The Misremembered Man

by Christina McKenna

  Jamie McCloone unchained his bike from the railings outside the doctor’s office and began pushing it up the main street, the spokes a-glitter and wheels ticking like crickets as he walked. Few people were out and about that fine sunny morning. The mothers were in their kitchens, the fathers at their trades or in the fields, while their offspring ran loose in yards and gardens, enjoying their first few days of freedom from school.

  Jamie felt at peace, content for the most part, living in the vicinity of this tranquil place. There were times when he felt like a twig in a river—broken off and insignificant perhaps, sometimes getting caught and tossed in the rough rapids, but eventually breaking free again to be carried along by the great force and flow that told him he belonged. Tailorstown was home.

  The morning’s events had lifted his spirits—what with the discovery of the “Lonely Hearts” column, the doctor’s good news, and the prospect of his break at the seaside taking shape—a celebration was called for in the nearest pub. But which one? They were all within spitting distance. He had to think hard since he’d run up tabs in Hickie’s, Doolan’s and O’Shea’s, yet had difficulty deciding which bar had the steepest tally and, as a consequence, might be the least welcoming at that hour of the morning. After a few minutes of brow-puckering uncertainty, he decided on O’Shea’s, because it was nearest and he had a few bob on him anyway, and Slope wasn’t the worst, and…

  “Slope” O’Shea—bartender, janitor, cleaner and long-suffering spouse of Peggy—had a disposition to annoy, and could, with drink taken, let slip ill-considered observations on his fellow men. He was in the process of opening the premises, having overslept because of a late night. He was none too pleased at the sight of Jamie in the doorway. His head ached and his stomach heaved every time he righted a bar stool or returned a chair to one of the many tables in the lounge of his establishment.

  “Morning, Slope,” Jamie called out. “A fine one, isn’t it?”

  He struggled up onto one of the high stools at the counter, hooked his feet under the foot rail, rested his elbows on the blue-veined Formica counter and settled himself.

  “Aye, Jamie, not a bad one atall,” sighed Slope.

  Due to his calling, Slope had, over the years, mastered the art of initiating and prolonging the mindless conversation. On this occasion, however, he was in no mood for talk. He reluctantly left off the unstacking and pushed open the half-door behind the bar counter. He had earned his nickname from his slouching gait and slow manner, had the stunned, vacant look of a man prematurely released from a mental institution, a man still coming to terms with the fact that a doctor had been crazy enough to let him out; his raised eyebrows and wall-eyed stare seemed permanently focused on some preternatural mishap a little ways ahead.

  “Usual, is it?” he asked Jamie’s left ear.

  “Aye, and a wee drop of that port wine as well, if you have it.”

  Jamie half-rose off the stool to fish the money from his trousers pocket. A few fumbling moments later he slapped down a heap of loose coinage—along with a fistful of hayseeds, a bus ticket, a rusty wing nut, a spent match, the remains of a custard cream—and began to sort through it.

  “You didn’t, be any chance, see Barn Conway, did you?” Substitute Potts with Conway.

  “Well, I did and I didn’t,” said Slope evasively. “Were you lookin’ him, were ye?”

  He placed the Black Bush whiskey in front of Jamie, taking care not to catch his eye—which wasn’t difficult, given his strabismus—slid a jug of water into place beside the tumbler and proceeded to pour the glass of port wine.

  “Aye, the bugger owes me three pound…borra-ed it off me a couple a months back.” Jamie trembled an inch of water into the whiskey and took a gulp. “So, ye said there that y’seen him, did ye?”

  “Aye, I did but at the same time I didn’t, if you unnerstand me, Jamie?”

  “Naw, I don’t!”

  Jamie wiped a hand across his mouth and stared at Slope. If there was one thing he disliked it was being made to look foolish. Slope read the disquieting signs and reveled in the knowledge that he was provoking the farmer. Since McCloone’s appearance, his hangover, just about bearable, had begun to throb with a dogged intensity.

  “Well, it’s like this,” Slope explained, “a boy came in here the other night and I thought it was him…had the same head on him as Potts. But, when I got up on him, begod, it wasn’t him atall.”

  “So ye didn’t see him then?”

  “Well, you know, Jamie, when you put it like that, a suppose a didn’t.” He then added casually: “But if a do see him, I’ll tell him you were lookin’ him, so a will.”

  There followed a sore silence in which Slope celebrated his tiny victory and Jamie sat with feathers ruffled, unable to let go.

  “Why didn’t you say that at the start, then?” he demanded.

  “Say what at the start?”

  “Say that you hadn’t seen Conway atall atall!”

  “Well, a didn’t, because as I told you before, I thought I’d seen him, didn’t I?”

  Jamie would have left it at that had Slope not grinned in that triumphal, point-scoring way which so incensed him. He desperately wanted to say, “Well, maybe you should get yourself a pair of glasses, you squinty-eyed frigger.” But he knew that voicing such an observation would most likely land him outside on the street. Since he really did want another drink, he decided to change tack and irritate Slope by talking about his planned vacation by the sea.

  He took another gulp of the whiskey while the barman’s skewed logic and crazy eyes roamed about looking for a purchase on what his customer might say next.

  “Could be doin’ with it now,” Jamie said, as if their convoluted exchange had never taken place.

  “Could be doin’ with what now?”

  “The three pound Conway borra-ed off me.”

  “And what’s the big hurry with the three pound? Christ, it isn’t as if you’re gonna starve if you don’t get it.”

  “Well now, the doctor sez that I need to rest meself by the seaside with me sore back, and the three pound would be useful, so it would, for the wee holiday.”

  Jamie’s statement had the desired effect.

  “What? You need a holiday? God, your whole bloody life’s a holiday.” Slope gave out an adenoidal snort and returned to his chores. “If you had a bloody bar to run and kegs to haul about all day, you’d know about backs.”

  “I’ve got lambago,” Jamie protested, “and the doctor sez I have tae rest.”

  “Lambago me arse! That’s the big drum the Prods bate the bejayzis outta on the Twelfth, isn’t it?”

  Jamie ignored the weak joke and continued his attempt to win a sympathetic ear.

  “It’s true a man of my time a day needs to be takin’ things easy,” he said, pushing the empty whiskey glass aside and reaching for the port wine. “And you know I’d need-a be givin’ up this stuff too.” He stared into the glass, trying—and failing—to work up a sense of guilt for this indispensable, daily indulgence. “But sure what would a body do with hisself if he didn’t have it, like?”

  He threw back the wine in one fiery gulp, thumped the glass down and belched. A hot glow flushed his neck and face and he experienced a rush of pure bliss for one heady minute. He swayed slightly on the stool and wiped his mouth.

  “Another wee one a them, Slope, if you please.”

  The pub owner, wanting desperately to be rid of him whilst simultaneously wishing to remain reasonably civil, finished his tidying and went back behind the counter.

  “Only if you have the money for it, Jamie.”

  He slapped a dishcloth on the counter and began to wipe it with slow circular motions while Jamie fiddled like a shove-halfpenny player with the slew of coins before him. To Slope’s disappointment, he came up with the correct sum, and another glass of port wine was duly placed before him.

  Slope shook a cigarette from a crumpled pack and lit it. He was aware that the farmer wanted one
too, but thought he’d make him suffer the indignity of having to ask for one.

  Jamie shifted uneasily on the seat. He had purposely left his cigarettes at home, lest Dr. Brewster find them on his person. Now he was dying for one.

  “Y’wouldn’t have another wee one a them on you, would ye, Slope?”

  A tense silence followed as the two sucked greedily on the cigarettes and released lungfuls of smoke into the air. This was an uneasy silence that stretched like a rope between them, held taut through years of resentment and remembered injury. But each needed the other: Slope needed the custom and Jamie needed the drink. On this frayed logic their relationship somehow worked.

  The sun struck hotly through the large, flyspecked window, making Jamie’s eyes water and revealing Slope’s slapdash ministrations with mop and cloth. Outside, a truck roared past on its way to Killoran. Jamie felt the vibration of its velocity under his elbows; Slope felt a similar sensation in his crepe-soled feet. In its aftermath, someone wolf-whistled loudly, and on the heels of its quivering end-note, the door opened and in shuffled Miss Maisie Ryan in her orthopedic sandals, come to collect her money from the Padre Pio charity box Slope kept on the counter.

  “That son a Minnie Sproule’s is gettin’ to be a awful cheeky ruffian,” she complained, shutting the door and giving off wafts of camphor balls and peppermint. She placed a gingham pegbag on the counter.

  “How are ye, Maisie?” Slope placed his smoke in an ashtray.

  “Not so good, Mr. O’Shea, between me hips and me bunions I’m nearly kilt, but sure I offer them up at Mass every morning. That’s all a body can do.” She turned her attention to Jamie.

  “And how are you, Jamie? Didn’t see you at Mass lately.”

  “Naw, I was in bed with me back, Maisie. The doctor says it’s lambago and I have a heap-a tablets to take.”

  Slope upended the box and began to count out the money, building careful towers of nickel and copper like a croupier at the gaming table, while Maisie looked on and Jamie eyed Maisie. What he saw was a bull terrier in a tweed coat, wearing a pair of highly reflective double-sighted eyeglasses. The glasses made her eyes look huge in her pillowy face, and her small mouth spent most of the day pursed in scorn. On her head was the inevitable knitted cap, pulled well over her ears despite the summer heat.

  She was a dedicated churchgoer, devoted do-gooder, and throbbing artery of village gossip. She sharpened her tongue on the loose lives of others and judged each member of the community by the dazzling light of her own unattainable standards. Slope rarely attended church, but was excused because he was a married businessman with money, which in Maisie’s book was equated with respectability. Jamie, being a poor bachelor with a drink problem, was a target.

  “Maybe if ye spent more time in church than the pub, Jamie, then God wouldn’t give ye the sore back to start with,” she piped triumphantly.

  “Aye so…” He pretended to ponder this with a serious air, thinking to himself what a nosy oul’ bitch she was.

  All at once their attention was diverted by a rap on the window, and the trio turned to see the disagreeable face of local bad-boy Chuck Sproule grinning in at them.

  “Hey’ya Maisie?” he hollered. “Hey’ya, Jamie. Be givin’ the oul’ accordjin a squeeze on Sa’rday night, will ye?”

  “Get down-a that window, Sproule, or I’ll come out an’ knock ye off it!” Slope warned.

  “Hey’ya, Slope!” Sproule’s head disappeared momentarily from view and then shot back up again. “Hey, Slope,” he shouted, “blessed are the squinty-eyed for they shall see God twice!”

  Slope dashed to the door and yanked it open, but by then young Sproule had taken off like a whippet down the main street.

  The bartender banged the door shut and returned behind the counter, his face flaming. Jamie put a hand to his mouth, stifling a grin.

  “There’s nothin’ funny about it, McCloone!” Slope glared in his general direction.

  “I’m gonna ’ave a word with that rascal’s mother,” said Maisie, casting a hostile eye at Jamie. “But then his father spent most of his days in the pub, and a wild dog never reared a tame pup, as you well know, Mr. O’Shea.”

  “You’re right there, Maisie!” Slope deposited the money into the pegbag, “There ye go: six pounds and four pence.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. O’Shea.”

  “Tell ye what would fix Jamie’s bad back, Maisie,” he added, addressing a spot north of Maisie’s eyebrows, “a good rub-down with one a your relics. Have him leapin’ about like a billy goat. Have you got one a them handy?” He grinned, exposing a fence of broken teeth, the legacy of a customer he’d insulted some months before.

  “I’ll thank you not to be coarse, Mr. O’Shea.”

  She turned her back and stooped to stuff the collection money into a plastic shopping bag. Jamie had a sudden urge to flex his left leg and kick her big, tweed arse. But it was only a thought.

  “Cheerio then,” she said, turning to face him. “And I hope to see you at Mass when your back’s mended, Jamie.”

  “Oh, I’ll be there right enough, Maisie.” Jamie observed her and for an instant saw her big eyes change through the lenses to a jungle of beer bottles and some blue sky as she made for the door.

  “Right ye be then,” she said, satisfied with her mission.

  “Right ye be, Maisie,” both men chorused.

  The door clanged shut and the bar returned once more to its restive, smoky silence.

  The public library was enjoying a lull when Lydia pushed through the main doors. Sean, the part-time junior—young, handsome and aware of it—was sprawled over the desk, chewing the end of a Biro and engrossed in the sports section of the Derry Democrat. He did not register Lydia’s approach and she had to cough to get his attention.

  “Oh hello, Miss Devine.” He looked up but didn’t bother to stand. “She’s having her break. You can go on in if you want to,” he said to the open page, once again engrossed.

  “Good day to you too, Sean. See you’re working hard as usual.”

  She walked away, gratified that the insult had hit its target, and sensed him straighten up and glare at her retreating back as she knocked and went through the door marked “Private” at the far end of the room.

  Daphne was glad to see her friend as always.

  “What a coincidence: I was just thinking about you, Lydia. Haven’t seen you in ages,” she said, embracing Lydia warmly. “I expect you could do with a nice cup of tea.”

  “Oh, no thanks, dear. I’ve just had some.” Lydia set her purse on the floor and sank down into the canvas Parker-Knoll chair.

  “Sure? Just freshly made.” She held up the teapot.

  This relaxed attitude was the quality Lydia prized most in her friend. Daphne never seemed distracted or pulled off balance by anything. She was solid, dependable; was not afraid to shine a light into the darkest corners and offer solutions to problems Lydia believed insoluble.

  “No, really. I have to collect Mother from the Cut ’n Curl shortly. Just wanted to ask your advice about something.” She hesitated. “That’s if you have the time?”

  Daphne settled herself in the chair opposite. “All the time in the world. His lordship is very underworked, as you probably noticed.” She nodded in the direction of the door.

  Lydia considered her friend with an approving eye. She was wearing a coral twinset and matching cotton skirt. The color suited her, offsetting her honey-colored boyish bob and healthy, outdoor complexion. Only the gold-rimmed spectacles on the chain around her neck ruined the girlish impression. She had a perpetual air of enthusiasm about her which Lydia envied. Every time they met, she was reminded of a child on the brink of opening yet another birthday gift, of a child who would forever be the adventurer in a game of hide and seek, always looking and exploring while she, Lydia, remained in hiding, not wanting to be found.

  They had been firm friends since their high-school days, after which, they had gone their separate w
ays for a time: Lydia to teacher-training college in Belfast, Daphne to the local technical college to follow a secretarial course which, a year later, had resulted in her securing a position at the library where she’d been ever since.

  Their friendship was founded on a mutual respect and understanding of the other’s circumstances and aspirations. They shared their problems and celebrated their achievements in a spirit of empathy and genuine goodwill.

  Like Lydia, Daphne was unmarried. She did, however, have a fiancé, a farmer named John whom she’d been going out with for at least ten years. John refused to get married until his mother died, and there was no sign of that happening just yet. At seventy-three, his mother was as robust and active as someone half her age, and had no intention of sharing her only son, her home—and indeed his inheritance—with another woman, even if that other woman was as amiable and good-natured as Daphne.

  The idea of marriage was simply unthinkable.

  “Do you remember Heather Price from school?” Lydia said. “Tallish, brunette, quite plain. We trained together.”

  “You mean Ettie and Herbie’s daughter?”

  “Well, you’ll never guess what I got this morning.”

  She took the invitation from the envelope and handed it over. “She’s getting married.”

  “Really? How nice.” Daphne unfolded her glasses and inspected the card.

  “I expect you’ll be getting one too, Daphne.”

  “Oh, I hope so! It’s been so long since I had a nice day out. Give me an excuse to buy a new outfit, too.” She removed the glasses, at once deep in thought. “Now, I’ll have to warn John well in advance so he can prime his mother. She can be very difficult, you know…” She looked up from the card. “Oh, Lydia, forgive me for thinking of myself. This is great news. Aren’t you looking forward to it?”

  “Well, that’s just it, Daphne. I can’t face another wedding with my mother. I have to find someone else to accompany me. Otherwise I just won’t go.” She leaned back in the chair, deflated.