grandfather went to one school mean that Hector must now go there too? I think, in fact, he’s right. This is Ireland, our own country. Why must everything still relate to England? You’re out of touch.’
‘We’re talking not just about tradition, but about standards, about the type of person you want as your friend, about connections. You think he’ll get that in any school here?’
‘The point he makes is that he will. What connections did you make that are now so vitally important?’
‘More than you imagine,’ Ronnie said, getting up and looking at his watch. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to.’
‘You’re ridiculous. We live here in a tiny lighthouse, we own less than one half of the land we did when I married you, we must watch how every penny is spent, you dart here and there like a mouse, trying to be the first to latch on to the newest person who comes into the area and has money. A lot of good going to school in England did you!’
Ronnie turned, his misaligned face all at once white and set.
‘If you’d had any style, we mightn’t be as we are. You let us all down, every day, simply by being you.’
‘What did you say?’
‘You heard me.’
I caught up a cup and hurled it; it bounced from his shoulder and smashed on the floor.
‘Get out!’
Ronnie stopped, then, eyes wild, he went to the stove, snatched up the pot of soup, and hurled it out through the open window into the sea. I picked up a vase and launched it for his head; although he ducked, it caught him high on his temple before disintegrating against the wall. Ronnie, panting, began to throw the furniture the same way as he had the soup. Picking up a heavy chair, I flung it at him, my strength a wonder. The chair caught him full square and he went down, winded. I picked up the breadboard, a generous piece of polished walnut, and went to stave in his head, but he caught my ankles and dragged hard so that I fell back and the board merely hit him in the chest. As if he had been interrupted in some serious task, Ronnie scrambled up and began to pitch every item of cutlery, glassware and crockery out the other kitchen window, many of them landing on his car that was parked below. I was bleeding from my mouth, yet I felt strangely empowered and elated. I picked up a pot stand and made a run at him. Ronnie went down again. I kicked him hard in the jaw. He winced and I wondered if I’d undone all the work of the unspeakable Mr Hedley Raven. I drew back again to kick harder.
‘ Stop! ’
I froze.
Hector was standing there.
‘You’ve both gone mad!’
The boy’s eyes were huge. Each time I tried to take a breath, my chest screamed.
‘It’s all right, Hector,’ said Ronnie, getting up, wincing. ‘We were just airing our differences.’
Hector looked from one of us to the other.
‘And have you stopped, now?’
‘Have we stopped, now?’ Ronnie asked, his teeth bared in pain.
‘Yes, we have stopped now,’ I panted.
In the months that followed, when Hector had gone away to school in England and I was forced to confront my true feelings for my husband, I always came back to our fight that day and, when I did, I always smiled. Like a storm that clears the atmosphere, I had felt immeasurably the
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