by Dermot Healy
Ah good.
Hallo in there!
Hallo, I said.
Is that your dog?
It’s my granduncle’s.
Nice dog. I was in the Gazette last week.
Were you? asked Ma.
On the fifth page.
Isn’t that something?
Yeh. And I was supposed to go to Maynooth this evening, she said across to me, but they went on without me.
That’s bad, I said.
Oh no bother. I can go next weekend.
Fair enough, I said.
Were you going to a party? asked Ma.
Oh no. I’m allergic to orgies.
Jazus, said Ma.
Who’s the dog?
Timmy.
Hi ya Timsum. No, it was my brother I was going to see. It’s not too far from his gaff to the shops. She plucked at her vest and asked my mother: Are you his Ma?
Yes.
He’s nice. I said you’re nice.
I said, Oh, thank you.
She put her head in the window. Do you mind me asking like, but what are youse two doing sitting out here all alone in the dark?
We’re waiting for my father.
Oh is he doing the shopping?
No.
Ah, I know, he’s in the pub.
No.
It’s kinda mad. What’s he doing?
He’s walking about, looking round him.
Oh. And you just like sit…like…here?
Is right, said Ma.
Yes, every Saturday night.
And Christmas Eve.
That’s weird.
Is it?
Anyway, sorry about that, chat you later, she said, and took her head back out, sucked in and waved, and with a sly grin and popsy eyes, went on.
The crowd kept coming, this way, that way. Alone, together, scattered. After the first hour we hit ceilidh music. Then horns blowing in jazz. And on to a programme about the First World War. I’ll take a look at the shops, she said. I’ll go with you, I said. The Hill was full of Northern bucks wrapped in shawls. Three girls, dressed as barbers, were singing in the Glazed Oven. Ma bought three slices of tongue, a bag of paprika, almond nuts and yes, sage, she said. At the monument a woman was screaming into her friend’s mobile. Ma strolled over to Molloy’s the drapers to see the style. She passed my father who was standing outside Currid’s the chemists. She did not look at him, and he did not look at her. We went on up the street and into the Tesco Arcade, and then across to Dunne’s. She strolled through the clothes, pulling the odd sleeve out of the racks.
We ate a crêpe outside the cinema.
Upstairs, next door, in the Yoga Parlour, a line of girls were lifting their arms beyond the windows. The Romanian lady was sitting on a rug outside Cawley’s solicitors with a tray of coins on her lap. Ah Geraldine Feeney, a voice called. It was a man in a light blue suit pushing a trolley. He took Ma’s hand. Thank you Nurse, he said. Mister Anderson, she said, I didn’t know who it was, and you look so well. I’m getting better, he said, thanks to you. And he joined us to listen as the minister from Northern Ireland took up his position outside the old community hall and began praying into a microphone. And sometimes the prayers were from the Psalms. A few people would gather, others took not a blind bit of notice of him, or the older man who always came with him, someone like an uncle who lay against the window of the Investment Company, waiting his turn.
He’s a brave man, I always think, said Ma.
He is, said Mister Anderson, and he went on pushing his trolley. I’ll see you back at the car, I said, and I hopped into the Internet Café, and sat down in a chair between a Polish girl on my right who was laughing at her boyfriend on the screen, and a dude who was eating an apple. I emailed Fran in New York and told him his fly was open. The place was laughing out loud at something that was painful. One euro. I went on up the street.
I went up the escalator of the new shopping centre, and crossed the balcony into the diamond-shaped hall and looked across the river.
On the way back it was my turn to pass Da. He was standing in the doorway of Maguire’s the newsagents. He watched me pass. We made no signal. He pulled his head in the air and stepped into the arcade alongside a few hard men and a few tired men. He yawned, nodded at a passerby. He was like a guard on duty observing the flow of life.
Standing to attention among the skinheads in business suits, and the shoppers in corduroy.
I stopped at the monument for a line of cars to pass. There was a couple arguing fiercely by the telephone booth under the monument. It was the exact place we’d seen the girl screaming earlier into her friend’s mobile. A taxi driver, stalled in the traffic, was watching them.
Hi, he shouted out the window, keep it down.
But they didn’t bother with him. They went on arguing. He blew his horn. Then the driver of the car in front of him got out, and turned around.
What the fuck is wrong with you, she shouted at the taxi driver.
Then the man who was arguing with the girl roared at him: Yeh what the fuck are you blowing your horn for?
The couple went off, and the driver got back into her car. The taxi driver, who was eating a Magnum, looked over at me.
Did you see all that? he asked.
I did.
Well thank you, he said, for not smiling.
I went down the archway. Met Pete the buck who was on his way to a stag and wanted to bring me with him, and when I said I didn’t want to go, he asked me when I’d be coming back among them. Soon, I said. Poor Mickey, he said. Aye, I said. You all right? Yeh, I said. Chat ya, buddy, and he tapped my shoulder and off he went. Ma was back in the driving seat eating Mexican crisps. The car park was half empty. We sat there a while. I took the dog for a pee around the walls of the monastery. As he walked he kept right behind me, and with each step I took he tapped his snout off the calf of my leg. It was his way of walking in town. He lay down. Three swans came up the river, climbed up the bank and stood in a group under a tree. Their young were standing below on stones on the far bank out of the light of the new cafés.
A few fellows crossed the bridge and came over and stood by me. They looked down on the water a while.
Grand night, said one.
It is, I said.
Timmy sailed into the back of the car.
We sat on. A helicopter flew over the town. The local news was on the radio, then came the weather, followed by ads for holidays abroad in Florida, St Petersburg and Monaco. Ma put on the Dubliners tape that Da always kept in the car, along with CDs by Johnny Cash. Hmm, said Ma, humming. She bit into a mint. Up the alleyway came the same woman shouting into her mobile.
Who’s that, said Ma. She had her eyes shut.
She looks like Catherine Tate, your one on the TV.
What is she saying?
I don’t know.
The arguments you can’t understand are the worst, said Ma. I hear them everywhere in the hospital. The problem in there is you can’t take sides. She opened her eyes and looked at me. She switched off the tape. What is going on in Joejoe’s?
I don’t know.
You can tell me, she said quietly, You can tell me the truth.
I don’t know, honestly.
I think you do.
All right. I came down the other morning at six and he was sitting by the fire playing the accordion.
So?
And he had the rifle by his side.
Dear Christ!
Across the road the shutters went up round the Central.
We’ll have to do something, she said. Something will have to be done. He’ll start locking himself away again and we can’t have that. Jesus. There was a silence. I know you don’t want to, but you’ll have to tell your father what’s going on.
You tell him.
In the dark I could feel her turn. And look at me a long time. And look away.
Who is your granduncle afraid of?
Ma.
What?
I looked at the words in my head.
I don’t know.
I took a stroll up the Mall, and down into Main Street I met a few of the lads and lassies from out our way all trooping between sessions. Everywhere shutters were going up. You could hear the drone of music from the nightclubs. I did a small dance by myself on the bridge, and a young fellow crossing gave a few footsteps back in reply and then I did another few steps and turns outside The Fork Lightning where Lala was inside rocking.
I headed on and then I saw him.
Da was standing next door to McDonald’s with his back to the wall watching the traffic stopping at the lights and the people crossing. I dropped into the bank doorway on my hunkers to study him. He was in his favourite spot, pretending to be waiting on someone, the hat low so you could not see his eyes, the two hands in his jacket pocket. The legs crossed. The odd time he’d nod at someone and look up at the sky. A look to the left, a look to the right. He was still on duty. I crossed with the lights. The hat rose as I passed. He smiled, but without any attempt at recognition. More like a warning – keeping going buff! I came back over the bridge and across the river into the dark side of the car park and came up behind my mother who was sitting looking ahead of her into the passenger mirror.
I was thinking, she said.
Yes.
We need to get him out among people.
Aye.
Or get people in to him.
How?
I’m working on it. Did you see his Highness?
I did.
Yes, she said, a party would be the thing.
The place was emptying fast. Soon we would be the only car there.
Anna will definitely get here, asked Ma.
Yes Ma.
She’s quite the young lady.
Then there was a tap on my window.
The girl in the cap was back.
I let down the window.
Are you still here, she asked.
We are.
You’re very patient.
You know yourself.
Well I got good news, like. I did. I have a lift up to Maynooth tomorrow.
Well enjoy yourself, said Mother.
But I’m not going to go.
Oh, why?
It’s the principle of the thing. I just wanted to see them act sincere. You know what I mean. That I got asked anyway; like that was the main thing.
I see, said Ma.
And your father is still out there?
He is, I said. He’s at McDonald’s.
Wow. Cool. Chat ya. Thank you for listening, anyway. She turned to go, stopped and looked into the back. Good night Timmy, she said, and she tipped away.
That girl has a great memory, said Ma.
We saw the swans drop down into the river. The street light against the monastery walls seemed to glow. Soon Johnny Cash went quiet as the tape ended. We let the windows down and listened. A stray sound of a single guitar came across the river as someone opened a door in The Mint. One of the chefs from the Chinese stepped out the back of the café, stood under a tree for a smoke and suddenly he was whipped by the wind. Paper blew. The people walking through looked very alone, and strangely familiar. I tried to walk by in their place. I found I was down in the monastery lighting a fire for breakfast. I made porridge and brought some out for the crows. I climbed the round steps up and looked down out of that V-shaped window. Underneath the souls in coats strolled in a medley. Even as they talked together, squinting to the person on their left, or right, they looked like animals entering new territory; and those who knew the place, and walked ahead through the dark with great confidence, were more alone than the strangers. I waved, but no one saw me.
He’ll be back soon, said Ma.
Yes.
Will Anna make it?
She will Ma.
OK.
Look, I’ll ring her.
I rang Anna and got no reply. I texted Anna and got no reply. We sat a long time in silence. Then, a small man, Daddy, on a walking stick made his way very slow, slapping the tarmac in a circle with each step of his old loose pointed shoes. Passing he raised his stick to us. How are you, Daddy? said Ma. The same, he said, going on, and stopping, every few steps, to look ahead.
A caravan backed into a place by the river. The car cut its lights but no one got out. Paper blew.
Then on the dot of eleven forty-five Anna appeared. Some girls behind her in the alley called out Good night, see ya! after her. She walked towards us, looked round her and with a quick skip, opened the door and jumped in.
Hi, she said.
You’ve great timing.
Any crack, I asked, Lala?
Oh all my mates were there, lepping. But I kept looking round to see if you would appear.
I was outside on the street dancing I said.
Ah if only I had known.
Were you loyal, I asked.
Philip!
I was only asking.
She handed us both a a packet of crisps and left another on the dashboard in front of the driver’s seat. A few minutes late at twelve o’clock Da came whistling into the car park.
I climbed over into the back, and Ma climbed into the passenger seat.
He sat in.
Busy enough night, he said as he turned the key.
Oh Jesus, I said, I forgot Joejoe’s fags.
Don’t worry, she said, we’ll get them in the all-night, said Ma.
I looked in and there Joejoe was, seated, with his head in his hands, looking into the fire. I gave two knocks on his window, he replied with two quick smacks of a coin on the arm of his chair, then he rose his hand and saluted with his index finger without looking up from the fire.
I opened the door.
The dog shot up into his armchair.
Hallo Timmy, said Joejoe, you’re welcome home.
How are you?
I’ll tell you this – this is between us, you hear. The hair on my head is stinging my scalp.
Oh.
I’m destroyed. I might as well have a bunch of nettles on my head.
You had no visitors.
No I had no visitors, only this fucking stinging. I was expecting the Blackbird, but he never came. Your man out in that car drove him away. And no call for it either.
He suddenly leaped up.
Jesus. I’m destroyed. Will you do me back?
I hoisted his jacket and tore at his back.
Up! Up! Yes, there. Oh Christ.
Next thing Anna came in.
Ah Miss Conan, said Joejoe, you’re welcome.
What are you doing?
I’m getting scratched.
You what?
Scratched.
That all right? I asked him.
Fine. Fine.
He sat.
He eyed me.
Well?
Well what.
There’s a certain item outstanding.
Yes.
Me fags.
Oh Christ I forgot.
He shook his head sadly and squeezed his eyes closed. I put the packet of fags on the table. He lifted up a finger and pointed it at me.
You –
Ya little fucker ya, he said when he saw the fags. I was about to explode. You’re some trickster. Isn’t he Miss Conan! You see I was down to my last. Thank you, Mister Psyche. I won’t forget you, ya fucker you.
Good night.
Good night.
And myself and Anna stepped into the night.
Chapter Fifteen
Sunday Dinner
I brought water to the sick cow who was lying in the meadow looking out to sea, did three lawns after Mass, the teacher’s, the banker’s and the German’s, then I went to the wall at the back of the house. I was out there building stone for three hours. I had been at this dry-stone wall for three weeks, on-and-off, and it was good work. All you needed was a length of string, a few rocks and a sense of balance.
Sometimes I’d be building walls in my dreams.
Some
of the stones I used had come inland in storms. But today I started to haul from an old ruin up on the bank overlooking the sea. I got an awful bad feeling as I pulled the rocks out of the ruin. I had to tell myself over and over that they were going back into another wall. The ruin was supposed to have been a henhouse way back, but it was the strongest-built henhouse I ever came across. There were massive stones in her. I could have been demolishing a small church, and sometimes I thought I was.
A beehive hut it might have been.
A monk’s chamber.
I could even feel the sense of balance of the man who had built it.
He drew the stone from the coral beach by ass and cart to the spot I was taking them from. As he built alongside me, I was pulling his work down. As he dropped a stone into place, I lifted it and carried it away. He built towards me, and I built away from him. I could feel the way he carried himself. He could have been a great-great-granduncle of mine. In his wall I came across chaffs of wheat that were still dry. The bones of coral. White marble. One clay pipe. I was over and back with the barrow, then I began to build. And he came with me. Fit in, stand back, put in a small stone, and follow the twine.
Good man.
He stood to the side watching me work.
The light was going and coming. And there were sudden gusts of wind coming from the north-west. An empty bucket went flying across the field. A heave of salt flew across. Then up went a puff of sparks from the rusted transformer on the electric pole next the house. The gust passed. The sky darkened. There was the one faraway cackle of seagulls. The island drifted out of sight.
Good evening, said my father.
I got an awful shock to find him standing behind me, right where I had placed the stone man.
Time to call a halt, he said. It’s getting dark. And we have a visitor for dinner mind you. I am trying to take a weight off your shoulders Philip.
I put in a few more stones, and stood against the wall, then sort-of took cover, ducked low, and turned for the house.
Joejoe was seated at the head of the table. He was in his Sunday best. I could not believe it.
How is the man? he asked me.
I’m grand.
You did not expect to see me.
I did not.
I only ever eat in my own house, but I was coerced from below be a concentration of mind from that woman there, Miss Geraldine Lockett, your mother, and I couldn’t say no.
