by Dermot Healy
I brought his bike into the yard.
I’m not in the mood for riding home, he said.
I’ll go get someone.
Good man.
Wait there, I said.
I will.
I phoned the house. Ma immediately sat into the Fiat and drove down. The Bird watched all from afar. In the beams from the headlights she stepped out and looked into his eyes.
Tom.
Yes, he said.
Do you know what’s happening?
Indeed I do.
So what happened?
Tell me this where do you put the questions marks when you are not asking questions Mrs?
Please, said Ma.
He came onto his knees, laughed, put his two hands on the ground, brought up his behind, and stayed there like a runner about to begin a race, and then shot straight up, and stood perfectly poised.
I’m getting there, he said and he laughed.
Oh, she said, I thought you were drunk.
No, not at all.
I opened the passenger door.
He sat into the front seat like a policeman, head back, eyes wide, elbows tight against his ribs, and the two hands braced out like choppers. Then as we drove along his head started to swing in circles, and when we pulled up outside his house he nodded and said Drive on.
No, Ma said, we’re here.
He looked out the window at his own door, then faced forward and pointed with the tip of his index finger.
Go on, he whispered ghost-like.
No Tom.
If you leave me here, I’ll never be heard of again.
Out Tom.
We took his arms and led him to the door of the house. Inside the dog charged.
Have you the key, asked Ma.
I have.
Well open the door.
Just leave me here and I’ll head on in when you’re gone. He sat down with his back to the door. You hear me, go on. Then he closed his eyes and his head fell forward.
Search him, said Ma.
I went though his coat pockets, then his trousers, and there was his limp mickey against the lining but no key.
Inside the dog lunged against the door.
He must keep it someplace.
I unearthed all the stones and timber and went round and across all the window ledges looking.
What are ye at? he said without opening his eyes.
Where do you keep the key?
In the same place.
Where?
The same place amn’t I telling you. Now go on. You’re hurting me head.
OK, said Ma.
She nodded at me. We walked down the path. We got into the car and drove down Cooley, she stopped at Mary Joe’s and we walked back up the road just like the night with Da and crawled along the low wall. The Blackbird was still slumped against the door. A light fall of rain was gathering on his shoulders. We waited a quarter of an hour but he did not stir.
He’ll get his death, Ma said.
We waited another while. There was no change.
We better bring him up home, she said.
We lifted the Blackbird. He was like a rake. There was not a bit on him. And he smelled, like always, of all kinds of strange perfumes. Again he sat tight in the passenger seat tight up against the safety belt. The eyes saw nothing.
Who are you, he asked Ma.
You know quite well who I am.
You’re not Eileen?
No.
I thought so. Well fair enough.
At the house when she opened the car door it was the safety belt kept him upright. He fell to the left, then tumbled out, then he went to his knees; then shot to his feet and straightened himself in her arms. I led him towards the wooden studio in the garden where there was two beds, a place I used sleep in some summer nights and draw; and it’s down there Da would go some nights and read, and garden, and sit out till all hours alone, with a glass of orange juice and squeezed lime. It was where I would head out to draw. Now Tom Feeney entered and looked round in wonder at the paintings and drawings on the wall; the books on plant life and aliens. I took off the Bird’s jacket, and unlaced his boots and he kicked them off. I laid him down. Ma put the sheets about the Bird and brought out a radiator and we plugged it in. He pointed over his head and said: What’s that? He looked round the cabin and said Agh. She took his temperature, felt his wrist and looked into his eyes.
Well Madam? he said.
Do you feel sick?
Not at all.
Get a pail and put it by the bed, said Ma. I got the pail and as I came back in the Blackbird sat up and vomited into the air. By chance I caught it all clean.
He lay back.
His face went white.
What was that?
You got sick.
Oh.
Show me your tongue? she said.
He put out his tongue.
All right, she said, and then she took his temperature again, and felt his forehead. She went out to get some hot water.
Is that you, Psyche? the Blackbird asked.
Yes.
Is there many of them?
Only a few.
Good.
He reached for the sheets and pulled them to his chin. He smiled to himself. Not long after Ma arrived with a bowl of tepid water and he offered his face. She washed his cheek and forehead. He gave his hands to her like a child then again he pulled the sheets to his chin. This is a grand place, he said. I’d like to bring it home with me.
We sat watching him sleep.
The minute he sat into the car the drunkenness came on him, did you see that?
I did, I said.
What brought that on I wonder. Did they have a lot to drink?
I suppose they had a fair share, but I put the bottle away.
I thought the Stations would quiet them. Would quiet us all. Were they arguing?
No, not at all.
I think your father is right. The drink is getting to them.
Maybe.
So what were they talking about?
They were talking about women.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, said Ma.
She looked at him, and laid a hand on his forehead. Tom? she said.
He did not stir.
The Blackbird, I said, was talking about how women in his eyes are growing more beautiful.
Heaven forgive me for asking, but why did his nibs think women were growing more beautiful?
Because he lost the girl he had.
The Bird made a slight groan and said: It’s true. Hens.
What, asked Ma.
He did talk of hens a few days ago, I said.
Tom, she said touching his forehead.
Yes.
Why hens?
I was reared under their wings.
She looked at the man in the bed.
Tom, are you there?
I hear youse, said the Blackbird with his eyes closed. I hear youse.
Then he started into the litany.
We sat in the garden shed for maybe half an hour while the Blackbird travelled though the galaxies. Up Cooley and across Poll an Baid. Pocawokatche. Culleens. Culleens. Poll and Saggart. Through the Bent. The Night Field. The raven. Dromod. Through the willows. Take a left. Onto the New Road. Into the quarry. Out the island. In among the Hens. Ballintra. Ballintra. Cooley. Hens. I was reared under their wings. Sea holly. The long squares. Christ’s tears. Sally Anne. Culleens. The blooming General. Culleens. Cooley. The fox gloves. St John’s Eve. Cooley graveyard. Childer, Childer. The long awns. The moon. Joejoe, Miss Jilly. The urchin. The rake. That was some house I believe Mrs Feeney. The one I grew up in. Me sister and brother slept in the one bed, hens flying in the rafters; a goat would push in the door at any blessed hour of the day. Sea pink. Sea pink. Cnoic! Cnoic! he shouted. And the daft heads of the sea urchin. He lashed out at nothing and smiled.
He patted the sheets.
Then suddenly Da came through the door of the shed.
What the hell –
Shhhh!
The fucking Blackbird, he whispered astounded. I thought it was Joejoe. What is that man doing here?
We could not get him into his house.
I thought I was looking at a visitation.
You are.
Is he all right?
Yes, I think so.
Da walked over to the man in the bed.
I’m sorry Tom, he said.
I hear ya, I hear ya.
But you couldn’t tell if he did hear Da.
The three of us sat a while, then he fell asleep and eventually we went to bed. And during the night I saw Ma cross the yard to the shed where the light remained on. Then again I saw Da going with the lamp. They were like sleepwalkers.
Then came the strains of the song I could not make out as I saw Lala in a dream start poking my shoulder.
Lala, I said.
Philip, will you get up, said Da.
Right, right!
It’s your father, here. Are you all right?
Yes, OK.
It was seven o’clock. Ma and Da were setting the table in the kitchen.
Will you go, Ma said, and give the Bird a shout.
All right.
It was still dark in the garden and the light from the shed fell through the olearia like an aura. I came in the door and patted his shoulder. Mister Blackbird, I said. His big brown eyes opened in terror, the top half of his body shot forward, and then he recognised me.
Ah Psyche is it you.
You can get up now, I said.
What time is it, he asked.
It’s just after seven.
I don’t rise till eight, he said and he closed his eyes and immediately went back to sleep. I returned to the kitchen.
Is he on the way? Ma asked.
No.
Why?
He said he doesn’t get up till eight.
Hah?
Yes.
He doesn’t get up till eight?
That’s right.
I’ve heard everything now. She called up the stairs to the father. You want to know something.
What’s that?
Mister Blackbird does not rise till eight.
She began making breakfast as she chewed a banana. The morning went on. The three of us were at the table eating when just as the hand of the clock reached the hour a shadow crossed the window.
What was that, asked Da.
That’s him, said Ma.
Look at the time, I said.
He’s punctual, said Ma.
He’s a blooming mystery, said Da.
I think he’s OK, said Ma, I’ll head to work.
I went out and watched him go. His walk was wiry. His motion thin-shouldered. He took to the beach. Ma drove by me, then Da passed by on his way to a new building site by the Yellow Strand. The Bird came back up from the beach onto the road. He walked quick by Joejoe’s gate, then stopped, looked round him, leaned down and laced a shoe, then went to his knee on the ground and laced another, beat his knees and looked out to sea, picked up his bike, thought about it, came back up to the head of the pier and stood on the blue bank of gravel, tossed a stone into the water, turned and went from view then reappeared, opened Joejoe’s gate and went in, wheeling the bike.
Soon after that I saw a column of smoke rising from the chimney.
He was doing my job.
I collected four lobsters out the rocks and carried them to the gate where I stood waiting for the Judge to come and collect me. I stood looking across at Joejoe’s, wondering should I go over, should I go in and see were they all right, but then suddenly the car appeared away in the distance and the horn blew.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Judge
Morning, said the Judge.
Morning, sir.
I have a few jobs for you, he said, today.
And I have a few lobsters for you, I said. And they’re getting less and less these days.
Good man.
I got into the car and he drove first inland to his sister’s house on the edge of the lake where we had muffins and fed the ducks, then while the pair sat talking I did her lawn, cut up a lock of timber, and dug out her drain; then we went on to the Judge’s house.
I took out his lawn mower. As usual it wouldn’t start. I near took the arm off myself. But I got it started. They called me for tea. He was inside at his table doing the Daily Express crossword with his wife. She was wearing a Mexican shawl.
Plenty of late growth, I said.
Who laughed at original sin, she asked.
Wait a second.
Was it Stalin? she asked.
No. Shaw. Shaw, he replied.
And she wrote in the answer.
Thank you so much for the lobsters, she said.
I started from the tool shed and worked my way around the front of the house in circles, minding as I went the blasted swinging New Zealand flax and the wild blue rhododendron. I flew along the sea stones, thinking of what they might look like painted blue-and-yellow in a window, and when I turned I saw the Judge waving from the window. I cut the engine.
– Hi sky hawk, he shouted –
– Sir –
– You wouldn’t happen to now what gunfire at dawn is?
Me not know.
Thought so.
He pulled the latch partly to, and with a pen in his mouth, considered the lawn. Soon both of them were standing there. She pointed at something I could not see. Then they started to laugh for no reason. I pushed on and rose a family of frogs in the grass. From next door the two girls – Daisy and Sheila – came over. They sat up on the wall talking away. I stopped at last to take stock of what there was left to do, and Daisy said: How are you Philip? Love you too, I said, Good, good, she said, and they roared laughing and waved goodbye as I headed round the side to sweep away the grass from beneath the sycamore. I sat a while on the seesaw before pushing the lawn mower back into the shed and began axing logs of beech and pine.
At dinner time the Judge landed me into the car and we drove to town to eat in McSharry’s. I had me a steak and chips and he had two fruit salads and bubbling water with tablets for the stomach then some wee pill to lift the depression as he said it was getting late very early these days.
A man landed at our table, glanced in the Judge’s direction, and sat down with his hands propped on the bag on his lap.
He nodded quietly to himself.
Do you know why we get depressed Mister Feeney? the Judge asked me.
No sir.
Well I’ll tell you: we are old for far too long. Now if I was born at the turn of the century I would be dead by now.
If you were born at the turn of the century sir, I said, you’d be only six years of age.
Sorry, I’m talking about the last century. If I was born in 1900 I’d have died in 1928.
Oh.
He finished his coffee.
You see it’s now 2006 and I’m sixty and still here. I should not be. A regular man in those days gave up the ghost at thirty. Now we’re given an extra sixty years to regret that we were ever born. This tells on a body. Hence the depression. Hence the pills.
He called for the bill with his forefinger. He looked around him. The stranger sat stock-still in his chair. He never budged as the waiter took away the bill and the cash. Then when we stood, he stood, and followed us across the dining-room floor, through the front door and past the wedding guests that were gathering on the hotel steps. The three of us stepped aside for the bossy photographer to take a picture of the groom in his kilt. Then avoiding the bridesmaids who were posing in tiered hats we crossed the forecourt to the car. A waiter with a tray proffered glasses of wine and whiskey at the gate. The two men helped themselves, then the Judge opened his car door, sat in, leaned over and unlocked mine. The silent man stood looking away from the car. The Judge turned and unlocked the back door. The man sat in, and propped his bag on his lap. We took off round the town and suddenly stoppe
d at Spar.
The Judge went into the shop.
I waited with my companion in a long silence. I could see him in the driver’s mirror, looking straight ahead. He was indifferent to everything. He laughed at nothing, no matter what the sounds said. I thought his soul might burst at first, or maybe mine, I was so mad to say something, but I didn’t. I thought of the Bird. We watched the shoppers stacking their boots and the fellow in yellow washing the Toyota with a jet of spume. When a lorry backed past us only inches away the man behind didn’t budge as he fell into its dangerous shadow, in truth he was very easy in himself, and when the Judge appeared with four pots of pansies, the stranger took them and placed them neatly on the back seat.
We turned out the road to the city.
Strafe it was, the Judge said, and smiled.
Ah, what is strafe, I asked.
Gunfire at dawn.
Oh.
Now what was the other one? he said to himself.
At Baker’s bridge the Judge stopped the car and rang in to back a horse called The Hard Yoke, fifty each way, then we went on. Not a word spoken. The Judge tried various stations on the radio and we listened in for a while to stories about nothing I could follow. Then we got the racing station and heard mention of The Yoke, in a blare of static and police alarms, getting beaten on the line. Two across, said the Judge. Words that imitate sounds. Words that imitate sounds. What in God’s name is that? The leaves of the trees were thrashing. Gravel shook like mice. I had forgotten all about the man in the back as we passed the burnt gypsy caravan to the sound of an oldie called ‘You’ve Lost that Loving Feeling’, the huge quarry under the mountain with more gravel scattered across the road, and every few miles the signs for Cross Winds and Black Spots, the rows and rows of newly built, unlit, empty housing estates when suddenly a voice from the back seat shouted Here!
The Judge braked and slewed into the left.
Onomatopoeia, said the Judge.
The man settled the overturned pots of parsley in the back seat and lifted his bag out onto the towpath, then he got out tipping the door ahead of him open with the toe of his boot, then he clicked the door into place quietly, tapped his forehead and turned away, bag in hand. The Judge went up into second and pulled out into the traffic.
That man never spoke to me, I said.
And neither did you speak to him, said the Judge.
Chapter Twenty-Two
