<\/p>\n
From the hill, Rory could see over the fields to the farmhouse and parked there in the yard an unfamiliar car, a hunter green Morris Minor with a large black suitcase tied to its top. Mrs. Gillespie sometimes referred lodgers to the Deavitts whenever her guesthouse got full, and Rory mostly welcomed the occasional outsiders and the break they brought from the everyday, everyone aside from the mouthy Americans and the deadened married couples like his parents. But maybe here was someone closer to his age, he thought, from somewhere far beyond the monotony of Ballinshere. He cleared the distance between the fields and farmhouse in minutes, not even stopping to wash at the water pump.<\/p>\n
Rory hesitated at the back door, hearing a rare excitement in his father\u2019s talk and the voice of this new visitor, soft in tone and the accent posh, from some choice part of Dublin. She thanked Rory\u2019s parents for agreeing to accommodate her, and Rory\u2019s father passed off the gratitude with an exaggerated laugh. Perhaps he\u2019d opened a bottle of Powers for the guest, someone special so.<\/p>\n
Rory scraped the muck from his Wellingtons on the steel doormat and entered the kitchen, stopping still when he saw her. There, at their scarred kitchen table, sat the most striking woman he\u2019d ever encountered in the flesh. She looked to be older, mid-thirties maybe, with long black hair and a creamy, soft-boned face. The woman stopped mid-sentence and smiled at him, to which Rory could only blush and sputter a half-intelligible greeting. His mother sat opposite the woman, her expression hardening as Rory\u2019s cheeks filled with heat.<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t just stand there, Rory, fetch Mrs. Moore\u2019s things from her car.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cPlease,\u201d she said, \u201ccall me Ashling.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her smile found him again.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Rory hauled the third and largest suitcase upstairs, conscious of Ashling climbing the steps behind him, the case heavy enough to hold all of his possessions put together. He tested her name silently, Ashling\u2014the soft start of it and the little flick of the tongue at the end. The name meant \u2018dream\u2019 if he remembered his Gaeilge well enough. Not that he\u2019d had much learning, his parents having pulled him from school two years ago so he could work the farm full-time. It was something he\u2019d never minded much until now, when he wanted to draw out the words necessary to impress her.<\/p>\n
Rory moved from the stairs and onto the landing, almost falling under the case\u2019s weight. He thought he heard Ashling snicker as they entered the guest bedroom and his cheeks blazed again.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m sorry the cases are so heavy,\u201d she said, moving to the room\u2019s only window and letting in the malicious breeze and the stink of the silage. \u201cIt\u2019s really so beautiful here.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou think?\u201d said Rory.<\/p>\n
She glanced at him quizzically then returned to the view. Alone with her in the small room, Rory felt especially self-conscious\u2014his pimples bigger and whiter, his cow\u2019s lick ridiculous and stockinged feet too small. His big toe peeked through his threadbare sock, the nail yellowed. Worse, he smelled of hay, sweat, cigarettes and cow shite. No matter how hard he scrubbed, there would always be that stink of the farm on him. If she asked, he\u2019d say he was eighteen.<\/p>\n
\u201cThank you for your help,\u201d she said, her attention already on unpacking. From her largest suitcase she removed a checkered wooden case finished with a shiny lacquer and held together with bright brass hinges. \u201cDo you play chess?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n
Rory swallowed a childish impulse to mention his skill at checkers. He shook his head.<\/p>\n
\u201cI can teach you if you like?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou must be planning on staying a while so.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m not in any hurry anywhere, no.\u201d<\/p>\n
She unlatched the case and removed an assortment of gleaming chess pieces sculpted from blond and black woods. Her work, she explained, hand-carved from ancient bog oak. She gave him a few to examine\u2014a castle and horse, and the crowned king with a finial at the tip that reminded Rory of a beggar\u2019s cupped hand. The horse, he noticed, even had teeth\u2014tiny notches dividing each one. He fought the urge to pocket it.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s the knight, an important piece,\u201d she said. \u201cYou really should learn; it\u2019s a fascinating game.\u201d<\/p>\n
He held the knight a moment longer in his large, dirty hand before dropping it to the bedspread.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t seem enticed,\u201d she said. \u201cWhat interests you then?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI dunno, really. I\u2019m not one for making things, that\u2019s for sure.\u201d<\/p>\n
She picked up a blond pawn. \u201cWell, I don\u2019t think of myself as making<\/em> them. It\u2019s as if they\u2019re already there in the wood\u2014when I carve, all I do is set them free.\u201d<\/p>\n A waft of cow shite blew through the open window as she spoke. With eyes glazed she stared at the piece in her hands, a world away, thought Rory, even as she was right there in the room with him. Is this how he appeared to people\u2014not at all? Rory felt the blood leave his face and like a fool checked the carpet at his feet, half-expecting to see a stain.<\/p>\n \u201cAre you all right?\u201d she asked, suddenly herself again.<\/p>\n \u201cWhy wouldn\u2019t I be?\u201d<\/p>\n He looked down again at the carpet, sorry for his sharp words. Ashling resumed unpacking and in the stretch of silence that followed Rory\u2019s nerves got the better of him. At the doorway he reminded her his mother would have dinner ready shortly.<\/p>\n \u201cShe\u2019s not one to be kept waiting,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n In the shower Rory raked his fingernails over his body with especial vigor, digging into his armpits, groin, and the crack of his arse. He dressed in his best and hurried downstairs to the kitchen, where his mother looked him over with narrowed eyes and her lips pushed into a sour nub, an expression that scarcely cracked even as Ashling entered the room.<\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019re having lamb,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n Rory\u2019s father said the blessing, after which a heavy silence descended. The smell of meat, mint and rosemary had built up in the kitchen, as oppressive as the leftover heat from the oven.<\/p>\n Rory\u2019s mother carved. \u201cSo you\u2019re from Dublin, Mrs. Moore?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cA city girl, that\u2019s right. I hope you won\u2019t hold it against me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnd you\u2019re travelling alone?\u201d<\/p>\n Rory followed his mother\u2019s gaze to the pale skin circling the bottom of Ashling\u2019s ring finger.<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019ve such a beautiful home,\u201d said Ashling.<\/p>\n \u201cSo you\u2019ve said. And yours is where, did you say?\u201d<\/p>\n Rory looked to his father, hoping he\u2019d put a stop to this inquisition, but the man was oblivious, shoveling more meat and potato into his wet mouth.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m afraid nowhere\u2019s home at the moment,\u201d Ashling said. \u201cI\u2019m keeping my options open.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI see,\u201d said his mother, with an edge as serrated as her knife.<\/p>\n Ashling excused herself from the kitchen as soon as the meal finished. Rory\u2019s father remained at the table, worrying the carrot from between his teeth with his dirty fork. His mother curled a solider of bread and sopped up the last of the lamb\u2019s blood from her plate.<\/p>\n \u201cShe\u2019s a strange one, isn\u2019t she?\u201d<\/p>\n Rory stood. \u201cIt\u2019s beyond me why anyone would pay to stay here and put up with you and your prying.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t talk to your mother like that,\u201d his father said. \u201cWe charge a fair rate besides. Nothing she can\u2019t afford coming from Dublin.\u201d His parents carried on with their gossip while Rory washed the dishes with ferocity, smacking at the water in the sink and picturing there his mother\u2019s face. He barely noticed their conversation fall silent as Ashling returned to the room with the chess case in hand.<\/p>\n \u201cRory? How about that lesson?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cChess, is it?\u201d said his father. \u201cI used to play years ago. And look at this set!\u201d He reached for the lacquered case and gushed at the carved pieces inside. \u201cLookit, Dolores! Aren\u2019t they something?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cTedious game,\u201d his mother said.<\/p>\n \u201cLet\u2019s play, shall we?\u201d He sprung from the kitchen with the chess case under his arm.<\/p>\n \u201cIt seems we shall,\u201d said Ashling, flashing to Rory another apologetic little smile as she followed his father into the living room.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n His father had remained at the chess board until late that night, each of the old man\u2019s moves having taken far too long\u2014his attention given more to the TV than the game. The next morning Rory lingered in bed before daybreak, fantasizing about Ashling in the room next to his. He burrowed deeper into the warmth of his sheets and repeated Ashling\u2019s name in a whisper, yet as much as he strained to hear some life from her room through the thin wall, there was only silence. He pictured her splayed naked on the guest bed, her lips parted and eyes thick with lust, her pale finger beckoning him. His hand moved into his shorts and he stroked himself to the rhythm of her name, Ash-ling, Ash-ling<\/em>.<\/p>\n After milking the cows and returning the herd to the pasture, Rory and his father worked the hay fields all through the morning and into the relentless noonday sun. By early afternoon the much-awaited silhouette shimmered in the distance\u2014Rory\u2019s mother come with the lunch, a large picnic basket pulling on the crook of her arm. As she neared, Rory shaded his eyes with his hand, confused at first by the slim, sculpted outline and then filling with excitement as he realized. His father greeted Ashling heartily and freed her of the weight of the picnic basket.<\/p>\n \u201cI hope you\u2019re not vexed with me after last night?\u201d he teased.<\/p>\n \u201cNever,\u201d she said. \u201cAll\u2019s fair in chess.\u201d<\/p>\n Rory grabbed a ham and cheese sandwich from the basket and ate furiously. Why couldn\u2019t the old fool just go off someplace? Did he not realize how daft he sounded, not knowing that she\u2019d let him win? She pitied him, Rory was sure. How could she not?<\/p>\n Ashling settled on the baked ground and leaned against the haystack between father and son, her shoulder brushing Rory\u2019s and sending electric charges down his arm.<\/p>\n \u201cAre you up for another game this evening?\u201d asked Rory\u2019s father. \u201cI promise to go easy on you this time.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI believe Rory wants his turn at besting me tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI doubt he even knows how to play, do you, boy?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019ve no idea what I know.”<\/p>\n Ashling sighed…\u00a0[break]<\/p>\n His father remained at the table, worrying the carrot from between his teeth with his dirty fork. His mother curled a solider of bread and sopped up the last of the lamb\u2019s blood from her plate<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":3712,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[213,214,12,204],"class_list":["post-1955","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","tag-ireland","tag-self-image","tag-violence","tag-youth","writer-ethel-rohan"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1955","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1955"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1955\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":17700,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1955\/revisions\/17700"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/3712"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1955"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1955"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1955"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}Read the rest
\nin the new
\nBULL No. 1<\/a><\/h4>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"