by Anne Griffin
I want to move away. I want to drink my whiskey that’s sitting all alone on the bar. I want my peace and quiet. What I don’t want is someone else’s problems to solve. My scar itches. I need to rub it but she’s still too close. I have no choice but to stand, as rude as it may seem. I let her hands drop back to her lap. I rub hard at my skin, smelling the earth of my fingers and watch the rest of the band, or at least they must be, given they’re all dressed in black suits with white dickie bows and cowboy hats, pass by me, all amps and equipment and elbows. I step back a little out of their way. And when they are through the double doors, I say:
‘You want me to be the bad guy, is that it?’
I look down at her expectant face.
‘If that’s how you wish to put it, then, yes, I want you to be the bad guy,’ she says, rising proudly and taking my hand, ‘please, Mr Hannigan, please. Just this one last time for us Dollards.’
I have no answer for her. It is all too much, trying to understand their convoluted history. All I can do is take her hand and hold it there for a moment in the foyer. I have nothing more to give to anyone. I look into those sad eyes of hers one last time, and leave.
* * *
I go back to the bar. It’s beginning to fill up again with those who don’t seem to be fans of the band.
‘You’re still here,’ Emily says, as she comes through from the kitchen. ‘Sorry I couldn’t make it down before now. It was mad up there. Still, all over now. Well, I mean the speeches and all that. The band is on, now. So far so good I have to say. But I tell you, my cheeks are actually sore from all that smiling for the photographs.’
She sits up on the stool beside me. She looks tired but still she manages to give me a tiny grin.
‘So go on, why are you still here?’
God but she is beautiful.
‘Here,’ I say to Svetlana, ‘there’s a bottle of champagne behind there with this lady’s name on it. Will you open it and give her a glass and put another Midleton in that?’
I shove my glass in her direction.
‘Champagne?’ Emily asks, watching me like I’ve gone mad.
‘Robert tells me it’s your favourite.’
Svetlana pops the cork and we watch her pour the bubbles. It looks magnificent, but I know it tastes like pure shite.
‘Are we celebrating something, Mr Hannigan?’
‘In a way. We are toasting my wife. Who two years ago today decided it was time to leave me.’ I smile at her and watch her bright eyes dip a little. ‘She was a great gardener, you know,’ I say trying to lighten the mood, ‘pinks and purples and yellows and oranges everywhere. Especially out the back in a little rockery. Irises, petunias, begonias, nasturtiums, the lot. Couldn’t tell one from the other, me. But I loved the smell in the yard when I’d arrive home. Hitting me in the nose as soon as I got out of the car. It was her, the smell was her, not honey, not jasmine. Essence of Sadie. Haven’t smelt that in two years. Weeds, that’s all there is now, choking the life out of what’s survived.’
Emily has the look of a woman who at any minute might reach over and hug me. I lift my glass to hers to ward off any of that.
‘To Sadie,’ I say.
‘To Sadie.’
Our glasses clink, high pitched and clear.
‘I was talking to your mother just now,’ I say quietly, when the moment’s silence begins to stretch uncomfortably. More and more people are arriving, escaping the band maybe, much to my annoyance. Oh, for the quiet hours just past.
‘My mother? My mother!’
‘Yes, your mother.’ I look around to see who might be within earshot.
‘You must have that one wrong. Mother never comes out of hiding. Especially not on a night like this. GAA’s not her thing.’
‘My mistake, so,’ I say, not having the energy to argue the point with her. I can imagine her slitted eyes turned on me as I stare ahead.
‘What did she want?’
‘Oh, you believe me now.’ My eyes dart in her general direction. ‘She didn’t say much. Other than telling me Thomas’ father wasn’t Hugh Dollard and that she knows all about me and this place.’
I take another sip of my drink, imagining her panic.
‘She knows? What do you mean, she knows?’
‘What I said. She told me she’s known all along.’
‘But that … but she’s never…’ She breaks off and stares at her bubbles for a bit.
‘Tell me something,’ I say, when I’ve given her long enough to digest it all, ‘would you have sold this place if I hadn’t offered to invest all those years back?’ My hand attempts a passing wave of the room but gives up mid-way. She raises her hand to her forehead, looking at me, totally confused. And I feel sorry for having asked the question.
‘I … eh … I’ve no idea.’
‘Would you sell now?’
‘What, do you want to buy it?’ she laughs sarcastically, ‘I thought you didn’t give a damn about this place.’
‘Just answer.’
But she doesn’t, simply stares back at me, trying to figure me out.
‘Ah, it doesn’t matter. Nothing fecking matters now anyway,’ I say, rubbing the stubble on my chin, considering my razor shipped off to Dublin, regretting having sent it now. Then I laugh at the stupidity. No need for a razor where you’re going, Sonny Jim.
‘If I could go back would I change it all, not take your money, is that what you’re asking?’ She looks at me, then back at the counter, wondering at the answer. ‘I don’t know,’ she says finally. ‘It’s made me who I am, I suppose. I was a girl when I started here. And now look at me, a woman who can run the best sports awards in Ireland. Actually, I think I’ve done myself and my father and yes, Mr Hannigan, even those dastardly Dollards, proud.’
I look at her and smile.
‘That you have, Emily. That you have.’
I feel as if I could sleep for a thousand years. My eyes close with the weight of all that has passed this night and all that has yet to come.
‘Are you alright, Mr Hannigan?’ she asks, those slitted eyes returning. ‘I bumped into Robert earlier, you know. He says he’s worried about you. Wouldn’t tell me why. But he told me to keep an eye on you.’
Fecking Robert. She takes out her phone, threatening me with it. Sets it down beside her drink. I raise my hand to her, waving it in some kind of ridiculous reassurance that all is well.
‘The drink, girl. It’s the drink. Don’t be worrying about me, I’m absolutely fine.’
I look away from her, over to Svetlana who is happy now: the Queen of the bar. Showing off her mastery in front of the boss as she serves the escapees. Emily sips from her glass and I wonder have I done enough to distract her.
‘She’s good isn’t she? That little one. A great worker,’ I say, attempting another diversion, pointing my drink in Svetlana’s direction.
‘Never mind Svetlana. What did Mother say about the hotel and your “involvement”?’
Feck.
‘She’s proud of you, you know. Proud of what you’ve achieved, of how you’ve saved this place. Turned it around.’
‘Really? I mean, she’s never said anything. Never shows one bit of interest in this place or what I’m up to with it.’
‘Parents are feckers that way. I speak from experience. But mark my words. She knows, she sees it and what’s more, she appreciates it.’ I move my hand to hers and pat it as it sits around the base of her glass.
‘So, she’s not mad, then?’
‘Well, she’s had a hell of a long time to get over it if she was,’ I laugh, ‘but no she’s not mad, certainly not at you, anyway. Be proud my girl. Be proud of how you’ve stood those Dollards tall again. Listen, my best advice is to talk to her. Talking’s good, apparently.’
‘And she told you about Thomas and his father?’
‘Aye.’
‘Awful, isn’t it?’
I take another sip of Midleton and then ask:
‘Do you thi
nk if I’d given back the coin on the day he dropped it from the window, would it have made any difference to his life at all?’
She looks ahead of her, her eyebrows raised and her lips pouting as she gives my question due consideration.
‘Now,’ she says after a bit, ‘there was a Dollard that no one, bar the man he called father, could have saved. Not even you, Mr Hannigan, even if you’d felt inclined.’
And she is so right – fathers have a lot to answer for.
I’ll admit I’m tired now, son. It’s been far too long a day. I’m ready now. Ready to get this over with. So I pat her hand one more time but she grasps mine. Holds it tight and squeezes it like it matters to her. I look at it and then her face. And there I see the bravery of her one last time. And then I do something that surprises even me, I reach across and kiss her on the cheek. Reluctantly, I let her hand go to take hold of the bar to ease myself down. On terra firma, I hold my near-empty glass and raise it one last time in her direction.
‘To killing the weeds,’ I say and swallow the last drop down before passing behind her and patting her shoulder as I go. ‘Goodnight, Emily, it’s been a pleasure.’ I head out towards the foyer and I know she’s there at my back with that bloody phone in her hand.
‘But, Mr Hannigan, wait. Maurice,’ she calls, far too concerned for my liking. ‘Are you sure you’re OK? You’re not driving are you? Let me get you a taxi at least.’
‘And why would I be in need of a taxi when I have this?’
I take the key of the honeymoon suite from my pocket and turn to hold it up to her.
It takes her a second to recognise exactly what it is.
‘You’re the VIP?’
‘I am,’ I say, a little bit of pride creeping into my voice, ‘but before I go up I think I’ll take the good Meath air.’
I leave her there with her mouth still open. Her concern bores into my back. She might ring Robert yet, I know, but it’s a risk I’ll have to take. I make my way to the door, tipping my cap to himself in the picture. I turn to see Emily one last time and point at it:
‘Uncle Timothy,’ I say, and then give her a smile and a wink before making my way to the open door.
* * *
Isn’t it funny how Tony and Molly visit me all of the time but your mother doesn’t. That one’s a bit of a mystery. Maybe she visits you instead. Maybe you talk to her, son. I’d like to think you do, as you go about your day, discussing what you might write next, asking her opinion. God, she’d just love that.
It’s raining now, one of those heavy July downpours. You know the kind that makes you think the roof of the shed might finally give up. I needn’t worry myself about those things. They’re someone else’s concern, now. Of all the things to make me sad tonight I hadn’t counted on it being the ricketiness of the shed. Rivers will rise and livestock will scare tonight, that’s for sure.
A woman in high heels, holding a handbag over her head and squealing, skids in under the awning beside me. I shimmy up to make room. Not that there’s any need, I’m the only one out here – the smokers have flicked their fags and taken refuge back inside long ago.
‘I’m soaked,’ she says, panting like she’s just swum the Liffey. She looks at her bare arms and legs and feels her hair. ‘Fuck sake.’
I look over at her sparkly toes and smile.
‘Aye. Looks like someone’s angry about something, alright,’ I say, looking back out at the town, hoping it’s not my good lady wife.
‘Well, I’d like to wring his bloody neck whoever the hell he is,’ she says, passing by me, going in through the hotel door and shaking off the rain, like Gearstick used to do. Wouldn’t that be an easier way to go? Someone’s hands ’round my neck so I need do nothing. It wasn’t me your honour, I can say to Saint Peter at the gate. It was your one with the soaking wet hair and streaking tan.
A flash lights up the sky beyond the town. I count in my head until God moves his furniture. A big fucking wardrobe. The roar of it. Six, I get to six before the crack of thunder explodes above me.
Out, I step. My eyes close and I lift my head into its howl. The rain soaks through me and it feels feckin’ marvellous, washing away my worries and doubts. Like an electric current it gives me a bolt of energy and I dance. Not a word of a lie, my feet slap, slap in the rain and I kick like I’m in a chorus line. There’s no one here now to see me make a fool of myself as my knees jerk high and my legs shoot out. ’Course, they could be watching from the windows, but I don’t give them a second thought as I attempt a heel kick but no more leave the ground than an old cow in my field. But in my head I’ve done it, clicked those heels as sprightly as Gene Kelly. Around I spin and spin. Letting every drop soak into me. Deep down, drenching my very bones. Then gravity takes me and I lunge against the wall. Panting and laughing. Trying to catch my breath. My body bends, as my hands clutch my knees.
The rain quietens, and stops abruptly, like it was one big mistake and it has moved on to the place it was meant to attack all along. A moment of silence hangs over me, the silence that comes with snow. I stand tall, one hand splayed against the wall. I close my eyes so I can let it surround me. Breathing in its calm. Letting it slip down into my jittering bones and fidgeting muscles. It irons me out and I become still. Ahead of me in the street, voices trickle out from other drinking holes. Goodnights are called and engines start. The town comes alive again after its scourging; waking up to the divilment of a Saturday night. Car horns blare and arms wave into the balmy night.
There you have it now – my work here is done. My life boxed away, neatly wrapped, sorted and labelled. My night of celebration is complete. Feck me though, when I set my mind to something, there’s no stopping me.
The band is giving it all they’ve got down the corridor. I can hear their muffled efforts even from here. The tunes mean nothing to me, but I hum along anyway to notes and words I make up in my head: Eleven o’clock and all is well. Time to go, so much to tell. I smile at my talent. Then doors open and out they come: the weaklings who ran from a drop of rain. I move upstream, weaving my way through them, back inside. Reaching reception, I stop for a minute, hands in pockets, eyeing the door to my left to the rooms that I must go through.
‘Ah, I find you, Mr Hannigan,’ Svetlana calls, coming up alongside me, taking me by surprise. ‘I thought you leave. I look everywhere. You forget this.’
I look at the bottle of Jefferson’s she holds in her hands.
‘Well, aren’t you the clever girl.’
‘I not want Emily to see. I don’t want to get sack. Not for you, anyway.’
I laugh and take the bottle.
‘Where you go now, the dance?’ she asks, with a cheeky smile.
‘No, that’s me done. Me and this boy here have a date with destiny,’ I say, looking at the bottle.
‘You right. The band,’ she says, coming close to me now and leaning to my ear, ‘they called the “Rhythm Kings”. I don’t know why? They have no rhythm. They play only hilly-billy music. I hate hilly-billy music.’
The back of her throat has a way of dealing with h’s, taking its time over them then spitting them out, that tickles my ear. I laugh one last time for her and move on, but before I push open the door, I call back:
‘Svetlana. Thank you.’ I raise the bottle.
She smiles: ‘Next time just Guinness, by the neck, yes?’
‘By the neck. Now you have it,’ I say, pushing my shoulder against the door. At the other side, I stop and listen to it swing shut. And then turn to look back through the glass to watch her disappear into the bar.
I don’t use lifts so I find my way to the stairs and begin the climb.
‘You and lifts,’ Sadie used to say to me, dismissing my distrust.
‘Before you start, it’s nothing to do with The Towering Inferno,’ I’d reply, looking at her lips puckering away, ‘it hasn’t, woman. There was a man in Mulhuddart—’
‘Ah, the man from Mulhuddart,’ she’d say, pressing the button
like she was playing some game in an arcade.
‘Yes! A man in Mulhuddart who suffered untold and lifelong damage to his legs because of one of those yokes falling and him in it,’ I’d protest to her profile that refused to acknowledge me or the poor man from Mulhuddart. ‘And pressing the hell out of it doesn’t make it come any quicker,’ I’d say, my voice raised so she’d be sure to hear me as I began my ascent, step by step, muttering at the injustice with every lift of my foot.
The man from fucking Mulhuddart!
How many times did we argue about a man we never knew? You know, I miss those stupid arguments as much as anything.
My legs feel heavy with my rain-soaked clothes. Slower than I’d hoped, I keep going. So near, and yet, so bloody far. I lean against the top of the bannisters after I’ve scaled each flight and consider falling asleep right there, standing up. But my brain taps its knobbly internal finger at my skull.
‘Not yet,’ it says. ‘Not yet.’
Chapter Seven
11.05 p.m.
Honeymoon Suite
Rainsford House Hotel
Tonight I will die. There. I’ve said it. Now you know. But I don’t like to hear the words, let alone think them. Not because I don’t want to do it but because I feel the guilt for those I leave behind. For you, Kevin. You, who have deserved so much more from me.
I stand outside the bedroom and take in the door. It’s grand and deserving of the attention. When I say grand, it’s in the magnificent sense of the word, not the Irish one that’s robbed it of its majesty. Mahogany. Wide and solid. My hand runs along its smooth varnish and I pat it with respect. The key too, that has knocked against my father’s pipe the whole night, is large and important. None of those card jobs. You’d never lose this beauty, I can tell you.
I turn it and open the door to catch the smell of freshly cleaned sheets. I close my eyes and concentrate, stuck half in, half out, wanting to hold on to it for as long as I can, knowing it will fade in a matter of seconds. And when it does, I step in fully and look around at this room’s perfection.