by Anne Griffin
‘They’re just about to start,’ she said finally, her words having lost their earlier confidence. ‘David, take Mr Hannigan up like a good man.’
I know her eyes watched me as I made my way to the back row, where I sat on my own at the edge. I felt old that day, son. Looking around, watching those white-haired men and women with their dried-out, droopy skin, and teary eyes and fading clothes, wasting away the afternoon with neon highlighters. I don’t know how I managed to sit as long as I did. I didn’t even bother marking down the numbers, just pretended every now and again. I’m sure David noticed, standing to the side, running up and down, doing the checking of those who called ‘house’, shaking their books in the air like they were drowning. Mostly, I rubbed at the floor with the sole of my shoe.
Before half-time, he came over and bent to my ear:
‘I have to get the tea now, Maurice, alright? But I’ll sit beside you after. I reckon if we play our cards right that box of Roses is ours. Bags the hazelnut whirl, though,’ he said, patting me on the shoulder. I nodded.
When the bingo caller announced the break, my fellow senior citizens passed by, getting a good look at the new boy. Some smiled. I looked away, unable for it. Unable for the lie of a man I would have to become to make my way into their circle. To be accepted, to belong. But here’s the thing, son, I only ever wanted to belong to one person and she wasn’t in that room. And in my heart I knew that even if I was a man comfortable with all the small talk it would take to break into that new life, I didn’t want it. I simply did not want it.
I took out my phone to check a few non-existent messages as they milled about the table. David there among them, smiling and laughing, scratching his head. Filling cups, pouring milk and offering biscuits. And when I was sure he was far too distracted to wonder about me, I left. Got into the Jeep and drove straight home. Locked the doors and drew the curtains.
David called round a couple of times after. Some talker. Entertained me with his life story: Eamo and Deco and Gizzo, his mates back in Dublin.
‘Drugs,’ he said, ‘that’s all they’re into now. Selling drugs. Wasn’t me. Had to get out, man.’
I told him bits about you. Not much, but bits. He was calling you Kev by the end.
‘So is Kev planning any visits home?’ ‘How many kids does Kev have again?’
‘Two,’ I said, ‘Kev has two.’
But after a while I didn’t answer the door any more. Couldn’t face him. Knowing how desperate he was trying to keep me connected to this world, when I wanted nothing more to do with it. I knew for sure then, I had no other choice but to find your mother.
Chapter Six
10.10 p.m.
Final Toast: to Sadie
Midleton Whiskey
I’ve left the best ’til last in every way.
Svetlana places my final drink down in front of me: Midleton, you can’t fault it. Majestic stuff. I look at it like she has just handed me the keys to a new harvester. It’s the autumn colours that get me. It’s the earth of it, the trees, the leaves, the late evening sky. Its smell, so full of life that it catches in my throat before it’s even touched my lips, sending a shiver down my spine.
Do you know it gives me a dead shoulder every time I drink it? Sounds mad, I know. I’m convinced it doesn’t go down my throat at all but creeps along the muscles of my neck, over to my shoulder, numbing it. Doesn’t do it with any other brand, mind, knows when I’m on the good stuff. I asked the Doc, the new one – Taylor, what that was all about. He told me cutting back was the only cure he knew of.
‘I didn’t ask for the cure,’ I said.
‘Drink isn’t the way to deal with loss, Mr Hannigan,’ came his reply.
Loss – what does he know about it, I ask you? He’s barely out of nappies for Christ’s sake. I’d say the closest he’s ever come to loss was his virginity, and even at that I can’t be sure he’s old enough. No one, no one really knows loss until it’s someone you love. The deep-down kind of love that holds on to your bones and digs itself right in under your fingernails, as hard to budge as the years of compacted earth. And when it’s gone … it’s as if it’s been ripped from you. Raw and exposed, you stand dripping blood all over the good feckin’ carpet. Half-human, half-dead, one foot already in the grave.
Jesus wept.
Sadie liked to have a sip of the good stuff herself. She wasn’t much of a drinker. But she always made an exception for Midleton at Christmas. Who in their right mind wouldn’t, eh?
So, the simple truth of it, son? The reason for me sitting here on my own talking to myself is her, how could it not be. I want your mother back. Plain as. I can’t do it on my own any more. I never dreamt the day I met her that there would come a time when I’d find it hard to breathe because her toothbrush no longer sits beside mine in the green, sorry – avocado, I always got that wrong, apparently – tumbler on the bathroom sink or because I can no longer hear her giving out when I set the fire wrong in the grate or that there is nothing – no breath, no heartbeat when I stretch my hand to her side of the bed in the morning. But I can’t. I can’t. And now it’s time to sort this mess of the last two years out and find the woman that claimed my soul the day we met.
Trouble is, son, I’m worried that she mightn’t want me back at all.
* * *
She worked in the main bank over in Duncashel. This of course was when you went into a bank and could engage with living people. These days I refuse to take any more of their time-wasting. When I go in now, I walk past the machines to find the nearest staff member and tell them to get me the manager.
‘Do you have an appointment?’ the newbies ask.
‘Tell Frank to check my bank balance before he decides how long he’ll leave me,’ I like to reply as I take a seat.
’Course, I’ve told him nothing about me having taken well to this online banking that they are at pains to get us all doing. Wasn’t it you that set me up. I had you pestered the first couple of times I tried, crawling my way on to it, marvelling every time that I could see my accounts just like that. By the time you were headed home, I was flying. Not as fast as those young fellas you see around the town, tipping and sliding their way around their gadgets I’m sure, but good enough. I still like to visit Frank, when I have the time that is. Sometimes I just make up stuff for him to do, like cashing a cheque. Once I handed him a cheque for €500 and asked him to cash it and when he handed me the money, I changed my mind and told him he could lodge it. Don’t be feeling sorry for him, he gets paid well enough with my bank charges.
Granted, back in your mother’s day, the bank queues in Duncashel moved fierce slow, but every five or six steps you got to one of the pillars lining the route for a bit of a lean. Then there’d be a pile-up forming behind you, until you pushed yourself away again, freeing it up for the next man. Magnificent building, you wouldn’t remember it. They had it knocked down and rebuilt by the time you toddled along. Thick doors that required your whole weight to open them. High ceilings and red-flecked marble counters. I’d have taken that over a church any day.
So the day I met her, I was stood there in the queue, minding my own business as usual, counting the black tiles of the chequered floor for as far as my eye could concentrate, when I heard this delicious Donegal accent trickle down to me from the counter up ahead. I didn’t lean against another pillar or count another tile after that, but stood to attention, a lot more interested now, trying to get a glimpse of whoever owned it through the heads. I could see her neck clearest of all. Elegant, it was. Like the slope of a scythe. It dipped and bent and stretched with grace. Strong too. I couldn’t wait to stand in front of her, to unleash my charm, which to that point I wasn’t acquainted with but was sure was in there somewhere. I pushed on, rear ending a few in front, hoping I’d be lucky enough to be top of the line when she called ‘next’. I even let Nancy Regan ahead of me, over to the other one serving beside her. I racked up my best attempt at a smile as I made the final leg over to the counter, to her s
weet voice, her perfect skin and, as it turned out, her narkiness.
‘A bank draft?’ she asked, like I’d just produced my penny jar for counting. ‘We don’t do bank drafts after three.’
Even with that thick head on her, she was still beautiful. Light-brown curly hair with little wisps of red through it that matched her lipstick. White milky skin. Chocolate freckles scattered over the bridge of her scrunched-up nose, as if she’d only stood at the mirror that morning painting on their perfection. Eyes as blue as a clear Meath summer sky.
‘Just in time, so.’ I nodded at the wall behind her. ‘Your clock there says a minute to.’
‘That’s slow,’ she replied, not even bothering to look.
‘You’re new?’ I tried.
She let her eyes linger on me for a second then looked down at my book and docket, her red lips gathering in a good juicy pout. She frowned, held the docket up, then down, squinting even harder at each new angle. I shifted about, wondering what I’d misspelt now.
‘Is that a T or a C?’ she asked, pushing the slip back across, her pink nail pointing to the cause of her distress. Her nose was scrunched up like the unwanted Sunday paper my mother used to feed the range.
‘C. Con Dolan. It’s to be made out to Con Dolan.’
‘A C?’ she said, her voice rising with the incredulity of it all. ‘It looks more like a T.’
‘Ton’s the brother. I don’t owe him a thing.’
For my efforts, I received the tiniest of grins. I ran a proud hand through the big head of hair I had on me, back then. And beamed my broadest smile, hoping she’d notice. But to my disappointment, her head dropped back to her work.
After she’d finished correcting my handwriting, she got off her chair with a big sigh, to go sort the draft.
‘I’ll have to check if the manager is still about.’
Off she went. I watched her small little waist and her skirt swish about her shapely legs. Why did the pretty ones have to be such hard work, I wondered, like the man of immense experience I surely wasn’t, as I settled in for the next five minutes, my elbows up on the cold marble counter, having a gander behind me, seeing who might be in.
‘Was he over in Hartigan’s?’ I asked, when she finally returned. ‘He’s fierce fond of that snug.’
Another small smile. But this one was wounded and sad. Her ferocity gone. I tried to find her eyes to read what had happened but she refused to raise them. She fumbled with the paperwork again before stopping, taking a breath and saying:
‘Mr Grigson has asked I tell you that bank drafts can only be done before three o’clock. On this occasion he has signed it but will not be in a position to do so again.’
My mouth gaped as I struggled to find some kinder words for the man too afraid to come and tell me all that himself, choosing instead to terrify this beauty before me.
‘Sure a man would have to start queuing at one o’clock to do that,’ I said, with a laugh that I realised, as soon as it had left my lips, was more sarcastic than the jovial tone I’d intended.
She busied herself with the bank draft and my book, putting them into an envelope. As she passed them back across the counter, the light caught her eye and I saw the tears welling up. I froze. Angry bank managers were no problem, but crying beauties? I was dealing with a whole different field of oats now.
‘Ah lads,’ I said, my fingers stretching in as far as they could go under the brass bars. ‘Look I’m sorry. I didn’t mean … I’ve an awful tongue on me sometimes.’
The backs of her hands tried to stem the flow bulging in her eyes, but she was losing the battle.
‘I’m fine, I’m fine. It’s not you,’ she said looking up, attempting a smile. ‘It’s just all so new and … well…’ her face began to crumble again.
I had no handkerchief to gallantly produce. Well, I did, but let’s just say it would have made the situation worse, it had been a while since washday. I looked about me to see who was watching. Nancy, bloody, Regan. She was loving this, itching to get out of the place to tell the world that Maurice Hannigan was harassing innocent women.
‘Listen, I can’t leave you like this,’ I said, ‘I’ll hold this crowd off for a minute while you go powder your nose or whatever.’
‘I can’t be doing that, sure they’d have me fired.’
‘What’ll he know? I’ll tell him I asked you for some more lodgement dockets or something.’
She bit her lip, considering my proposition.
‘Two seconds, so,’ she said, and was gone.
I smiled at Nancy as she left the counter, giving me a good long stare before tottering away in those heels of hers.
Sadie was back before I knew it, tissue in hand, looking a sight better.
‘Thanks,’ she said hopping back up on her stool.
‘All better now, what? So are you ready for this lot, so?’ I inclined my head to the queue to my rear. ‘I can’t promise they’ll be as charming as myself, now.’
She nodded and gave me a small vulnerable smile that stayed with me long after I’d left the counter and gone back to work the fields. That evening my sisters looked at me like I was ailing as I played all the wrong cards in the game Jenny dealt. Mind you, their concern didn’t stop them filling their pockets with my pennies. The following day I seemed incapable of doing anything right what with me putting too much milk in my tea, tripping over the front door step that had been there since the day I was born and burning my hand on the range when I put it down, thinking it was the kitchen table. By Sunday I knew I had no other choice but to go back. After the dinner, I announced my intentions of visiting the bank again the following Thursday, giving the family enough time to gather their few coppers together.
By Thursday I stood before her with a fresh handkerchief in my pocket and five bank books in my hands.
‘Hello,’ she said, quietly, a little embarrassed smile rising to her face once she recognised me.
Now, son, you know I’m not one for sentimentality but I swear to God the woman just took my breath away. I mean she looked no different from the first time I saw her, granted there were no tears, but this time, this time it was like she had multiplied all of that gorgeousness by ten. I reached inside myself, past my shock and from somewhere pulled out my voice.
‘Grand day, now. It must be hard on a day like this to be cooped up in here with the sun splitting the trees.’
‘Oh, aye. What I wouldn’t give to be out for a stroll right now.’ She laughed, looked at me ever so quickly, took the books I offered and got stuck into the counting straight away. I ran a hand over my flattened hair.
‘Maurice,’ I said, ‘the name’s Maurice Hannigan.’
‘Well, Maurice,’ she said looking up from the books, ‘you Hannigans are great savers.’
She looked below again, writing and totting away. And then, I heard her name for the first time:
‘Sadie McDonagh,’ she said, her face flashing up briefly to mine.
‘Things seem better today … Sadie. I mean, I’m glad to see you’re looking better today … I mean … it’s not so busy.’
She looked up and laughed again. Pitch-perfect laughter. Her work completed, she tapped the books efficiently together on her counter and passed them back to me.
‘Things are much better, thank you, Maurice.’
I took the books and paused for a second wondering if now was my chance. And as my eyes seemed unable to lift to her face, staring at the black tiles instead, I wondered where my charm had decided to feck off to. I tipped the books to my forehead, and had begun to walk away when she said:
‘See you again next Thursday, I suppose?’
‘Well,’ I said, stepping back to face her fully now, ‘unless, that is you’d like to take a stroll with me later. Maybe even a bite to eat?’ There he was, Mr Confident, back to save the day.
‘Well, I…’ she stumbled as I waited, my toes crossed in my shined Sunday-best shoes, ‘I would love that. I finish at six.’
‘Six it is, so. I’ll be outside.’
I think I actually winked at her before I left her counter. I near ran from it, convinced that I couldn’t’ve been that lucky and any minute now she’d call me back to say she’d changed her mind. I don’t think I took a breath until I got outside and leaned up against the wall wondering how I’d managed that at all.
‘It’s a big thing getting a job in the bank,’ she told me later, in that Donegal lilt of hers after we’d given our order in the Duncashel Central and handed back our menus.
‘I couldn’t believe it when I passed the exams. Neither could Mammy and Daddy. I mean it’s not something you can say no to, is it? Permanent, pensionable and all that,’ she said, moving the salt and pepper cellars around. ‘I know it sounds ungrateful but … I don’t think it’s me. I haven’t an ounce of interest. Money’s a nasty business really,’ she added, leaving the condiments, now happy with their new positions.
Is it? I thought.
‘You’re a long way from Donegal, alright,’ I said instead.
‘And that’s another thing, I’d rather be nearer home. To help out and that.’
‘Farming people?’
‘No. My father’s a guard. No, it’s just…’ She looked like she was about to say something further but stopped short, thinking of Noreen no doubt, not that I knew about her then. ‘Well, you know yourself, there’s always work to be done about the place, farm or no farm.’
‘True, true,’ I said, not wishing to dig any further at such an early stage, ‘it’s back north for you, so? No way we can keep you down here?’ I said, giving the condiments a good going over myself.
‘Well…’ She smiled over at me with a gorgeous shyness.
‘Well, what?’ I asked eagerly.
‘You never know, I suppose.’
Our eyes met for a brief second before our blushes forced us to look around. The tables were a mixture of all sorts: a single bachelor, eating his fry in silence, looking out to the passers-by on Patrick’s Street; a couple, more experienced than ourselves in the ways of relationships, sitting opposite us, him with his paper held up and she reading the adverts on the back page. There was one family, all dressed up for their Thursday treat. The children with their knee socks pulled right up, the boys with their Brylcreemed hair, the girls in pigtails with green polka dot ribbons. The mother keeping a watchful eye over their behaviour as the father chatted across to her. Every now and again he gave a big neighing laugh and hit the table with his hand, making the cutlery protest as he looked around for the appreciation he felt his joke deserved.