The farm was the
jewel in the neighbourhood, the talk of the nearby parishes, and John had
worked it for years with his bachelor uncle Tom and it was now his. He had
promised himself that it would be a shrine of sorts to his beloved uncle who
had recently passed, walking where he had walked, tending to what he had tended, loving what he had loved
for that man had showed as much love to him as did his own parents. He would
start Monday.
His wife Mary was
happy for him for this was who John was and ever wanted to be, and he now had
the biggest back garden of 100 acres to do it beside their small home. She
would help him too for time was plenty and it had always been just the two of
them. What neither of them knew that time was running out fast for John.
It was the first
message of pain to his head when he knew all was not well. This was a different pain, like needepoints being pushed violently into his temple, and as they
pushed he screamed with agony. The long bedside vigil lay ahead in hospital for
everyday he twitched and roared Mary would be there. The days she could not come
others came plus one.
This one called
Jack came regularly, and like a serpent scenting prey, each day he felt closer
to it. He brought grapes, oranges, and a magazine until one evening he came
with another man and with him a will. The tumour had left only two fully
working parts in John and that was his writing hand, and had not given reason
to doubt his other, his mind, that people would not be any less in their
dealings an truthfulness than he would have been. He was wrong. John signed
that will, believing that he was signing a right of way for trespass on his
land. In many ways he had done just that for the farm was now in full ownership of
the man called Jack.
John died soon
after.
Jack had moments
of empowerment later, though fleeting. His farm was 200 acres and now it was 300. Two
counties could be seen from its highest point. In the pub he bragged about what
he had done and how he had done it. The few friends he had left would soon go,
what family he had known followed. No one would talk to him and eventually the
pub would not serve him or the grocer too.
The heavy
drinking at home was his lowest point under the old clock, ticking out its leadened
sound reminding him 60 times every hour about what he had done. In desperation
he soon went to the widow woman to offer back the farm. As she screamed at him,
she slammed the door in his face, outraged to the depths of her being to know
that he would have dared to call upon her. Stunned, he finally skulked away as
the heavy rain beat down upon him and the echoes of her screams followed him.
That night he
drank the last fatal cocktail of animal tranquilser and whiskey that was believed afterwards to be the only act
of decency that he had ever done in his life. It was an act from a fatal
conscience.
Barry Clifford
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