Ian

Alex's friend, Ian, hears from Anna about Alex's poor Armed he tries to find a way of relieving his burden.

Chapter Five

        Ian

 

Ian had once asked Alex why he had nominated him as constable. Alex had replied that he liked the colour of his hands.  Ian had yet to understand what that meant. No matter how hard he scrubbed them they remained stained by the ground-in dirt of the forge.  As he worked away cutting nails, hammering out hinges or horseshoes, Ian imagined the old man sitting in his room. If only he could do something for him but Alex wanted nothing. The least he could do Ian thought, would be to visit him.  Three days before he had seen Alex sitting in the common room of the Royal Arms. Ian had gone to see Morris about making a new mud scraper for the front of the tavern.

He found Alex seated in front of the fireplace. The old man seemed asleep, his head sunk unto his shoulder, a tiny tumbler of brandy sitting untouched on the table in front of him. A copy of the Courier sat unopened on his lap. Not wishing to intrude Ian turned to leave. Alex lifted his right hand and beckoned to him. Alex asked him if he had heard anything about a missing child. Ian settled himself into the chair across from Alex and told him that he had not.  Alex talked about the case for a few minutes noting that the boy was subject to bad dreams and seemed a foreigner from his speech. He also mentioned an inch long scar on the child's left wrist. It should not be too difficult, Alex said, to find a boy that matched that description. Ian agreed. Alex fell silent. The two looked on as at a nearby table Sam McDermott and a horse dealer, Phil Pearson, settled on the price for a mare.

Alex asked Ian if he wanted a beer.  When selling land to each of the tavern keepers, Alex had established the principle that his credit would be of infinite elasticity. Reflecting that the expense would fall upon Morris who could more than afford it, Ian accepted.

“Pearson is a well-travelled man,” said Alex.

“Between here and the Ottawa: aye.”

                “Possible he might have heard something about a missing child?”

“Possible.”

“Why don't you ask him, official like?”

As Ian talked to Pearson, Alex rose from his chair and lurched towards McDermott. Within a couple of minutes it became apparent to Ian that Pearson knew nothing. He left the man and settled next to McDermott and Alex. The two were discussing how the lateness of seeding might have a bad effect upon the crops. Alex asked Sam if he would have another beer. Sam replied that he would. Alex waited until Sam was deep into the mug before referring to the boy.

“You thought he was a fox, Sam?”

“Aye.”

“Why?”

“I told you. I lost two . . .”

“I know all that but what did he do to make you think that?”

McDermott thought for a moment. “He was there.”

“He didn 't say anything? He didn't try to do anything to show that he was there?”

“He tried to run.”

               “Did he jump up?”

“No. He stayed on his hands and knees. That's why his shadow was so much like a fox.”

“But he didn't say anything?”

“No. Didn't say nothing.”

Alex persisted. “It was raining, Sam. The animals were making noise. He might have said something and you didn't hear him.”

 Sam's face flushed. “I ain't deaf. He didn't say nothing.”

“Sam, if you were in danger you would have said something. So would I. It's the natural thing to do. He must have tried.”

                “Well he didn't.”

“Did he have a clear view of you,” Ian asked.

“How couldn't he? He tried to crawl away. I thought he was a fox and I fired.” Pushing his beer away, Sam raised his right hand and pointed at Alex. “Look here doctor, I know you don't care for me, but do you think I would  have fired if I had known it were a boy?”

                Alex looked down at the top of the pine table. “No Sam, I don't think you would have.”

Satisfied Sam grunted and lowered his hand. “Then why ask?”

Alex shrugged. “It just seems odd. That's all.”

“Not so odd,” said Ian. “He was frightened. Cat got his tongue.”

“Aye,” agreed Sam.

“I suppose you're right,” said Alex. He pushed himself out of the chair telling the two men that he had to return to his patient. After Alex had left Joe Morris went over to the old man's table. He picked up the tumbler and poured the remaining brandy back into the bottle. Strange, thought Ian. Why would a man known for being too fond of his liquor leave his glass almost untouched? Ian had noticed that Alex had not looked well, far worse than before he had brought  the tramp to him.

        Two days passed. The image of that pale worn face would not leave him.  After supper Ian put on his Sabbath hat and his coat and declared to Sarah and Tom that he was off for some fresh air.  Once outside he strode up Queen Street towards Anna Cleary's shop. Taking the stairs two at a time, he climbed the stairs leading up to Alex's room. He rapped on the door. “Alex?”

                A minute crept past. No reply came.  He tried again. Nothing. Someone had to be there. From the street below he had seen a light shining through the room window. A key blocked any attempt to peer through the keyhole. Alex had to be in.  Ian knocked again, a little louder this time. No one stirred. What should he do next? Chances were the man was just asleep. Ian did not wish to wake him. What legal reason would he have to break the man's door down? But then, if Alex were asleep why would the boy not open the door? The boy might have left.

As Ian descended the stairs he decided to call on Anna. As a constable inquiring about the health of a villager, no one could doubt the respectability of his actions. Even so he was careful to knock on the back door.

Anna was not pleased to find Ian Campbell at her door. She had been busy stitching a green silk ribbon onto a new bonnet for Emily Harrison. She hoped to finish it for the morning and had no wish to receive visitors, least of all Ian Campbell. She unfastened her latch and opened her door. “Mister Campbell? Yes?” she asked in a determinedly neutral tone.

“Sorry to bother you, Miss Cleary.” Ian pulled off his hat. “I, uh . . . I went up to see Alex. I couldn't get no response. Do you know something as to his condition?”

“I haven't seen him since the morning, constable. Doctor McKay came by earlier. He didn't tell me anything.”

“Oh. Well I'd best be going. Sorry for disturbing you . . . Miss Cleary.” Ian had played with the notion of Anna's inviting him in for a cup of tea but people would not think such a thing proper. Besides he should be getting back home.  His mother would want to know where he had been.

Anna watched him walk away. She thought of her tidy sitting room of which she was so proud. It contained one large comfortable chair and one footstool. A small fire burned merrily in the grate, boiling water in her kettle, just enough water for one person to have one small pot of tea. She thought of her glass-panelled cabinet with her collection of ceramics. That room and her shop were her life. A good life for one person, it stretched ahead of her for forty or fifty years. Every day of that life she would be Spinster Cleary.            

“Mister Campbell . . . Ian. Would you like a cup of tea?”

Ian stopped and turned. “I wouldn't want to put you to any trouble, Miss Cleary.”

Anna smiled. “Hospitality is never trouble my mother says. I have some scones, fresh-baked.”

       Ian coughed. “Can't stay too long. Still, a few minutes wouldn't do any harm. Much obliged, Miss Cleary.”

He stepped towards the door.

“Your boots.”

Ian looked down at his boots covered with the mud of the street. “Oh, aye.” Giving an automatic bow he rubbed the heels against the iron mud scrapper beside her door. Watching his quiet compliance Anna noted that the constable seemed a well-domesticated man.

As Ian slurped down his tea Anna studied him from above the rim of her teacup. It would be an impossible match. Father Byrne was right. The laws of God ruled above those of man. Imagining was one thing. The reality was another. Ian was just a man, having his faults, as did any other. She had to look at life with clear eyes, not clouded by girlish dreams. He could barely read and write and had never done well in school. He was a good blacksmith, none better. That was all he would ever be. An honest Catholic man would make just as fine a husband. Why was she having this man in for tea? Ian was not even a proper Protestant. He was a member of the Free Church of Scotland, not a true Presbyterian. It was not even a respectable form of damnation. Picking up the teapot she asked, “more tea, Ian?”

“Aye. Thank you Miss . . . Anna.”

Anna poured out the last drops of tea. She then rose from the chair she had Ian bring in from the shop.

As Anna refilled the pot, Ian looked up. Above her head he could see a cheap framed print of the Blessed Virgin. Idolatry his mother would have called it.

                “Sugar, Ian?”

“Uh.. oh, aye.”

“How many spoonfuls?”

“Three . . . please.”

                “You do have a sweet tooth, don't you Ian?”

“Aye.” Ian looked away from the image to find himself gawking at the cross she wore upon her neck. Below it her green shawl and gown concealed the swelling of her breasts. Feeling even more uncomfortable he looked about the small room.

“You're a fine housekeeper . . . Anna.”

Anna pulled her shawl up closer around her neck. “Not all Irish prefer living in dirt, Mister Campbell.”

Ian gulped, choking on his tea. “I've never believed that, Miss Cleary.”

Anna cursed her own stupidity. “I know, but there are those who do.”

Ian shrugged. “There are those who say that the world is going to end and that we will fly off to heaven. It doesn't mean I have to believe them.”

“No, Ian. It does not.” She studied him as he held the delicate cup between large brown fingers. “You were asking about Alex?”

She refilled the cup. A trickle of tea spilled over the lip. Ian prayed that the cup would not drip upon his clothes marking him as a barbarian. “Aye. He didn't look well, the last time I saw him.”

“I saw him early this morning. He was going down to fetch water when he slipped on the stairs.”

“Was he hurt?"

“No, I don't think so. It's just that . . . may I be honest with you, Ian?”

Ian winced. Whenever someone said that they would explain why they were right and he was wrong. “Aye. Of course.”

“Why did you bring that tramp to him?”

“He needed a doctor. Alex was the closest.”

“Alex can't even take care of himself. How is he supposed to take care of a child?”

“I didn't think he was going to keep him for a week. Besides it was Alex's idea to keep him.”

“And you agreed with him?”

“I'm not a physician. It's not my place to argue with him.”

Anna frowned. Ian could be so dense at times. “Even when you knew it was too much for him?”

“But I didn't know it. Anyway I asked how he was getting along. He said that everything was fine.”

“Well it's not.” Anna told him what she had observed during the past week culminating with the accident on the stairs. “The man that I saw this morning could barely drag himself up and down the stairs. If he doesn't rid himself of that vagabond it will kill him.”

Ian thought of the exhausted-looking Alex in the tavern. “Have you told anyone about this?”

“I spoke to Mrs. McKay this morning.”

“Ah. And?”

“The man would have to be on his deathbed before she would bother to look at him.”

“I know you have little love for her.”

Anna stiffened. “I have no love for any MacTavish. I'll thank you to leave it at that.”

“So why the concern for Alex?”

“A man can't help being what he is, Ian. He's kind enough in his way. Anyway I don't enjoy the sight of a fellow creature in pain. T'isn't Christian just to stand by and do nothing. Don't you think so, Ian?”

She rose to fetch the scones from off the stove. As she passed him she brushed the fingertips of her right hand against the back of his right shoulder.

“Aye.”

Stepping out into the evening Ian looked up at the window of Alex's room. He remembered his sitting by Alex's stove while a tired old man went out into the rain. Ian held himself responsible at least in part for Alex's illness. If he had just gone on to the McKays none of this would have happened. What was done was done. What was he to do now? Simple justice demanded that he do something. He scratched his head in thought. Nothing came to mind. Ian decided to sleep on it. Tomorrow something might occur to him.

Alex  Amazon Press

Author's Note

Written in Canadian English.