Sudden Times

by Dermot Healy

  I was sorta disappointed but I said nothing. He had half a garage for the lorry and a bed for himself in a Portakabin that said on the side: WE APOLOGIZE FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE CAUSED WHILST CARRYING OUT THIS ESSENTIAL WORK ON BEHALF OF MC KENNA’S. Tacked to the back was another sign that repeated what was said at the entrance: NO HAT NO BOOTS NO JOB!

  They took their safety serious in London.

  The mobile was raised on wooden struts and looked like a pillbox against the wall of the office block next door.

  Who are you? I asked him.

  I’m the crowd on the gate – Executive Security Patrol, he said. I keep an eye on things and they let me stop here till building starts.

  I thought we were going to rough it, but when I stepped up the ladder and into the mobile it was a wonder. UP SLIGO, it said on the door. He had electricity and running water, courtesy of the builders. There was a deep crimson carpet he’d taken from a skip. A camp bed and a sofa with angry springs that turned into a single. A gas cooker from the bring-and-buy and a brand new aluminium sink with the price tag still stuck to it. A small gas fridge into which I put the couple o’ pound of sausages and rashers I’d brought from home. He had a stack of opera cassettes. He had a shelf of books on space, a pile of travel brochures from Thomas Cook, travel books on South America, editions of Yeats’s poetry, and a pile of pictorial atlases of the world. Small porcelain heads of bearded fishermen hung from the timber frames. And there was an old grey photo of Rosses Point above his bed.

  He lit the gas and we feasted on shepherd’s pie and listened to Pavarotti sing Puccini’s Nessun Dorma. He put her high.

  As we ate he told the story of the opera.

  Then we sat out on blocks on the site and had a smoke. The night sky was cramped and blue-grey. Away in the sky the Mayo flag fluttered. To the left was a small side street dominated by a coal-black church. One of the stained-glass windows was lit from behind and a few apostles in flowing robes were gathered in the light.

  These protection rackets have me fucked, said Marty warily. You can’t believe the shit that’s going down. A whiff of paraffin floated through the air. A fox came out into the open and stared at us for just a moment with a backwards look then went on. Through the open door of the cabin, Pavarotti went on to sing Questa O Quella by Verdi. Marty told the story of that one too. The music thundered through the site as if it were the setting for the opera. The tape ended. Cats screeched. In the distance the traffic to and from the airport flew by.

  Hould your whist, Marty said, and don’t be talking.

  He hit a switch. Lights from overhead on the crane blazed down on the site.

  That item over there, he said, is the toilet in case you’re wondering.

  I was home and dry.

  don’t they know it’s Sunday?

  Next morning I made him a fry while he pulled weights and showered in a health-and-fitness place across the road. This black tom he had as a pet landed a mouse on the doorstep. A thrush on the roof stood waiting on crumbs then bathed in the foundations. When it rained the bulb blinked. There was a single toll from a bell. A few worshippers hurried by. Soon distant singing began.

  They were coming out of the church and chatting when he reversed on to the street. We drove to north London, through streets filled with African churchgoers in wide hats and collarless suits. They flocked in little groups like rare birds. Students from France and Italy raced along the footpaths. Fellows washed cars in the forecourts of blocks of flats. A Paddy in a suit was sitting on a step reading the Sunday Independent. We pulled in and I jumped down.

  Ring the bell, said Marty, and speak into the intercom.

  Jenkins here, a crackly voice said.

  Hallo.

  Who is that?

  Ollie Ewing, I said.

  You wha?

  Ah …

  You the delivery?

  Yes.

  About time too.

  The gates swung open and Marty backed into the council yard. We began unloading the fridges and computers onto a few pallets in a Portakabin. The security man appeared.

  Rainy day, said Marty

  It’s good, ain’t it? said Mr Jenkins to himself.

  I lowered an Apple onto the deck. As I straightened up I found his face next to mine.

  Do you know what time it is?

  I shrugged. He followed me out to the wagon, passing Marty who was on his way in.

  Hi matey, he said as I climbed onto the lorry.

  Yes, Mr Jenkins?

  You hear me speak to you?

  It’s around ten, I said, I think.

  As I pulled the next fridge down off the back he tapped me on the shoulder.

  Who is the boss here?

  You, Mr Jenkins.

  Stop fucking mucking around.

  I pointed at Marty who was coming out of the shed.

  Is he the boss?

  Yes, I said.

  Another tough guy, he said.

  He turned about.

  Hi you!

  Marty said nothing.

  You were supposed to be here at eight!

  Is that right?

  It bloody well is!

  Now, said Marty.

  Marty went round him and just kept moving and so did I. I dropped the edge of a fridge onto his outstretched arms, jumped down and took the front and headed inside. Your man continued whinging. Then the packing came undone and the door of the fridge fell open.

  Could you take the door, please, Mr Jenkins? I said.

  Fucking hell!

  I wanted to answer him, but couldn’t and Marty wouldn’t. We trundled forwards with the security man bent over between us. He held the door closed till we got inside. The grief I get, he said, from Jack-the-lads. He stalked us as we moved to and fro. He looked at his watch and sighed. Sordid, he said. A cigarette he rolled burst open in the rain. When we had the last fridge stacked Marty says to me: Hi Ollie, will you get the dawk-cue-ments? drawing out the sound like a fucking gobaloon.

  I will, I said.

  About time, Mr Jenkins said.

  I got the receipt book and handed it over.

  What does it say? asked Marty.

  What do you mean, what does it say? said the security man in consternation. It says ten fucking fridges and six computers.

  There, said Marty pointing.

  Mr Jenkins scrutinized the docket again.

  I see nothing.

  He handed it to me.

  Can you see anything?

  What am I supposed to see? I said.

  Mr Jenkins flapped his hands. Ask your boss, why don’t you?

  Marty said nothing.

  Well? Mr Jenkins said, turning to me.

  I don’t know, I said.

  Well, I do, says Marty and he pointed. It says ten, doesn’t it? Deliver at ten – right?

  Is that what it says? the security man asked me.

  I read the docket again

  That’s what it says, Mr Jenkins, I said.

  Well, if it does, that’s not what they told me. He took a pen from behind his ear and wearily ticked off the items. I just can’t believe it. Incompetents, he said. Don’t they know it’s Sunday?

  Marty took his cheque and climbed into the cab and I went ahead to guide him out.

  Good luck, Mr Jenkins, I said.

  It’s just a laugh, ain’t it? he said. No harm, right? He pulled the gate to. You tell your boss it’s just a laugh. Right?

  Did you hear him? said Marty as we drove off.

  I did, I said.

  You’ll get that.

  You will.

  It’s lucky, he said, that you and me are programmed to be random.

  That’s right, I said.

  He gave me twenty.

  That was my first wages in England.

  Watch your back!

  We went to an Irish pub to meet a ganger who promised me the start Monday week with this English gang. You’ll have to pay tax on that job, he said. Okey-dokey? I didn’t like th
e sound of that, but it stood to me in the long run. I told him I was a chippie, but in the event he must have thought I was in demolition. Maybe he didn’t hear me right.

  There was a morning session of music in progress at the time.

  The walls had old boots, bodhrans and photos of Ireland in the Twenties. Everyone was stooking wheat. Or sitting by turf fires. In a poster for the Theatre Royal in Dublin, Paddy Crosbie was holding The Pick of the Schools. He was to be accompanied by Freddie Marshall and The Royalettes. Over the bar scenes from The Quiet Man were being re-enacted. Then along the walls were portraits of Cyril Cusack, Noel Purcell, Milo O’Shea, Darby O’Gill and The Little People. I went to the bar to get a drink.

  Will you go back? said this man at the bar.

  Never, I said.

  He turned to the Chinese fellow beside him.

  As we revolutionize the technology and I get to know more about our product, it gets exciting.

  His companion nodded. I sailed back with two pints of Carling. In the centre of the lounge was a long table at which there were maybe fifteen Connemaras, men and women, speaking Irish. I was intrigued by them, and whenever I got the chance I nodded across but got little response. They must have thought I was a jack-in-the-box. When the boys on the bandstand took a break, this middle-aged woman, dressed in a beret and black raincoat, sat down at the top of the table, and sang as Gaeilge Ochon is Ochon. Sorrow and more sorrow. I thought it was beautiful. So I approached her table to thank her for the song. Just as I got near I could hear one man say: Feach Le do Chul. Feach le do Chul. Watch your back! Watch your back! I didn’t know what he was on about. I said to her: Bhi sin go halainn. That was lovely. She didn’t move her head to look at me or nod. It was as if she were under orders. You have a great voice, I said. She smiled nervously. I think if the others had not been there she would have spoken.

  I continued on to the toilet. This gent followed me in.

  Everywhere I went in London I met folk in toilets.

  An bfhuil Gaeilge agat? he asked me.

  Beaganin, I said, knowing he must have been one of the Connies at the table. I have only a bit of the language.

  You should be ashamed of yourself to have no Irish, he said.

  I am, I answered.

  What do you want with us?

  Nothing, I said. I just thought that lady had a nice voice.

  You don’t talk to any of our women. You don’t approach any of our women, all right?

  But I’m from Ireland like yourself, I said.

  I don’t give two fucks where you’re from, he said. Do you hear me?

  I do, I said, ashamed of myself.

  I walked by the table back to Marty. The gent came in and sat and threw a glance back at me like a curse.

  Satan

  All right, said Marty and we went for a ramble in the park. He said he was thinking of becoming a Muslim. He’d been working on fixings in a hotel and the Arab clerk of works had stopped the elevator all of a sudden. He asked Marty whether he believed in Satan.

  What did you say?

  I didn’t know what to say, said Marty. I said I didn’t know. Then he said: I thought all you Irish believe in Satan. But when I left that job, said Marty, I was convinced. But first I have to make the shekels.

  We drove round the city to Brixton and went to the pictures. It was a horror double bill. When we stepped onto the street at five the sun was shining.

  Not so bad, says Marty. We went down to the public toilets to have a piss and while we were standing there at the long line of urinals this female voice reached us from above.

  David?

  We said nothing. She came down a few steps.

  David, you down there?

  We looked at each other. There was a clack of high heels. Hesitantly she came another few steps. Then we saw her legs. She stopped halfway.

  David, you there.

  There’s no David, I said.

  Are you sure? she asked in an American accent.

  Well, I said, there’s only two of us here I think.

  Do you mind if I check?

  Just a moment, I said.

  We put the lads away.

  C’mon, I said.

  She came down the steps walking very unsteadily. She had a small fur over her shoulders and wore a tiny pleated skirt above the knees. The nylons were thick and black. She had a necklace of shells and a small polite pink handbag.

  Sorry, she said.

  She walked along opening the doors of the various toilets. You in there, David? she said. C’mon David, she said, don’t do this to me. When she reached the end she did the same all over again. Then she looked at us.

  Was there anyone here when you came in?

  No, said Marty.

  This is terrible, she said. He said he would be here.

  We walked back up the steps into the sunlight. She looked all around. She lit a fag and her hands shook.

  Is there something wrong?

  I was supposed to get married, she said.

  Oh.

  We agreed to meet here at the toilet. We agreed yesterday.

  I see, I said.

  He said right here on this spot at five. I’m six minutes late.

  Well, don’t worry, I said, he might turn up.

  And he has my stash.

  Oh.

  Do you mind looking down in the washrooms again?

  I walked the toilets again.

  No, I said, there’s no one.

  We have to go, said Marty.

  Do you have to?

  We have to get back, he said.

  He gave her a fiver. She looked at the money and nodded.

  I’ll wait a while longer, she said but still and all she followed us to the lorry like she wanted to come along with us.

  Trigger

  We landed back to the site. Marty cooked a meal of bacon and cabbage and we finished off a few cans of cider. We sat on the blocks and listened to the music.

  Didn’t you have a dog who ate apples? I said.

  Trigger.

  That was him, I said. That was him.

  A wino came roaring and began shaking the fence.

  Stop the music! he shouted. Stop the fucking music!

  He began a long harangue. We slept content. Next morning I took my bag of tools and headed off on the underground and ended up off Liverpool Street in a nice hard hat knocking down fucking walls.

  19

  the drive

  This Friday night Marty picked me up in a pub in Kilburn. Not so bad, he said. He couldn’t talk, he said, until we got outside.

  He got into the lorry and had a smoke.

  Fuck it, he said. You want to go for a spin?

  Work away, I said.

  I think we’ll go and see an auld friend of yours.

  Who?

  Wait and see, he says.

  So we took off for a drive. He said he was thinking of hiring himself out to a bloke called Silver John. He was going to make a few bob and bring the wagon home. Things were too tight in England. Everyone was going home. Fly-tipping was not his idea of a job. There were these cunts after him.

  The Irish, said Marty, are worse than the fucking English.

  We stopped on the motorway and had another smoke. He asked me if I would join him if he went back to Sligo. He’d need a chippie. Marty was the only man I knew who relished me as a chippie. Still and all I’d look an idiot if I went home so soon. But I said I would. We drove all the way to Luton airport and knocked on the back door. Out came La Loo in his security uniform. He pinned two name badges to our collars and we walked the airport with him. At various watches he turned the key. We walked down long corridors and into the empty departure lounge. Then on to arrivals. We stepped into the ghostly bar. An air-traffic controller made us tea. Lights blinked for miles around. Then we went off on another watch. All was well that night in Luton. At four he knocked off and we drove him back to his lodgings.

  Keep in touch, says Marty.

  I wil
l, says La Loo.

  We turned to London. I fell asleep and woke to find morning was breaking as we came thundering down Western Avenue.

  He dropped me at Liverpool Street.

  See you later, says Marty.

  Sound, I said.

  do you think it’s all in my head?

  That Saturday night when I arrived back off the job Marty was afflicted. He sat frowning at the little table, then was out the door or to the window.

  What’s wrong? I asked him.

  Do you have the feeling that this place is being – watched?

  I couldn’t tell you, I said.

  He tipped the curtain open slightly and stared outside. He sat again.

  I feel there’s some fucker out there.

  Like who?

  I don’t know. Some fucker.

  Watching us?

  That’s right.

  Jazus.

  This is a serious joint, you know.

  You want to take a look?

  I don’t know. He laughed. I don’t know whether I really want to.

  Maybe it’s best to leave the fucker out there. Hah?

  Whatever you want.

  All right then.

  Sound.

  He grabbed me by the shoulder.

  Do you believe me?

  O’ course I do.

  I don’t know.

  Let’s take a look, I said.

  With lights blazing we walked the site together but found no one.

  Now I suppose you think that I was imagining things, he said.

  If you think there was someone out there, Marty, then that’s good enough for me.

  Do you know something, Ollie? he said, I’m glad you’re here.

  I’m glad to be here, too, I said.

  But there’s someone out there, he said, somewhere.

  We checked the padlock on the gate and jammed a log against the inside of the door in the mobile. We waited there in the dark, frightening each other with our thoughts. He took his binoculars, lifted the plastic curtain and scanned the site. He handed them to me and I did the same.