The Red Men

by Patrick McGinley

  ‘Two minutes,’ Joey said.

  ‘I’ll make a bargain. Let me spend the rest of the evening in my room and I’ll go first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Then go to your room at once. Don’t expect any more drink and don’t disturb Father. If you do, I’ll turf you out bag and baggage with every mongrel dog in the townland at your heels.’

  Early got up and went to the door.

  ‘I could shake this house to its foundations,’ he shouted. ‘The trouble with you young pups is that you don’t know how to get your way without bringing the roof down round your ears. It’s a question of politics. Playing the game. Your father always knew how to play the game.’

  Early slammed the door and climbed the stairs.

  ‘Set a beggar on horseback,’ Joey laughed. ‘I must see that he doesn’t disturb Gulban. I’ll go up straight away and lock him in his room.’

  About ten the following morning Pauline brought Big Andy his breakfast. She knocked on his door but there was no response. She got her keys from the kitchen, wondering if he’d skedaddled in the night. She found him lying over the bedclothes with nothing on but a vest that failed to cover his distended belly. The air in the room was warm and stale. His eyes and mouth were gaping. An empty whiskey bottle lay on the floor. With a sense of queasiness, rather than shock, she opened the window. She could tell by the look of him that he’d been dead several hours.

  ‘How did he get the whiskey?’ she asked Joey when she rang him at the shop.

  ‘He must have had it in his room all the time.’

  ‘You didn’t give it to him?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘It makes an odd story.’

  ‘We’d better not say that I locked him in,’ Joey advised. ‘It might give rise to the wrong kind of speculation.’

  When she brought Gulban his coffee, she told him the news. He closed his eyes and let the corners of his mouth droop in an arch of pain.

  ‘He died some time between dinner and breakfast,’ she continued.

  ‘I’m not surprised in a way. The last time he came in, I could see that he was going downhill fast. He was short of breath, and what breath he had stank of sour whiskey.’

  ‘We’ll have to tell the sergeant, the doctor and the priest. Between them, they should know what to do with the body.’

  ‘Before you tell anyone, I want to speak to Bosco, Cookie and Joey. Will you ring Bosco and ask him to come at once?’

  Father Bosco arrived just before lunch. The three brothers trooped into Gulban’s room as she was making his bed. When she had finished, Gulban asked her to stay, because he wished to speak to all four of them. They sat round the bed and waited. For a long time he just stared at his feet.

  ‘We’ll have to give him a proper send-off,’ he said at last. ‘It must be a big funeral, the offerings must be the biggest ever collected on the headland. They must set a new record and put even the richest families to shame. His name must go down in the history of the parish and in the parish accounts.’

  ‘Who’ll pay these record offerings?’ Joey asked.

  ‘I’ll kick off with five hundred pounds,’ Gulban said. ‘And I’ll expect the rest of you to contribute your share.’

  ‘We’ll be the laughing-stock of the neighbourhood. It will give offerings over the dead a bad name,’ Cookie said.

  ‘The sad news must be announced in the local paper, and you, Cookie, will write a little verse for the death column. You know the kind of thing I mean: “Will those who think of him today, a little prayer to Jesus say?”’

  ‘You’re thinking of the in memoriam column,’ Cookie reminded him. ‘That isn’t for another year.’

  ‘We’ll have all the trimmings – an undertaker and a hearse. And you, Bosco, will officiate at what the papers call “the obsequies”. It will have to be a High Mass with seven concelebrating priests, one for every decade of his life. As a beggar, he was well known in parochial houses. You should have no difficulty rounding up enough clergy.’

  ‘You’re making a mockery of priests and religion. Take care you don’t mock God Himself,’ said Father Bosco.

  ‘Will you do what I say?’

  ‘No,’ Bosco answered. ‘It would be perverting the true purpose of religious ceremonial.’

  ‘What have you got to say, Cookie?’

  ‘I agree with Father Bosco, though I’d put it differently. I’d say it makes no sense at all.’

  ‘Joey?’

  ‘Before I answer, I’d like to know why Andy Early deserves to be wheeled out of here on a red carpet.’

  ‘Because I want to shake my fist at every small-minded, self-righteous bugger on this headland. And I want to shake my fist, too, at all those who think they’ve got a hot line to heaven.’

  ‘He said last night that he could shake this house to its foundations. What did he mean?’

  ‘Shake this house? He never said that to me. How much whiskey did he have in his belly when he said it?’

  ‘No more than his daily bottle.’

  ‘He was always rash but he was a friend. He respected me and I respected him. Your mother was fond of him too. She once told me that she saw him as another Elisha. Do you know what that means, Bosco?’

  ‘Of course I’ve heard of Elisha. Second Book of Kings.’

  ‘Your mother was a holy woman, and she saw him as a holy man who’d lost his way. She said that there should always be a bed for him here, as there was for Elisha at Shunem. Does that answer your question, Joey?’

  ‘It doesn’t explain why you continued to give him bed and board long after Mother died.’

  ‘I loved your mother, she was a good woman. Now, will you carry out my instructions?’

  ‘No,’ Joey said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because your instructions don’t accord with my sense of reality.’

  ‘Reality, my foot. None of the three of you is a son of mine. I could only have got you when I wasn’t thinking. Now, for God’s sake, will you go and leave me in peace with Pauline?’

  When they were both alone again, he said, ‘What do you think of that?’

  ‘Do you want me to speak the truth?’ she asked.

  ‘The truth, yes, the truth. I want nothing but the truth.’

  ‘I think they don’t understand.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Then I’m on my own. Do you think I went over the top?’

  ‘I think you did.’

  ‘I once asked you to be my eyes and ears. You’re a level-headed girl. You know, as I do, that none of this would have happened if Jack were alive. Would he still be alive if I hadn’t named the Day of the Talents?’

  ‘We’ll never know.’

  ‘What should I do?’

  ‘Call them back. Tell them you’ve changed your mind.’

  He caught her sleeve and tried to smile.

  ‘Okay. I’ll tell them I was testing them and that they all came through with flying colours. Honour on both sides must be satisfied.’

  When they returned, Gulban shook hands with all three of them.

  ‘I’m pleased you’ve passed the test,’ he said. ‘You may have realised that I was only joking, but I like to think that you stood up to me because you felt I was off the beam. Congratulations, all of you. Now I know you’re incorruptible.’

  ‘We still haven’t solved the problem,’ Joey said.

  ‘Which problem? There is no problem. Now you don’t have to worry about the cost of shipping saulies in from Scotland to weep at the graveside.’

  ‘The problem is what to do with the body,’ Joey reminded him.

  ‘Buy a plain wooden coffin and give him a decent burial. Nothing flash. You can save the fireworks for me.’

  They left him dozing against the pillows and quietly closed the bedroom door.

  ‘Why did he change his mind?’ Joey asked Pauline.

  ‘He didn’t, he was playing games,’ she replied.


  ‘It’s a shocking thought that the will he finally makes may depend on such trifling,’ Joey said.

  ‘None of you need worry this time. He said you all came through with flying colours.’

  ‘He’s daft, and gaga with it,’ Cookie said.

  ‘Don’t kid yourself,’ warned Father Bosco. ‘There are no flies on Gulban, at least not yet.’

  ‘He enjoys the occasional lucid interval,’ Joey conceded. ‘The question is: can he be trusted to make a sensible will?’

  ‘We have no cause to doubt his competence,’ Father Bosco replied.

  ‘The old are at a disadvantage, they look old,’ said Pauline.

  They buried Early in the headland cemetery two days later. It was bright and cold with an aggressive east wind that kept lifting dust and twigs and blowing them in their faces. Cookie, Joey and Pauline, and six or seven elderly villagers who could remember Early in his youth, drew round the grave in a tight, protective knot, as Father Bosco read the final prayers. An eddying gust blew the surplice out over his head. He staggered on the brink of the grave with one hand raised to maintain his balance, then slid down the side on top of the coffin. Another gust shook Pauline, blinding her with sand. For a moment she swayed, trying not to follow Father Bosco. Joey caught her arm and she clung to him. When she managed to open her eyes again, she saw Cookie pulling Father Bosco out of the shallow hole that contained the coffin.

  It was an unnerving experience for reasons she could not understand. After the funeral she went to her room to be alone. The closed windows rattled. The empty hotel shuddered to its foundations in the wind. She kept thinking of Early – of his tall, broad frame, booming voice, blue eyes, and red, pockmarked nose. In spite of loneliness and poverty, he had remained fully alive till the day he died. She got into bed and curled up under the clothes with her back to the windows. Gradually, her body warmed the bedclothes and she fell asleep.

  Chapter 18

  Mr Looby and Mr Laxton of Looby, Laxton and Phibbs came twice the following week and on each occasion spent two hours with Gulban.

  ‘What does it mean?’ Joey kept asking Cookie.

  ‘He must be making his will, giving judgment at last on our use of the talents,’ Cookie replied.

  ‘He hasn’t asked us what we’ve done with them, so how can he know?’

  ‘I’d rather he made his will now than later. If he puts it off much longer, he may be in no fit condition to make it.’

  ‘Was he in his right mind last week when he wanted to import saulies from Scotland to weep over Andy Early?’

  ‘He has a mischievous sense of humour, he likes to keep us guessing.’

  ‘Maybe he keeps changing his mind, or is there some obscure legal tangle to be unravelled?’

  ‘That’s what you’re meant to think.’

  ‘He’s playing God, a dying god with an ego that won’t lie down. It’s always been both his weapon and armour. It’s consumed everything and everybody round him. Now all that’s left for it to consume is his own shrinking body.’

  They waited for Mr Looby and Mr Laxton while pretending to be busy sorting typewritten sheets in the lobby. At last the two solicitors came down the stairs, first Mr Laxton, the senior partner, tall, hoop-legged, with an arching back and a head that probably appeared heavier than it felt. Mr Looby followed light-footedly with a bulging briefcase.

  ‘I trust you’ve managed to finish your business,’ Cookie smiled. ‘I know it must be difficult, he gets tired so quickly now.’

  ‘The great thing about business is that it’s never finished.’ Mr Looby returned his smile.

  ‘My partner means that we’re off now to see another client,’ Mr Laxton explained.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like a coffee,’ Joey said.

  ‘Or a drink?’ Cookie suggested.

  ‘I’m sure Mr Looby would like a coffee and I myself would love a sherry, but unfortunately we’ve got time for neither.’

  ‘He isn’t as strong as when you came two months ago.’ Cookie introduced a note of serious concern.

  ‘He’s failing fast,’ said Joey.

  ‘He’s full of the most ingenious ideas,’ Mr Laxton assured them.

  ‘You have a most extraordinary man for a father,’ said Mr Looby. ‘I’m sure you must all be extremely proud of him.’

  ‘He’s been complaining a lot about the weather recently,’ Joey said.

  ‘I don’t blame him.’ Mr Laxton made for the door.

  ‘Who would?’ Mr Looby tugged at the front of his double-breasted suit and flashed a complacent smile.

  ‘Leeches,’ hissed Joey when they’d gone. ‘They’ll bleed him dry before they’ve done.’

  ‘And we still haven’t seen Mr Phibbs!’ said Cookie.

  ‘I keep thinking of the bastards coming and going and not giving anything away.’

  ‘It would be nice to escape for a week or two from all this madness.’

  ‘We could both escape this afternoon. I’ll take you out in the boat. You’ve never been on the island, I’ll bet. We’ll stand on the highest point and observe the House of Heron from a distance. With luck we’ll see things as they really are.’

  ‘I’d love to come but I can’t this afternoon. I’m supposed to be lunching at Fort Knox.’

  ‘Again! Surely you could cry off. It’s late in the year, we may not get as mild a day again.’

  ‘It’s awkward. I don’t get invited all that often.’

  Joey laughed at Cookie’s uneasiness.

  ‘Was it Mrs Bugler who invited you?’

  ‘No, Alicia. Mrs Bugler’s in Dublin for a day or two.’

  ‘You know what that means?’

  ‘It means that lunch won’t be up to much. Alicia hates cooking.’

  ‘It means shafting, my dear Cookie. I hope you’re in form, that you haven’t been bashing your bishop overmuch lately.’

  Cookie tried to escape up the stairs.

  ‘Alicia is the prettiest thing around. Surely she must have some effect on you.’ Joey followed him.

  ‘I like her,’ said Cookie.

  ‘Do you love her?’

  ‘I could love her.’

  ‘That would mean not loving Pauline. Have you thought of that?’

  ‘I don’t need to think. You’re doing my thinking for me.’

  ‘Come to my room for a minute. I’ve got something to give you.’

  Joey’s room was a mess. The wash-basin was full of unwashed mugs he’d brought up from the kitchen and omitted to return, and the floor was strewn with books and folders. He got down on his knees to rummage in a drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe, then handed Cookie a squarish packet wrapped in strong brown paper.

  ‘It’s a gross of French letters,’ he explained. ‘I took them from Jack’s room in case Pauline came across them. He used to get them from a rep from the North.’

  ‘You have great ambitions for me,’ Cookie said.

  ‘You don’t need to carry the lot around with you. Keep the box in your room and put one or two in your wallet from time to time.’

  ‘Don’t you want some yourself?’

  ‘I’ve got another gross. Jack was a businessman, he knew all about economies of scale and bulk buying.’

  Cookie went to his room and splashed some aftershave on his neck and cheeks. He’d had a bath before breakfast and had powdered himself below the waist with talc. Now he felt clean, fragrant, smooth-skinned and a little excited. He broke open the packet and took out two of the French letters which he put in the innermost pocket of his wallet.

  Joey had once said that the most beautiful thing about Alicia was her mouth, which looked redder than red because of her pale skin. For Cookie it was her slender shoulders. He had actually been able to feel the bones individually through the light dress that day in the library. He opened his wallet and put the two French letters back in the packet.

  Alicia came to the door as soon as he knocked. He breathed a sigh of relief, as he’d had visions of Mrs Bugler comin
g back a day early. Alicia was wearing a white silk shirt and black dicky bow with a flared skirt that ended above the knee and gave her the look of a precocious schoolgirl.

  ‘You’re punctual,’ she said. ‘I was late getting up, I still haven’t decided what to do about lunch.’

  ‘There’s no hurry. I had a late breakfast too.’

  ‘I’ll show you the house first. You didn’t really see it last time. Then we’ll have a glass of wine, or would you prefer what my mother calls sherry wine?’

  She hooked her arm in his and led him straight up the stairs while he tried to make coherent conversation to conceal his state of unreadiness. He arrived breathless on the landing, wishing that they’d started with a little aperitif.

  ‘That was Daddy’s room,’ she said, opening a door.

  The room was almost bare, the air cold inside. There was no carpet, the narrow floorboards creaked. She sat in her father’s rocking-chair while he looked out of the window across the Sound to the stark island and thought of her all in white against a landscape of whiter snow.

  ‘It’s a shame we haven’t got even one of his pictures,’ she said. ‘All we’ve got here is a folder of pencil and crayon sketches, none of them finished.’

  ‘It’s a measure of his success. Everything he painted sold.’

  ‘My mother wasn’t interested. The nearest she gets to art is cooking.’

  She led him to her mother’s room which faced the river and the hill beyond.

  ‘Note the two double beds,’ she said. ‘I see you’re not surprised.’

  ‘I prefer double beds to single. I hated the single beds at school.’

  ‘The one by the window is for cooling off, when things get too hot in the seedbed.’

  ‘That is a luxury,’ Cookie said seriously.

  ‘Do you fancy a swing?’ She pointed to a tubular frame at the end of the room with heavy wooden blocks for feet and a metal seat suspended on two chains.

  ‘Is it a permanent fixture?’ He tried to be matter-of-fact.

  ‘No, it’s movable. It was mine when I was little. I had it stored in Father’s room till Mother took a fancy to it.’

  He helped her to drag it out from the wall into the middle of the room. She eased herself into the seat and allowed herself to swing gently to and fro. He waited for her dress to lift, but she wasn’t going high enough for that.