That They May Face the Rising Sun

by John McGahern

‘Ye are no good. I have been standing here for several minutes and haven’t heard a bad word said about anybody yet. Not a bad word,’ he repeated with mocking slowness as he came forward.

‘Speak for yourself, Mister Ruttledge. I haven’t been there,’ Jamesie said. ‘Then you haven’t been far.’ ‘I’ve never, never moved from here and I know the whole world,’ he protested.

‘How are you all up there?’ ‘Topping. We are all topping.’ ‘You are managing all right without Jackie?’ ‘Getting along topping. Managing fine.’ He had been schooled never to part with any information about what happened. There was much to conceal about Bill Evans’s whole life. Because he knew no other life, his instinct to protect his keepers and his place was primal. ‘Do you think will Herself get married again?’ Jamesie asked jocularly, provocatively. ‘Everybody says that you are far too nosy.’ ‘News is better than no news,’ Jamesie answered, taken aback. There are no truths more hurtful than those we see as partly true. That such a humble hand delivered it made it more unsettling. Though he pretended not to care, Jamesie knew that his curiosity was secretly feared and openly mocked. He became unusually silent.

The timid, gentle manners, based on a fragile interdependence, dealt in avoidances and obfuscations. Edges were softened, ways found round harsh realities. What was unspoken was often far more important than the words that were said. Confrontation was avoided whenever possible. These manners, open to exploitation by ruthless people, held all kinds of traps for the ignorant or unwary and could lead into entanglements that a more confident, forthright manner would have seen off at the very beginning. It was a language that hadn’t any simple way of saying no.