Malarky (7 page)

Most of all, she hadn't paid attention.

She'd look at that stain and remember to pay attention.

The first day after Red's revelation she cut chunks from his potatoes. Knobbled them, deformed. She added salt to
the butter and allowed an insect to cook with his cabbage.

The second day she omitted to place tea in the pot and when he lifted it he uttered a cry. It's empty! There's nothing in it! which reminded her he must have issued a cry the first time he pushed himself into Red the Twit. Perhaps he was surprised to find himself there? She wondered whether or how he would have made it in.

The fourth day she reduced the teabags inside the pot to one, and he commented the tea had gone very weak, as though it was being controlled by the weather or an outside force. He did not lift the lid of the pot, because he was not accustomed to doing such things for himself.

The fifth day she left him no dinner and caught the 4 pm bus to Dublin to visit Jimmy, her son.

With no sign of her, Himself phoned.

—She's here, Jimmy held out the phone. She shook her head.

—She's in the toilet. She'll give you a ring back. Her son lied for her, precisely how she has trained him. And when he replaced the phone asked nothing, only said I'll put on the kettle for tea and then we'll head into town.

That night Jimmy brought her out. There's no question, I'm bringin' you out, he said, proud. They caught the bus, down the quays, by Trinity, when she saw them. Pink words, neon, beaming from the wall.

—Lookit the pink light what is it? She read the words I
wouldn't give
a snap of
my fingers for
all their learning.

—The city is lit up with them, Jimmy said. They're all over the place.

She craned her neck across, scanned the pub roof opposite, but couldn't find the source.

—What is it? Where is it coming from?

—I dunno, Jimmy said, but it's so pretty. Jimmy dropped his head to squint the last triangular moment of it and then gone. All gone. She wanted more of it.

—There are nine of them apparently, another one by the Martello Tower. It took me weeks to notice them and now I look for them every time. We'll go tomorrow, we'll go and look for them.

—I won't go home 'til I see them all, she said quietly. The
words were for her, she wouldn't give the snap of her fingers for many's the thing, I
wouldn't give
a snap of
my fingers for
the swaying, I
wouldn't give
the snap
of my fingers
to get the skirt off Red the Twit.

Jimmy already had a plan to meet the lads in town and she insisted he not cancel it.

—We'll be going to a bar mam, are you sure?

She bought knitting needles in town and started work on a jumper while he socialized with the lads. They were young, they were young lads, all of them. Their faces freshly shaved and the funny thing was the bar was full of men, there were few women. And they'd teeshirts about them. And security guards. A few had bald heads and earrings and the like. But they were pleasant, laughed together. One slid his hand along Jimmy's forearm as he rose from the table to go to the toilet and kept his body close to him, as he passed, not making the normal polite dip away to avoid his bum scraping the man's chest. She caught it, squinted away from it to her wool, and created a new box to put it in.

She continued to knit as the music grew pumpy though she could no longer hear every word of the conversation. But they were lovely to her the fellas, admired her knitting, asked her questions. One said his mam was a farmer too, asked her about headage. And what did she think of the EEC? And was Jimmy a member of Macra na Feirme? And how his father made him join it and everyone erupted at the invocation and joked about whether he'd fancied the chairman. She didn't understand every word because of the noise, so she nodded and smiled if they looked at her. Eventually they settled back into each other and forgot about her. Every now and then Jimmy asked her if she wanted another red lemonade.

The other lads headed on to a club and hugged Jimmy goodbye. She wondered was it strange to see fellas hug. She didn't go in for the hugging in a big way. It was a bit of a palaver. They grabbed the bus to Rathmines and Jimmy talked about this lad and that lad and how he knew him from college.

The following morning she was up and ready to go home, offered no explanation to Jimmy for the sudden visit, but when he accompanied her to the bus station, he took care to wait and see she made it onto the bus, bought her a Double Decker chocolate bar and a copy of Woman's Weekly for the journey. And he waved, he waved her all the way out of the bus station and then ran through the doors out the far side, weaving among the smokers and their luggage, to wave her from the other side as the bus turned on Gardener street, the Loopline bridge behind it. She could still see him waving as the windows swallowed up The Customs House and the bump over the Liffey. All was not well and he knew it.

The bus took a detour down Burgh Quay, was this a detour, or was this the route? She can't recall the route. When they passed O'Connell Bridge she peered out the left side to see is there any hint of where Bewley's once stood with it's milky coffee eyed students remembering how she didn't like the smell of the place, the stink of dropped milk, like there were spots they could never scrub it out of. She marveled at the memory of the girls in their get-up, all black and white aproned and Spanish as soon as they spoke with their th lispy English, all that coffee and ordinary women like her in for the tea, yes tea. She considered tea. She left him only four bags all the while knowing he'd need six. Would he have rummaged to find where she'd hidden the box? Would he have driven to the
garage (shop) and if he did, which brand would he have bought? Lyons, green or gold blend or Barry's would he have seen the box, does he even know the tea they drink? The nip of anxiety hastened and she worried about the post. The postman would have knocked the kitchen window as he passed, giving her the time she needed to put the tea towel down and go out to the back door and grab the letters from him. Would the postman have knocked the window found her not there and stuck them under the plant pot? Would they be dripping wet? What if it was the television license demand? Her husband insists he will not pay for the telly license, but unbeknownst they have one. And if the renewal came these two days would he enrage and rip it up? And what of the kettle? Would he have boiled the bloody thing dry? And those carrots wrapped in plastic in the drawer of the fridge, she must remember them today or they'd begin to sweat. Maybe already on the turn? What of the gap in the back door? Would he remember to stick her balled up sock solution into it to prevent the mice from coming in or would the house be hopping with mice when she walked back into it? He wouldn't have turned off the immersion and it would have run all night. At least she'd have hot water for a bath when she stepped in.

When it's back she is, her husband has little to say. He speaks in factual clips.

I came down to see whether you'd be on the early bus and you are.

A kind of what about that for a revelation, as he opened the boot of the car. Of the magazine in her hand,

Give it
here to me I'll put it in the boot.

—I'll hold onto it sure, she, clinging to it.

The nose of the car traces out the bend of the road and gives way, as and when another approaches. You're so squeezed in
these parts, she thinks, there's no sharing the road, you've to roll into the ditch or slide past sheet metal. A neighbour, Matty, chooses the slide, he pulls up and ceases, the window down before he stops.

—How're ya getting on?

Her husband must lean and call to Matty even though he's right beside him.

—Where are ya coming from? Matty wants to know. But he doesn't wait for the answer before another ceist lands.