Freckles(33)

Maybe you could stay with Pauline, I suggest.

I’d be in her way.

You’re her brother.

That’s why I’d be in her way. She has the businesses. Her grandchildren. I’ve heaped enough on her.

We both know what he means.

Mossie might need help at the mussel farm, I try again.

I’m too old for the physical work.

So you can work behind the bar in the Mussel House. Shacking oysters and pulling pints for fancy people coming off their fancy yachts. She always needs extra help for the summer. You’d work for free just to be kept busy, I know you, and imagine the stories you could tell them. You could hold fort every day with new faces. Fresh blood hanging on your every word.

It’s shucking oysters, he says, but his eyes are smiling at the thought.

You could even brew your own beer. Mussels in craft beer, there’s a new one for the menu. What do you think, I ask.

Ah no.

Think about it.

I will.

I know he won’t.

Your life’s not over, Pops, I say. Don’t be sitting here as if it is.

Yeah.

I’m sorry you’re lonely.

You might be too, I think, he says.

I look down.

Five people, ha, he says.

Yeah. Who are yours.

He doesn’t ignore me, but he doesn’t answer. He’s lost in thought. It’s gotten in on him too. Or I think it has, until he raises his right hand in the air like he’s offering a high five.

Bach, he says lowering his thumb. Mozart. He lowers his forefinger. Handel, Beethoven. And you. His fist stays in the air.

I’m in good company.

Don’t be feeling down on yourself, Allegra, he says. You had your five. You had them. But you gave them up to find your one.

You are my one, I say quickly, breath almost taken away by his words. I’m never giving you up.

He takes my hand across the table.

I’d tell you to come home but I know you want to be in Dublin. Just say the word and I can be there in a jiffy. Or Pauline, if you don’t want me there. You might think she’s not around but she’s ready, you know, on call, for when you need her. In case it doesn’t work out.

I can’t entertain that thought. I can’t give up everything for something only to not get that something. Wouldn’t be fair on the everything.

There’s apple pie for dessert, I say, standing and collecting our plates.

I scrape the scraps of food into the bin, my back turned to him, before putting them in the dishwasher. I can feel his eyes bearing into me. I don’t want to talk about this any more. I don’t want him to ask. But he does.

Have you talked to her yet, he asks.

I shake my head.

I’ll have mine with ice cream, he says gently.





Fourteen


My last night in Valentia. By 9 p.m. Pops is snoozing in his armchair and I feel antsy. Especially after our conversation about my five, or my lack thereof.

Will we go out for a few drinks, Pops.

No no I’m fine here.

It’s a bank holiday, there’ll be a great atmosphere. Probably a live session in the Royal or the Ring Lyne. But no, he’s not having any of it. The man who lives for music doesn’t want to hear any music but insists that I go out, enjoy myself. I call Cyclops. I don’t know if he has the same number but I’m guessing Cyclops will never change it if it risks losing business.

He answers straight away with a yo.

It’s me, Allegra.

Freckles, he says and I smile.

Out of Jamie, Marion and Cyclops, he’d been the only one to call me by my school nickname when I came home on the weekends. It angered Marion. She hated other people claiming me with a stupid name when she’s known me the longest. Jamie could never remember it. Maybe Cyclops did and does because he understands what it’s like to not just have a nickname but to be your nickname.

Cyclops is so named because of his surname. ó Súilleabháin is Irish for O’Sullivan, but it sounds exactly like súil amháin which translates to one eye. He’s from a family of six brothers and they’re all called the same. Huge broad big brothers they seem to own the name better than my friend, strapping big GAA players, his eldest brother played for the Kerry senior team and is named the Cyclops. That’s it, he’s the ultimate Cyclops. Then there’s Goosey Cyclops, so named because he’s a bird plucker. His dad is Chief Cyclops because of his thirty-year involvement in local and county football. Then there’s Nixie Cyclops, because his name is Nicholas. Inky Cyclops, because he published a book of poetry and writes for the local paper, and Chops Cyclops the sheep farmer. Someone once told me my Cyclops friend was the runt of the pack. We were on the sidelines watching him get pummelled by everyone. He wasn’t a good footballer, not like his brothers. He tried because he had to, couldn’t let his dad and the locals down, but cars and music were always his thing. Customising his cars into these muppet mobiles with underglow lights attached to the chassis, illuminating the ground beneath. That’s how he got with Marion, he kept asking her dad to do the modifications. He calls himself Chewy Cyclops, because he’s DJ Chewy, but unlike his brothers it hasn’t quite stuck, it’s a name he gave to himself and that’s not how it’s supposed to work. You earn it. People give it to you, like a badge of honour. Locals call him Cyclops óg, which is young Cyclops or kind of like saying junior.