The Butchers' Blessing

by The Butcher's Blessing (retail) (epub)

  “I already knew.”

  She nodded. “Lena spoke to Sol.”

  “No, Grá, I’ve always known.”

  Her breath caught. “And you didn’t mind?”

  “Of course not.”

  “And if I had stopped believing too?” It was a stupid question. There were things that could and could not be undone.

  The starlings were above them now, their movements more like liquid than something airborne; their swell and flow like great crashing tidal waves.

  “Cúch, we need to talk.” She dropped her arms to her side. “Things can’t stay so fixed—there has to be a change.” She heard him step closer, but it was still important that she didn’t turn around. “Úna is the priority, of course, but I need . . . I don’t think I can go on unless I have something of my own this time.” She didn’t realise she was crying until she tasted the sea on her lips. She wondered if she would ever not be thirsty again. “Lena had this daft suggestion . . .” She closed her eyes. “Cúch, she’s dying.”

  When she opened her eyes, her husband had walked around so now they were face to face. The swelling meant that one of his dimples dug deeper than the other. “Grá,” he said, “I understand.”

  She wondered what words she would write if she had that bottle and that piece of paper now.

  “Grá, I don’t know the answer, but I do know we will find a way.”

  She wondered if she would stand on the shore of the Atlantic for ever, waiting, somehow certain a bottle would wash up bearing a reply. She wondered if that was the definition of love or faith or maybe both.

  “Grá?”

  But for now, all she had were the same words her husband had given her thirteen years ago, the first time they had made a brand-new life together. “I believe in you,” she said. “More than I have ever believed in anything.” Hearing them now, second-hand, they almost sounded natural; almost sounded true.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Davey

  County Monaghan, August 1996

  “The headlines this morning: across the country, fifty-nine thousand students are anxiously awaiting their Leaving Certificate results. The Department of Education has reported a significant increase in the number of As awarded for Maths and Science, but a significant decrease in the number of As awarded for Irish.”

  Davey woke then unwoke then woke again completely, the world slowly resolving itself into shapes. His room was so neat it almost appeared empty; almost as if he had tempted fate and gone ahead and packed his bags. He had hooked his outfit for the day off the side of the wardrobe, the limbs sagging from where they hung. The pale green shirt looked as if he were off on a date, not just down to the school to collect a small brown envelope.

  “Of course, most newspapers are leading with the story that this year’s cohort will be the first to avail of completely free third-level education. According to politicians, the abolishment of university fees will generate a highly educated workforce which will further the country’s transition into a major global economy.”

  Davey pulled himself up and into the shower, praying the immersion had been switched on. He closed his eyes and reached downwards, even though a wank seemed out of the question this morning. He was far too nervous about the day ahead; about everything that was finally at stake.

  But he knew there was more to it than that, because any urge or desire still meant thinking about Con. And thinking about Con also meant thinking about Sol and the terrible harm the Butchers had, apparently, inflicted on his body. Since the Bull’s declaration there hadn’t been another word about the case, or indeed about the Butchers. Davey sometimes wondered if the whole thing hadn’t been a terrible dream.

  “Meanwhile in farming, another blow as the first suspected case of CJD—the human variant of BSE—has just been reported in a young woman in County Clare.”

  Once dressed and doused in Lynx, Davey descended to the smell of bacon. His mother was by the hob, the table set for one. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen her up so early. “Morning,” she called over the hiss of the pan. “I thought it better you didn’t head down on an empty gut.” Even though the window had been cracked, for an ugly second Davey thought of getting changed. The fried smell would ruin his shirt.

  When the rinds were crisped, his mother used tongs to pick them up and drape them across two sheets of kitchen roll. Davey’s chest twanged. He knew she was only doing it like that because it was the way he preferred. “Your father’s in a flap,” she said. “Apparently the inspectors are testing the herd for BSE this morning. Though if you ask me, a diagnosis wouldn’t be so bad—not if it meant cashing in on the government compensation.” She arranged the bacon on one slice of buttered bread and matched the other on top, a jigsaw fit. “Either way, I’m going to cook the three of us a celebration lunch when you get home. Your father suggested we defrost the first of the Butchers’ cuts.” She pressed down hard; the butter dripped brown. “What a special day. Is it noon the envelopes are arriving?”

  Davey knew the first bite would be pure filth and delicious; he knew, after that, he wouldn’t be able to swallow a thing.

  When he arrived to the school, the car park was deserted. The bins, for once, weren’t spewing their guts. The walls had been sopped clean of their usual graffiti, leaving just a few faded scrawls.

  Outside reception, two mammies sat fretting on a bench. They had probably come straight from lighting a final candle in St. Michael’s on their sons’ behalf. Davey tried to catch their eyes, then wondered why the hell he was the one doing the reassuring. He could still taste salt and fat at the back of his tongue.

  The hush inside the corridor was vaguely church-like itself. There were the cheap lino floors and the dead windowsill flies. There was the trophy cabinet and the cork noticeboards crumbling damp around the edges. The details, though, weren’t as familiar to Davey as they should have been—it had been only a couple of months, but more had changed in that time than he could possibly say.

  He looked down at himself. He smelled his shirt. He was so relieved not to be in uniform.

  And yet next to the relief there was also the fear of encountering his meathead classmates once again; of them taking one look and seeing everything the summer had finally revealed. He thought of the mammies outside and how they would probably light a candle just for him, hoping that God could cure him of his terrible disease.

  As he walked, he passed faded projects about 1916 and the anti-British cause. He spotted essays about the Famine—the crops that had failed and the millions who had died or gone on boats far away. One poster showed emaciated people swallowing black fistfuls of dirt. Another simply spelled out the words Our Holocaust.

  As far as Davey could remember, his History exam had gone OK. English had focused on Patrick Kavanagh—a Monaghan man himself. Davey had written an essay about “The Great Hunger” and concluded, more than anything, his own poetic talent wasn’t actually up to much. Then there had been the final Classics exam, which should have been a walk in the park, but instead Davey had spent the afternoon in a tangle of nerves. He thought of poor Prometheus chained to a rock. He thought of the irony of missing the grade and being chained for ever here.

  Without the rows of desks, the assembly hall was a vast and hollow thing, an echo chamber of congratulation and commiseration. Three tables had been lined up on the stage, the all-important envelopes stashed in cardboard boxes. Above them, Jesus watched down in anguish, crucified.

  Across the floor a few clusters were straggled, teachers and former students both, though without their uniforms and suits it was hard to tell one type of man from the next. Some held open envelopes, thinking: What happens now? And: What about not needing to bother with college? What about a fucking “boom”? But for the most part, the faces didn’t give much away—no sign of delight or disappointment; of a significant increase in As or Bs. Instead, their jaws were steeled and their eyes were glazed, because they were now officially men of place, here where no
trace of emotion was ever betrayed.

  Davey cast around for Mr. Fitz, but couldn’t see him anywhere.

  The walk to the stage felt a mile or more. The teacher rifled through the half-empty box, front to back. She must have missed it. She tried again, back to front, going slower this time to be sure. Davey thought of all the productions he had seen put on here down the years. Juno and the Paycock. Dancing at Lughnasa. He saw the spotlights above and the darkness of the wings either side.

  When she handed over his script, Davey thought the teacher called him a “bastard.” He looked up. “What did you say?” She repeated something about a plaster; something about bodies and pain and how it was often easier to just grab a hold and rip it off. And Davey wanted to ask if she had heard about the body of a Butcher that had been found strung up recently; if she thought you could crave the touch of someone so much it caused you actual pain. But now he was unpicking the gum of the lip and removing the document, its neat column of As swimming before him, the hot sting of tears sending him blind down the back staircase, past the props cupboard and the costume rail, the sequins shimmering with all the possibilities of who he might just be able to become.

  The playground was busier now, lads gathered with hands in their pockets like a congregation after a funeral. Some had found a ball and were taking it in turns to do elaborate keepie-uppies, counting and competing, because at least this was a test in which they actually stood a chance.

  Can you believe the fucking Krauts won the Euros?

  Did you hear they’re trying to reject Irish milk?

  Don’t worry—I’ve heard the Bull’s sorting them out.

  They sounded like their fathers, or at least how they thought their fathers were supposed to sound. Davey thought of the stage and them all stepping up to their roles. He thought how everything was just a cycle—crop rotation, field rotation—another new generation laying its claim, round and round in circles with hand-me-down jumpers and hand-me-down dreams.

  For now, though, the lads didn’t seem to be stepping anywhere at all. Instead they stood smoking fags and kneeing a flaccid football to the sky. For this afternoon and this afternoon only they were still boys—still pure possibility. They would linger until the gate was chained and locked.

  Davey was checking around for Mr. Fitz one last time when he looked back at the gate and saw the visitor. He was facing the road, but Davey recognised him instantly; the broad shoulders and the suntanned neck. “Con?” His shout was too loud, but he couldn’t stop himself. His joy was a gormless, graceless thing.

  The Butcher didn’t react straight away, so for a second Davey thought he had got it wrong. And even when Con did turn, his face was a little late. So that before the smile and twinkle—before the wash of warmth—there was the briefest moment of darkness around the eyes. “There you are,” he greeted. “I was starting to worry I had missed you.”

  “Con,” Davey repeated, slowing down. The closer he got, the shier he felt himself becoming. “What the hell are you doing here?” The donk of the football could be heard behind. Davey thought of a pig’s bladder that might burst.

  “I just . . .” It was Con’s turn now to be shy. “I knew how much today meant to you.”

  One of the boys must have set a new record because a giant cheer came roaring next. Unless one of them had just announced that he had nailed his results and was off to the big smoke to study Law. Davey considered the odds. He considered, very carefully, Con’s words.

  “Well, don’t just stand there, how did you get on?”

  Davey handed over the envelope and watched as Con took out the page.

  “Fucking hell,” he pronounced. “You absolute nerd—congratulations!” And then, “I’m guessing you get your brains from your mam.”

  And just when Davey had managed to swallow his disbelief, the mention of his mother had him thrown again. He pictured her in the kitchen this morning—he hadn’t seen her so well in months. He thought of her promise: I’m going to cook the three of us a celebration lunch. He thought of the olden days and her waiting out here to collect him in her bright blue car and her giant sunglasses.

  “I thought I’d never see you again.” He took a step closer, as if he needed to feel Con’s body heat to be sure. There was so much he wanted to ask; so much that needed to be explained.

  “Come on,” the Butcher said. “I don’t have very long.”

  Davey threw a final glance behind, but the football had been discarded, the men having kicked every last bit of life from the animal’s skin.

  They took the back lane where the rowan bushes had grown so big they choked each other’s necks. The haws had swelled fat like tumours, the bittersweet berries clumped together in fists. But when they rounded the corner the world opened out. The hay had been cut and rolled into generous bales so that the fields looked like a blonde woman’s head with her hair wrapped up in giant curlers. Davey took a deep breath. The second cut of silage always smelled more delicious than the first. He thought of the name “bitter-sweet”; of longing to get away from a place, but having to leave so much beauty behind.

  Eventually they found a bale at the edge of the world that was big enough to shelter them from sight. Davey hadn’t noticed Con’s satchel until he set it down and took the bottle out. “It’s hardly champagne,” he said, turning the cap. “And it’s probably gone warm.”

  “It’s perfect!” The cider sprayed them both in a cheap, sticky douse.

  Despite the initial theatrics, the booze was flat, but Davey took heavy pulls of it all the same. He returned the bottle to Con and wiped his mouth. He tried to hide his burp beneath his breath. After a few more goes, he felt his nerves begin to ease. They sat side by side, legs splayed, ogling the view. In the news they kept talking about “Nature hitting back.” Staring at her now, only an eejit would take her on.

  “So when does college start?” It wasn’t until Con spoke that Davey remembered all over again what today was really about. The offers wouldn’t arrive until Monday, but already he knew he would be given his first choice.

  “September.” He shifted where he sat. He could feel the hay poking the back of his head. It was like a feather piercing the cotton of a pillowcase, only this was all the feathers at once.

  “You must be excited.”

  As if to contrast the current vista, Davey replied by describing the photographs he had seen in the university prospectus—the ancient stone buildings; the gargoyles licking up the black fumes of the city’s traffic-teeming heart. “I’ll wake every morning without the smell of shite for breakfast or the groans from the cattle getting milked.” Davey stopped. He hoped he wasn’t being offensive. He noticed, yet again, Con’s neck.

  Next he described the course itself—lectures on Latin and Greek; seminars devoted to Roman literature and thought—and Davey was so grateful to Con for just listening; for allowing his excitement to run away with him for once. “Then outside class I’ll need to get a job, but I can see my friends after that. I hear the Dublin bars are deadly.” Davey paused, then he dared himself a little further. “I hear there’s a savage gay scene. Although I suppose compared to a flagon in a field anything is savage, what?”

  He glanced to his right. He had gone too far. He wondered if he was already a little tipsy. A wasp buzzed in, greedy for a taste, so Davey tried to swat it away.

  “Davey, I’m excited for you . . .” When Con finally spoke, his tone didn’t really match his words. Davey thought of that shadow of darkness back at the gate. “It’s just . . . Don’t go pinning your hopes too much, OK?”

  Davey frowned. “What do you mean? I got the points. They’ll let me in, they just—”

  “No no.” Con did his own kind of swatting. “I mean about Dublin. Don’t go thinking it’s some promised land. They like to believe they’re much more ‘modern’ down there, but last time I visited I got called a fag and had my nose broken in two places. This is still fucking Ireland we’re talking about.” To finish, Con made some emp
hatic hand gesture that knocked the bottle to its side. Straight away he righted it, but not before a pool of golden liquid flooded the grass.

  Eventually Con sighed. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just a bit jealous of your plans, that’s all. Everything’s such a mess.”

  Davey stared at the puddle. Very soon there would be ants.

  “It’s over, Davey. The Butchers have decided to give up.”

  Davey thought about reaching out his hand in sympathy. He wondered where exactly he would place it.

  “I’m going to stay with my brother while I figure things out, but I just . . . I’m still so angry about what happened.”

  At this, though, Davey’s hand stayed exactly where it was. “You mean what happened to Sol?”

  Con nodded.

  “You mean . . . it wasn’t you?”

  “What?”

  “We were told it was a Butchers’ tradition. A mourning ritual to hang a dead man by his feet.” Davey was certain that this time he had gone too far. He thought how Con was close enough to break his nose in two places.

  He thought how beautiful Con looked when he laughed.

  And the sound alone was enough to confirm what Davey had always suspected. Con tossed his head back and there was more neck than ever. Davey wanted, so much, to place his lips upon that Adam’s apple. Not Eve’s; no, it had never been Eve’s. But when he opened his mouth, something else came out: “I keep thinking about this bit in the Iliad. It’s where Achilles cuts two holes in Hector’s heels and threads through two leather belts. Then he ties the belts to his chariot and drags the body around in the dirt.” Davey paused. He knew he should be asking what the Butchers planned to do next; should be apologising for even half believing the Bull’s awful lies.

  “Why did Achilles do that?”

  “Grief,” Davey said. “His cousin Patroclus had died, stabbed in the stomach by Hector. Or, more likely, Achilles and Patroclus had been lovers. So in his heartache, his despair, Achilles defiled Hector’s body while his poor family had no choice but to watch.”