Portobello Notebook
Page 11
‘Don’t,’ he says. He has to. ‘Ring me.’
SHE RINGS in the evening, as soon as they turn on the light. ‘It’s only me.’
‘How are you?’
‘Well I’m that worried, I couldn’t sleep a wink. I haven’t seen Mister Pock these two days.’
‘I’ll keep an eye out for him.’
‘You couldn’t have a look now?’
He can’t refuse the timid weak voice, he can’t fight back. With the phone to his ear he walks around the corner, and down the next street. He finds him lying under a hedge in a neat front garden beside a fat ginger cat.
‘He’s here.’
‘Oh thanks be to the Sacred Heart. Where?’
‘Right beside me.’
‘Pock –’ she begins, and he holds the phone through the railings. Pock bares his stained brown teeth and draws back. ‘Pock, do you hear me? Do you know what I’m after buying for you? A bit of chicken …’
The fat ginger cat slides out through the railings. Mister Pock follows at her tail. He hears their mating screams from the derelict garage roof that night.
SHE RINGS as usual when their light comes on. He kicks the wall savagely, then picks up the phone. ‘How are you?’
‘Musha, only middling.’
His kick leaves a mark in the plaster. He kneels down and rubs it clean. ‘How’s Mister Pock?’
‘Look at him, lying on the bed like a lord. Do you know what, I think he only comes here when it suits him.’
‘You don’t need anything?’
‘Well that’s what I was going to ask you. You wouldn’t feed himself while I’m away?’
‘Where are you going?’
‘They say I have to go into hospital.’
‘When?’
‘Tonight, they said. You wouldn’t come over, and I’ll give you the food.’
She hardly ate any longer. Her legs are as thin as her walking stick. He says, ‘You should get the Meals on Wheels when you come home.’
‘Indeed I tried that. Sure it’s not food at all.’
‘And what would you like?’
‘Do you know what it is, I think there’s nothing nicer than a nice new potato.’
‘Why don’t you try that?’
‘Well God knows you’re right …’ She turns to a cardboard crate full of cat food. ‘What he likes is the liver-flavour Whiskas, mixed with rusks. Isn’t that right, Pock?’
‘Don’t worry about him.’
Pock slides from his armchair and springs onto her lap. From there he sticks out his small pink tongue, as if to say fuck off. He’d like to, but he sits and listens as Delia talks on and on. It’s only right.
She came from a village in Mayo. Her parents died when she was young. She worked in a hotel in Dublin, and with her savings bought this small house … He sees that everything about her is valiant. He still wants to run out the door.
‘And then you came along …’ She tries to lift the cat with her bird’s-feet hands. He’s too heavy. She stoops to kiss him instead. She begins to cry when the doorbell rings. He slides from her lap when the taxi man comes in, then walks in a slow circle, rubbing against his legs. The man takes her suitcase and goes out to the car.
‘You’ll look after him, won’t you?’ Her voice is piteous, tears trickle down through the wrinkles in her cheeks.
He says, ‘I will.’
HE’S SQUATTING on his haunches, pouring rusks into the plastic bowl. And who comes by? The beautiful girl. She stops when the cat walks around her, rubbing his side against her legs. Even standing still she is moving all the time – her hands, head, eyes, hips – restless, natural, eager, in a way that reminds him what youth is. She is like blossom the day it opens, stiff as the stem, rippling as if in a breeze. She makes him want to shine, but not to show off. She makes him want to be worthy of life, to be noble somehow.
She asks about the old woman he minded. He says she’s gone into hospital. He asks where she comes from. She says Uruguay. He asks what is the capital of Uruguay. She says Montevideo. He thinks this could go on all day. He says he thinks the Irish used to emigrate to Montevideo. She says now it’s the other way round, and he feels the force of her shining smile. It won’t have weariness, it won’t accept déjà vu. He can no more leave it than go indoors from the spring sunlight. She says she sees him from her window, she asks is he retired. He says he sees her working in the restaurant – and then he makes a mistake. To keep the conversation going, to go on breathing the scent of her youth, he asks what her boyfriend does. She says she doesn’t have a boyfriend – there’s an eye blink’s pause, and he sees her realizing what he meant. As she walks up the street along the straight black seam of tar, he knows she won’t speak to him again. He’s made a mistake.
WHEN DELIA DIED she was brought back to her village and buried. Her house was put up for sale. Everything – the Sacred Heart picture, the Welcome doormat, the lace curtain – was thrown out into a skip. That was a year ago but the cat comes up the street every morning, belly swinging low, yellow-green eyes glancing left and right. There are saucers and dishes outside a dozen doors now – meat, chicken, milk, fish – all for Mister Pock. He springs onto a parked car’s bonnet, lies on the sun-warmed metal, springs down and chases his shadow, dabs a paw at a blowing leaf. The young couples stroke him, he rubs his side against their legs, rolls onto his back. They walk away slowly, looking over their shoulders, calling. He follows for a few yards, then stops. The old writer and his wife leave their door open, but he won’t go in. He won’t enter any other house. He looks across the street at Delia’s window and cries, piteously.
Copyright
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the publisher.
First published 2012
by The Lilliput Press
62–63 Sitric Road,
Arbour Hill
Dublin 7, Ireland
www.lilliputpress.ie
This digital edition published 2012 by
The Lilliput Press
Copyright © Adrian Kenny, 2012
ISBN print paperback 978 18 435 12028
ISBN eBook 978 18 435 13155
A CIP record for this title is available from The British Library.
The Lilliput Press receives financial assistance from
An Chomhairle Ealaion / The Arts Council of Ireland