by Donal Ryan
He was plagued, these days. He didn’t know why. He couldn’t still his mind. That was why he kept it going with Eleanor: she talked on and on about X Factor and I’m A Celebrity and all sorts of shite and she was pretty and she was game enough but he had to coax her a bit and that was fine, it helped, it soothed him, his soft advances and her fake demurrals, her ceaseless voice and her lilting city accent, her sweet teasing, her expert tongue. He played and replayed incidents, over and over, times he should have held his fire with Pop, with his mother, with Chloe. He couldn’t keep a lid on his foul temper. He wondered was his father just as bad. He thought a lot about the last day he’d played hurling, the day he fucked up in defence and they nearly lost the Junior A semi-final because of him, and Tony Delahunty asked him coming off was he stupid, and something snapped in his head and he said, Don’t call me stupid, Tony, don’t call me stupid now again, and Tony Delahunty laughed at him and said, Or what? And Lampy said nothing but he squared up a bit and Tony Delahunty told him sit down to fuck and Lampy knocked shoulders with him passing from the sideline to the bench and said, Bollix, loud enough for him to hear, and Cian Delahunty stood up from the subs’ bench and said, Don’t get smart, Lamp, don’t fuckin shoulder my oul fella like that again, and I heard what you called him, and Lampy said, You’re a bollix too, like father like son, and Cian Delahunty said, A lot you’d know about fathers, at least I know who my father is, and Lampy opened the skin above Cian Delahunty’s eye with a head-butt and the rest of the subs got between them and the ref came over wanting to know what in the fuck was going on and threatening to call off the match and hand it to the Cormacs, and Pop was over from the stand and he was saying, Come on, son, come on to fuck, don’t mind this shower of useless cunts, they wouldn’t hurl their way out of a wet paper bag, and there was nothing said on the way home but he wondered how much of it Pop had heard, how much Pop knew, about anything.
He’d asked him once. Straight out. He was ten or maybe eleven. Where’s my father, Pop? And Pop had kept on marking out his cuts on the workshop counter and his lips were moving in silent calculation, and after a little while Pop said, What’s that, son? though Lampy knew he’d heard him. Where’s my father? And Pop kept marking his cuts with his stubby pencil and his twelve-inch ruler and he repeated Lampy’s question under his breath, as though he were trying to remember or to figure out what the words meant, and he didn’t look at Lampy, but he answered. Beyond in England somewhere, as far as I know. What’s his name? I don’t know. How don’t you know? How don’t I? Because I was never told. Nor did I ask. If a person wants you to know something they’ll tell you. Do you know anything about him? Divil a bit that was ever known except that your mother fell for him when she was young and they had a fling and when he found out she was expecting he fecked off. Like many a man along the years. He didn’t want the hassle of it, I suppose. Some men just aren’t fatherly, son. It was nothing against you, anyway. I never laid eyes on the man, nor was I ever told his name. I have a feeling he was from the city. That’s all I was ever told about it and now you know as much as me. And Lampy understood that he would be given no more, even if Pop had more to give.
When he was small he hadn’t known there was a difference. Mam was Mam and Pop was Pop. Husband and wife and mother and father and grandfather and son and daughter and grandson were all just words, and the only words that were ever made flesh were Mam and Pop. Then someone told him the meaning of the word bastard. At lunchtime in the yard when he was in fourth class. A lad from sixth class. He walked up to where Lampy was eating his sandwiches, sitting on the low grass bank at the top of the yard, and said, You’re a bastard. And there were a few behind him grinning and the first lad was eating a bag of crisps and he was looking at Lampy, chewing his crisps, smiling, waiting for Lampy’s reaction, and all Lampy could say was, What? You’re a bastard, the lad said again, and he finished his crisps and he crumpled the bag and put it in his trouser pocket. Do you know what a bastard is? And Lampy didn’t answer, so the boy explained: A bastard is a person with no father. So I’m not swearing if I call you a bastard. I’m just telling a fact. And Lampy could tell that the boys either side of him had stopped eating and stopped moving and were waiting for him to react, and he felt a kind of lightness in his middle, and a weird feeling in his crotch, like someone had grabbed his balls and was holding them tight, and the explainer of the word bastard was licking his fingers one by one, up as far as the second knuckle, and he was narrow and tall and he was looking at Lampy while he sucked and licked his long thin fingers, and Lampy knew he was one of the Pratts, his father had an office downtown that said PRATT over it and a few other things that Lampy didn’t understand, and someone was saying, Oooh, wouldn’t take that, wouldn’t take that, and Brother Rutledge was meant to be supervising the yard but he was at the far end, down by the sixth-class bike shed, and his back was turned, and Lampy heard Pop’s voice saying, Do your best to stay out of fights, son, but if you ever have to throw a dig, aim for the Adam’s apple. Like this, look. And Pop made a weapon of his hand by curling his fingers so his knuckles jabbed forward. And don’t tuck in your thumb, you could break it. Push it in against the side of your index finger. And keep your eye on the fucker’s Adam’s apple and jab straight and hard. And Pop had shown him over and over again what to do, and Mam had come in and caught them at it, jabbing and feinting around the kitchen, laughing and shouting, and she’d given out to them and told them to stop, and Pop had reminded him once more: Adam’s apple. Look, that bobbly yoke there in the throat. And he’d formed his left hand into a blade of knuckles again and winked. And Lampy pushed his left foot into the bank now and sprang upwards and the Pratt boy was sucking the salt from the fingers of his right hand and Lampy could see that he had a sharp and bobbly Adam’s apple and it was working up and down with the sucking of the salt, and he connected hard and clean, and the bold explainer of bastard fell backwards against his little gang and onto the ground and he was making a weird thin ragged sound and his two hands of licked fingers were at his throat and his face was bright red and his eyes were bulging and the lads were all up and in a ring and shouting, ROW, ROW, ROW, and Brother Rutledge was running in his black smock towards them and Lampy felt his friends’ hands clapping against his back and they were saying, Aboy, Lamp, aboy, Lamp, you got him, and Lampy was bothered for the first time that day, and aware of the differences between people, and he was bothered and aware ever since.
He heard a man ask his grandfather who he was at a hurling match one time. A few years after he’d punched Niall Pratt in the throat. Under twelve or under fourteen, he couldn’t remember. He’d played badly. That’s a boy of yours, is it, that was brought off? Number seven? And his grandfather told the man he was, yes, that was his boy. The man looked away and smirked and looked back again and opened his mouth to speak and Pop drew himself from his hunch and he balled his fists and said, Have you more to say? Have you more to say about it? And the man stepped back and checked the sky and then the ground but couldn’t find a better answer and so he just said, no, he was only asking, that was all. And Pop noticed him then, he’d been sitting just behind him all along, and he said, Come here, son, and sit beside me. Don’t mind them bollixes at all. Bringing off their best player and he not even warmed up.
And as he reached the bottom of the stairs the sudden unbidden memory caused in Lampy a familiar prickle, a ghostly breath of guilt or shame, or some other thing, some other kind of feeling with no name, not one that he knew anyway. Another memory came to him, just as he reached the kitchen door, and it stopped him, like a hand pressed firmly on his chest, like a bouncer at a nightclub door inside in town, one of the places where they let on to be members only, the Icon or somewhere. Stall on there, boy. Have you ID? No, I must have left it in your mother’s house. He couldn’t time these memories, these stupid things that made him stop sometimes and stand with his hand to his forehead and his eyes closed, that paralysed him. Pop waiting for him to walk him home after train
ing. Him ducking past the hurling-field gate where Pop was standing smoking a fag, walking fast along the inside of the wall and through Kelly’s back gate to avoid him. Pop arriving in and not mentioning that he’d been waiting. The thought of Pop waiting, watching in the gate towards the changing-room door. Going in after a while to see was he there, asking Tony Delahunty where he was, Tony saying he’s gone a small while, Dixie. Pop saying, Oh, feck, right, I must have just missed him.
James Grogan asked him weeks ago to supervise the day room at the home. Up to then he’d tipped around, cleaning rooms and changing sheets and driving the bus when needed. On his own, sometimes, though he knew there was meant to be a nurse on the bus when certain residents were being transported to and from appointments and home visits. The Grogans were chancers. They’d swindle the devil, Pop said. All you need do is sit and watch them, Lampy, James Grogan said. Make sure that no one wanders or chokes or falls out of their chair. If anything happens you run for the nurse or one of the women. You needn’t be a hero at all. I’m offering to pay you to sit on your arse. Will you do it? And Lampy said he would, though he’d heard a woman had died in that day room a few years ago, right there in front of the picture window, in her own husband’s arms, and that it had happened all of a shot: she’d gotten up from her seat and sat into her husband’s lap and died. And the husband had followed her a few weeks later, just closed his eyes one day and slipped away. So it was a bigger thing by far than James Grogan made it out to be. But still he was glad. He liked the day room, the peace of it, the circle of people, some of them doting, some of them as sharp as tacks. There was a woman who knitted scarf after scarf, her hands going like pistons, and she never once looked down at her needles or her wool, but looked all around her all day long and talked about the others to Lampy. Look at this one, she’d say, she’s deaf as a stone, you know, and this one, gone fat as a fool, and your man across and his breeches on back to front, Lord, what a shop of crocks, and she’d shake her head and her hands would piston on, and Lampy came to like the soft cackle of her, the wickedness that shone behind her glasses. You’re a fine-looking boy, she said one day. You’ve a fierce big forehead, though. You must have plenty brains. How is it you’re doing this job?
And a man one day last week had called him Declan. Declan, have you my car keys? Declan. Declan. Will you find my car keys for me until we go home? May will have our dinner made. Declan. And when Lampy went to him to settle him a bit the man took hold of his hand and his grip was strong and tight, and he was saying, Good lad, Declan, you’re a great lad, have you the keys found? And Lampy said, I’m not Declan, and the old man looked confusedly at him for a long moment, and then was silent, and he said, Oh, yes. I get mixed up. I do. I get my wires crossed all the time, these days. And when Lampy looked across at the man a while later he saw that his eyes were closed and his lips were moving and there were tears on his cheeks. The knitter looked at Lampy and nodded at the crying man and rolled her eyes to Heaven and back and said, Poor misfortune. That Declan he’s looking for is gone a long time now, God help us. Abroad somewhere, like my own lad. And then she looked back at Lampy and she studied him a while and said, What’s in the past can’t be changed and what’s to come can’t be known and you can’t give your life to worrying. Sure you can’t. All you have to do is be kind and you’ll have lived a good life. And Lampy agreed with her and she chuckled softly and resumed her inspections of her comrades.
And in the kitchen Pop was laughing still, and coughing still, and Lampy’s mother was putting on toast, and he decided he’d just eat it: there was no point going through the rigmarole. Pop was doing his surprised act, the most annoying part of his repertoire. Oh, begod, look out. Look what’s after appearing. The dead arose and appeared to many. Lazarus, Lazarus, up from his pit. Lord, you’ve a great job. What time are you left stroll in at? Any oul time at all? Well for you. And Lampy said, I’m only doing a bus run today. And Pop said, You are. Just that: You are. And the way he said it was maddening, the suggestion in his voice, the intimation that Lampy was lying, that he was meant to be at work all day but had just felt like sleeping in; it was enough to make Lampy want to scream at him, to catch him by the collar and shake him, but he never would. I’ve only to drive a few of them into town to their therapy places and drop a couple to their children’s houses, Pop, he said, and I’m getting fifty quid for it, and he hoped Pop would leave it there, just leave it. But he didn’t. You are, he said. And Lampy slammed his hand so hard on the table that his plate hopped and his mother jerked her head towards him and her eyes were wide with surprise and Lampy shouted, I FUCKING AM! And he wondered why he couldn’t keep his cool, why he let the old man dig beneath his skin.
And his grandfather sat and sulked in near silence, only muttering beneath his breath that all he said was that he was and what was wrong with that? He was, wasn’t he? And he didn’t try to tell Lampy any of his stories, about George Clooney or Mickey Rooney or pricks going to fancy-dress parties or anything else, and Lampy could feel the air around him thickening with his own imposturous anger, with his grandfather’s temper and disappointment, with his mother’s weary resignation, and his breakfast seemed dry, or maybe it was his mouth that was dry, and it had no taste and he had to force each mouthful down, and when he was finally finished he thanked his mother and she said, You’re welcome, lovey, won’t you go handy in that bus, the roads will be treacherous so they will, and he said that he’d go very easy and didn’t look over at his grandfather before he left or say anything to him, and nor did his grandfather say anything to him, and he put on his coat and he stepped out into the soft flurries, the cold relieving air.
There was time to walk to the home. He’d walk it so and spare what bit of fuel was in the Civic. He’d think about Eleanor and the shape of her and the smile of her and the heavy makeup she wore on her eyes, the way he liked; the things she might do if he played his cards right. He’d bring her somewhere, he decided. The Chinese or somewhere. He looked back at the house before he rounded the corner at the top of the Villas, and he thought for a second about going back on some pretence, that he’d forgotten his wallet or he wanted to get his gloves or something, and saying something conciliatory to Pop, just something small like See you later, or All right, Pop, do you want anything brought back when I’m coming home? and he knew that would please his mother and that Pop would be happy but he couldn’t do it. That small thing, that would ease all of their minds, he couldn’t do. What was wrong with him?
He remembered a dream he’d had. About standing on Thomond Bridge, watching the water flowing black and fast and high, up from the city towards Thomondgate, the wrong way. He was looking at it, marvelling at the speed of it, the height of it, touching the ramparts of the bridge almost, and he was telling someone whom he couldn’t see that this was normal, that the river was tidal as far as Curragower, that it was just a fast tide coming in, not to worry, and the bridge groaned and shook and collapsed into the water and the water was warm around him, and it carried him upstream past King’s Island and over the salmon weirs, and the river rushed inland against itself, away from the sea, and he was laughing when he woke, and as the dream faded he thought how easy it would be to let himself be carried to his end. To close his eyes and fall.
James Grogan met him at the door. Come on, you’re late, he said, and Lampy checked his watch. You told me be here at twelve. I’m a minute early. Oh, are you? Well, excuse me, wait there till I get you a trophy, or is it a minute’s fucking overtime you want? And Lampy left it there. There was no point back-answering the prick. Okay, James Grogan said, okay now. Right. Listen. And James Grogan went through the list of drop-offs and pick-ups, and Lampy didn’t need to listen too closely because it was the same every week, he knew the list of people and places by heart by now, and he watched James Grogan’s fat jaw working up and down, and the tiny white crescents of gunk at the sides of his mouth, like manky little brackets for his words, and he wondered how the grisly fat fuck’s wife let
him ride her and she a fine thing, all tanned and blonde and vicious curves, and she was up over forty but she was in serious nick and Lampy felt himself harden and he panicked and made himself think about the injection you have to get into the inside of your knob if you get chlamydia, the tiny spikes that umbrella from the top of the needle when it’s in there, and the doctor has to pull it out hard, and his horn damped, like it always did when he used that trick, and he was glad of that trick, he’d used it many times in places where a man can’t be striking horns indiscriminately, Mass, places like that, not that he went too much, but he’d gotten a horn at a funeral once, a friend of Pop’s, kneeling down looking at the arse of the woman in front of him, the hint of red lace at the top of her black skirt, the faint outline of her knickers, the little zip on her skirt, and when he’d sat back up he’d had to lean forward because he’d had no jumper or jacket or anything to put over his lap and he had solid wood and all he could hear was Pop’s cross whisper: What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you sick? Sit up straight, will you?
Pop always made out that the Grogans had only got permission to build the home in that beautiful green field because of brown envelopes flying about the place inside in town. How is it, Pop often asked, that Bridie Dwyer below in Ballygash wasn’t able to get permission to put a couple of rows of blocks on top of her front wall and a high solid gate so herself and the mad prick she’s married to could run around their garden in the nip? Ha-ha-ha! And Lampy would laugh and his mother would tut-tut and shake her head, and Pop, having caught his breath and cleared his throat in a monarchical fashion, would be spurred on to greater explicitness. They’re a pair of nudies, you know! Notorious, they are! Isn’t that what you call them, Florence? Nudies? Nudists, Dad, Lampy’s mother would say, and her correction would go unheeded. And anyway they’re not. Oh, begod they are, a pair of nudie-nawdies! Yerra go way, Lampy, you must have heard that. That just proves now once and for all that you do be going around the place like a gom, looking down out of your mouth at your shoes going in and out before you. The world and his nephew knows them two are a pair of nudie-nawdies. She runs around in her birthday suit any day the weather allows and Murty tears around behind her with his lad in his hand! There was many a car written off at that bad bend outside their house, with people’s eyes stole by Bridie’s diddies flapping up and down or Murty’s oul balls flying about the place. And Lampy would laugh so much his head would reel and his eyes would stream.
