‘What was wrong with those guys’ feet – in the smoking room?’
‘Gangrene – smoking makes your legs drop off.’
‘What?’ They both laughed. ‘That’s crap. Why doesn’t it happen to you?’
‘I guess I’m just lucky. Naw – it happens mostly to cigarette smokers. It’s called . . . some big fuckin name. It stops the circulation to your feet. They go black and drop off.’
‘And those guys are still up there smoking?’
‘You’ve never smoked Ben, so shut your mouth.’ He lit his pipe with the gas lighter and exaggerated every gesture and sigh of satisfaction. ‘It gives a selected few of us a little pleasure as we funnel our way down the black hole to oblivion. Speaking of which . . .’
‘What?’
‘Why don’t we go for a drink?’
‘Naw –’
‘At the clinic where they used to dry me out they taught me to drink. They said . . .’
‘Never drink on your own.’
‘And now you are here. It can’t be too far to the nearest pub, for fucksake. Isn’t there one just at the gate?’
‘Naw –’
‘What the fuck’s wrong. Are you on the wagon or something?’
‘No – it’s inadvisable. It’s very pleasant here.’ A train rattled through the cutting but they could not see it. The blackbird changed trees and began singing from the opposite side of the tracks. ‘So – any word of a house yet?’
‘No.’
‘Or any word of them letting you home?’
‘No.’ His pipe wasn’t going well and he knocked it against the spokes of the wheelchair. ‘Fuck it.’ He sucked and blew but couldn’t free the blockage.
‘There’s no need to go into a huff, Quinn.’
‘The first time in twelve fuckin weeks that I get a chance to have a drink without those nurses breathing down my neck – and you won’t take me.’
‘That’s right.’ There was an ornamental flower-bed with bushes and grasses screening them from the front of the hospital.
‘Pull me a bit of that stuff,’ said Paddy pointing to stalks of wheat-like grass. Ben glanced in the direction of the hospital then did what he’d been asked. Paddy pulled his pipe apart and pushed the stalk through the plastic mouthpiece. When it was cleared he blew through it and reassembled the pipe. He threw the grass stalk on the ground at his feet. It was black with tar.
‘WHY will you not take me?’
‘Because you’re not allowed. The doctors do not allow you.’
‘What doctors have you been talking to, for fucksake?’ He turned away from Ben in irritation and looked towards the hospital gate. For a moment Ben thought the old man might attempt to make it on his own.
‘They serve coffee on the ground floor. We could go over there.’
‘What doctor said I wasn’t allowed to go to the pub?’
‘Look, Paddy – do you want to get better or not?’
‘That is not what we are talking about – we are talking about going for a fucking pint and maybe a chaser in a nice atmosphere with maybe a barmaid.’
‘Paddy – catch yourself on. Do you not think I know you of old? Nights spent in the terrible town of Tynagh. Once you get into a pub there’s no way of getting you out.’
‘You’re chicken. A coward. A man who can’t break the rules no matter who lays them down.’
Ben stood up and ushered Paddy back into the wheelchair.
‘Come on. I’ll buy you a coffee.
Paddy got unsteadily to his feet and almost fell into the chair. He was shaking his head in disbelief.
Ben got the coffees in wobbly plastic containers and brought them down to Paddy by the window. Outside was a small lawn with more off-duty nurses, both male and female, sprawled on it.
‘Aw fuck,’ said Paddy, staring out. ‘Lift your knees a bit more, darling.’
‘Stop it. Would you like a biscuit or anything?’
‘No.’
The formica table-top was covered in brown sugar spilled from a half-used paper sachet. The plastic container was too hot for Ben’s fingers and he left it to cool. A baby was crying somewhere and two children were running up and down between the tables chasing each other. A mother stood and called them to order. Paddy stared out the window, his hands joined across his midriff. Ben began wiping the spilled sugar into a neat pile with a paper napkin.
‘I sometimes do what they told you not to,’ he said.
‘What? Who?’
‘The drying-out clinic. I drink on my own. At night.’
‘Thank God you fucking drink sometimes.’
‘When everybody’s gone to bed.’
‘You mean your wife.’
‘I like to relax with a dram.’
‘It’ll not do you a button of harm. There are worse things,’ said Paddy. The nurses on the lawn got up simultaneously and moved back into the hospital. Paddy looked up at Ben. ‘I believe you’re the undercow of that wife of yours.’
‘Nonsense, Paddy.’
‘Do you drink more or less when she’s there?’
‘Probably less. But I only have one or two.’
‘Or three? Or more? When you’re drinking you can only count to three.’
Ben smiled.
‘Sometimes it’s frightening to see the level on the bottle the next day.’
‘You’re not too bad then – if there’s any left in the bottle. But it’ll get worse – you know that. You’re no fool, Ben.’
‘Thanks for the advice, Holy Father.’
‘I want you to remember this – you can only give advice to fools.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘If you feel the need to give someone advice you’re assuming that they are a fool.’
‘That is advice.’
‘What?’
‘What you’re giving now – to me.’
‘It’s not advice. We’re having a fucking conversation.’
Paddy pulled out his pipe and lighter. He pressed the plug of tobacco deeper into the bowl and aimed the flame at it. Ben fanned his hand in front of his face to keep the smoke at bay.
‘Problem drinking,’ he said, ‘is a thing that builds up gradually.’
‘Problem drinking? What are you talking about problem drinking for?’ Paddy laughed out loud. ‘Drinking’s the solution, for fucksake.’
‘Paddy, you’re right beneath a No Smoking sign.’
‘Fuck it. People like the smell of a pipe.’
‘In a hospital?’
‘Especially in a hospital.’
Ben finished his coffee and made movements to stand up. ‘Look I’ll not be able to make it three times a week from now on. I have stuff for summer school. I’ll come Tuesdays and Saturdays, if that’s okay with you.’
‘Yeah, sure. It’s good of you to come at all.’
‘Naw –. It’s good to hear your crack again.’
‘It’s not the way it used to be. More’s the fuckin pity. Ben, you’re the best friend I ever had.’
‘Easy on, Paddy. Statements are in danger of being made here.’
‘No – it’s true.’
‘Okay – okay. But I’ve gotta go.’ Ben stood up and spun Paddy round in the wheelchair and headed for the lift. There was no one else going up. When the doors closed Ben asked,
‘Any dead men you want me to get rid of?’
‘Naw – there was a fella got out yesterday. He took them away in his suitcase. They sent him home to die. But he took the empties all the same.’
There was snow on the hills which turned to sleet as Ben drove down into Tynagh. It was more a village than a town – a collection of shops, five pubs and as many churches all gathered around a harbour which had silted up over the past two decades. The school where he’d taught looked even more dilapidated and cement grey than he remembered. Because of the holiday the car-park and playground were deserted. On the football field in the drifting rain a flock of seagulls stood just inside the penalty area.<
br />
The hospital was on the far side of the town – on the outskirts. It shared a building with an Old People’s Home. He recognised the nurse on the front desk; she had been a pupil of his. He remembered her as a bright girl – she had written a good argumentative essay on The Nature of Tourism. When she recognised Ben she blushed.
‘Hello, sir. I presume you’re here to see Paddy. He talks a lot about you.’
She led him down the corridor, speaking over her shoulder. He felt she was embarrassed at having made the slip and called him sir.
‘So how are you liking the big smoke, then?’
‘Oh fine – it suits me fine.’
She stopped outside a room and dropped her voice. ‘They sent Paddy back here to . . . recuperate . . .’
‘And how’s he doing?’
‘Not as well as we would like.’ She gestured to the room and continued walking along the corridor. She had an Elastoplast between her Achilles tendon and her shoe.
Paddy was lying on his bed against a pile of pillows with his eyes closed. There was a drip above his bed and a tube taped to his arm. His cheek bones stood out and he was a very bad colour.
Hearing someone in the room he opened his eyes.
‘For fucksake Ben, what are you doing here?’ His voice was hoarse and he seemed to have difficulty swallowing.
‘Visiting you.’ Ben reached out and shook hands. He was aware of the sinews in the older man’s handshake. The arm with the drip attached lay flat, wrist upwards on the covers. ‘You’re looking okay – for a man that’s been through the mill.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘I know so.’
‘Jesus, I don’t feel it.’
‘What’s it like here?’
‘Fuckin terrible.’
‘But you’re surrounded by people you know . . .’
‘That’s what I mean. Nosey cunts on zimmers.’
The room was on the seaward side of the hospital and the windows had been dulled by the salt blowing off the Atlantic so that the grey-green of the hills looked even greyer.
‘Is your wife with you?’
‘No – it’s just a quick visit. I didn’t know whether you wanted me to . . . y’know, run the cutter.’ Ben tapped his jacket pocket and pulled the neck of a half bottle into view.
‘All very acceptable,’ said Paddy. ‘The more the merrier. Put it there.’ He indicated the open shelf on the bedside cabinet. Someone had brought him a basket of fruit which was still covered in cellophane. The white grapes were beginning to go brown. Ben reached over.
‘Where?’
‘Anywhere.’
It was only then that Ben noticed the full tumbler standing on the bedside cabinet. He bent over and sniffed it. It was whisky.
‘They allow you it in here?’
‘A little,’ said Paddy. Then he smiled. ‘As much as I can drink.’
‘Is that a . . . That must be a good sign.’
‘They say if it helps put on some weight it’ll do no harm. Would you like a snifter?’
‘Nah – Paddy. Never during the day. Anyway, I’m driving the car.’
‘How long are you staying?’
‘I’ll go back tomorrow. All things being equal.’
‘What the fuck kind of an expression is that? From an English teacher? All things being equal. When was any fucking thing ever equal?’
‘Sorry. Sloppy speech.’ Ben smiled. ‘Any word of a house?’
Paddy shook his head. ‘They say I’ve got to put the weight back on before I go anywhere.’
‘Are you eating much?’
Paddy looked up at the drip and licked his lips. ‘Lancashire Hotpot.’
Ben didn’t know what to say. ‘Sorry?’
‘You remember we once talked about problem drinking? Well I’ve got it now.’
‘What?’
‘A problem drinking. My fucking throat’s given up. I can’t swallow anything any more. This is high protein, high fibre, high fucking God knows what – but it might as well be Molly Magill’s pish as far as my weight’s concerned.’
‘Paddy – don’t be so impatient. You’re looking . . . okay.’
‘Okay?’
‘Okay is good enough – at this stage.’
‘Angela says they put the apple tart and custard through at the same time as the hotpot. And a cup of tea.’
‘Angela. That’s it. I’d forgotten her name. Angela Stewart. She was a pupil of mine.’
‘So she tells me.’
‘Is there anything you want? Anything I could get you from the town?’
‘Naw, thanks. When I was in the best of health there was nothing you could get me from this town.’ He picked up the glass and took a tiny sip then lay back on his pillow. He held the whisky in his mouth but some of it leaked out at the corner of his lips.
‘What brought you to this godforsaken dump in the first place?’
‘It’s where I ended up. After the war. As good a place as any. As bad a place as any.’
‘Oh aye – the Morse Code business.’
‘For the North Atlantic. The trouble with drinking cronies is – remembering what you’ve told them. Drink is a great provoker of four things – the one Shakespeare left out was amnesia.’
Ben had to lean forward a little to hear what Paddy was saying. He took the glass from Paddy’s hand before it spilled and replaced it on the bedside cabinet.
‘I still like the taste of it,’ Paddy said. ‘So you’ve met Angela?’
‘Yeah.’
‘She’s a great kid. She does things for me. I suppose it’s her way of telling the matron to get stuffed. The rules do not apply to a man in my position.’ His breathing was becoming difficult. He reached out for his pipe which lay in a tin-foil ash-tray. He sucked the mouth-piece but did not light it. ‘Could you maybe call her for me?’ Ben rose quickly to his feet.
‘Are you okay? Is anything wrong?’
‘Don’t fuss, Ben.’
He found Angela at the front desk and told her that Paddy wanted her. This time he made sure to use her name.
‘I’m very busy,’ she said. ‘Tell him I’ll be along as soon as I can.’
‘Thanks, Angela.’ Ben sat with Paddy for another fifteen minutes. The older man was tired or drugged and kept dozing off. Ben didn’t like to disturb him and sat saying nothing. The hospital was full of noises – there was a distant rattling of dishes, someone whistling, a plastic door flapped shut, in the next room someone dropped a pair of scissors in a stainless steel sink. When Angela arrived breathless, Paddy said,
‘Here comes the upwardly nubile.’
‘Paddy – what do you want this time?’ She turned to Ben. ‘He’s a terrible bloody man. You see what I’ve to put up with?’ Ben nodded and smiled.
‘I want to have a drink with my friend here,’ said Paddy. He indicated the bedside cabinet.
‘What do you take me for? A bloody waitress?’
‘You know what I’m talking about, sweetheart. And I want you to pour one for that teacher of yours. A large one.’
‘Honestly, Paddy, I’ve got the car.’
He sat bolt upright in the bed and his eyes bulged. His voice was as loud as he could make it.
‘Fuck you and your fucking car.’
Angela winked at Ben and poured him a glass of whisky.
‘Do you take water in it?’
‘Indeed I do. The same again.’
The nurse handed him the glass and said to him, ‘The toilet is on the left at the bottom of the corridor.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Just a little walk – for a few moments.’ She raised her eyebrows and smiled.
‘Oh yes – ?’ He walked down the corridor and went to the toilet even though he didn’t really need to go. When he came out Angela passed him, hurrying back to her post.
‘He’ll be in better form now,’ she said.
Ben went back into the room. With one hand Paddy was combing back his white hair.
‘There’s your drink,’ he said. Ben took it and toasted him.
‘Cheers,’ he said. He was looking for Paddy’s glass to chink. The tumbler stood empty on the bedside cabinet. Paddy saw him looking and said,
‘It’s in the Lancashire Hotpot.’
Ben looked up at the drip. ‘You old fuckin bastard.’
Paddy laughed. His eyes seemed brighter. ‘All my life I’ve been looking for bad company to fall into and it’s only recently I’ve realised I’m it.’ They laughed a bit. ‘I should’ve got Angela to fix one of these up in the caravan years ago. With a catheter out the window. You wouldn’t have to budge for weeks.’
They talked about the good times – remembered the after-hours drinking, the windowsilling their way home, the parties with no food and ‘the night of the starving fisherman’ when they found bite marks in a bar of Echo margarine. When Paddy laughed it turned into a phlegmy cough which was difficult to stop so Ben tried to change the conversation and keep it as low-key as possible. After a while Paddy said,
‘When you see people like her – Angela – it makes everything worth it. She doesn’t give a fuck what anybody says.’ He seemed to doze a bit, then jerk awake. He was beginning to slur. ‘There was a thing about Wittgenstein on last night – on the radio – his last words were – Tell them it was wonderful. I think he was probably talking about the rice pudding.’
After about a half an hour Paddy felt into a deep sleep. Ben put his almost full whisky where Paddy’s tumbler had been. Then he left on tip toe.
Ben walked along the school corridor into the carpeted office section. The red light was on outside the Principal’s office so he went into the Secretary’s room.
‘Hi Ben.’
‘Who’s in with him?’
‘A parent – I think.’ She checked a notebook. ‘Yes, Lorimer of 3D – his father.’
‘Can I see him next?’
‘Doubt it, love. There’s a Revised Arrangements in Geography Higher Grade meeting at eleven.’
‘Lunch time?’
‘Come down again at one – I hope you had a good night somewhere, Ben?’
‘Why?’
‘You look like you’re a bit hung over.’
‘I was at home. I’ll explain sometime.’
‘Cheers.’
Ben wasted most of his lunch hour waiting for the red light to be switched off. He went again to the Secretary.
Collected Stories Page 49
