When All Is Said Page 18

  ‘You did, Emily. I got it, the card.’

  I watched her fingers resting on the table for a minute or two.

  ‘Coffee, I think I need a coffee,’ she said eventually.

  I didn’t have the energy to say I never drank the stuff. So I let her away with the clanging and clinking and boiling of it. I never looked up for all that time, just kept staring down at my finger making circles on the mahogany table, your mother’s name filling my head.

  The spoon shook in the saucer that she put down in front of me.

  ‘Oh, blast it, milk,’ Emily said, about to turn and go back.

  ‘Not on my account,’ I said, ‘I drink it black.’

  And then I laughed quietly to myself, as I thought of you and your coffee drinking.

  She sat to her seat again.

  ‘Shall we start again?’ she asked, looking at me like she might a child who’s just bumped their head.

  I nodded and waited, not willing to make the effort just yet.

  ‘Why give it back now?’

  Her voice was so gentle, almost a whisper.

  I coughed and waited and then said:

  ‘I was clearing out Sadie’s stuff last night and I came across it. Forgot I had it and now here it is.’ I needed the lie to offer her some logical explanation.

  ‘But it was you who kept asking me about it all these years.’

  I looked at her and imagined the guilt she could see on my face. But still I offered no further explanation that would be forgivable. She watched me anyway, hoping.

  ‘And what am I to do with it now?’ she asked when she eventually realised nothing else was forthcoming. ‘What plan did you have? Am I to keep it or…’ she said picking it up and looking at me, ‘am I to tell him?’

  I took a sip of the coffee and winced, I mean how do you drink that stuff? There’s nothing nice about that bitter muck. But still, I persevered, happy to have the distraction of its torture for a moment or two. And mad as it may sound, it felt like I had a bit of you with me, an ally, I suppose.

  ‘It’s up to you,’ I said, ‘I’m done with it now.’

  Her face grew sad and worried.

  ‘He’s very ill you know. Uncle Thomas. Pneumonia. He’s in hospital. Mummy and I are going over soon. I suppose I could bring it.’ She looked at me like I was the wise one among us. The one with all the answers. Did she not know by now how disappointing I was at that?

  ‘Whatever you think is best.’ Selfishly, I felt lighter in myself, a burden lifted, finally ready to get on with my own plans. I drifted off to them for a moment or two, continuing to drink the coffee. And when only half of the black stuff remained in my cup, I managed the words I should have offered long ago.

  ‘I’m sorry for taking it, for keeping it. For everything.’

  She said nothing, just nodded and looked down at the King that never was, once more before I took my leave.

  I didn’t hear from Emily for some weeks after. But one evening my mobile rang. I’d been expecting a call from Anthony, my newly appointed estate agent, and so I hit the button eager to hear about his progress in selling me off to the highest bidder.

  ‘He’s dead, Mr Hannigan, Uncle Thomas is dead,’ was all she said. ‘Can you come over?’

  I parked the Jeep outside the hotel even more badly than was my wont of late. I’m not the best at judging spaces these days, have had a few near misses, but until I actually hit something I’ll not worry too much. When I got inside, Donna, the young one from the last time, led me through the reception office and down a warren of different hallways until I couldn’t tell which way was north. She put me into a cosy lamp-lit room.

  I took my seat in a chair that must’ve been from the time of the old house. It still bore a trace of luxury. Its red flowers and cream background hadn’t lost their colour but the armrests were beginning to strain under their years, and the thinned fibres rolled easily under my fingertips. I let them be. Not wishing to add to the chair’s demise, I rose slowly and awkwardly, the lowness of the cushion having all but swallowed me up in its comfort. For the life of me I couldn’t place this room in the house. I made my way to the window, to give myself some bearing. But to no avail. It would’ve meant turning off the lamps.

  ‘It’s the old pantry with a little bit added on,’ Emily said, when she arrived, catching me squinting through the window, my hands cupped over my eyes, trying to block out the light. ‘Daddy converted it. It’s tiny I know but it suits me. It was his office.’

  Emily looked pale and exhausted as she stood in the middle of the room holding two glass tumblers in her hands.

  ‘Here, we’ll need these,’ she said, putting them on the low table that sat between my seat and an exact replica, opposite. I made my way back over, and took my Bushmills.

  ‘I don’t remember the pantry much,’ I said, looking around, putting off the inevitable a little longer, ‘though my mother would have. She worked here too, you know.’

  I lowered myself wearily into the chair.

  ‘Yes, you’ve told me.’

  ‘Of course. One of the many pitfalls of being old: the brain can’t recall how many times it retells the same story.’

  I took a good deep swallow, letting the whiskey warm whatever bits of me it touched. I sighed at the pleasure.

  ‘Was it the coin that did it, Emily?’ I said then, finally taking the bull by the horns.

  She looked down at her drink, the air of the room beginning to ruffle at the edges as she shifted in her chair. She lifted her hand to her mouth, her elbow leaning on the armrest. Her fingers began to pull at her lips.

  ‘He didn’t see it at first,’ she began, still not looking at me but at the floral patterned rug that spared the pink carpet that had seen better years beneath. ‘I held it in my hand trying to show him as he lay in the bed but he wouldn’t look. I had to call him: Uncle, Uncle look. Look at what we found. But he didn’t, he just kept his eyes on Mummy. In the end, I had to take his hand and place it in his palm. Instant recognition. Instant. He got so agitated, though. Began to struggle, moving his head from side to side, whimpering like a baby. Emily, what is it, what have you given him? Mummy kept asking over and over, getting equally worked up. What’s he looking for? Emily what’s going on? It dawned on me that he was trying to see that I wasn’t playing a trick on him. He was looking for his own one that he’d hidden under his pillow. I freed it from its black velvet box so he could see at last the two, side-by-side. He cried. I watched him. He didn’t smile like I’d hoped he might. His face just wrinkled in utter pain, not relief, not joy, but pain. He closed the coins in his fists and pulled them to his heart and cried, long, loud heaving sobs until…’

  She swirled her drink, watching it go around, and then drank from it. I took a sip of my own in the silence of the hiatus. When the liquid had quietened, she continued:

  ‘Until no more tears, no more pain, no more breath. He died there and then. Dead. Instantaneous. Heart attack, they said. It killed him just as we always knew it would. I didn’t know what to do. Mother was shouting and wailing in my ear. I just ran out to grab someone who could make him come back, make him be alive again, make it so I hadn’t killed him. Somewhere in my naivety I hoped that coin’s resurrection, its return, would give him peace.’

  She laughed ironically, and with a sigh said: ‘Instead, it tormented him to death.’

  She took out the black box and laid it between us. I glanced down knowing what it held but not wishing to see. She put down her glass and opened it and I didn’t stop her, as much as I’d have liked to. There, facing me sat the abdicated King, doubly defiant.

  I didn’t quite know what to say. Was I there to stand trial for Thomas’s death, was that what Emily had wanted, was that why she’d summoned me? There were times in my life I admit I had wished that man dead – a horrible, painful death. But as I sat watching Emily twitch with guilt and sadness, her tears falling steadily, there was no solace, no joy that he, at last, was gone.


  * * *

  About a year ago, son, I was following a Volkswagen Golf, Dublin reg, down our road. Evening it was, about seven. When it came to our gate, it braked, went by real slow, and then sped up again on its way. I didn’t like it at all. These rural robberies, son – Dublin gangs targeting old people in their own homes, cash, that’s what they’re after – it’s not right. The next day when I was standing in the front room, Cup-a-Soup in one hand and slice of bread in the other for the lunch, didn’t I see it pass again. Bold as you like. Broad daylight. I rang Higgins straight away. ’Course it rang out. Cutbacks. Possibly over doing his shift in the Duncashel station. Then, as I tried Robert, didn’t the fecker pass again, slower this time. Stopped right outside the gate. Sat there, the car idling, looking up at the house.

  ‘Some Dublin fecker’s out here scoping the place,’ I told Robert’s voicemail. ‘Can’t get Higgins. Call me.’

  With the lace curtain between us, I saw him edge slowly on and pull into the gate of the field opposite. Right in, good and tight. The door opened and out he stepped. He started to cross the road, his hand patting his left pocket. From the other, he took out his phone. Over the cattle grid he came, making his way up the drive, doing a three-sixty once or twice. I backed away from the window, reached for my shotgun and made my way to the back door. I hunkered down to Gearstick, looked him in the eye and held his snout so he’d know to be quiet. And then we were gone, taking a right along the back and then up the side of the house. Gearstick kept pace as I held the shotgun tight. At the corner, we stopped. Me, pressed up against the wall, and Gearstick at my leg, my heart pumping away like I was running to catch the 109 to Dublin. I poked my head out, quick like.

  ‘Yeah, it’s the place alright,’ I heard your man say, mooching around my front door. ‘Looks quiet to me. I’ll call you back.’

  I watched him stick his mug up against the sitting-room window. His hand over his eyes, having a good butchers. He switched sides then, starting on the bedroom windows. I pulled back in as he made his way down to where I was waiting, looking through each window as he passed. Slowly, I took off the safety catch and raised the gun high. Gearstick’s quick panting body pushed against me. I imagined his ears pricked forward. I heard the steps close in, three more I reckoned; I nuzzled the stock on my shoulder. Three, two, one:

  ‘What the fuck do you want?’ My hand, steady as a rock.

  ‘Jesus,’ he shouted, jumping back.

  Gearstick unleashed the best bit of barking he had in him, pushing the fecker until he stumbled and fell on his arse. Stood over him, his teeth bared, ready to launch once I gave the command.

  ‘Don’t move,’ I yelled, as he attempted to reach his hand inside his zippy.

  ‘No, man. No. It’s cool.’

  ‘Don’t fecking “man” me.’

  ‘Listen man, sir, I mean, sir. You have it all wrong. I’m David Flynn from the Seniors’ Club in Duncashel. I have a badge and leaflets.’

  My phone rang in my pocket. ‘’Bout feckin’ time,’ I said to Robert, jamming it between my head and free shoulder, ‘I could be dead out here. This lad says his name is David Flynn, from Senior something or other, in Duncashel. Check it out and call me back. You might want to hurry, my finger’s getting fierce sweaty on the trigger.’

  I looked at the boy. That’s all he seemed now, a terrified boy. I lowered the gun slightly. Gearstick, no longer interested in frightening the bejesus out of him either it seemed, began to sniff at his shoes.

  ‘What does this Seniors’ Club do when it’s at home?’ I asked, as we waited.

  ‘We run groups.’

  ‘Groups?’

  ‘Groups. Like friendship groups. And arranging for people to call by to see how you’re doing, like. Although, that mightn’t be your thing,’ he said looking at the gun, ‘there’s bingo. And yoga. And outings and…’

  My phone rang. Robert again.

  ‘Aye. Right,’ I said when he’d finished telling me all I needed to know about this boyo on the ground. I pressed the red button to end the call.

  ‘And tell me, is this what they teach you over in Duncashel, how to frighten the shite out of prospective clients?’ I lowered the gun to my side. David’s head dropped as Gearstick whined and licked his ear. And as true as I am sitting here, the boy reached out his hand and petted him.

  ‘I’m new,’ he replied, as my hand lowered to pull him up.

  Only I felt I owed him, I might never have visited the centre in Duncashel. I decided the bingo was the safer bet. They offered to send the bus to collect me but it was best not to take the chance. Always important to have a means of escape. I sat outside in the car for a while after I arrived, wondering what the feck I was at. This loneliness was pushing me to lengths I’d’ve never considered before your mother died. Like reading the notices on the Community Board in the SuperValu:

  Seniors’ Bridge – Duncashel Amenity Centre. Thursdays 10 a.m.

  Bereavement Support Group, Fridays 7 p.m., Presbyterian Church Hall – call Anna

  Medjugorje Pilgrimage – August 2014

  Even to stop in front of that yoke at the back of the tills was risky. Anyone could’ve seen me. I had to keep pretending to look at the car section, to be on the safe side. I’ve imagined myself at every one of those bloody things, son. Pictured myself sitting among the strangers, nodding, making small talk about the weather and the price of things and the curse of computers. Or worse, crying my eyes out. I promise you, I’ve willed myself to live this worn-out life of mine. I even called ‘Anna’. Encouraged me to attend ‘even the one meeting. What about next Friday?’ she said. ‘I’ll think about it,’ I said. I watched the clock tick by on the mantelpiece the following Friday. The hand hit half past, then twenty-five to, then twenty to. My heart thumped and my hand rubbed away at my forehead, forging another worry line as it reached quarter to. In the background the weatherman on the telly gave the forecast for ice with the threat of snow showers. Ah, here, I said to myself, I’m not risking those roads.

  But sitting there in the Jeep in Duncashel, waiting to go in to David and his Seniors’ Group bingo, I wondered might I really do it this time. Might I really be able to take the leap of faith into a world that offered me a bit of hope, even at this late stage? It struck me then, that maybe David was heaven sent. Maybe he was your mother’s doing. Maybe she’d sent him to force me into trying to make it on my own. Next thing I knew I was pushing my way through the door. My palm laid flat on the ‘Fáilte, Welcome, Bienvenue’.

  ‘Maurice. Good to see you, man,’ David called, coming over to shake my hand.

  ‘David,’ I replied. ‘You’ve recovered after the other day, I take it.’

  ‘What? Ah yeah, no bother, man. Sure, me Da was in stitches when I told him. Said he’d love to have a pint with you.’

  ‘Did he now?’ I said, scoping out the Presbyterian hall that I’d never been in before. Four long gridded windows faced each other over a scuffed wooden floor that looked like it had suffered one fête too many over the years. Pairs of depressed red velvet curtains, orange and frayed at the edges, hung on each. Up on stage, behind the white bingo machine, a gaggle of unwanted chairs and benches clung to each other on the verge of one massive avalanche.

  ‘You’re not from around these parts?’ I asked, although I was sure I’d possibly asked him the same thing the first day. Still.

  ‘Me? No. Finglas. We came down here after the Ma died three years ago. Me Da said it just wasn’t the same without her. Wanted a change, you know what I mean?’

  Twenty or so plastic black chairs, the uncomfortable kind, were lined up at the front of the hall. And there, in pockets of twos and threes, in front and to the side of them, stood my great hope: my peers. Those who would pick me up and stick me back together again. My stomach lurched and my heart slowed with the effort of it all.

  ‘What has you working here anyway?’ I managed. I breathed in the mustiness of the place and it caught in my throat.

 
‘It was the Da. He read about it in the Duncashel Topic and started to come every Thursday. Then it was a Tuesday too and sure, he may as well’ve moved in by the end. I used to drop him off. The odd time I’d come in and help out a bit with the setting up and I’d get chatting. Fidelma, the boss, got me on Job Bridge a month ago.’

  ‘And is he here, your father?’

  ‘Da? No. He died there last year. Reckon he just gave up. Couldn’t hack it without her, you know.’

  He looked at me all-sheepish, like he was considering whether I could be trusted with a secret. ‘I talk to him all the time in me head. Stupid, I know, but…’

  I looked at him, son, and I swear to God I could’ve hugged him. A man who knew what it was to talk to ghosts.

  ‘So this is the lone ranger.’ A woman of no more than five foot and almost the same wide announced, approaching me from the front of the hall. Her step near shook the boards as she made a beeline for me.

  ‘Fidelma Moore, Mr Hannigan. I hope you left the gun at home today,’ she said grabbing my hand despite it not being offered. ‘We had a great laugh in the office over that one. What were you like at all, at all?’

  I considered her with a stare, while I heard David shuffle nervously beside me. I looked at him, then back at her.

  ‘You don’t live alone then,’ I said, ‘in the arse end of nowhere, with only a gun to protect you from the gangs who steal your few bob and leave you half dead?’

  She didn’t reply but moved a hand to her chest as her eyebrows rose and her forehead concertinaed.

  ‘Well, now, I’m sure I didn’t mean to offend you…’

  ‘No,’ I said, leaning down to her, ‘but you did.’

  I turned from her then, and watched the bingo caller play with his balls, setting them up at the top of the room while your woman decided what to do with me. Rocking back and forth on my feet, I concluded that even if it was my wife’s divine intervention that had me there with these people, eviction was still fine by me.