The Thorn Birds Read Free Page A

to Fiona, busy at the stove; he did not kiss or embrace her, for he regarded displays of affection between husband and wife as something suitable only for the bedroom. As he used the jack to haul off his mud-caked boots, Meggie came skipping with his slippers, and he grinned down at the little girl with the curious sense of wonder he always knew at sight of her. She was so pretty, such beautiful hair; he picked up a curl and pulled it out straight, then let it go, just to see it jiggle and bounce as it settled back into place. Picking the child up, he went to sit in the only comfortable chair the kitchen possessed, a Windsor chair with a cushion tied to its seat, drawn close to the fire. Sighing softly, he sat down in it and pulled out his pipe, carelessly tapping out the spent dottle of tobacco in its bowl onto the floor. Meggie cuddled down on his lap and wound her arms about his neck, her cool little face turned up to his as she played her nightly game of watching the light filter through his short stubble of golden beard.
    “How are you, Fee?” Padraic Cleary asked his wife.
    “All right, Paddy. Did you get the lower paddock done today?”
    “Yes, all done. I can start on the upper first thing in the morning. Lord, but I’m tired!”
    “I’ll bet. Did MacPherson give you the crotchety old mare again?”
    “Too right. You don’t think he’d take the animal himself to let me have the roan, do you? My arms feel as if they’ve been pulled out of their sockets. I swear that mare has the hardest mouth in En Zed.”
    “Never mind. Old Robertson’s horses are all good, and you’ll be there soon enough.”
    “Can’t be soon enough.” He packed his pipe with coarse tobacco and pulled a taper from the big jar that stood near the stove. A quick flick inside the firebox door and it caught; he leaned back in his chair and sucked so deeply the pipe made bubbling noises. “How’s it feel to be four, Meggie?” he asked his daughter.
    “Pretty good, Daddy.”
    “Did Mum give you your present?”
    “Oh, Daddy, how did you and Mum guess I wanted Agnes?”
    “Agnes?” He looked swiftly toward Fee, smiling and quizzing her with his eyebrows. “Is that her name, Agnes?”
    “Yes. She’s beautiful, Daddy. I want to look at her all day.”
    “She’s lucky to have anything to look at,” Fee said grimly. “Jack and Hughie got hold of the doll before poor Meggie had a chance to see it properly.”
    “Well, boys will be boys. Is the damage bad?”
    “Nothing that can’t be mended. Frank caught them before it went too far.”
    “Frank? What was he doing down here? He was supposed to be at the forge all day. Hunter wants his gates.”
    “He was at the forge all day. He just came down for a tool of some sort,” Fee answered quickly; Padraic was too hard on Frank.
    “Oh, Daddy, Frank is the best brother! He saved my Agnes from being killed, and he’s going to glue her hair on again for me after tea.”
    “That’s good,” her father said drowsily, leaning his head back in the chair and closing his eyes.
    It was hot in front of the stove, but he didn’t seem to notice; beads of sweat gathered on his forehead, glistening. He put his arms behind his head and fell into a doze.
    It was from Padraic Cleary that his children got their various shades of thick, waving red hair, though none had inherited quite such an aggressively red head as his. He was a small man, all steel and springs in build, legs bowed from a lifetime among horses, arms elongated from years shearing sheep; his chest and arms were covered in a matted golden fuzz which would have been ugly had he been dark. His eyes were bright blue, crinkled up into a permanent squint like a sailor’s from gazing into the far distance, and his face was a pleasant one, with a whimsical smiling quality about it that made other men like him at a glance. His nose was magnificent, a true Roman nose which must have puzzled his Irish confreres, but Ireland has ever been a