The scraping of our feet sounded in the arches of the cloistered walkway which met just above our heads. I was faintly aware of whispering or scuffling noises but did not want to be impolite and appear to be distracted from what my colleague was saying.
‘If a tree is to be attacked by disease where would you afford the most protection? The branches, the bark or at its roots?’
‘The roots, of course.’
‘Exactly. Then we are of like mind.’
A perfume, as of night-scented stock which I have growing in my garden at home, wafted along between the pillars but there was another smell, not so pleasant, mixed with it like a base note, which I couldn’t place. The scuffling or whispering became more audible and then I distinctly heard a voice speaking in a language I did not understand. I turned but could see no one. Behind me in a shallow drain I saw what I could only interpret as a piece of human excrement.
We turned at right-angles into another colonnade.
‘The cost,’ said the Director, ‘is what interests your Government most.’
‘Indeed.’
‘There is a clemency caucus active in government who want the return of the death penalty for political crimes. But I do not agree. What we have here is maximum deterrent along with maximum protection for the minimum cost. Four men can run this whole prison by themselves,’ he smiled, ‘and still have some time for gardening.’
‘Those two men are not prisoners?’
‘No, the prisoners are here.’ He indicated to my right. I looked and it was only then that I noticed the uprights which I had, up until that point, taken to be part of the structure of the cloister. They were shaped like tall broom cupboards.
‘In here?’ I asked. The director nodded. I stepped forward and, by rapping with my knuckle, discerned that they were made of metal.
‘Iron,’ said the Director. ‘Treated in such a way that it does not rust.’
I looked at the blank face of the container, then examined the side nearest to me.
‘Soldered shut’, said the Director, ‘and bolted to the stone. That is why we can afford to run the place with only four warders.’
‘But how do you feed them.’
‘The warders or the prisoners?’ The Director smiled.
‘The prisoners.’
‘Each containment unit has a hole here for food.’ The Director pointed to the side furthest from me. I looked at what he indicated and saw a small, square aperture about five feet above the ground. Something moved in the darkness inside. A face stared out at me. Whether it was the face of a horse or a human I could not tell. All I was conscious of was the whiteness of an eye. The Director pointed towards the ground and said,
‘And a hole at the bottom for waste.’
‘Remarkable. Quite, quite remarkable.’
We turned another corner into a similar colonnade where the flat stones of the floor were shining wet. A man was operating a long jointed bamboo pole which gushed water from its open end. He was guiding the pipe into the upper hole of each containment unit and flushing it out. Soiled water rushed from the hole at floor level and ran down the channel into gratings. He was followed by another man with a wicker basket who was distributing food – what looked like hard balls of dark rice.
We did not like to interrupt this work, so turned yet another corner. Here I noticed that the containment units were much smaller and remarked on this to the Director.
‘Political crimes run in families,’ he said. ‘In the more extreme cases we find it necessary to confine the whole family. The father may have planted the seed of revolt too deep to be rooted out.’
I asked if I might take some measurements and the Director agreed. I got out my tape and approached the nearest containment unit.
‘This is a girl,’ said the Director. He pointed to a mark on the metal. My curiosity about who was within was immediately aroused. As I measured I heard small scufflings inside. ‘She has only been here since the beginning of the year.’ When I came to measure the upper aperture I saw her face. Through the tangle of hair I could see she could have been a sister to the girl they had made dance for me the previous night.
‘When women commit political crimes,’ said the Director, ‘they are a hundred times more virulent than the men.’
Then the prisoner turned to me and did a quite remarkable thing. She spat. I recoiled but the saliva caught on the material of my collar and I dropped my tape while searching for a handkerchief. The Director, apologising profusely, strode down to the corner and called one of his men. Knowing what was liable to be on the floor I picked the tape up with my handkerchief, rolled it all together and put it in my pocket.
The Director came back with the warder who had been scything the grass but who was now carrying a large sledgehammer. He indicated the girl’s containment unit.
‘Excuse us,’ said the Director. The man raised the hammer, swung it over his shoulder and, with all his strength, crashed it against the metal. There was a thunderous noise, as from the biggest untempered bell I have ever heard. It was deafening for those of us in the confines of the colonnade. What it was like for the creature inside I cannot imagine.
‘Proceed,’ said the Director and we turned and walked away, leaving the man swinging his hammer again and again. As we passed through the gardens back to the inn the sound echoed after us with monotonous regularity.
After lunch at the inn I excused myself to the Director, saying that I had to write up my observations and notes. I really wanted a nap because of my previous poor night’s rest.
In the quiet of my bedroom I could still hear faintly the continual gong of the sledge-hammer. It occurred to me that the man swinging it must have reached the point of exhaustion and wondered if someone had relieved him.
Because of the noise, again I was unable to sleep. Instead I began a letter home.
O’DONNELL v. YOUR MAN
Mrs O’Donnell averred that a friend purchased a transistor radio for her and that she sat down to listen to it in Minchella’s cafe in Paisley when the BBC was broadcasting a story written by your man; that her friend also purchased for her a bottle of ginger beer; that Minchella took the metal cap off a bottle of ginger beer, which was made of opaque glass, and poured some of the contents into a tumbler; that, having no reason to suspect that it was anything other than an everyday story she continued to listen; that she heard the word fuck; that when her friend refilled her glass from the bottle there floated out the decomposed remains of a snail; that she suffered from shock and severe gastro-enteritis as a result of the nauseating sight and of the fearful word she had just heard; that, having heard the word fuck, she could not unthink the word fuck; that, contrary to her normal vocabulary, it occasioned her to think of different parts of speech appertaining to the word: fuckable, fuck-wit, fucker, fucking, fuck-bollock; that in the same way she was unable to forget the impurities she had already consumed. She further averred that the short story was manufactured by the defender and broadcast by the BBC to be sold as entertainment to the public (including herself); that it was written by your man and advertised in the Radio Times bearing your man’s name. She also claimed that it was the duty of the writer and not the Broadcaster to provide a system in his compositions which would prevent fucks entering his stories – just as Minchella should have devised a system preventing snails from entering his bottles – and to provide an efficient system of inspection of stories prior to their being broadcast, and that his failure in both duties caused the aforementioned distress and sickness.
What may listeners properly expect when they hear a story on the radio? The answer is surely not that it be free from such fucks as the author’s care could keep out, but that, like dead snails in ginger beer bottles, it be free from fucks absolutely.
COMPENSATIONS
Ben, the younger boy, was copying down the football scores into the sports-page as a voice on the wireless called them out. His brother, Tony, sat with his ear almost against the loudspeaker. The boys�
�� grandfather was reading the other pages of the paper. Ben felt he could guess the score from the high or low way the announcer said the team’s name. When the results were finished the boys’ grandmother spoke out from the kitchen.
‘Well, Ben?’
‘Where’s the coupon?’
‘It should be behind the clock.’
‘It’s not.’
‘Wait now.’ Grandma, drying her hands, came in and looked in the flap beneath the calendar. ‘Do you think we’ve won?’
‘No chance.’
‘You never know. Somebody has to win them.’
‘It’ll never be us. We never have any luck,’ said Tony and went upstairs.
She found the pools coupon beneath the bowl on the sideboard along with other bits of papers – printed prayers for a speedy recovery, novenas, the bread card – and handed it to Ben. The pools sheet was like the bread card – boxes of ruled blue lines.
She said,
‘Wouldn’t that be the quare surprise for them coming back?’
‘No chance.’
‘They could do with the money after paying for a jaunt like this.’
Ben looked at the grid of eight draws his grandfather had chosen and compared them to the actual results. The old man said it didn’t matter about the teams – he just plumped for the same eight draws every week. Football know-alls never won.
‘The first one’s wrong.’ He handed the results to Granda Coyle with a shrug and a shake of the head. The old man peered down at the sports-page through his glasses. He hadn’t shaved well and had missed sandy white hairs at the corners of his mouth. Ben put the coupon behind the clock and asked,
‘When’s the tea?’
‘Just as soon as I choose to make it.’
Grandma moved back out to the kitchen. She fried three eggs, scrambling them on the pan with a fork, and divided them into four. A slice of bacon each and soda bread which she’d baked earlier. The soda bread was always served dry side up hiding the bacon and egg. She set the four plates on the table.
‘Sit over,’ she said. ‘And give your Granda a tap.’
Ben reached out and touched his grandfather’s arm. The old man looked out from behind the newspaper and saw the tea ready.
‘Thanks,’ he said. He unhooked the wire legs of his glasses from behind his ears and heaved himself to his feet.
Grandma opened the door and shouted up the stairs,
‘Tony – Tony your tea’s ready.’
Nobody spoke as they ate. Ben listened to the noises they all made. His grandfather’s mouth was shut as he chewed but he breathed heavily down his nose. Grandma had a knob of gristle at the hinge of her jaw which sometimes clicked – like somebody pulling their knuckles. Tony deliberately opened his mouth to annoy Ben, letting him see the half-chewed contents.
‘Stop that,’ said Grandma.
‘How long to go now?’ asked Ben.
‘Three days – it’s past the halfway mark.’
‘What day do they come back?’ asked Tony.
‘If I told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. Wednesday.’
‘What time?’
‘How would I know. I’m not flying the plane.’
‘What are they saying?’ asked the old man, cupping his ear towards Grandma. She leaned forward and shouted,
‘Just – when are they coming back.’
The old man nodded and stared at Ben.
‘Wednesday,’ he said. ‘They’ll be back on Wednesday.’
‘Why don’t you wear that hearing-aid of yours?’
‘What?’
‘Never mind. It’s not important.’ Grandma dismissed the whole thing with a wave of her hand.
The boys had been told that their mother and father had gone to France. They didn’t know much about France – the only thing Ben knew was that French films were dirty so when his grandmother said they were on a pilgrimage he felt better. People went on pilgrimages to places in Ireland – to Knock and Lough Derg. One of the teachers in the primary school, Mister Egan, went to Lourdes every summer to help with the sick and the dying. Working in the baths, lifting the afflicted out of their wheelchairs, lowering them into the holy waters. Everybody said he was a saint – and they always remarked how he never got anything himself – no matter what diseases had washed off into the water.
The door bell rang and Grandma stopped chewing.
‘In the name of God . . .’ she said. She closed her eyes. ‘Nurse Foley.’
‘Well I’m off,’ said Tony, wiping his mouth with his hand. ‘I couldn’t stand the excitement.’
Both brothers got up from the table. Ben went to open the vestibule door and Tony ran upstairs.
Nurse Foley smiled and walked down the hall past Ben.
‘Hello Tony,’ she called up the stairs at Tony’s heels.
‘Hi.’
When Nurse Foley came into the kitchen she said in a kind of aghast voice – ‘You’re not at your tea, are you?’ Grandma smiled. Granda didn’t even look up. Nurse Foley went and sat by the fireside facing towards the table. Before she sat down she smoothed both hands down her coat at the back of her knees to make sure she wasn’t going to crease it.
‘Take off your coat,’ said Grandma.
‘I’m not staying,’ said Nurse Foley.
Granda made an excuse that he was going to get his hearing-aid and left the room. Nurse Foley was about the same age as Grandma and dressed in much the same way, except in black. Ben had heard that one of Nurse Foley’s jobs was washing the dead. How could anybody do that? How could a woman do that – especially if it was a dead man. He looked at her knuckly hands unbuttoning her coat. There was a blue apron hidden underneath.
‘Would you look at me. I took a last-minute notion to go to confession and I just dashed. Sure nobody’d mind the apron, especially Himself.’ She rolled her eyes up to heaven.
‘Would you take a cup of tea – there’s plenty in the pot.’
‘If it’s going spare – I wouldn’t mind.’
Grandma got a cup and saucer from the cupboard.
‘A snig of sugar?’ she asked, smiling.
‘And just the one milk,’ said Nurse Foley and gave a sort of laugh. Grandma passed the tea over to her.
Granda came back with his hearing-aid clipped to the front of his cardigan. Ben thought it looked like a small bakelite wireless. Sometimes when Granda tried to turn the volume up, it gave a shrill whistle and annoyed everybody, including him. He sat down in the corner and looked from one woman to the other so that the wire which led up to the flesh-coloured thing in his ear became more obvious.
‘Was there many at confession?’ asked Grandma.
‘A good few,’ said Nurse Foley, ‘but there was three priests hearing. They were getting through them rightly.’ The empty saucer remained on her lap as she sipped her tea. Grandma said,
‘I meant to go myself. But it’ll keep till next Saturday.’
‘Och Mrs Coyle – sure don’t I see you at the altar rail every morning in life.’
Grandma nodded, tight-lipped.
‘There’s some hard praying to be done.’
Nurse Foley shook her head in agreement and sighed.
‘Any word from them?’
‘Not a thing – sure a postcard takes ages. The best part of a fortnight. So I’m told.’
‘I suppose so.’
Nurse Foley’s face was solemn but when she turned to the boy she smiled.
‘Well, Benedict – any luck with the pools this week?’
Ben shook his head. Grandma said,
‘Divil the bit.’
‘Wouldn’t it have been great to be able to hand them the seventy-five thousand as they stepped off the plane,’ said Nurse Foley. Grandma nodded her head and smiled a bit.
‘It’d be little compensation.’
‘Och I know that – Mrs Coyle. No question.’
‘But isn’t it typical of you, Nurse Foley – wanting to win so’s you could give it
away to somebody else.’
‘Acchh – sure what would I want with all that money.’
When Ben looked up at her she winked and laughed. Grandma said,
‘It was good of you to lend them the suitcase.’
‘I’m just glad to see it used. And where would I be going at my age?’ Nurse Foley shook her head again. ‘They’ve had no luck whatsoever. But maybe that’ll change, please God. Only time will tell.’
‘The Lord works in mysterious ways,’ said Grandma.
‘His wonders to perform,’ said Nurse Foley. ‘I just hope he can keep his strength up. Although how anybody eats the slime and muck the French eat I have no idea. Did you ever taste garlic? It would turn your stomach. And they put it in everything. Like the way we use salt here.’
‘And snails, I believe.’
‘What are you talking about – horses, Mrs Coyle. They ate horses.’
‘Away –’
And then after a pause in which Grandma shook her head Nurse Foley repeated,
‘Horse meat – how-are-you.’
‘Och away . . .’
The fire crumbled and sparks flew up the chimney.
‘Ben, get a shovel of coal.’ Ben did as he was told and went to the coal-hole in the back yard. The new coals were damp and hissed when they went on the fire. Ben set the shovel outside the back door and came into the room again.
‘And what about her?’ said Nurse Foley. ‘Do you think she’ll cope?’
‘I’ve never known her not to.’
‘The flying – the strange food – organising and remembering everything – above all, the thing of knowing – it’s a lot to ask of her.’
‘Prayer’ll see her through. Everybody is praying.’
‘Only time’ll tell.’
Ben looked at his Grandma and then at Nurse Foley as they talked. They seemed not to look at each other. Nurse Foley stared down sideways into the fire. Grandma stared up at the frosted top pane of the window.
‘Have you your own prayers said yet?’ asked Nurse Foley.
‘No – always straight after the tea. As you know,’ said Grandma.
Walking the Dog Page 11
