Free The Bird Woman by Kerry Hardie Page B

stone-built farmhouse with outbuildings and an owner willing to rent at a price he could afford. There was even talk of
     a lease, but it was only talk, the documents never appeared. Liam said quietly that he might be interested should Mr. Fitzgerald
     ever be thinking of selling. Mr. Fitzgerald let on not to have heard, but Liam knew well that he had. They understood each
     other. He would live there, and if it worked out to their mutual satisfaction it might come to a sale.
    Back then that was part of buying a house—goodwill andcompatibility were valid currency, to be taken into account. Not now. These days no one cares who you are so long as there’s
     a bank to come up with the mortgage. And neighbours don’t matter the way they used to now that everyone has a car.
    For two years Liam had rented, but by the time I stepped off the bus he was already mired in the long, slow business of buying.
     It all took forever. Mortgages were hard to come by, and he’d no fixed income to show. His family helped: his father stood
     guarantor with the bank, and Connor and Kathleen lent him money for the deposit. The worst part was getting permission from
     Pat Fitzgerald’s five siblings. Pat (he’d long ceased being “Mr. FitzGerald”) was the oldest son, so he had the farm, but
     the house had passed to them all when the old people died and emigration had scattered the rest to England or America. Two
     of them were hard to find but easy enough to persuade. The other three had done well for themselves, they’d no urgent need,
     so they couldn’t quite make up their minds to the sale.
    “It’s only natural,” Pat said. “It’s where they were reared, so they’ll take their time. Push, and they’ll dig in their heels;
     we have only to leave them be and they’ll come round.”
    So they were let be, and they came round. I wasn’t surprised, I’d been watching Liam, and I knew well he’d have his way. Robbie
     could want something and there’d be hell on if he didn’t get it. Then he’d spot something else and away he’d go, the first
     thing entirely forgotten and left behind. Not Liam. Liam knew when to push, and he knew when to wait, it was nearly sinister,
     this relentless patience. It shocked me a bit. I had thought him all ease and good nature, but it seemed there was a whole
     lot more to him than I’d let myself notice.
    It’s a narrow house, two stories high, tucked sideways into a steep treed hillside with a muddy half-cobbled yard at the backand a mesh of fields at the front. A lovely place, secret and domestic, the small, ambling meadows like thrown-down cloths
     scattered over with horses and sheep.
    There’s a few other houses around the place, but nothing too close, I can hear Haydn’s dogs at night, and a voice if it’s
     raised to a shout. In winter there’s the shine of Fitzgeralds’ lights through the empty trees when I’m bringing in fuel from
     the yard. Quiet. That’s how it was when I came here, that’s how it is still in spite of the cars drawing up to bring folk
     for my hands. A quiet green place of spring wells and stone walls studded with white thorn and ash. About as far from Derry
     as the moon.
    Around the yard there are outbuildings in different stages of dilapidation. There’s a gate at the side that leads to a bit
     of an orchard with old, twisty trees climbing the slope, and behind them the land rising steeply up to the ridge. Below the
     house the land slopes gently down, and off in the distance the Blackstairs Mountains walk the horizon. The main gate from
     the yard opens into our boreen, which gives onto a single-track road, which gives onto another road where two cars can pass
     if you’re careful.
    There are more houses now. Coady’s empty dwelling-house by the spring well has been renovated, and there are new bungalows
     here and there on the road that leads up to the ridge. I don’t mind it, though at first I did. I’d got used to solitude; I
     didn’t want