by Dermot Healy
He stared at me. Wild flecks snowed through his brown pupils.
Hah?
Stop that, Doc, said my father. Stop the madness.
I’m only saying, said the Doc.
Enough of that crack.
You have to keep your ring clean, an old tunneller from Drumard told me.
Is that the trick?
It is. Yes. Take a wet cloth to your hole every day.
Blimey.
Give neither counsel nor salt, said his mate from Faughts Bridge, unless you’re asked for it.
Ah, balls, said Drumard.
No sign of Joe, said Matt Foy.
He’ll be with Brid White, I’ll warrant you.
Whoa! Whoa now! said Hughie.
What’s wrong? asked my father.
I want to make a statement.
Yis?
I want to explain my discomfiture.
What do you mean?
I’m hungry, said Hughie.
Out of the haversack on his back my father extracted pork pies and a jar of English mustard. The Doc sat down by Liz.
Are you better now? he asked her.
Better of what?
I don’t know.
The first round landed. Sligo’s “Noble Six” was sung. Liz sang “Eleanor Rigby”. The father spat on his hands, took off his cap and dragged a wave off his temple. His new hair-do shone. He took my hand.
See, he said, wringing it.
It was the first time he really looked me in the eye.
some old grudge
But they soon tired of that place because of some old grudge against the landlord. It was back again through the Bull Ring. A belch, a cough, a sign of misery from Doctor John.
I thought he was a nice fellow, he said.
Who?
Your son.
So he is.
And then you wouldn’t let me talk to him.
That’s because you were at that loony talk.
What loony talk?
Never mind.
Do you hear what he’s saying?
Whist now.
I’m only saying, said the Doc.
The search for Joe Coyle the fiddler brought us on to another shop where we had a few rounds of Twenty-Five. They cracked their fists off the table to announce a winning card. And this was answered in another corner of the bar where some West Indians were hopping dominoes. A Dutch man with wild eyes sat down with us to speak of evil.
It’s numbers, he said.
I know what you mean, said the Doc.
C’mon to hell, said Drumard.
We left.
A druggie, said Matt Foy, that’s all we need.
At teatime we sat into two vans coming off a site and journeyed quietly on swaying boards to an Irish hotel on the outskirts of the city. It had road signs for Athy and Buninadden directing you to the toilet.
A detective joined the gang. He knew them all by their first names. Sooey Tay leaned over to me.
What speed are we travelling at? asked the pilot over the intercom the last time I came across, he says. He didn’t know we heard. And that was the last time I flew by air.
We taxied to and fro searching for music. There was talk of going to see some mud-wrestling. In one pub, instead of a musician a comedian came on. Our crowd had no time for that. We left and demanded our money back at the door. We didn’t get it. And we never found music.
Below one of the flyovers, Sooey Tay got sick with one hand held in the air to keep us back.
It’s telling on him, said Hughie.
Can we go to the zoo now? asked Liz.
a pity about your father
We went back with all talk of the old grudge forgotten to the pub with the rings. They talked of deaths.
That’s a good one, said the Doc. What speed are we travelling at? Then he looked at me. Don’t you think so?
I do, I said.
And then he got sick, said the Doc and he looked sorrowfully at Sooey Tay. Come here, he said.
He put his mouth to my ear.
It’s a pity about your father, he said.
Losing the job?
Losing everything, he hissed and rose his eyes to heaven.
What are you whispering about there? asked my father.
Nothing, said Doctor John.
Much later that night the fiddler showed up, but everyone had forgotten about him by then, same as they had forgotten about the grudge. Seemingly he stood about at the edge of the party then left.
Matt Foy went to the bar and said to the landlord: Did you see Joe Coyle the fiddler?
He just left.
What do you mean?
He came in, said the landlord, and he went out. Right?
Fucking wrong. If he came in why didn’t you tell him we were here?
He saw you.
I didn’t see him.
That’s not my fault, fellow.
Do you hear this? said Matt Foy. Do you hear this fucker?
Sit down, said Drumard.
That’s right, said the Doc.
Every time we come in here, complained Matt, it’s the same fucking story.
He sat and glared at the landlord.
Why did we come here in the first place?
The old grudge, whatever it was, had resurfaced. We called it a day. The Birmingham men walked us to the train station through the deserted Bull Ring. The Coventry men sat squeezed tight against each other on a seat on the platform.
It’s a pity Joe Coyle didn’t show, said the father.
But he did, said Liz.
He looked at her strangely.
He did? He shook his head. And you’re going tomorrow?
That’s right.
Do you have to? he asked.
I’d like to see London, said Liz.
What train are you getting?
The 12.10, I said.
Ah, he muttered. It was a wasted day.
No, she said, I enjoyed myself.
You did? And then he turned and looked at me.
And so did I, I said.
poor Joe
Poor Joe, the father said last thing behind me in the bed.
it did my head in
Cut that out! my father shouted in his sleep.
What are you saying? I said.
Fuck off now! he shouted.
I put on the light.
What’s wrong with you? I asked him.
Fuck off! he said.
Stop it, I said as I watched him sneer. Don’t go like that!
Like what?
I’m going back to sleep, I said.
Go where you like!
He hurled himself out of bed and sat hostile in the single armchair, and watched me with deep gloom. These angry tics I knew from another time began. And there was this stench. So I said to myself that I wouldn’t talk to him.
He’ll be out soon, he said.
I didn’t answer.
If he’s not out already.
He waited a while.
Something has to be done there, he said quietly.
I turned the other way.
Do you hear me? he said. His time is up. He will soon be stepping through the gates.
Who? asked Liz suddenly.
I thought you were asleep, I said.
Well I wasn’t. What fellow?
No one.
Has he not told you? said my father. The fucker that killed his brother – that’s who.
You shouldn’t bring it up.
What?
You should not have said that.
What are you on about?
I said you should not have said that!
He’ll be soon walking out of that jail and we should be there to greet him.
Leave it, Daddy.
Leave it?
Yes, leave it.
Is that why you wear a leather jacket? he jumped to his feet. Is that why you fuck yourself up? Hah! He started to dress. I’ll meet him by myself.
Do.
I will.
<
br /> Leave it now, I said.
This is crazy, said Liz.
It is.
He stood there in his trousers and vest and worked his hands.
I’ll go through you, he said to me.
So do, I said.
Ollie! shouted Liz.
He stopped a moment there, looking forlorn.
I mean I’ll go by you, he said sadly.
Do.
Stop, said Liz, stop it!
I thought, said my father, that my own son –
Stop, I said.
Yes, stop it now, Mr Ewing, said Liz.
His time is up, repeated my father, buttoning his shirt.
I don’t want to hear another word, said Liz, and she cut the light.
I could hear him sit back down in the armchair in the darkness. There was the flash of a match. I didn’t want to shake or say anything. The anger and the fear made me breathless. Ollie was afraid. Then I felt him move across the room. He sat on the edge of my bed and took off his shoes quietly. A few minutes later he got in.
I’m out of order, he said.
It did my head in once, I said, and I don’t want it to happen again.
I know.
I thought he wouldn’t like that phrase – it did my head in. It would, I thought, have struck him as wrong. The way he said I know I wasn’t sure. A few minutes before I thought he would hit me. I knew he wanted to. He stirred at my feet.
It did my head in too, he said.
the return of Doctor John
When I woke next morning he was gone. Liz, with her head propped up against a pillow, was lying against the wall at the side of her bed. She had a sheet to her chin.
What do we do now?
Pack.
And go to London?
Yes.
I don’t mind if you want to stay here.
No.
And what about your father?
I don’t know yet.
I went in and washed the teeth. I peered into my eyes and saw Doctor John of Grange looking out at me. What speed are we travelling at? It’s a pity about your father! The same wild flecks snowed across the irises. It was wicked. I pulled away and sat on the jacks. Then the words flowed through again, all disjointed as before, reams of them, leading nowhere. I had heard all this before. It was time to be going.
We paid and called a cab.
I was about to say, Hey, stop at Dure Street a moment, boss! but instead I said nothing, neither did Liz, and we went on to the station and there on the platform was my father in his baseball cap, white runners and blue raincoat, waiting to say goodbye to us with a bunch of flowers he did not know the name of.
V
The Party
18
walls
I flew over with Ryanair from Dublin to Luton on February 9th for £40.
And was put to knocking down walls, though I was a chippie.
Stuff was poured on my hair. They were making a bollacks of me on the site. I nearly got caught up in the crack the first day I was there. You could say the job was well protected. It was like a wood. But as they say – they have eradicated the side effects of the drugs over the years. But when the ground jigs under your feet, you’d wonder.
But I was young and healthy enough then. I’d brought with me from Sligo my leather pouch and nails, a tape measure and a hammer. There was a stag party behind me on the plane, all sleeping. The things I saw in the air were a river gleaming like a seam of silver in the sunshine somewhere in Wales, then little pools of mercury, and at last a city and this little cloud, all on its own, hanging like a dust-mote. The plane began jibbering, we fell sideways and the wing on my side cocked up like the leg of a dog. We’d struck an air-pocket. Dearie me, someone said. I closed my eyes. We landed among a bunch of butty planes. A red radar spun like a windmill. Spectators sat on wooden benches watching the skies. Figures strolled round the glass cupola on top of the high watchtower. And on one shed there was a weather vane with a plane, not a bird, on top.
It was a bright clear day.
I declared the hammer at customs. And was put to knocking down walls.
yuppies
Yuppies did me no harm. When they talk disparagingly of the yuppies you can tell it’s an escape route for the mind. The yuppies were sound enough. They had no resentments, not that you’d notice.
Here I go again with my suitcase in my hands, said an Irish fellow, who was drunk, to a yuppie.
The yuppie up and hit him hard, straightened himself up and went on wherever. The yuppie is a hippie with a job. There were plenty of yuppies at Luton airport when I arrived. When I declared the hammer, a hand came down on my shoulder.
Sorry about this, I heard a voice say.
I turned to explain my case but who was it but La Loo in a security uniform. I couldn’t believe it.
Come along, mate, he says.
Fuck me, La Loo.
The bould Ollie, he says. How are things?
Grand.
He hoisted his shoulders and gave a laugh.
This way, sir, he says.
He led me through customs with his walkie-talkie chatting away.
Is this what you’re at? I asked.
Oh, only part-time. I’m doing toxicology at Luton University, he said. Don’t tell them at home that you saw me working.
I won’t.
You see, said La Loo, I want to make it on my own. By the way, Marty’s waiting for you outside.
Good man, Marty. He made it.
I think he’s in some sort of bother.
What sort?
I don’t know.
Out through the special gates and on into arrivals, where a crowd were hanging round. My best friend, Marty Kilgallon, was standing among them waiting on me. They all had name cards in the air except him. He knew who he was looking for. The Pakistani taxi driver done up in a turban didn’t.
You Mr Jennings? he asked me.
No, said La Loo, he’s not.
Where is he then? the taxi driver asked in consternation.
I said I didn’t know.
Not so bad, Ollie, Marty said, as if I had asked him how he was which I hadn’t. My two friends took me across the crowded floor. Then an old man in a jumpsuit and glasses hanging down over his pot belly grabbed La Loo’s arm.
I should not be in Luton, he said. I should be in Gatwick.
Go to Information, says La Loo.
I’ve been there already, he said.
Then you’ll have to go by rail.
It’s not good enough, complained the man. It’s not good enough. You get nothing but frustration.
He waded off. Everyone in Luton was wearing safety helmets some blue some yellow some white and all very new. The comical hard hats hovered over their skulls. Ryanair air hostesses were marching around. The place was at high-doh. There were beagles in cages, rap music over the intercom and Avis girls with red cravats calling out to each other. We sped off across the crowded floor.
Come on for a coffee, said La Loo.
No, said Marty, we better head.
What’s your hurry?
Business.
Good luck then.
Good luck.
La Loo saluted at the door. Myself and Marty headed to the car park. I thought he looked frightened. Things were not so good, he said. He told me this protection crowd were after him.
The best thing, he said, is not to stick to the one job. They have all the sites sewn up. The only thing is to keep moving ahead of them.
We headed towards his lorry. H122 ZFY. He walked me round her proudly. He pulled up an edge of the tarpaulin that covered the tipper and stood back. Inside was a scattering of fridges and computers, still in their packing.
Not so bad, he said. I shouldn’t be carrying them around like this. Then he put a finger to his lips and winked and pulled the tarpaulin down.
We headed past Vauxhall Motors and on into London town along the super highway. The motor was a beaut: diesel, twin-tyred, a high American-s
tyle bonnet, a bit heavy round the gear box but she booted fine. He put a cassette on and sang along with the tenor as we jaunted from lane to lane.
Do you hear that voice? he said.
I do.
Hear that, he said, he’s just about to leave her. And she doesn’t like it.
She does not, I said.
She doesn’t like it at all, he said.
No sir, I agreed.
Up Sligo!
He took me to this deserted site somewhere near Hammersmith and got down from the cab.
TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED, a sign read, KEEP OUT. Then another sign in bright red: WARNING. THESE PREMISES ARE PROTECTED BY EXECUTIVE SECURITY PATROLS. The wooden shuttering on the fence to the front was painted a deep crimson. On the next wall big red balloons were painted on a mauve background. Then life-size people hurrying with umbrellas. To the sides, wire fencing reached to about ten feet. He got a key and threw open the high wide gates, drove in and locked them behind us. On a sign inside it said NO HAT NO BOOTS NO JOB! and further on ALL VISITORS PLEASE REPORT TO THE SITE MANAGER. SITE SAFETY STARTS HERE.
I didn’t know what was going on. I thought we were looking for trouble.
Marty, I said, maybe we should go.
Take it handy, he laughed.
We drove through piles of sand and building blocks and great steel girders. FIRE ACTION! FIRE ACTION! said blue posters hammered into the ground. Hundreds of bricks sat in cellophane. Red arrows pointed up, blue arrows pointed down. SAFETY HELMETS MUST BE WORN AT ALL TIMES ON THIS SITE! A crane stood silent in the centre like a great fishing rod. From the top, the Mayo colours flew. FIRE ACTION! All round us the ground was gutted and yellow sewer pipes ran to and fro. PROTECTIVE FOOTWEAR MUST BE WORN IN THIS AREA! Rods for reinforcing concrete sat on palettes. Others shot out of cement casings like cacti.
It’s a Japanese job, he says. Going to be some sort of insurance outfit. They ran out of shekels.
I didn’t know where we were going. The muck was a foot deep. Some of the foundations were set in place and pools of water had collected in the concrete. It looked like an abandoned place all right where money had run out in a hurry. Then away at the back of the site Marty pulled up. This is home, he said.