Long Time, No See

by Dermot Healy

  I reached the top, clutched the top rung in my left hand and threw the bag over. I stood a moment on the fourth rung of the ladder.

  Are you all right son?

  Yes, I said.

  I climbed up and reached out to grab the rope to the left to haul myself up and over onto the pier. I suddenly found that the rope was attached to nothing. I fell back out holding on to the top rung with my right hand. Jesus, shouted the woman, and her husband screamed and reached a hand up tight against my legs. It was a long moment. Only for I was holding the rung with my other hand I was gone. I got my feet, and reached again for the second rope that hung there to the right. I gave a strong tug and it held. I climbed over.

  That was bad, the woman said.

  I got a fright, I said.

  Someone done that deliberately, she said.

  I saw that, said Mister Tingle, climbing over, I saw that. Someone should have a word with the authorities.

  I’m all right.

  Nobody should leave an unattached rope there, he said and the hair in the wind stood on his head. Jesus. The blokes that are using this pier should be hung.

  It’s my friend Anna mostly uses this pier, I said, more than anyone else.

  I know, I know. By the luck of God, I pulled the right rope each time I came up. We were lucky. You were lucky.

  I was.

  You were.

  That’s the sort of thing happens in the worst dreams, said Mrs Tingle. Are you all right?

  Yes, I said. Is that everything?

  It is now, he said. I helped them pack the boot of their car. A newspaper blew off down the shore and he waved goodbye to it.

  Thanks a lot, she said again. Tonight I’ll be thinking of you.

  Goodbye, I said.

  Thank you again, he said. I was about to walk off and then I remembered. I remembered Anna. Jesus, I thought. This evening she could have swung out on that loose rope to reach the first step. Jesus Christ, I thought. I went back to the head of the ladder on the pier and leaned down and tied the loose rope securely to one of the metal rings jutting out of the slabs. I gave it a long sharp pull with all my might. Went off, came back and pulled it again as if I was reining in a beast, a mad mare pony that was just being trained in.

  Then my mobile rang.

  Hallo, I said.

  Where are you, Anna asked

  I just saved your life, Lala, I replied, and then her voice disappeared.

  The Tingles had driven off, now they stopped, reversed, and pulled in beside me.

  I don’t believe it, we were going to drive off and leave that rope untied, said Mister Tingle, only for you remembered.

  I was thinking of my dear friend Anna.

  Oh dear God, it was all my fault, said Mrs Tingle suddenly.

  What do you mean? he asked.

  She looked at me. I untied that rope last night, she said, to tie on some of the provisions and drop them down to my husband. I had forgotten.

  What! said Mister Tingle, and he grabbed the steering wheel.

  Please forgive me, she said.

  It’s all right.

  It’s shocking, he said.

  I know, said Mrs Tingle.

  Please let us bring you wherever you’re going.

  No thanks, I’m grand.

  Please, he said, let us try and make up for the mistake.

  I like the walk.

  Mate, please.

  Reluctantly I got in. The windows were thick with salt. The wipers were going like mad. I dug my feet into the floor as they turned around the For Sale sign. As we hit the blinding hail Mrs Tingle poured out a cup of coffee for her man out of a flask, and handed it to him just as we had to suddenly pull in for a truck, marked McNiff’s Transport, to pass. It was filled with a load of motorcycles. It never stopped or slowed down but drove on straight by within an inch of us. We jerked back out onto the road, fast, and Mrs Tingle said John? And he slowed down. She filled a coffee for herself. The truck must have lost their way, for when they met the end of the road and saw the sea ahead, they turned and shot up right behind us as we waited at the small crossroads for a Shell Oil lorry to pass.

  We waited. The lorry in front passed, and behind us the truck flashed its lights, and revved loudly but Mister Tingle did not budge as there was a bicycle coming in the opposite direction. He just raised his paper cup and laughed with his head back. Mrs Tingle politely dribbled sugar, piece by piece across the full cup of her latte. She lifted it to her lips like a child, and sucked in as she took a sip.

  Nice? she said.

  Very, he said.

  Joe Donlon, straight as a soldier on parade gave a downward wave in greeting as he passed, as if he was petting a dog. Hi, said Mrs Tingle, waving out the passenger window. And Mister Tingle lifted his cup in greeting, and said it’s a small world, we were lucky, and leaning forward, cup in hand, on the steering wheel, he looked both ways, and added He is a rare gentleman. Behind us McNiff’s man blew the horn. We sat a moment longer as Mister Tingle held the pupils of his eyes up to the rear-view mirror, and his hand on the gear stick. The lights of the truck flashed and the horn blew again, and suddenly the truck, with a loud swerve, pulled out to the right to pass us, but at the last minute my buck shot into gear and we took off with a sudden jolt and roar of the exhaust up the hill.

  John? Mrs Tingle said.

  Yes, he said.

  Please.

  As he slowed down, in the back seat I got the sensation again of falling, and I reached out to the handle of the door. Being in a fast car was driving me back in time. We shot up past the Wishing Well and the quarry in fifth. Mister St Patrick was standing with his cows in the Long Acre. Then we hit the spot at Mannion’s shed where Mickey died in the crash over a year ago. It was marked with tubs of flowers.

  You can drop me here, I said.

  I understand, he said, but I can wait and bring you on wherever you want to go.

  I’m fine here, please.

  If that’s what you want, and he swerved to a stop, and the lorry passed us blowing its horn in one long scream of sound.

  I got out and blessed myself.

  Bye, said Mister Tingle.

  Forgive me, said Mrs Tingle.

  I knelt and went on.

  I could hear a mouth organ playing in one of the county council houses, and over my head, tied by a blue string to a Stop sign, was a single purple balloon blowing and tossing like mad. It was still hanging there to mark the shortest route for strangers to take to the wedding in St Mary’s Church that had been held a year and a half ago. That day there’d been a row of balloons and ribbons hanging from trees and signposts the whole way down from the main road. They’d all been blown away and this was the last balloon.

  The balloon was tough.

  It had survived many a storm, and now was entering another. And every time I looked up at that balloon I’d wonder to myself: Are that man and woman still together?

  Then suddenly McNiff’s lorry appeared again, this time coming back in my direction down the hill.

  It pulled up alongside me. The driver let the window down and looked at me in exasperation.

  He asked: Where are we?

  Templeboy.

  He looked at the map in his hand.

  Templeboy! Templeboy!

  Where are you headed? I asked.

  Matty Gilbride’s.

  Go on down to the T-junction, turn left, and take the first right, then go on straight.

  Turn left, and take the first right, and go straight?

  Yes.

  Thank you, he said and the lorry took off with a roar.

  Chapter Two

  Malibu

  It was a Saturday.

  A woman power-walker strode by. In the field beyond, a magpie stood on a sheep, on the middle of her back, looking off into the distance, and the sheep had her head a little off the ground, wondering. Pa O’Rourke passed in his tractor with a load of bales of hay. The General in his good suit was standing at his gate w
aiting and then Stefan stepped out of the foundations of an abandoned building site.

  He shook himself.

  Excuse, he said, frowning, I have a problem.

  Go ahead.

  Where you go?

  To Mister John’s.

  For a drink?

  Yes.

  Hm. I think I join you, ah, he said and pretending to be drunk he fell sideways, put his two hands to the side of the face, and reached out to balance himself, then, with wide eyes, he snapped again into a correct stance, chest up, and sure-footed began walking alongside me.

  Do you mind if I walk with you?

  If you want.

  Are you sure?

  Yes, chest.

  I am not Polish, and it is pronounced czesc. If you want to say hallo to me it is labas.

  OK, labas.

  You have plenty of money?

  Yes, I said.

  My boss is gone somewhere. Good. But, it is no good. Today the machine I work with is…and he opened his arms wide…is breaking down again. It is inside, and I have no key. Then he swung one arm in a wide circle. I am looking for Meester Doy-al. You know where he is?

  No. Is he gone missing again?

  Yes. He said to me yesterday that he was going to the bank today. But…!? And he threw out his hands…Who is Bob Geldof, please?

  He is a singer.

  He shook his head in puzzlement.

  Irish?

  Yes. Have you never heard of him?

  No. Time it is an experiment in this country, Mister Side Kick, and he winked. I hear his name on the radio.

  Ah!

  I understand. Have you heard of Tomas Pekinoff?

  No.

  It is no problem. Neither have I.

  We arrived at the small unmarked garage surrounded by wrecks on one side, and well-polished second-hand cars on the other.

  You see I knock, I knock many times, but there is no reply.

  I’m sorry.

  It is a disaster, no? And I shouted Hallo! It is OK, I wait. Again. Hallo! shouted Stefan, and he threw his arms in the air, as he walked to the closed galvanised door. He turned. It is always good to meet you. You will take a look for me in the…pub, yes?

  Yes.

  Goodbye.

  Goodbye, I said.

  *

  At two on the dot I stepped into Mister John’s.

  I was taken aback to find a crowd there. There were four men and a woman around the fire playing Twenty-Five with an old pack of cards. They all turned and nodded. The racing channel, with the sound down, was on TV. The horses were going round the ring. Mister John threw a sod of turf on the fire. Frank Morgan was sitting in the corner playing the accordion music on the radio with his eyebrows. When he saw me he held his nose with his thumb and forefinger and nodded at the toilet. The coalman back from Australia was asleep by the fire cradling a glass of Guinness between his knees. Michael Doyle was sitting alone before a pint. Daft Punk was on the juke box with the sound turned down.

  Your deal, said Mrs Brady.

  I’m only saying, said Frosty, I’m only saying.

  Yes? asked Mister John, and what can I do you for his nibs?

  A bottle of Malibu, please.

  Fine.

  The big one, I said.

  I hear you. The uncle on the raz? he asked, turning away.

  He will be.

  With the Blackbird? And he bent forward to look at himself in the mirror.

  The very man.

  My, my, how do they do it?

  Hearts is trumps.

  The Blackbird is tough, said Frosty, tough out.

  Mister John parcelled the bottle and let it down on the counter. He stroked his chin and said briskly: That’ll be twenty-five euro –

  – The last time it was twenty-three –

  – Was it now? –

  – It was surely –

  – Is that so? –

  – And the time before –

  – He has you there, John, the boy got ya, said Morgan –

  – Your deal –

  I’m joking of course, said Mister John and he gave me the two-euro change and I put it in my back pocket, then I went over and put it in the slot machine, and spun the wheel.

  Hard luck, said Michael Doyle.

  I guided a gentleman to your door just now, I said, spinning the wheel again.

  Did you?

  Yes.

  Well, that’s very kind of you. I’m after hauling a broken-down jeep from Limerick. I went down and up this morning and I can’t see in front of me. He’ll have to wait.

  I think he has been waiting a while.

  Oh.

  What is he driving?

  Nothing.

  The plot thickens. Who is it?

  Mister Lithuania, I said, and I spun the wheel again.

  But he’s not due in today. I told him it was a bank holiday.

  Out clattered a brace of coins and I started laughing.

  Ah now I understand, I said.

  I’m only saying, said Frosty.

  What’s he doing in today, Mick Doyle nodded and then he shook his head. I don’t know. What does he want?

  He wants to work.

  Fuck. Are you going back up the road?

  I am.

  Tell him I’ll be with him in half an hour.

  Good luck now men, I said.

  Before you go, tell me this, said Frosty, did you ever call any woman by the wrong name?

  Oh never, I said. Well maybe the once.

  Well you’re forgiven, if you did, he said, for I did it myself at the door of a wrong house, you know, late at night, after a crash.

  Let’s not talk about crashes, said Mister John.

  Your play, said Mrs Brady.

  Now for you, said Morgan, holding his nose.

  The coalman Mister Awesome suddenly fell and Morgan and Frosty and myself lifted him back up off the floor and into his chair. The card players rose, then seated themselves again, and played on. Mister Awesome woke up and eyed me and said: Hi you Feeney, you think the whole thing is a joke, don’t you.

  No, I said.

  Well it’s not.

  I am not laughing.

  Excuse me, said the coalman and he closed his eyes and Morgan’s eyebrows swung on into the next tune.

  You see the ghost has a body, said Frosty, same as you and me, and he dropped his head, sadly. And my heart goes out to him, the poor cratur.

  Stop it, snarled the coalman. You’re doing my head in.

  I’m only saying, I’m only saying.

  Stop it, said Mister Sweet John.

  I made my way to Doyle’s garage and found Stefan sitting quietly and correct in the passenger seat of one of the Volkswagen Golfs outside the garage.

  Labas! I shouted.

  He reared up in sudden fright, till he saw it was me, then a smile came, and went, quickly. He sat still without speaking. There was a look of humble sanity in his serious eyes. I came up to the window of the car and I turned my hand round and around in circles on an imaginary handle, and slowly, in time with me, he let the window down.

  Yes?

  He’ll be along soon, I said. You see it’s a bank holiday.

  Excuse?

  And Michael Doyle…

  Oh, Meester Doyle?

  …He will be here in half an hour.

  Oh. He come?

  Yes.

  He let a roar of laughter.

  Would you like to go to Bundoran? and then he jumped out of the car, winked, and indicated that I get in, but I pointed ahead down the road and lifted the bottle into the air; Ah the cursed drink, he said in a loud Irish accent; and he closed the door with a polite tap of his fingertips, and shook his head in dismay; lit up a cigarette made of yellow paper rolls and stepped aside like a gentleman and sat to the side of the shed in the roaring wind on a huge torn tractor wheel; kicked out, and shook himself viciously, then went perfectly still, in his leather jacket and Yankee baseball cap, with his two fists sitting
one on top of the other on his left knee.

  Goodbye, I said.

  Grand, he said, looking straight ahead like a question mark in the wind blowing up from the sea. Next thing a taxi passed with the General sitting up in the back and he waved.

  The Blackbird lifted his tumbler and filled it again, and then he filled my granduncle’s. The kitchen was filled with the smell of boiling bacon.

  Any news, asked Joejoe.

  The pub was full for a change.

  Well who was there?

  Mister Morgan, Frosty –

  – Frosty, said the Blackbird –

  – And Mrs Flynn, the coalman Mister Awesome, Barney Buckley, Jim Simpson, Terence MacGowan and Joe Conan. And Mick Doyle.

  So it was like old times. And Mister Sweet John?

  Yes, he’s behind the counter.

  And Frosty is there, nodded the Blackbird.

  Yes.

  That man is let in and I am not, and the Bird’s voice rose.

  Well he won’t last much longer, said Joejoe. We all get our turn. Anyway going into that pub would only make you lonely. Oh by the way…

  Don’t try changing the conversation.

  …I’m not. What I wanted to say to the young fellow is, if I’m allowed, is that your mother got me a new electric kettle.

  She did, agreed the Blackbird.

  And every time I switch it on a plane flies over the house.

  I haven’t heard that one before.

  Well there you have it.

  I have indeed.

  Says I to myself every time I want to make a cup of tea the skies are fierce busy.

  And why wouldn’t they be.

  True.

  – So out I went one day to see the plane and found none –

  – You did not –

  – So I said to myself they must be going over fierce fast –

  – Just like that, said the Blackbird, and he snapped his fingers –

  And from then on whenever I put the kettle on and heard the drone of a plane I shot out and was there a plane?

  The Blackbird studied the question.

  There was none.

  There was not.

  I thought so.

  And what was it do you think?

  You have me there.

  It was the kettle, I said

  The kettle, by God. That’s a sight.

  Damn right, it was, said Granduncle Joejoe.

  It certainly was, agreed the Blackbird.

  They bought me a fucking jet to make tay in.