‘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.
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 to him. 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 whiskey.
‘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 whiskey 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’re 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 whiskey.
‘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 afterhours 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 whiskey 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.
‘Who’s in?
‘Nobody, love – just knock. He’s probably at his lunch.’
Ben knocked.
‘Come in.’
The room was filled with the scent of a single hyacinth in a pot by the window. It was that time of year again. The Principal was sitting behind his desk which faced the door. He was eating a sandwich and a cup of tea steamed on the polished surface of the desk. Beneath the cup was a wooden coaster, so crude it was obviously made by a pupil. The slats of the Venetian blinds were half closed. Outside the harsh sunlight created a glare.
‘Ben – what can I do for you?’ The Principal was a dark silhouette. There was a distant yelling from the play-ground.
‘Em – I got the news last night that a friend – a very close friend of mine . . . Well, that he died.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Yes, we got to know each other in the terrible town of Tynagh.’
‘Oh yes – when you were teaching up there.’
‘He was a great man.’
The Principal set his half bitten sandwich on a serviette on the desk. ‘And . . . ?’
‘I just wanted permission to go to the funeral.’
‘When is it?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘In Tynagh?’ The Principal considered this for a moment. ‘What you’re really looking for is leave of absence.’
‘Yes.’
The Principal sighed, ‘It’s sad but you know the rules as well as I do. The Region will only allow it for close relatives.’
‘This man was a close friend. Maybe he’s the father I’d like to have had.’
The Principal folded the paper napkin over the sandwich. He put it in the desk drawer and closed it. He cleared his mouth of food.
‘I’m very sorry, Ben. It’s not up to me. I can only make recommendations to the Region. The decision is not mine. And I can only make recommendations with regard to close relatives. If you like you can submit a request to the Regional Director.’
‘And if he refuses?’
The Principal lifted his shoulders in a long shrug. ‘Then you can’t go.’
‘He was important to me. More than a relative.’
‘I’m afraid it can’t be helped.’
‘What would happen if I went anyway?’
‘If you went awol?’
Ben nodded. He was still standing in the middle of the floor. The faint yelling from the playground seemed to grow in volume.
‘That would not be a good thing – at all. Because we are very short-staffed at the minute.’ He looked up at Ben, then swivelled a bit in his chair. ‘With this flu that is going about.’
‘He was called Paddy Quinn. And he was one of the best read people I ever met. He was sharp and he had very little luck.’
The Principal stood up. ‘They say it’s not a particularly bad flu.’ He went to the window and changed the tilt of the Venetian blinds so the room was flooded with light. ‘Ben, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lunch to finish.’
The funeral service was at ten o’clock and there was to be a gathering in the public bar of the Seaview Hotel afterwards. A piper had been engaged and paid for by the owner of the hotel as a mark of respect for a valued customer and friend. There was no point in Ben sending condolences – who would he send them to? Paddy would understand – he never did have any regard for ritual or the niceties of any situation. He would have said, ‘Fuck it – do what you want to do.’ At 9.45 Ben set his third-year class a comprehension exercise to keep them quiet.
‘Sir, why do we have to do this crap?’
‘Lorimer – you are supposed to be on your best behaviour. You do it because I say you do it.’
Ben sat, glad of the silence he could impose. When it came to ten by the clock and the class were working quietly he got up and went into the book cupboard. Although he preferred whiskey he had filled his hip flask with vodka – he knew it couldn’t be detected on the breath – and he drank a toast to Paddy. Then another one. It was the first drink he had ever had during working hours and it made him feel good that he was, in some small way, giving them the fingers. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against a stack of Art of English IV and tried to visualise what was happening two hundred miles away in the town of Tynagh.
LOOKING OUT THE WINDOW – II
Lately your man has been doing a lot of staring out the window trying to catch who’s dumping the rubbish. After the bin men there is nothing. Then, t
he next time he looks there is a poly-bag beside the lamp-post. He knows the pile will increase day by day. Bags marked Safeways, Boots, Top Shop. Then dogs will come and, intrigued by the contents, take them out and inspect them. Then piss on them.
Enough is enough. Your man creates a poster on white waterproof card with Indian ink which says
THIS IS NOT A DUMP;
RUBBISH WILL BRING
ABOUT VERMIN
He waits until nightfall and sets his poster beside the lamppost and the mountain of poly-bags.
The next day he is interested to see the reactions of passers-by. A young girl strides past and doesn’t even notice it. He feels spurned. Maybe it is not in a prominent enough position. Perhaps red ink would have been better.
Suddenly your man realises ‘To bring about’ is a very specific verb. To cause to happen. Rubbish would not cause rats to happen. What he meant was that rats would be lured to this area. Covered in shame he dashes out and looks this way and that. Seeing no-one he takes his poster back into the house. He selects another blank card and writes
THIS IS NOT A DUMP;
RUBBISH WILL BRING
VERMIN ABOUT!
He is unsure about the exclamation mark. To be on the safe side he removes it with white correcting fluid. It is better, less cluttered.
He waits for the dark before reinstating the poster. This time instead of setting it on the ground he tapes it to the lamppost at eye level. That night he has difficulty sleeping-so anxious is he to see the reaction of tomorrow’s passers-by.
More Praise for Walking the Dog
“Spare, disciplined, meticulously observed.”—Toronto Globe and Mail
“Like the chimes of the unwound clock, the echoes in MacLaverty’s stories go on and on, celebrating the improbable persistence of wonder in an unmiraculous world.”—Boston Book Review
“Compelling. . . . A multi-layered, near irresistible collection that considers themes of religion, violence, and individual freedom with honesty, understanding, and wit.”—Colin Lacey, The Irish Voice
“At their very best his tales are poised and beautifully balanced, outward yet intimate, graced by both subtlety and substance.”
—The Independent (London)
“Spare and understated . . . . MacLaverty infuses a fierce tenacity into his people . . . . Leaves impressions lingering long after the reading is done.”—A.J. Spencer, Washington Post Book World
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