The Saga, Part 14 -- Through the Glass, Darkly, The IRA

Sunday morning dawned cold and rainy, with a stinging wind. I bought coffee at the gas station, as usual, shivering as I drove to the well field to relieve the night crew. Brendan and Harry had drawn the night shift again, and were grumpy and tired as I took them their coffee. We finished off the last of the rolls, and they drove away in their truck, glad to be away.

Again, I walked up to the monitoring well to leave a cup of hot coffee for our silent guardians, but no one was to be seen. I left the coffee under the same tree, in case someone came later, and walked back down to the well house.

It was certainly a cold and wet day, as I measured the wells from under my umbrella, carefully marking the measurements and putting the notebooks back into the plastic garbage bags. I gathered data sheets and took them with me back to the car, to begin the long task of conversions and calculations. In those days before computers, everything was done by hand, so I spent the long, lonely day organizing the data sheets, converting feet and inches to decimal feet, reckoning the relative water levels, and calculating the total minutes of the test.

When a pumping test begins, the calculated minutes of the test begin when the well is turned on. Time continues throughout the test, minute by minute, adding as the test continues. Every day consists of 1,440 minutes-- on long tests, like this one, the minutes add up to the thousands of minutes fairly quickly, and can be difficult to calculate in ones heador at least I found it to be difficult. I always made charts of the actual hours of the test and cumulative minutes, and then figured the exact minutes of the measurements from the charts. Otherwise, I would have a well in the throes of 2,000,000 minutes, and that couldnt be right. I erased a lot.

I also added the results of the sodium analysis and the relative water levels to the data sheets. From looking at the jumble of numbers, there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the water levels and the sodium levels. One well would experience a spike in sodium levels, which would gradually fade away, then the next. Only Well #1 seemed to have any consistency with the levels, always high. Time will tell, I thought.

I went back to the Deli on the Green, trying something new again. There was a different counterman this time, but I obeyed all the rules, and politely made my detailed request. This counterman at least looked at me when I smiled at him, surprised. Then, he shrugged his shoulders, took my money, and indicated I should wait with a nod of his head. I longed for some acknowledgement of my humanity-- something other than complete indifference. If people from here came home with me , I thought, they would think were a bunch of grinning idiots! But, I missed the easy-going, open hearted service of the people at home.

As the long, lonely afternoon wore on, I finished up my paper work, and thought about all the lovely people I had met. The men at the plant, my sweet Greek friends, Fred, who was so competent and calm, Danny, and Sally. I thought about the wonderful Fiddler, and how he had entertained us so! Such a nice man! His impish Irish grin and his light feet dancing the night away. He had leapt and posed for hours, fiddling to people and miming the songs. What energy the man had! What joy he conveyed! Even his sorrow was almost comicalbut he could convey a sad song with as much grace and ease as a happy one, the quicksilver of his mood shaping the songs he played.

I thought of my silent friends in the forest. One had returned this afternoon for a brief time. I wondered if he were as cold and miserable as Iand who he was. What was his family like? Where did he go home?

I read for a bit, before it grew dark. General Patton had formed a tank battalion, when I put the book away. I sat in the car and watched the road. No traffic. Thirty minutes between measurements can seem like a long time, in the forest. A leaf, left from the previous fall, drifted down to join its fellows, wet in the gloom. The trees dripped in the dreariness, and I heaved a sigh.

It was almost dark before I ventured out for supper, hoping to return before pitch night. I drove to the small restaurant where Danny had taken me the day before, and wondered if they could fix something for me to take back to the well field. I parked the monster car in the small parking lot, and went inside. It was very dark, and a fire balefully crackled in the fireplace, but the restaurant was not warm and friendly like the day before. Silent men hunched over glasses filled with dark liquids. A few had pints of dark beer. The conversation was subdued as I walked to the counter.

Good evening sir, I said. Do you serve food here?

The jolly man of the day before glanced at me sharply, impatiently, No. No food here.

I smiled, and said, wonderingly, Oh, Im sorry. I thought this was a restaurant.

He looked at me with a dark, unfriendly stare, No. We dont serve food here. He put both hands on the bar, looking down on me with the stance of a boxer, sneering with an irony I didnt understand.

I said, confused, Thank you very much. I am sorry to have disturbed you. Then, I noticed The Fiddler sitting at the bar. He was hunched over his drink, gazing steadily at the wall behind the bar. The Fiddler! The jovial, charming man of Patricks Pub!

I stopped beside him, Hello, sir! I said, I truly enjoyed your show on Friday night!

The Fiddler slowly raised his eyes to me. His face was a mask of evil, the genial, dancing leprechaun gone, and in its place, a burning hatred flared in his eyes, his mouth a red slash in his face, Take yer bluidy Orangemen ways back t where ye came. Ye think ye helped the orphans, do ye! There be ways o' helping you .

Singed to the core, I mumbled an apology and stumbled to the door. I got in my car quickly and drove away, back toward the well field. Finally, I found a place to pull in to park, not caring where I was. I sat in the car, trembling. I had thought it was a restaurant; the place had tables and chairs. At home, no bars were open on Sunday, and no restaurants served alcoholic drinks. It didnt occur to me that it was a tavern rather than a restaurant, and I had committed the cardinal sin of southern ladyhoodI had been in a bar, unescorted, and, even worse, on a Sunday. Of course, things were different hereor were they?

Gradually, the implications of the encounter with The Fiddler sank in. What had he meant? I had been a dupe. A show of support for something very darklet the bluidy Orangeman do some good for a change. Let her give some money to the orphanage. With a sharp flash of understanding, I understood what the orphanage was, and I hoped that my careless generosity cost no one their life, in a faraway place. Would they come for me, in the night, at the well field? I shivered, suddenly, put the car in gear, and drove back down the dark, rainy streets.

Slowly, I drove back to the well field, my hunger forgotten in a sudden wave of dread and sickness. I waited the rest of the evening by the pumping well, the light and noise a welcome change from the dreary gloom of the forest. I was afraid they would come for me, although I could not think why... In addition to the thought that I may be responsible for some horrific deed in the future, the other thing that really bothered meDanny was bound to learn that I had stopped there. In one, all important way, my small city and this huge city were the sameevery move I made was watched-- and those that I thought were my friends, were not.

I waited and worked through the night, until Brendan and Harry came to the well field to relieve me.

Thanks for coming by!

Links:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13