by Dermot Healy
Poor Reverend Father Feeney.
And do you know what – she offered him a bed in her house if he needed someone to look after him when he got out of here.
I wonder, meanwhile would she take his dog.
Steady Joejoe.
The nurse leaned down, and the Bird offered her his face and she spread some cream below his eyes.
This woman here, this nurse, said the Bird, do you know who she is?
I do not.
She is Mrs Bridie Waters – a Carraway from Cloone.
I knew your mother well back in November of sixty-two.
Is that so, she said, turning to look at him in a different light. Are you saying I could have been your daughter?
No, we were just friends.
I know the story, she said and smiled, and she took Joejoe’s hand and shook it, then she took mine, waved and went off.
Last night, said the Bird, all the people I knew died in my head. Then they woke up in their own bodies. They were themselves – not part of me. I had freed them of my control and I was grateful – I was – for the rush to the head. Mister Psyche, the thing about sitting in the third storey of a hospital is that the birds are below you, or just there in front of you – and he pointed towards the window as a seagull flew by.
Then he looked at his old neighbour Joejoe. I could not give a fuck if I died, he said. Then he looked at me. That’s why I’m handing over the key.
For a long moment there was silence. Then Joejoe stood.
We’ll go, he said.
Good luck, Joejoe.
The Bird nodded and flattened a sheet and righted his cap. The man in the next bed wrote in another answer, and then righted his glasses.
Bye, Mister Psyche, said the Bird smiling.
Goodbye.
We started to walk down the ward, when I heard the voice behind me ask What will you say to the dog?
Cnoic, I called back, lifting the key in the air.
Cnoic! Cnoic! came the reply.
He’d caught me. I was one word short. Going down, Going down; Doors closing, Mind the doors.
Let’s go see the nurse.
We stepped into Emergency and stood a few moments till Ma appeared out of Intensive Care wheeling the child who had shouted for Colour! She waved, and said See you at five, and went on. No smoking allowed, said the voice over the airwaves as we went through the front door.
Please wash your hands.
Please wash your hands.
Chapter Thirty-One
The Walk
We stepped down towards somewhere in the town. Joejoe was walking fast like a man with a purpose.
Where are we going? I asked.
I don’t know.
Will I ring Da?
No, please Mister Psyche, ring no one.
OK.
And with his mouth open he kept walking, with one arm slung through my arm, and his hand gripping the edge of my jacket. We stopped every twenty yards as he stared at the shop to his left and the shop to his right, then took a number of breaths and a long look to what lay ahead, then the nod, and we started again. He did not speak, but even though we were very close, he grew distant, and when he looked at me I saw sorrow that turned to blame in his eyes.
Do you want to sit down? I asked him.
He shook his head.
I just want to walk, he said.
He tugged at my jacket. We went across the Market Yard, and past the Theatre, and stood looking at the pictures of the actors and singers and musicians.
Let’s do the stations, he said.
We slowly headed up Main Street into the doorway of Molloy’s the drapers. We stood there a few minutes on guard, surrounded by models in suits and blue shirts with yellow ties, then we trooped down to Currid’s the chemists, and read the names of the medicines. The next stop was the doorway of Maguire’s the newsagents where I bought a copy of the local Gazette. And the last stop was McDonald’s where we stood like my father did – pretending to be on duty, or waiting on someone.
Now, said Joejoe. I used to walk your father when he was a young lad round the town. Can we go do the stations Uncle Joejoe, he’d ask me, about once a month, and so on the odd Saturday night and we’d set off from Ballintra for town on the tractor. On the blooming tractor. It took over an hour to get here. Then it was off on the walk.
He surveyed the scene from all sides. I brought him to the car park and he stared up at the monastery. I could feel his bones.
Will we sit now?
No, not yet.
We stood on the bridge. American couples were leaning over the wall looking down at the river where swans were dipping underwater, while other swans walked the grass at the edge of the river holding their skirts up for fear they might get sullied. The water poured furiously over the rocks.
At the White Horse, the Romanian woman in a great wide skirt handed Joejoe six blown-up balloons on a string. He handed her three euro and we headed back up Main Street with the balloons swinging, then he handed the string to a child in a pram who whooped and let them sail away into the sky.
I could feel my granduncle quivering.
At last he himself sat down outside an Italian café-bar on the pedestrian way.
I don’t know where to put my knees. They feel they’re not rightly there.
It’s just the chairs.
Why is that thing turning into different colours? he said pointing at the flower in the jug.
It’s not. It’s not turning into different colours.
No?
No. It has different colours.
So what colours are they?
It depends what you use them for.
Pray?
I think it’s red and green.
You are a rare boy. Are you doing everything right?
Me?
Yeh.
Do you think I’d be good for anything?
You have knitting fingers.
Thank you.
You’d make a good lawman, do you know that?
Sorry?
It’s too late to say sorry now, and he looked at the ground. The chauffeur was some chanter, and those hippies are some boys, but I should never have gone to see the Bird. If anything happens him, I’m gone.
Grandda, please.
Sorry son, it’s all right. Aisy now, I should keep my thoughts to myself, and he clapped my knee.
The waiter appeared out onto the street and started clearing away the other tables then he stood facing us.
Now, please, what can I get you? he asked.
What would you recommend?
The soup it is good. Coriander and carrot.
Two soups, then.
Would you like something to drink? We have good red wine.
Two lemonades, said Joejoe.
Thank you.
The waiter took off and we sat there watching the pedestrians pass; the shoppers from Tesco carrying plastic bags; the insurance men smoking outside their office; the fellows smoking outside the pub across the way, and the scatter of stubs of cigarettes at their feet; the accordion player drawing his box across his knee as he sat in a deckchair at the entrance to the Shopping Mall; the gangs came down the street all laughing, then stopping and going on, with the stragglers coming behind, twitching or speaking into the palm of their hands with an array of mobile phones and looking to every side watching out for the enemy and the friend; and suddenly Anna and Emer Waters and Vincent McSharry saw me and pointed.
There’s Psyche, Emer shouted.
The gang stopped and Anna came over.
Hi Joejoe.
Anna, he said sadly.
Is everything all right?
We’ve just been to the hospital, I said.
Oh, is he all right? She whispered into my ear.
He’s low in himself.
Look I’ll leave ye in peace, she said and she kissed my cheek. See you later, Philip. Bye bye Joejoe and she took his hand.
Bye.
Chat ya, said Vincent, smiling, Emer wave
d, and they headed off.
The two lemonades and soups arrived.
Cheers, I said.
Slainte, said Joejoe lifting a glass in the air. I did not know from which eye the tear on my cheek is falling, nor which cheek. Did you ever get that? It’s a curse. A curse! Did you hear what he said?
I did.
We ate. He then asked for a bowl of cheesecake with assorted fruit and cream. He spread the cream with great care. And then went silent, with his mouth open. I thought he’d be opening up, but no, he just went Mister Psyche, Mister Psyche, then looked away.
The poor Bird, I said.
Leave it.
Sorry.
Leave it. I don’t want to go into that.
He tapped his lips with a tissue.
This is between you and me, do you understand?
I do.
He surveyed all round him.
It’s strange to sit in a chair in the middle of a street, and he held both arms of the chair tightly. A man lifted a traffic cone and began to sing into it a song called ‘Blueberry Hill’. A queue lined up at the pass machine opposite us like a line of communicants. Her face like an angry squeezed-up lemon a girl inside the door of the café-bar got change to go back and play the slot machine that she’d left a minute before.
Joejoe called for the bill. I asked the waiter for a bag of scraps if he had any.
Scraps, he said in great wonder and shook his head as he took the money, then a minute later he brought out a Tesco bag of waste held by the tip of his forefinger and thumb, and handed it to me on his tippy toes.
Have a nice day, he said, with a bow.
Good man, said Joejoe, and he put two euro as a tip on the table.
Ciao, said the waiter.
Slán, I said.
The walk began again.
The high tide was washing up the banks along the river.
Woe…be…tide, he said. Oh dear, dear.
Then suddenly his grip on my jacket grew tight and he swung me towards Collins Avenue. We walked twenty yards and stopped, then the next twenty, and then he propelled me across the road towards the railway station. The place was packed with taxis and cars. The Dublin train was just about to leave. We entered the station. There was a queue leading up to the ticket seller’s office. He let me go.
Now, Mister Psyche, we made it.
Yeh.
The next move is up to you, and his eyebrows shot up.
Where are we going?
He looked into my eyes, then shook his head, as if he were giving up on me.
Nowhere, he said. I just want to see the train leave.
So I asked the attendant at the door could we sit on the platform to watch the train depart.
Certainly, he said.
We perched out there on a seat with the bag of scraps at my feet. Crows were flying overhead. Last cigarettes were being smoked. Couples speaking many languages and heading back to Eastern Europe dragged huge bags through the doors. Children in prams were pushed along; and following them along the platform came young businessmen with tight black hair, in striped black business outfits, and carrying briefcases and laptops.
There is nothing more awkward to look at, said Joejoe, than peasants in suits. They don’t fit into them.
A man stepped along, stopped, and combed his hair with a horse comb, then stood with a hand on his case and read his mobile, lifted it to his ear and said Oh talk to you later, bye, and looked straight at us.
You had better get on, he said, it will be leaving soon.
Oh we are only looking, I said.
I see, he said and he opened his hands and buckled his mouth, and got on. Inside a man slept in his seat like he was trying to look close at what he wanted to forget. A woman dragging her bags tightened her belt. The train filled up, all the doors were closed. At the rear the railway man waved, then blew a whistle.
The roar of the engine rose to the roof. Joejoe suddenly stood, and took a couple of steps towards the closed door.
Grandda, I shouted.
The train took off and he stood like a soldier watching it till it was gone.
We should have taken it, he said and he spat on the sleepers.
I think it’s time for home, he said as we left the station.
We’ll head up to the hospital and get a lift from Ma.
No way. I don’t want to go back to that hospital again, please.
What will we do?
I don’t know.
Will I get a cab?
No way. We’ll walk.
Joejoe, we can’t walk all the way home.
I know that.
Let me ring Ma, I said, at least she’ll know.
No. Don’t be annoying her. We’ll only go out a bit on the road and the nurse will see us and stop. All right?
All right.
And so we went along the river counting the swans and stopping every twenty yards till we hit the main road.
We passed the last traffic lights and walked out beyond the petrol station and the shop. His grip lightened as we trod the slow lane.
What time is it?
Five to five.
Now it’s up to you, he said.
We went another few yards and stood. He looked with great wonder at the lines of sycamores and oaks that had begun the first light shedding of their leaves. I watched the cars and lorries approaching and looked out for the red Fiat. We were there fifteen minutes and there was no sign. We moved on and sat on a low cottage wall. Just then my mobile rang.
Are you all right? asked Anna.
Yes, I said.
Ring me if you need anything.
Will do.
I’m here potting away.
Away in the distance the mountain looked like a dark circus tent. And just in front of us a real circus was pitching its tent and the camels were feeding like mad off the hedges. The elephant was prodding the gate with his snout. A squad-car, alarm ringing, raced by. We headed out past the Fisherman’s Inn, past the old fort, with Joejoe hanging off my jacket, and yet he would not stop walking. We must have gone three mile. I kept looking behind for Ma’s car.
Will you promise us something son – one day, can we take that train?
I promise.
Good man. I need to get away out of here for a while.
We walked past the huge deserted building that was once a mill. On the other side of the hedge sheep followed us. My mobile rang. I looked at the number. It was Ma.
Who is it?
Ma, I said.
Don’t answer it, please – we are on an adventure.
It rang off and I texted her: Ma we are on an adventure. We stood by the graveyard. The first blackberries were showing their grey heads. Then along came a garden of blue rhododendrons. A line of traffic went slowly by behind a tractor that refused to go into the slow lane. Soldiers, in a green jeep, blew hard on the horn. Grass from a mown lawn down the road lifted and fell like sympathy cards among the graves.
How long is the river Liffey, he asked me.
A good few mile.
Cool, he said, imitating Anna and he turned and raised his hand in the air like a bandleader. A line of cars and lorries flew by, then suddenly an old Toyota shot to the side, pulled in and screeched to a stop. Stefan stepped out and threw his arms out wide.
I am at your service Mister Side Kick, he said and he opened the back door and said Grand day, Mister Feeney, and Joejoe crept in and put his cap on his knee. I sat into the front seat beside Stefan.
Where to? he asked.
Dublin, said Joejoe.
You say, he said looking back…Dublin?
He’s only joking.
I too would like to go to Dublin, said Stefan, but…it is not possible. Not today. Mister Doyle would not be happy.
Some other time, maybe?
Yes. No problem.
You promise?
I do.
Good man, good man, said my granduncle. Stefan, you are a gentleman.
Absolutely, said S
tefan in a broad Irish accent. He turned the ignition on.
You were shopping? he said indicating the Tesco bag on my lap. I opened the bag and showed him the scraps of fish skins, spaghetti, and bread.
Phew! Oh, dear, he said, and he adjusted the mirror, turned on the indicator, and watched waiting for a break in the traffic. I do not understand you. You go on a journey to town to take home rubbish?
Yes.
It is a joke?
It’s for a dog, Stefan.
The dog, you go to town to shop for the dog?
Not really.
OK, grand. So we are for Ball-in-tra, asked Stefan, yes?
Yes, but did you ever feel that you did not want to go home?
I know what you mean, Mister Feeney, that is why I am here.
Can I ask you a favour?
Yes.
Will you bring us the long way home, through the trees under the mountain. I want to see the trees before they lose their leaves.
I will.
Thank you.
And may I ask a question please? asked Stefan.
Fire ahead.
Why you are out in the middle of the country, hitching – at your age? he asked, as we took off to a wild burst of classical music from the radio and shot in behind a Guinness lorry.
It’s a long story, said Grandda from the back. I don’t know where to start.
Stefan turned the radio off.
I am listening sir, he said.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The Rifle
All of a sudden we were stepping down outside the cottage at Ballintra. Stefan took my granduncle’s hand and helped him out of the car.
Thank you for all the stories, he said.
And thank you for the lovely jaunt; come on in, said Joejoe, for a small shot of something.
You think?
Yes, I said. Stefan walked up and started to spill the shells on the window sills through his hands as Joejoe unlocked the door.
They bring you luck, no?
Yes, said Joejoe.
But I must not drink too much, no?
One shot, said Joejoe.
One, said Stefan, nodding, and he threw himself into a drunken heap against the doorway, lay down on the path, straightened up, and we all trundled in, and Stefan looked round in wonder as Timmy sat in his chair on a beautiful new plaited rug.
Your house is beautiful, a beautiful tidy home, he said.
Take a look around, said Joejoe.
