by Dermot Healy
That’s no excuse.
She got up and sat between them.
I’m not on duty.
Do you know who you remind me of?
No.
Judge Judy. She’s a fine class of a lady. She knows it all.
What happened you, asked Ma.
Well I got a toe off last winter. And since I got the toe off I lost my wind. You see they took the toe off on the heart side.
Oh.
That was bad enough but then…
Yes?
…Then this juggler.
Juggler?
…Yes, that doctor, and she put out both her hands as if she were juggling something in the air – yes a man who juggles life and death – he came along and said to me: Prepare to die.
He said that?
The juggler did, certainly.
He did not, said Tom.
Did he not?
No.
So what did he say?
The doctor asked you who was your next of kin.
By God you’re right. That’s the very thing he said to me. Thank you for that correction.
No bother.
Tell me this – will you be there when I wake up? Will you be in the next bed beside me.
I will, said the Blackbird.
Do you promise me?
I do.
Are you a witness to that Nurse.
I am.
He will be there beside me, no matter when I wake up?
He will, I promise you.
She studied me. I believe you do it different now these days, she said.
No I’m afraid we do it the same, I said.
I’m sorry for you, she sighed.
I never heard such dirty talk, said Ma.
Just then the porter arrived and as the lady was pushed away she cried out to the Bird: May we never be driven asunder.
At eight Ma’s night duty started, and she left us to attend to others.
Drunks came through the door feeling ahead of them. I saw her disappear behind screens, look up at X-rays pinned to a light, take blood, read files, pause at Tom’s trolley, go on. It was the first time I had stood in the hospital with her. She looked like someone else entirely. The Blackbird’s eyes chased all that was happening. His pupils hopped through the ward. She stopped again by his bedside.
Will you not trying sleeping Tom, she said.
He nodded.
Will youse feed me dog?
We will, said Da.
I’ll bring him down food from the hospital kitchen, said Ma.
He’d like that.
Where’s the key? asked Da.
The Blackbird shook his head in despair, swallowed his bottom lip and sucked. He closed his eyes momentarily, then immediately opened them. He lifted his good hand as if to wave.
You don’t need the key. Feed him through the post box.
Is that fair? The dog, said Ma as she tucked him further in, will need to get out.
He’ll get out when I do. He closed his eyes. Yes. When I get out, right?
I will have to let your relations know you are in here.
Let them be.
Have you got their phone numbers?
They are all in the desk in me bedroom.
So please give me the key, said Da.
No.
Please.
They will not want to know, said the Bird. The lights began to dim. The beds and trolleys floated away from each other. I woke to a sudden cheer out on the corridor. Come and get me, a young fellow shouted to the guard that was holding him. There was commotion in the gents. A doctor entered. Then the lady was wheeled back in beside the Bird. The jugglers are coming, she said, and she pulled the sheet over her face.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sailors and Trees
There was a ball of dark in the sky coming in from the sea, and she hit us at Barney. It swept over the road. We had taken the long way round. Sweet John was standing in the lit doorway of his pub on his own looking up the road towards the graveyard.
Should we get a bottle of Malibu, I said, the small one?
If you say so, said Da and we went in for a game of pool, but we should not be adding to the chaos.
The place was empty except for Miss Currid and Donald Bree. The balls shot out in the quietness. The sound travelled round the pub. Da ordered a pint of Guinness and I had a 7Up.
I’m glad to see you, said Mister John. How is the Bird, I hear he took a fall?
He’s not so bad. We’ll have to wait and see.
Well give him my regards.
I set the balls and broke, and found myself on reds. Then missed an easy shot.
I see there’s few knocking about, said Da, tapping in a yellow ball.
There’s no one going out these times, said Mister John, the Paddies are all at home sitting guzzling wine.
That’s the way, said Da as he potted another.
The only people you meet in the pub these days are strangers. And by God I had a pair of strange bucks in earlier, said Mister John. Two Russian sailors. They were here for a few hours.
I think we saw them.
And a pair of lucky men they are.
Is that so? said Da, as he watched the white roll into a side pocket.
Yes, indeed. What I could make out from what they were saying is that their boat nearly went down off Donegal.
Jesus, said Da.
They were saved and brought to Killybegs where the boat is being repaired. The crew is being looked after by locals, and those pair of lads just stepped out onto the road hitching and ended up in Ballshannon, then Bundoran, and then here. They wanted to see Ireland.
And I drove by them on the way to the hospital, said Da.
I shot in three reds in succession, snookered him and took the next three, then faced up to the black.
I should have stopped and brought them out to the main road, Da said.
Maybe you did them a favour. Hitching on the main road at night when you’re jarred could be dangerous.
Bottom left, I said, picking my pocket, and the black bounced off the hole and spun slowly across the table and fell into the middle pocket.
Hard luck, said Mister John.
OK, said Da, finishing his pint.
And, don’t forget, the bottle of Malibu, I said.
Right, Philip, he said, and he called for a large bottle, paid over the €24.50, and we headed for Joejoe’s leaving Mister John looking very lonesome behind the bar.
We drove by the castle, along the wall of gabions, by the handball alley, and then back by the Night Field. Then as we approached our crossroads there were the two Russian sailors sitting in a ditch, and as we approached they lifted the palms of their hands towards the headlights of the car.
We drove by, waved, then Da stopped. I can’t leave them out for the night, he said and he pulled over, turned round and drew in alongside them.
Where are you going?
Killy-na-begs, no? said the orange-haired man and they both stood.
You’ll not get there tonight.
No?
Get in, said Da.
Kill-na-begs?
No. Killybegs is less than an hour’s drive away.
OK, and they sat down in the ditch again.
Get in, said Da, please.
Where do you take us?
A boat.
Boat, the tall thin man said smiling, and his hand dived up in a straight salute, we are sailors.
So I heard, said Da.
It is a small country, said his mate as they climbed into the back. Irish people are mean, you are not mean, here, and the orange man tried to hand a bottle to Da.
No, thank you, he said.
You take, please, he said. It the real Russian vodka.
No, said Da, but thanks all the same. The thin man took back the bottle. Look, he said to me, and his head came round the seat and he aped a quick shot to his mouth and winked, then all conversation stopped. I suppose we should get the animal out of the way first, said Da.
Right, I said. Then he turned up towards the Blackbird’s and drew up at the gate, left the lights on and we were back exactly as we’d been a couple of nights before.
Just a moment, Da said. We have a job to do.
No prob, said a voice from the back.
I got the bag of food from the hospital canteen out of the boot and went up to the path. Immediately the dog threw himself against the door. The bulb was still lit in the kitchen. We could see the dog standing on the seat of a chair snarling. Da came with a rope to collar the dog, and an empty spud bag to take up the shite. You take the front, and I’ll take the back, he said, and we’ll have another look. Striking matches I searched beneath the windows and under the door, around the gate, aware all the time of the two men watching me from the car with the window down, while the crossbred raged in the hallway, then began to leap at the window.
There was no key to be found.
This is bucking nonsense, said Da. We’ll have to break in the door.
Da wait, I’ll put the food in the letterbox.
And what about the shit that’s piling up inside?
Excuse, said a voice from the car, and a hand proffered a lighter through the window of the back side door, the thumb clicked down and it lit, then it went off again, then he cracked down, and it burst into a tall flame. Good?
Thanks, I said.
We did one last tour behind the house with the lighter but found nothing except a medallion on a piece of twine and a few crates of empty Jacob’s Creek wine bottles and Smithwicks beer tins out the back. He shouldered the backdoor, but it didn’t budge. He tried all the windows. I caught a hold of a chicken leg and pushed it through the letter box. The bone shot out of my hand and immediately I shoved in the bag of leavings, of bread, wings, sausages and ham.
Wow! shouted one of the sailors.
There was a savage roar from the dog, then silence.
Well fuck me, said Da. I’ve seen it all now.
I wonder what those boys are thinking, I said.
They’re watching idiots, he said.
We got into the car. The same hand reached out from the back, palm upwards, and I looked at it a moment as Da turned the car, then I remembered and handed over the lighter.
Good, said the orange man. What you do?
We feed the dog, I said.
You feed the dog?
Through the letterbox.
It is strange, no? I have not seen before, and he laughed.
Da put the foot down and turned back to the West. A long hare stood in the middle of the road facing the lights. A hare, I shouted. Look, roared the thin man. They rose up between us out of the back pointing.
Hare, I said.
Hare, they shouted.
The hare moved a little to the left and then sat primly. Go to dims, I said. He dimmed, the hare drummed forward and stopped, bounced left right, left right, then strolled into the ditch like a person entering a shop. We took off. Da turned on the radio and it was ceilidh time on RTE. A hand came down on my shoulder and with his fingers the thin man played a sudden melody down my arm, then conducted us round Cooley corner, and with a swoop pulled his hand into the back.
We passed the lit house at Ballintra and stopped at the pier and he put on the full headlights.
We got out, and the two men sat on.
Hallo, said Da, leaning in, we are here, and he shot a thumb back over his shoulder. In the back seat of the car they looked at each other in the overhead light. Then they stiffened. The thin man drew his coat over his knees. I leaned in and said C’mon lads. They looked at each other. The thin man studied me and said OK, and they got out, and put their bags on their back.
They started to walk away.
No, said Da.
Please?
Hold it, said Da.
They waved sharply and kept moving.
Just a minute, he shouted.
They turned and looked at the ground.
You can sleep on the boat tonight, said Da. Sleep, he said, and he tucked his hands against his cheek.
Boat?
We led them across to the small pier, and he pointed down at the oyster trawler that sat alongside The Ostrich. Ah, us? Yes, you. Haya, shouted the orange man, and first I checked both ropes and climbed down the iron rungs ahead of them and turned on the outside light. Then they came after me at a trot and alighted on deck with great familiarity. This is good, good, said the orange man. They stood together looking out at the dark ocean holding each other’s hands. I lit the lamp in the cabin and the sailors immediately looked at the map of the world on the wall
There, the thin man said, pointing at Serbia.
This way, I said.
I showed them the bare bunks below by the light of a match, then I threw the blankets on the bed, and put my head to the side and laid both my hands under my cheek and closed my eyes.
I found a little peck of a fingertip on my forehead, and I opened my eyes and inches away the men had closed their eyes with a smile and were breathing furiously as if sleeping.
They shook hands with me and then they shook hands with my father in the cabin.
The orange man took the bottle of vodka again out of his haversack.
Please, he said.
No, said Da.
It is very good.
No thanks.
Why do you lock the dog? asked the thin man, is it not wrong?
It is, said Da. Now it is time for bed.
The sailors bowed and went below. I stacked the books and we doused the light and we made our way across the deck.
I hope, said Da, that I am doing the right thing.
The father turned the key in the ignition but the car did not start. He dropped his head on the steering wheel. A few minutes passed. I thought he was going to fall asleep, then, without looking up he hit the ignition and we took off.
We went up Ballintra, and pulled in at the cottage gate. The house sat like a long moored passenger ship out there in the dark. Each window was lit with a candle, and in some there were three or four, stuck into bottles and salt-and-pepper tumblers. A small squall of rain blew by in a whirl of light.
I have been putting this off all night, said Da. I don’t want to upset him.
Do you want me to go in by myself?
Yeh, maybe it’s best if you go on your own. Think of the time it is. Yes, maybe it’s best if I leave him be, said Da.
OK, but he’ll be worried.
All right. Go on and take back these keys with you.
I walked quickly up the dark path. The front door was open slightly. There was a crack of light from inside going sharp across the stone paving.
I knocked. There was no reply. I pushed the door quietly open and Tim flew out. The door to the bedroom and the scullery were open. The back door was open. There was no one in any of the rooms. I put the keys back in their box on the mantelpiece. I went outside again to look, and suddenly at the gable end facing the sea I heard a bark and saw the lit end of a fag in the dark, and I realised Joejoe was sitting there in the open air on a chair against the wall.
He shot a beam of light from his torch onto my face. Was that ye down at the pier?
Hallo Joejoe. Yes. We were putting two sailors into the boat.
Good for you. How is my friend?
He was asking for you –…Grandda.
Now.
They are keeping him in for the night.
He’s in good form?
Aye.
We stood a moment together. Is he all right, your father? asked Joejoe. What’s he doing sitting out there alone?
I went up to the car and called Da. He came up and joined us by the gable. You have the place well lit Uncle Joejoe.
The lights will stay lit till that man – the Bird – returns, he answered. Did you get the door open?
No.
We stood each side of him. The moon was jutting out of a rain-filled cloud. Da dropped down into a squat. The sea tumbled. I went in and threw more timber on the fire, ca
me out again and we stood there in the dark without talking a while.
You know what I was thinking of, said Joejoe, I was thinking of what it would be like to be surrounded by trees. I tried growing trees, I tried sycamore, I tried beech, I even tried willow over the years.
But no good.
No good, is right. Not one took. It would sadden you to look at them being torn asunder by the salt and wind.
It would.
A beaten tree is a sad sight. I wanted trees, but there again if I was surrounded by trees I would not be here.
You would not.
I’d be living somewhere else.
You would.
Still and all I’d like a tree to look at.
Will we go in? asked my father, and Joejoe immediately said: Will you do me a favour?
I will if I can.
Bring us for a spin to the woods.
At this hour?
I need to get away from here for a while. Somehow I always felt free among the trees.
This way, sir.
Lead on Mister Psyche! and he shot a beam of torch light towards the gate.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Hippies
It was near one in the morning.
We went to the woods in Dromod.
I have not walked these woods in years, Joejoe said as we turned in through the old high pillars of the estate, and drove up the potholed drive, and around through the side roads, then down to the old granite ruins by the sea. We got out and walked each side of him through a fierce head of hawthorns, through the beeches, the oaks, and the ash trees, and stood listening. By the light of the torch Grandda stroked the trunk of a sycamore, then taking his hand we dropped down onto the beach. The half-moon had come out and was going from pool to pool. Sand that had been driven from a further shore was piled high in heaps against the stone ramparts. Then we climbed up on the road and in through the gate and walked the orchard. The two men sat into a broken seat and watched me hurl sticks up into the dark unknown, hoping for fruit to fall.
Go on, son, shouted Joejoe.
I flung a stick with all my might, and, as if in reply, a nest of sparks rose far to the left on the second beach.
What in God’s name was that? asked Joejoe.
We have company, said Da.
Let’s go see.
This was not part of the plan.
C’mon.
On the little shore, by the abandoned boathouse, another bunch of sparks rose as we approached, then from a distance we stood still. There were three people sitting round a fire by a tent. Two of them, with their back to us, had a rug round their shoulders. It’s the hippies, whispered Da. There was a smell of smoke and some sort of strange cooking.
