Issue 3 - Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art

in the street."
"How do you know it's Moira?"
"I'm used to listening for her."
"But what does it matter whether she's there or
not?" He didn't answer; his hand was on the door knob.
"Brian, did Moira knit your cardigan?"
"Aye."
"What else does she do for you, Brian?"
He shambled down the stairs, pretending not to
hear me.
"We're away to Belfast the day, Moira. Pack a lunch
for me and Kate; bread and cheese will do us." Ivor
went out to his workshop and Moira also went out,
carrying her string shopping bag. I cleared the kitchen,
thinking bitterly that Moira would have to do all the
chores herself from now on. Notice around here was
short.
When he began on his mats I said to Brian, "I want
to stay."
He shook his head. He bent over the mat and he
wouldn't let me see his eyes, clouded though they
were. "We can't have you."
"I can get money from home so you don't have to
keep me. I'll sleep on the cot in the front room."
"Sure, you don't understand."
"Well, explain then."
His fingers moved deftly, pulling and knotting. Finally
he said, as though answering quite another question,
"The gunshot blinded me in one eye. The other
followed after, to be like its mate."
In the alley behind the house Ivor was loading the
truck; we'd leave some cabinets in Lisburn on the way
to Belfast. I leaned against the brick wall, watching him
tie the canvas down. I didn't offer to help him, and he
wouldn't ask.
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In a while Brian came out, carrying a parcel.
"Here's your lunch. And Moira says to say goodbye."
"Thank her for me." My voice tight. "Well, you've
certainly made sure I can't climb back in." Cement had
been poured along the top of the wall and shards of
glass stuck into it, a primitive and evil-looking fortification.
"Don't be daft, Kate. You know that's because of
the Troubles."
"Are you such a special target?"
Very softly, so that Ivor on the truck couldn't hear:
"Moira is."
"Well, why do you let her stay on? Surely you can
find some Protestant girl to clean your scullery. I was
doing very nicely, and I'm Protestant. More or less."
"Moira nursed my mother for two years. It didn't
matter that my mother came from the big house, nobody
else would do that dirty work. And she took care
of me after I couldn't see anymore."
"Maybe they'll hurt you by mistake," I said,
ashamed of my anger.
"Maybe," he said, shrugging. "Or maybe they
don't need to bother."
"We're away," Ivor called, starting the engine.
"Goodbye, Brian."
"Safe home," he said, smiling.
When I looked through the back window of the
truck, the last part of Dunclogher I saw was a field
blooming with prickly whin bushes. Whin or gorse,
doesn't matter what you call it; it's all the same thing.
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