by Anne Griffin
‘How’s your uncle-in-law?’
‘My uncle-in-law? Thomas you mean. I’ve no idea. I don’t hear much about him. Did you know him well?’ he replied, clutching at whatever straw I was willing to throw.
‘You could say that.’
‘He’s in London. Got married again.’
‘Did he now? Did he murder the first one?’
‘I … I…’
‘Listen, John. You’ve no idea how brave you are to stand at my door asking me for more money for them,’ I said, jabbing my finger in the direction of the house. I paused as we held the other’s eye. ‘Now, unless you’re telling me something I don’t already know about that land, I see no reason why I would “up” the offer.’
That fairly shut him up. Or so I thought. He swallowed hard, readying himself for the battle he’d never wanted.
‘Decency, Mr Hannigan, that’s why. Your offer is criminal, no other word for it.’
I hadn’t expected that.
‘I thought if we talked it over man to man you might see your way to being fair. But it appears I’m not always right. I know when to admit defeat.’ And off he went.
I liked him.
‘Five.’ I called into the darkness.
‘Pardon?’ his voice replied, before his body stepped back into the reach of my porch light.
‘I’ll give five thousand more. For you, mind, and that pair of balls you have. Much more impressive than any Dollard male could ever boast.’
I hoped Tony was listening.
The land was worth so much more. I knew it. He knew it. A part of me wanted to invite him in, to have a whiskey and thrash it out further, but I got over that quick enough. He stood there, looking at me, ever so slightly dazed.
‘I’ll ring my man in the morning, to tell him of our gentleman’s agreement. You might want to go back now and tell them how you wrestled it out of me,’ I added.
But before he could take a step, I called him back.
‘But tell me this, Jason. There’s not much land left over there now. What’s the plan, when this lot of my money runs out?’
He didn’t answer straight away but looked at me from squinted eyes. Eventually, he said:
‘A hotel.’
‘A hotel is it? Well, holy shamolie. Now there’s something this town could do with, what with all the tourists we have.’
‘I’ll have you know, Mr Hannigan, my family has been in the hotel business for a century. If anyone can turn this God forsaken backwater into a tourist destination, it’s me.’
I liked him even more.
I smiled and closed the door. Leaning up against its frame for a moment, I considered this new departure in the Dollard fortunes.
‘Who was that, Maurice?’ Sadie asked, coming out from the kitchen with you waddling behind her.
‘That, my dear, was Jason, the hotelier. He’s got big plans for this town. We’re getting ourselves a hotel.’
* * *
When I met your mother, it felt like she’d filled a small piece of the hole that Tony’d left behind. Certainly, her love took the edges off his loss a bit. It was like bubble wrap in a way. Keeping him safe and settled within me, the sharpness gone. But as mad as it sounds, I sort of resented her for robbing that little bit of him from me.
Hand on heart, in all my years without him, not a day has gone by without me chatting to him about the cows or the price of feed or whether I should buy or sell a piece of land. The Sunday game, now that’s one of our big things. He sits on my shoulder, pointing out where the players are going wrong. Such a bloody perfectionist when it comes to hurling. Addicted to it, when he was alive. Gone, every Sunday and every summer evening to play on the pitch above by the church. He dragged me along with him, even though I hadn’t the heart to tell him I didn’t share his passion. I played alright, but not like him, not with that soul, that drive, like he was fighting for Ireland’s freedom.
‘You don’t have to, Big Man, you don’t have to come. I get it,’ he told me one Sunday as we set out for the pitch. I must’ve been about fourteen.
‘What are you talking about? I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Watching you make a complete eejit of yourself on that pitch is the highlight of my week.’ He slapped me on the back and off we went, our hurls over our shoulders.
Only the other week when we were watching the Carlow–Westmeath match he said to me: ‘You were good you know, Maurice, better than me, if you’d put your mind to it. I’d have given anything to have had your talent. But you couldn’t’ve been arsed.’
But one evening, Sadie found me out at the car staring into space, looking all worried. We must have been married a good while by then. I don’t know where you were, were you even born at that stage? I thought my mind was beginning to let him go, for good. You see, I was driving home and looking out over our fields that ran a good bit of the road before our turning, when I saw him. Bent down, his arms digging away. The old brown shirt on him, like he’d always worn. I jammed on the brakes. Just before the driveway. I walked back the way to look for him, but he was gone. When I drove up the final bit to the house, it struck me that I hadn’t thought of him that whole day or the day before. His name, his spirit had not passed within one inch of me from the moment I’d risen until the apparition in the field.
‘Maurice, what’s happened?’ Sadie asked, coming out the front door, looking at me. She must’ve heard me pull up and been watching from the kitchen window.
I hadn’t realised I was crying until she lifted her hand to my cheek.
‘Nothing, nothing,’ I replied, coughing my tears away, moving my head out of her reach, ‘I’m grand, woman. It’s just the wind.’
I couldn’t look at her. I was convinced she’d replaced him. And I couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t bear losing what little I had left of him in that brain of mine. I walked away from her over to the sheds. Pretended at doing something, looking at the tractor, possibly. I waited until she’d gone back in the house and then I let those tears fall. Big bucketfuls of them. Holding on to the wheel arch, leaning in, feeling like the legs might just give way. One ear cocked for the back door opening again. No one came. Eventually, I pulled myself together and went off into the house to sit for the dinner and to give your mother the excuse of a flu for my puffy eyes and weary body. But the whole evening I couldn’t even glance in her direction.
I stayed in the bedroom for the evening, left her alone with the telly. I pulled out the old shoebox I had from under the bed. Dug through it and found as many photos as I could of him. I sat there on the floor, old negatives and pictures around me, staring at my favourite one: the one where we were sat in front of the butter churn outside the upper-room window of the old house. A creamy haze of a photo, curled in so much by then that I had to hold the edges back to see him properly. His left hand was raised to block out the sun. I concentrated on his face, trying to embed it in my brain. But the more I tried the more I failed. I had myself in such a state that Sadie had Lemsips, paracetamol and Vicks VapoRub all lined up. In the end I gave in, took the lot and went to sleep. I dreamed of the picture that night – Tony sitting on our old kitchen chair and me standing to his rear. My lower half hidden by the churn, my chest puffed out, smirking proudly. My hand lay protectively on Tony’s shoulder, holding on for dear life, refusing to let him rise, although he tried. In the end I remember his words like he was actually beside me.
‘Alright, Big Man, let me be. I’m not going anywhere.’
The next morning, I rose, knowing he’d never leave me again. Sadie was amazed at my recovery. Quizzed me on the exact concoction I’d taken for future reference. For years after we had to abide by my made-up instructions of that supposed cure whenever any of us caught a cold or flu.
But it’s his living presence I’ve missed the most since your mother’s left. And no amount of talking to him in my head can take the place of being able to see the man, to touch the skin and bone of him, to hear him sup a pint in Hartigan’s. What I wouldn’t
give for just one hour of his company. No need for much conversation at all. Our elbows on the counter. A bottle of stout each in front of us. Half empty glasses. Looking out at the town. Tapping our feet to the music on the radio or laughing over the madness of the world. The company of the trusted, what? Being understood without having to explain and not having to pretend all is fine. Being allowed to be a feckin’ mess. The feeling of his pat on my back as he passes behind me to go to the jax. Is it too much to ask for a simple resurrection?
But I’m grateful for those years I had him. Isn’t that why I’m sitting here? Giving thanks for a man who shaped me, guided me, minded me and, most of all, taught me to never give up. But he’s fierce quiet today, son. Hasn’t said a word in my ear this whole time. I wonder, has my plan finally baffled him into silence.
Chapter Three
7.47 p.m.
Second Toast: to Molly
Glass of Bushmills – 21-year-old malt
If there’s one thing I like about the bar room of this hotel, it’s the light; not that I’ve ever shared that compliment with Emily. Perhaps I should. There’s something about how the evening creeps through those front windows. They’re not the original ones, the windows. They’re long, thin rectangular panes that stretch from top to bottom. You can’t open them. I’ve only ever seen the like in modern churches before. At first, I didn’t take to them but now I can’t get enough of watching that light streaming in at the slanted angles, showing up the dust and movement of the place. I could watch it for hours. Hypnotic, it is.
The bar is fairly hopping now. The men nod in my direction as they give their orders and extend their elbows, allowing the counter to take their weight. The cavalry has arrived to help Svetlana. Emily and a lad. Whizzing up and down. They’re all arms. You’d swear they’d more than just the two each, pulling one pint while reaching for another glass to start the pump beside it flowing. Their speed and efficiency are to be admired. I could watch this dance all evening.
I recognise most of the crowd. You would too, son. Crimmens joins me. Leaning on the bar, all serious, like he’s bothered by something. I take a sip of this fine whiskey before looking over at him again. It’s the suit that’s troubling him. He looks about as uncomfortable as I would in that get-up.
‘Let me get you a drink there, Mr Hannigan.’
‘I won’t, now. I’m grand with what I have.’
‘On the whiskey, what?’
‘Are you having one yourself? Here, Emily, could you throw on a pint for Crimmens here?’
‘Don’t be minding him. I’ve one over beyond.’
For the life of me, I can’t remember the chap’s first name. If you were here, you’d know it. I’m sure you would. I steer my way around my memory loss as best I can. It’s the faces I remember no problem these days, but the names have me stumped. He’s out of Lissman. Did some business together a few years back. One of the new breed, organic this and corn-fed that. I tried it for a while. But I’ve let it slip of late, like everything. Still, I have to hand it to these young farmers; they’ve a vigour and commitment to the land that’d make my father smile.
‘Do you know much about the solar panels, Mr Hannigan?’ he asks, after a moment of silence between us. ‘I’m thinking of getting into it. There’s lads over there in England who’ve made a fortune giving over fields and fields to it. What do you think, would I be mad?’
‘You’d be mad not to. If I were a younger man you wouldn’t hold me back. I’d have done it long ago and set my sheep to graze under them.’
‘Is that right? I might look into it so,’ he says, nodding his head to the counter.
And then we fall into our silent contemplation again. Happy with our wanderings over this farming life and all we do to keep the bellies of the world full and our own hearts and bank balances at ease. A gong booms in the background, making me near spill my Bushmills. I never knew the place had a gong, hardly surprising, I suppose. And true to Irish custom, the horde ignores its request. Each group has to be encouraged by the hotel staff to loosen their grip from their conversations and the bar. They herd them like sheep dogs, blocking all exits and means of escape, in the direction of their dinner. Gearstick would’ve loved this, giving it his all until he had every last arse sitting in their seats below.
‘That’s me so, Mr Hannigan.’ Crimmens stretches out his hand and shakes it with a strength I envy.
‘Good luck now,’ I say, as I watch him and the last of the crowd make their way out of the bar.
‘Can you believe they’ve actually gone in on time?’ Emily says, proud that all is going to plan. A bit of her hair has fallen out of her tight bun. It falls down at her cheek in a curl that reminds me of Sadie.
‘They’d be afraid not to,’ I say, grinning, getting down off my stool and heading in peace to the toilet. ‘And don’t be drinking that when I’m not looking,’ I say, pointing at my Bushmills before going through the door with a smile.
I remember the day I took my first sip of whiskey. I was no more than twenty when I had the notion to try it. My father never touched the stuff, but I was always drawn to that rich liquid sitting in the bottles behind the bar in Hartigan’s. One day I felt the bravery and ordered a glass. Well, it nearly cut the throat out of me. Coughing and spluttering, I was. Mrs Hartigan thought it hilarious. I swore there and then, I’d never do it again. But the taste stayed with me over the following days, its vileness mellowing with the passing of time, so much so that I did indeed take another. The day I tasted the 21-year-old malt, I took my cap off in reverence to her magnificence. This one here, son, is for the sister you never knew – Molly.
One of the pictures in my jacket pocket is of you on your christening day. You’re in your mother’s arms, wrapped in your white cocoon of a christening robe. She’s stood in front of our house right before we headed to the church. ’Course I’d pulled the old house down by then and built a brand spanking new one a bit further up from the road. I think I’d a Ford Cortina back then, a red one. Sadie in her pink tweed suit with matching pill-box hat. She loved that suit, hardly ever wore it. It was still in the wardrobe until recently. All packed away now with the rest of her stuff. She’s looking down on you like you’re the centre of her world, like no one else matters. I only remember her looking like that one other time, three years earlier, before you came along.
Forty-nine years ago, I met Molly, only once and only for fifteen minutes. But she has lived in this dilapidated heart of mine ever since. It seems your mother and me were never meant to have more than one child. Life was not on our side with that one. We had you relatively late. I was thirty-nine and Sadie, well, she must have been thirty-four. We’d been trying of course, from the get-go. Watched all around us have one baby after another while we were blessed with none. It was hard. I took my disappointment to the fields, to the dairy, anywhere but the house. Our silent burden. Month after month, year after year, we fell deeper and deeper into the quiet sadness of it. Sadie wouldn’t talk. Despite my fumbling attempts to engage her. If I’m being honest, I was relieved at her silence. What, after all, would I have said when I didn’t even want to hear my own pain, let alone face up to hers. But still, the guilt of that silence dogged me as I walked my lanes and turned the key in the tractor and blessed myself at the end of Mass. It sat on my shoulder, never letting me forget that I’d failed.
They say women are good talkers. If that is true, then your mother was the exception. I didn’t know her to have many friends around; acquaintances sure, but no one really close. Early on I suppose, when we were just married, she may have spoken to her mother. But I’m not convinced of that either. Their relationship didn’t strike me as being that type. There was a love but of the Irish kind, reserved and embarrassed by its own humanity. These days people are all for talking. Getting things off their chest. Like it’s easy. Men, in particular, get a lot of stick for not pulling their weight in that quarter. And as for Irish men. I’ve news for you, it’s worse as you get older. It’s
like we tunnel ourselves deeper into our aloneness. Solving our problems on our own. Men, sitting alone at bars going over and over the same old territory in their heads. Sure, if you were sitting right beside me, son, you’d know none of this. I wouldn’t know where to start. It’s all grand up here in my head but to say it out loud to the world, to a living being? It’s not like we were reared to it. Or taught it in school. Or that it was preached from the pulpit. It’s no wonder at the age of thirty or forty or eighty no less, we can’t just turn our hand to it. Engineers are not born with the knowledge of how to construct a bridge. It has to be learned. But despite all of that for some reason, back then, with all that hurt and absence in our lives, I felt the urge to give it a go.
‘So, how are you now?’ I managed to say to Sadie one day, nodding in the direction of the bathroom from where I’d just come and seen the evidence of another failure, a blood-soaked napkin.
‘Just leave it, Maurice.’
‘Sadie…’
‘No, Maurice. I can’t do this now. Please.’
She raised her hand to stop any further efforts I might attempt and simply left the kitchen. Leaving me to land in my chair and run my finger around and around the wood-knot on the table. Listening to the incessant tick of the clock over the Aga that had never gotten on my nerves before. I looked at it and considered throwing the Meath Chronicle in its direction. It was killing me that I couldn’t fix this thing, this barren nothingness of us. For a man accustomed to being able to solve anything once he threw enough money at it, this was bloody torture.
I didn’t try talking to your mam after that. We skirted around each other’s lives from then on. Coming together in the bed when we tried to rid ourselves of our burden, giving it another hopeless go. Until one night she turned away from me for weeks on end. Not wanting to try any more, exhausted by our collective failure. And so, the silence grew stronger and wider and took us over until there was nothing to say over the teacups of an evening.