by Dermot Healy
Go to London, says Liz.
London, he said. His shoulders gave an involuntarily shiver. But you’ll not be going all of a sudden?
We’re in no hurry.
Good. He nodded and swished his glass. Things are not so hot down there either.
So I heard, I said.
Maggie Thatcher saw to that. I should have gone home when I had the chance.
You could still go, said Liz.
No. It’s too late now.
the orchestra
Tell us this, he said. He set down his glass and put the bottoms of his two fists on his thighs. How is Joe Green?
The divers have him annoyed.
Aha. He laughed. And Johnny? Johnny Gurn?
He’s there.
The General?
The General is fine.
Tell them I miss them.
His voice cracked on the word miss and his eyes watered. He took off his baseball cap and ran a hand through his hair and felt the top button of his shirt.
And all in Gerties?
The orchestra is still playing, Eamon.
Good, he said. They’re tough. They’re tough. Lord above but I’m going on. I’ll have to stop talking. I’ll have to quit that. So what are we doing tomorrow?
Me not know, I said.
Now that we saw the museum, we could go to the zoo, said Liz sleepily.
The zoo by God. I couldn’t even tell you if there is one.
No matter.
We’ll find one. But maybe you don’t want an old fellow dragging out of ye.
We’ll take her as she comes, I said.
That’s fine by me.
Liz crept beneath the sheet of one of the single beds.
Are you leaving us?
I’m moving on, she said.
The lady is tired, he said.
Don’t mind me, she said. As you were talking I started to dream.
She curled in the bed and sighed. She put the back of her hand on her forehead like someone about to swoon. A few seconds later she gave a sweet snore. The father put a finger to his lips and poured the two of us a port. He wrung out the lemon from the gins into his glass and lay back.
A fine lady, he whispered.
Yes, I whispered.
We drank in silence.
What time is it? he asked me.
It must be gone two.
Two by God?
About that.
This place is grand, he said.
He closed his eyes. After a while his chin dropped. The freckled hands joined loosely at the groin looked cold. I took his glass from the groove between his fingers and threw a spare blanket over him. He darted awake and scrutinized me with wild eyes but didn’t move. I got into the other single bed and turned off the bedside lamp and immediately in the mind’s eye saw the bride light up across the street.
17
I was thinking
When I woke in the morning I felt this pressure against my back and turned to find a pair of feet with cracked nails and dark brown heels sticking out of the sheets onto the pillow. The father was lying beside me, top to bottom. I looked down into his face. His eyes were open.
Good morning, he said.
I lay back.
Good morning yourself.
I got a crick in the back of my neck, he explained, so I climbed into the bed behind you.
I never even felt you get in.
You were dead to the world.
We lay staring at the ceiling.
I was thinking, he said.
Go ahead.
I was thinking that we might visit the barber’s.
Good enough, I said.
The barber’s, then a feed.
Right.
And then, ahem, the hair of the dog, he added cheerfully.
I heard these voices, said Liz from across the room. Then I said to myself, Them’s the Ewings. Still talking.
We’re going to the barber’s, I said.
Then the zoo, added the father.
Nice one, she said.
She stepped out fully dressed and threw open the windows. Then, whistling, went to the bathroom.
“On Top of Old Smokey”
When the door closed he got out of bed. His legs were shocking thin and white like mine and the veins on the back of the calves bulged.
He sat in the armchair in his vest and wrapped his arms round his chest. He wrinkled his toes.
Tell me this – am I intruding?
Not at all. It’s you we came to see.
Are you sure – because if you like I can make myself scarce.
No, not at all, I said.
He reached for his trousers and put them on sitting down.
We had a good old laugh, he said.
We did.
And we’re not finished yet.
No.
Liz came back and plugged in a small kettle on the dressing table. She washed one of the glasses and set out two cups and dropped tea bags into them.
Do you mind if I have a shower? the father asked cheerfully.
Go ahead.
He gathered his clothes very carefully, the hat onto the head, the shirt over the arm, the tie in the shirt pocket, the socks stuffed neatly into the shoes. The jacket on a hanger. The lock clicked behind him. Liz pulled her hair tight back from her head. She sat down to look at her face. She grew serious.
He’s a nice man, your father.
Aye.
She filled a glass of milkless tea for herself and a milky cup for me and then she stood looking out the window. From the bathroom we could hear my father chanting some old hymn in Latin, repeating over and over O Salutaris and Credo in Unum Deo. Then he went on to “On Top of Old Smokey”. Next thing we were off in search of a fiddler from Gurteen.
Birmingham
With a posse of retired, low-slung Sligo and Mayo men ahead of us we marched through Birmingham Station. Over the tannoy came an announcement that the train was leaving for Holyhead, the port for Ireland.
Keep moving, said Lee Jones of Westport, we don’t want to get caught up in that.
It would only make you lonely, said someone else.
The father led the way with a little rucksack on his back. THE PALISADES WELCOMES YOU TO BIRMINGHAM, said a sign. And another read:
BRITISH TRANSPORT POLICE
Volunteers wanted
£10 an hour
For Identification Parade at New St Station. Description: Light-skinned Afro-Caribbean Male, 26–36 yrs, 5’ 9” to 5’ 11”, short black hair, average build, full beard, and moustache closely cropped. Casual dress.
12 VOLUNTEERS SOUGHT
Not us, unfortunately, said Lee Jones of Westport.
We passed through the Bull Ring.
Let’s stop for a look round the market, said Eddie.
If we stop we’ll never get anywhere, said my father.
Aw.
He fled through the crowds without a backward look. We were in the middle of life. Ambulances shot by overhead in what sounded like second gear, their alarms ringing. A motorcyclist coming down braked before a box of tomatoes that had fallen from a lorry. His front wheel clipped the pavement and he slithered to a stop in front of us.
He took off his helmet.
Did you see that? he said.
There was a frightened innocent look in his eye.
You were lucky, very lucky, said my father. He tugged at his baseball cap. C’mon.
searching
When we landed to the door of the fiddler’s boarding house we found he had left his former lodgings and moved on. The woman there gave us his new address, and so the search began. First we tried the pubs. The Dubliner, which said it was Birmingham’s Number One Irish pub, was empty. The Irish Centre in the High Street was closed. Streets went everywhere. The traffic sounded like the sea. The concrete walls were blistering. We walked through a huge shopping mall and came out on another road of huge blood-red buildings. The stink of fish followed us.
Where are we
for now, Eamon? asked Matt Foy of Sooey.
This way, said my father.
We went to a certain seat in a small artificial park of sorry green, but the fiddler wasn’t there. It was the sort of thing my father would do, go searching for a man he couldn’t find. And as we went across the grass I suddenly remembered I’d been on a class of a search like this before in another life. The memory made me uneasy, but I said nothing. He was enjoying himself my father was. An urchin gave an impish wave to Liz then turned and looked a long time at his watch as he spun the winder. Then he headed off stamping on leaves.
A head-the-ball, said Sooey Tay.
Then we got a bus to Sparkhill, then Sparkbrook, and finally Springfield, and alighted by a church that said START A NEW DAY WITH JESUS. Good luck, said my father. The streets were thronged with Sikhs and Muslims. Our crowd went quiet and walked with averted eyes. In a shop Liz bought an eternity ring while the men busied themselves outside discussing what way to go. We passed Pakistani shops that sold methi, abbi and pecak. In Springfield we met a white man, a buck from Belfast.
Do you know Parr Street, boss?
Never heard of it. Are ye on the raz lads?
We are.
Well, have a nice day.
Liz headed into an Indian fabric and textile shop to pick through the material. We waited on the footpath outside.
Let’s go back, Eamon, said Aidan Carr. We’ll never bucking find him.
No way, said my father.
A smell of dead flesh crossed the street. Small Indians in caps eyed us quizzically. We asked directions of a man who shook his head sadly as if we were a sorry bunch. We asked him again. He shook his head and watched us with amazement as we strolled off.
Are you sure you have the right place? I asked.
I am, said my father sternly.
We took off again. We went into the Community Hall at Hall Green but there was no white folk there. We asked direction of another man who came with us for the walk. He was named Sagreed. He entered into conversation with shopowners along the way who looked from him to us and back again. He laughed. They pointed this way, that way. We waited, wondering. This way please, said Sagreed. At 6 lvor Street he stopped and signalled that this was the place.
But this is lvor Street.
Never mind, said Sagreed.
But we’re looking for Parr Street.
Please? and he rose his hand.
What does he want me to do? said Sooey Tay.
He wants you to knock.
So Sooey knocked on the door. But there was no one home.
Again please, said Sagreed.
This is fucking out-of-order, said Sooey.
Ah, just humour the buck, said my father.
We knocked again and the woman next door drew her blind. Then Sagreed knocked on her door. We’ll be fucking murdered, said Sooey. She held it ajar about an inch and Sagreed and her entered into a wild discourse. When she closed the door in his face he cursed and shouted some form of obscenity.
Easy son, said Sooey.
That woman is barmy, he shouted.
Parr Street, said my father.
Yes, nodded Sagreed and he pursed his lips.
Sagreed, said Liz
Yes?
Parr Street is where we are looking for, said Liz.
Ah, Parr, said Sagreed and he nodded vehemently. Parr Street, Parr Street, Parr Street.
He clicked his fingers.
Off again, said Sooey.
Here we go, said Lee Jones.
Sagreed led us past the Kasmir Book Centre, back again by Hall Green Shilon’s Unisex Mendhi Bridal Fashions Mustaq’s Sweets Khoobsurat Gaudi Siddique textiles. He stopped and stood aside while Liz searched around in Sai Datha Sarees. He spoke to the proprietor of Hala, Balti Chef of the Year.
But no sign of the man from Gurteen.
Only this long bazaar of vegetables and fruit and silks and children’s dresses. We looked into Gibb’s Mew. No. This way, said Sagreed. This could end in fucking trouble, said Lee Jones. We went up a deserted street. Liz took my arm. The men halted.
Let’s go back, said Aidan Carr.
No please, you follow, said Sagreed.
This is far enough for me, said Sooey.
You follow, please, said Sagreed, and he turned and we went after him reluctantly.
Then suddenly there was Parr Street. Sagreed threw a victorious arm in the air. You could hear the sound of timber being axed in some back garden and the father knocked on the door of the Gurteen man’s lodgings. An old man in wide blue jeans answered it.
But the fiddler wasn’t there.
He knocks around the Bull Ring of a Friday, he said.
Now we’ll have to go back where we started from, said Aidan Carr, sadly.
Are ye off on a session? the man asked.
We are.
Hold on, he said, till I get my coat.
That, explained my father, is Doctor John of Grange. We could have done without him.
Bye bye now, said Sagreed.
just as I am, without one plea
We headed back to the Bull Ring with Doctor John in tow and fought through the traffic. Hughie stopped a straight-backed woman on a low bike with a dress to her ankles. Her white hair was done up in a bun. No, she hadn’t seen him.
This is the Year of the Ram, she said and pedalled off into the traffic.
Under Doctor John’s guidance we visited a stonemason’s yard where the Gurteen fiddler used labour and sat watching the mason in a small shed chisel onto the stone the name FANNY ELEANOR WYNNE – JUST AS I AM, WITHOUT ONE PLEA. On a monument beyond that the inscription read – I AM THE TRUE VINE. He had no news of Joe.
Did you try to get him on the blower?
We did.
We supped tea in a caff called Fair Do’s where the cups shook from lorries passing. The lady from Laois had not seen him either.
We questioned a road gang.
The ganger stepped over a pipe that ran clean through the cutting. Then he stood on the ear of his shovel and contemplated the cracked tarmacadam below him. He stirred a stone with his foot and shook his head. There was no sign of Joe Coyle.
Are you coming with us?
I am not, he said sternly. I am not going drinking.
Right then.
He turned back down into the cutting.
I am not, he repeated, going with you.
Suit yourself.
I will, thank you.
We stood there watching him work.
Can we not forget about who we are looking for? I said to the father.
No, he said. Never.
the Bull Ring
We entered the Bull Ring and the men from Maugherow inspected the red spuds in the mall. We passed wreaths. Sprays. Bouquets. Screwdrivers. Clay pots. Mouth organs. Wool.
We thought we saw him at the Vests.
But no.
Nor at the Socks.
We passed a litter of pups. Budgies. Engine parts.
He could be anywhere, said Sooey Tay.
He could be, said Aidan Carr.
We saw porcelain dolls from around the world. We saw Leather For Less. We saw The Underworld where briefs and bras and knickers and lace basques were displayed on the sheer bodies of serving-maids. A girl came down the ramp and took off her shoe at the Mini Heel Bar. She stood at the counter patiently dangling her bare foot. We went on.
Past Just Sweets. Just Sew. Just So.
Animal Magic. Stressed ladies? No need for stress! No need! Strawboaters Zorro hats the simple Wellington line-dancers’ hats. A shelf of scissors. Jellied eels. Live crabs. Doctor John of Grange inspected Flash Harry’s hot-water bottles. On to the Nut Centre. Would you like a set of two ducks? The Great British Banger Sausage. Stan and Ollie bookends at Short and Curley’s. Carry on to the duck eggs.
Is that him beyant?
Is it?
White Elephants. Thermal socks. Jogging suits. No fiddler, but suspender belts and Genuine Swiss watches. Blue
Stiltons, matching curtains, boxer shorts, and lastly, Sam’s perfumes.
Out by Edgbaston Street and into the flea market.
The Bull Ring proclaims God’s love in the heart of the city!
Where you can consult the Romany Gypsy about Love and Money and Business.
Swedes put hair on your chest, shouts George.
Twenty-five pee the bananas, says Eddie. All fresh and nice, he says, twenty-five the bananas, and mushrooms, oh lovely mushrooms fifty pee a pint. Moroccan orange juices large grapefruits cooking apples seedless oranges at Dora’s. Ha la! Halo! Anyone else there today? Hi there! Twenty-five the bananas!
Fuchsia curtains. Ladies Casuals. Watch straps. Joss sticks. Mushrooms!
Look at the lovely mush! Look! Feel free! I thank you, madam! Fifty pee, thank you!
You want a tasty bit of cod?
Nice? Did I say nice?
Look! Hallo! Hera! One pound a mush! Ala hera!
Famous tangerines! Lovely the apples!
Lovely the pears!
Pigeons.
Gentlemen what can I get you? Come along gentlemen, what can I interest you in?
Nothing, no thank you, we’re just looking.
And why would the gentlemen not look? Feel free! We headed off, the cheers of the stallholders, like Indians on the warpath, fading into the distance, down below us the green roofed, galvanized stalls.
Bananas!
And we ended up in an old pub, throwing rings.
Matt Foy phoned round for Joe.
Then the talk turned to aliens.
aliens
Do you believe that you can be possessed by aliens? my father asked Liz.
I do, certainly.
I knew it. You see I’m not the man I once was, he said, and he broke into a fit of laughter.
It’s no laugh, said Doctor John. The alien is a different matter entirely.
He is, I said.
He is not, said my father.
And what about New Mexico? Hah? Who were those lads when they were about?
I don’t know, I said.
If I was looking at you, said John, and you were looking at me, just as I am now, just looking and maybe we were talking, maybe, and you were in my eye and I was in yours, so that you could see yourself in my eye and I could see myself in your eye, and if one of us looked away which of us would be there? Hah? Who would be left?