by Kevin Barry
A slow rumbling, then the sullen build of momentum, and the countryside was unpeeled, image by image: an old house with its slate roof caved in; magpies bossing a field; on higher ground, a twist of grey trees in the grudging light. The girl made a broad mime of adjusting her iPod, and she assumed a dead-eyed glaze, but the old woman smiled, shuffled to rearrange her bony buttocks for comfort, entwined her thin fingers and clasped them about her middle, then rotated one thumb slowly around the other.
Would you believe, she said, that I was up for half six? Sitting in the kitchen in front of a two-bar fire, with the jaws hanging open. You see I didn’t want to miss Canavan. And it’s not as if I had sleep to distract me. Sure there’s no more such thing as sleep. Do you know the way? Of course you don’t. What age did you say you were? Hah! So you were born—I’ll do the maths—you were born in 19… 88? My God. The Seoul Olympics. What was his name, with the big eyes? Ben Johnson. Only a mother could love it. Of course I lost a kidney in 1988. But yes, four o’clock in the morning, and I’m staring at the ceiling. when it’s springtime in Australia, it’s Christmas over here. Did you ever hear that one? No, well, it’s before your time I suppose. Here, above, watch—new road. This is the by-pass they’re after putting down. Look. Look! They’re going to cut out Nenagh altogether. No harm.
If there was a heat-seeking device high up, mapping all movement by the glow of the blood, it would pick them out as two pulsing red ovals—tiny dots on a vast map. They moved eastwards at ninety rickety miles an hour and the old woman leaned across as though to confide and the ovals conjoined and pulsed almost as one. The girl took out a book and made a display of it. She peeled a clementine and looked to the passing skies. She tried to put a fence up, but the old one was a talker.
What if I told you, she said, that I can see how it’ll work out? What if I said it’s written all over your face? Pay no attention. I’m rambling. I’m only fooling with you. You’d think someone would come along and throw a shovel of earth over me. So would you head up often yourself? I go regular. Not that I’d have a great deal of business but I have the pass. Shoes, occasionally. I pick up shoes for a woman in Birdhill. There’s a shop above that specialises in extreme sizes. She’s a fourteen. I know, but we have to try not to be cruel in life. That’s the most important thing. And it’s an excellent shop. They’ll do you a practical boot, or a runner, or something dressy. Or as dressy as you’re going to get if you’re a fourteen. Don’t! This is a poor woman, the first thing she thinks about of a morning is feet. You step out of the bed and there they are. Always and forever, clomping along beneath you, like boats. You run for a bus. You step onto a dance floor. You try to pull on a pair of nylons. I’m a three myself—look. A three. Dainty.
Through and on, North Tipperary, weary hedgerows, and chimney pots, and the far-out satellite towns of reason, all of it stunned looking with the onslaught of winter, as if winter was a surprise to the place, and there were frequent apparitions—heavy-set men rolling tyres and twirling wrenches, stepping down from lorries, giving out to phones—and it darkened, as though on a dimmer switch, the morning became smudged and inky.
Losing the wheels, she said, was rough. When you’ve no wheels, the options are limited. You’d be inclined to pack it in altogether. Of course if I had sense, I’d be driving still but I rode my luck and it gave out. I turned it over outside Tullamore. They’d every right to take the course of action they took. The startling thing was there wasn’t a mark on me and the car a write-off. They threw the book at me and they had every justification. It was eight in the evening, for God’s sake, it was summer, it was still daylight, and I’m on the Tullamore Road after making shit out of a Fiesta? I ask you. I defended myself. I said, your honour, please don’t take this event in isolation. I went back forty years. I told him how it all turned crooked on me. How you can’t run away from things, you only store them for later. I gave him chapter and verse. Not that I thought I was going to walk out with a licence in my hand. I just wanted to explain. I just wanted to say. Of course, the eyes rolled up in his head. As a matter of fact, your honour, I said, I have no intention of ever driving again. And he looks down at me, over the top of the glasses, and he says, Madam, I am here to facilitate your wishes. Lovely deep voice on him. A gentleman.
The haggard verges of a town put in an appearance. Motor factors, light industry, ribbon development, new-build schemes, the health centre, an Aldi. Here was sweet life, and the common run, also the shades of mild hysteria. Here was…
Templemore, she said. I can never pass through without thinking of poor Edward. My cousin. The misfortune, you see this is where they train guards, and he was mad to get in. It’s not the case now. I understand there’s a shortage. But Edward was… you could only say… OBSESSED! He nearly went out of his mind. You had to be five ten in your stockinged feet and he was five nine and a half. Just that fraction shy and it sent the poor creature to his wit’s end. All he wanted in life was to be a guard. I have nothing against guards myself, despite what happened to me in Thurles. Of course that was my own fault as well. But Edward? A half inch. And what happened? His father, my uncle, Joe, God rest him, a very intelligent man, though lazy, Joe got up out of the chair and he got two sheets. With one of them he bound his son at the wrists and with the other he bound him at the ankles. He tied one end to the bumper of the car and he tied the other to the back axle of the tractor. I think it was a Belarussian they had. A powerful machine. And he climbed onto it and he looked out back and he called down, Edward! EDWARD!
Heads swivelled in the carriage. Newspapers were raised just a little bit higher. They said it with their eyes—we have one across the way, watch? Careful now.
Edward, he said, son, there’s no pressure on you. And Edward looked up at him and he said, Da? Start that engine. That same day Edward strode back into Templemore. He took off the shoes and he stood up against the wall and he said MEASURE ME! And he wasn’t five foot ten. He was five eleven. If you want to talk about dedication. If you want to talk about a man with hope. He would always say after it was an extraordinary length to go to. That’s as true as I’m sitting here, Sarah, even if the guards didn’t work out great for him in the end. And by the way, would you mind taking that thing out of your ears while I’m talking to you?
The light was scratched, molecular, the sky about to give in on itself, about to break up, a mist descending already, and they went slowly through and on, at a creaking rumble, then it built up on a straight stretch, and there was a descent to the midland plain, where confused-looking ducks sailed a small drowsy lake. The trolley went past—flattened vowels, lazy wheels, scalding drinks—teascoffees, lads, ladies? Teascoffees? By a tiny grey village there stood an enormous pink funeral home.
Death, she said. Would you think about death much, Sarah? Of course you wouldn’t. I dare say you have other things on your mind. I’ve been meaning to ask, actually, have we a boyfriend on the scene? No? Come off it! Who are you trying to kid? I’d say they’re like flies around you. I’d say they can barely keep a hold of themselves. No? Well I suppose you could do with weight. Excuse me, what muffins have you? I see. I’ll chance a blueberry.
They outpaced the weather, by and by, and the arcs of a weak sun swung across the waiting fields, and the country eased into itself, and there was woodland passing. The girl considered changing seats but she didn’t want to be rude. Some days you suffer.
Trees, said the old woman. What’s it they call it? Photosynthesis. Amazing what you’d remember, for years. Is it chloroform or chlorophyll? Or is that toothpaste? Or is it tap water? Or is it what the dentist put on rags? I’m dating myself. Trees! Calming, apparently. Or so they’d tell you. I wouldn’t be too sure. Would you believe it if I told you I was walking through a wood one day—this is in Clare I’m talking about—and I saw a man buried to the neck? Only a young fella. This time of the year. It would have been mulchy underfoot. Whatever way he managed it, he scratched out a hole in the ground and dragged the earth in
after him. Buried to the neck. Some job of work. Now the young fella wasn’t well, obviously. It turned out after he was known around the place. It wasn’t his first time at this kind of messing. Of course it was just my luck to come across him. Who else would go out for a breath of air and walk into the likes of it? And what are you supposed to say to someone? You’d want nerves of steel to deal with that kind of situation and do I look as if I have nerves of steel? Trees! Arbour. Isn’t it? Arboreal. There’s a word for you. Lovely. Photosynthesise. Come on we all go and photosynthesise. Trees can give you a sore throat. Something in the sap I think. Put me near trees and I find the throat goes septic on me. I come over class of hoarse. I come over husky. On account of trees. Septic. Sceptic. Anyway, tell me, Sarah, what’s it you’re reading? Go ’way? And would you be much of a one for the reading?
Her face seemed to slip, her features came loose, disintegrated, and then rearranged. She was slippery. She was skinny, tall, sharp angled and grey skinned, with ash-coloured eyes and green-mottled hands, and now it was a pretty, blowy day, with screensaver skies. They made it to the flats and paddocks of the Curragh, a watery expanse it seemed, a lightly-ruffled sea.
Horses, she said. Sweet Jesus don’t be talking to me about horses. The worst thing that can happen with horses happened me. The first time I set foot on a racecourse, I went through the card. Limerick meeting—there were seven races, I picked seven winners. The whole cruel world of work and bosses and punching clocks at seven in the morning was revealed to me as a sham, Sarah, a world for fools. Who needed it? All you had to do was have a go at the horses.
She wiped muffin crumbs from her chin. She lifted her rueful heavy eyes to the heavens. She smiled.
Of course I wasn’t the first eejit to come up with this idea. It took no more than six months and I was wiped out. I found myself in desperate waters. The bank pulled the shutters when it saw me coming. My name was doing the rounds in faxes, twice underlined. I was blacklisted by every credit union in South Tipp, North Waterford, East Cork. But there’s always someone you can turn to and they showed up, soon enough. Two brothers, from Thurles, serious operators, hair and eyebrows, big shoulders. These boys were beef to the heels. If I’d sense, I’d have run a mile but do I look as if I have sense? I missed a payment and they showed up for a polite word. I missed a second payment and I was backed into the corner of a lounge bar. Oh, a monster! Did you realise, Sarah, that monsters are all around us? You’ve come to the right woman. I missed a third payment and that was it, I had to clear out of Tipp altogether. If I didn’t get out, it was looking like a boot-of-the-car job. I drove off late. Night-time, cold, and there were dogs somewhere, howling. I rang the boys from a payphone, I couldn’t resist. I said d’ye call yereselves men? To threaten a poor single woman? Spittin’ feathers down the phone he was. I’d have to be careful to this day about setting foot in Thurles. But that’s no great loss to me. Of course the nerves weren’t right for a long while. I was edgy, Sarah. I was drinking against nerves. It wasn’t long after I lost most of the teeth. I missed a step on an embankment. Would you believe it if I told you these are nearly all screw-ins? They’re some job, aren’t they? Thank you. Of course I paid for them in tears. I was six months on soup and custard. And if the horses were bad, you should have seen me the year of the poker machines. I still get a shake in my right hand when I hear one.
They were by the last stretch of countryside, above the surging drag of the motorway, and the exurbs crept out west, and a squat grey building sat high on a windy rise, and she pointed, and winked.
Do you see this place? she said. Do you know what that used to be? Chained to the walls, Sarah. Which end is the sleeves? Are we coming or going? Here’s one you’ll not have heard, I guarantee it. Nachtmusik! Have you ever hear that word? It’s a good one, isn’t it? Out of the Germans, and faith they’d know all about it. Going loco down in Acupulco. The soft room. The slow-shoed shuffle in the corridor. The hair stood up on your head from shocks. If the walls could talk in the likes of that place! El Casa des Locos is what a Spaniard would say. They’ve apartments made of it now. Best of luck to them all inside.
She simmered with happiness. There was great calm about her. There was no reserve about her. There was none of the wistfulness proper to old age. It was clammy on the train, and she opened her coat and loosened the collar of her blouse, and there was a cheap chain and cross on her neck—it flashed with trinket menace. For a while, she was silent, and the silence was unbearable. Her gaze went to the carriage roof, all to be seen were the whites of her eyes. She hummed to herself, crossed over, then returned.
What about yourself? she said. I wouldn’t go so far as to call you the chatty type. What’s your own situation? Do you want me to take a run at it?
She rubbed her hands: lascivious. She made as though to sketch in the air. She took on a high-toned expression. She drew broad strokes with bony fingers. She cupped her chin in her palms.
Let’s see what we’ve got, she said. The eyes are outside your head, so you were up at a dirty hour yourself. You got dressed in the dark, didn’t you? Yes, with a big brazen head, very sure of yourself. The case was packed since last night, you did it on the sly. You had it hid under the stairs. You went down the stairs and got the case and you opened the front door, very quiet, and you stepped out into the street. It’s a terrace of houses, isn’t it? Familiar as your own face but unreal at that hour: parked cars, frost, moon, not a cat on the road. You pulled the door out after you. You could hardly breathe.
And the light was starting to come through then. She went down the steps by the grotto. She went down into the bowl of the town. There was yeast in the air from the brewery. Some early workers were eating eggs in the café on the corner, lost in newspapers, winter, the steam of their tea. She went inside to get cigarettes from the machine and the men looked up, and they looked at each other. There were affectations of great sadness—a pretty girl in a pencil skirt can bring that on easy enough. A dozy smile from the plump familiar waitress, but nobody asked any questions, nobody asked where are you going so early, Sarah, and what’s with the case, girl? She went down McCurtain Street and she watched herself as she went, she painted in the drama of it. She bought a ticket at Kent Station. A single: she stressed the word. She sat on a high stool and sipped coffee and a tic of anxiety surfaced, a bird-like flutter beneath the skin. The man from the kiosk was on his knees cutting a bale of newspapers with a penknife and its blade was a blue gleam.
You’d be mistaken for angelic, said the old woman. Peachy-creamy, oh lovely, look—petite! But there’s awful distance in you.
She smiled but it was sardonic, ironical.
There’s coldness, isn’t there, Sarah? You were going to get out as soon as you could and not a word to anyone about it. To hell with it—let ’em suffer!
The world around withdrew from them. The woman reached across the table and took the girl’s slate-cold hands in hers. The pulsing ovals weakened, faded, and disappeared. There was no sound except for a soft, lone breathing. There was no way to reverse from this, or to pull back.
Listen, she said. I have news for you. Brace yourself, child, ‘cause here it comes. There is no such thing as forgiveness. Everything has a consequence. Would you believe that? Years later, you’ll still have to answer the question: was the right thing done?
The girl looked away, abruptly, into the steel glimmer of the morning. She bit on her bottom lip, so prettily. It would be hopeless to try and find a flaw on her.
I wouldn’t fret about it, said the old woman. Maybe it was the right thing. He didn’t have the courage, did he? He wouldn’t say how he felt. He wouldn’t tell you how he felt, Sarah. You see you have to stand up for it. You have to declare it.
Then it was the Clondalkin yards, mostly disused, and the dust and seep of the city had fallen on them. The train stopped to take on maintenance workers. Another train was stalled alongside, it was headed in the opposite direction. Passengers from each stared wearily
across to the other. Movement, and she felt as though her train had eased slowly forwards but it was the other, pulling away west. The old woman went out through the yards. She threw no shadow in the white sun. She went over the sidings and past the rusted trailers. She went in among the carriage-building sheds and vanished, left no trace. She became light, air, dust.
Now it’s Heuston and here she comes. A thin girl in a pencil skirt, pulling a trolley-case behind, and the midday crush parts before her like a miraculous sea. She flips the key-guard of her phone and scrolls her texts. She moves on again, straight-backed and hard-eyed, with world-class invulnerability. She doesn’t know that every step from now will change her. She is so open, so fluid. Every conversation will change her, every chance meeting, every walk down the street. Every walk; every street.
Party At Helen’s
How does a young fella born to a place of dismal fields and cold stone churches turn out to be fuck-off cool? How do you compute boreens and crows and dishwater skies and make it add up to a nineteen year old who walks into a party and every girl in the place goes loop-the-loop?
But not walks—walked. The party has been over for fifteen years. It was in Galway, a Saturday night, a Sunday morning, after the nightclubs had closed and the late roar of the streets had started to break up. A couple of dozen people—you’d say children, if you could see them now—went back, in pairs and in small groups, to a rented house. Most of them were still mashed on cheap nightclub drugs. The house had tongue-and-groove walls greening with damp and was filled with the smell of the damp and with the cloying waft of a low-grade cannabis resin. It was a little past four. The panes of the sash windows trembled with vibration from the music that was playing and the miserable furniture was pushed back to the walls. He went alone to a vantage corner. He hunched down on his heels and scoped out the ground. The girls wore lycra and had their hair styled in blunt retro fringes, like Jane Fonda in Barbarella. They wore clumpy shoes and tiny silver dresses, or flight jackets with heavy fur collars, they wore Lacoste, Fila and Le Coq Sportif. He sized them up, one by one, from ankles to nape, and he paid special attention to the tendons and the neck muscles; he was a canny young farmer at mart.