When All Is Said(2)

‘Svetlana will be in now. We were just having a quick meeting about tonight.’

‘Well, aren’t you very Michael O’Leary.’

‘I see you’re in fine spirits,’ she says, coming to stand in front of me, giving me her full attention now. ‘I didn’t know you were coming in. To what do we owe the pleasure?’

‘I don’t always ring ahead.’

‘No, but it might be a good idea. I could put the staff on red alert.’

There it is – that smile, curling up, as delicious as a big dollop of cream on a slice of warm apple tart. And those eyes, twinkling with the curiosity.

‘A Bushmills?’ she asks, reaching for a tumbler.

‘Make it a bottle of stout, to start me off. Not from the fridge mind.’

‘To start you off?’

I ignore the worry that’s crept into her voice.

‘Would you join me for one later?’ I ask, instead.

She stops and gives me a good long stare.

‘Is everything alright?’

‘A drink, Emily, that’s all.’

‘You do know I’ve landed the County Awards?’ she says, hand on hip, ‘not to mention a mysterious VIP who’s decided to book in. Everything has to be perfect. I’ve worked too hard for this to—’

‘Emily, Emily. There’ll be no surprises tonight. I’d just like to sit and have a drink with you. No confessions this time, I promise.’

I slide a hand across the counter, my offering of reassurance. Can’t blame the distrust, given the history. I watch it steal away her smile. I’ve never fully explained all that business with the Dollards to you and your mother, have I? I suppose in part that’s what tonight is all about.

‘I doubt there’ll be a lull,’ she says, standing in front of me now, still giving me the suspicious eye, ‘I’ll try to get back up to you, though.’

She bends slightly and takes a bottle of the good stuff with her expert hand from the fully stocked shelf below – one can’t but admire the neat order of the bottles, their harped labels all turned proudly outwards. Emily’s handiwork. She runs a well-ordered show.

A slip of a young thing arrives through the door to join her.

‘Great,’ Emily says to her. ‘The place is all yours. Here, give this to Mr Hannigan there before he passes out. And you,’ she continues, pointing one of her lovely long nails at me, ‘be nice. Svetlana’s new.’ With that warning she picks up her load and disappears.

Svetlana takes the bottle, locates the opener under the bar with a little assistance from my pointing finger, lays the drink and a glass before me then scurries to the far corner. I pour a bit until the creamy head hits the top of the tilted edge and then I let it settle. I look around and consider this day of mine, this year, these two years in fact, without your mother and I feel tired and, if I’m honest, afraid. My hand passes over the stubble on my chin again as I watch the cream float up. Then I cough and grunt my worries out of me, there’s no going back now, son. No going back.

To my left, through the long windows that reach the floor, I watch the cars go by. I recognise one or two: Audi A8, that would be Brennan from Duncashel, owns the cement factory; Skoda Octavia with the missing left hub will be Mick Moran. There’s Lavin’s jalopy parked right outside his newsagents. An ancient red Ford Fiesta. Gives me the greatest pleasure to park in that spot whenever I find it vacant.

‘You can’t be parking there, Hannigan,’ he’d shout, hanging out his driver’s window once he’d arrived back from wherever he’d been. ‘I can’t be expected to be lugging the deliveries up and down the town now, can I?’ His head’d be bobbing madly with that mop of wild hair, his car double parked, holding up the town. ‘Do you not see the sign? No parking, day or night.’

’Course, I’d be leaning against his wall, reading the paper.

‘Hold on to your tights there, Lavin,’ I’d say, giving the paper a good rustling, ‘it was an emergency.’

‘Is getting the morning paper considered an emergency now?’

‘I can always bring my business elsewhere.’

‘Oh, that you would, Hannigan. Oh, that you would.’

‘The newsagents in Duncashel has a coffee machine now, I hear.’

‘You can move your feckin’ Jeep on your way over so.’

‘Not one for the coffee me,’ I say, clicking open my door before getting in and sticking her into reverse.

It’s the simple things, son, the simple things.

It’s the end of the shopper’s shift it seems. Hands wave, horns beep. Driver windows are down with elbows sticking out, having the final chat before heading home with full boots to a night in front of the telly. Some of them might be back out later, of course, transformed into shiny things. Eager to show off the new outfits and hairdos.

I raise the glass and pour again until it’s full, ready for its final rest. My fingers, with their dark, crust-filled crevices, tap the side, to encourage it on. I take one last look in the mirror, raise my drink to himself there and swallow down the blessed first sip.

You can’t beat the creamy depth of a glass of stout. Giving sustenance to the body and massaging the vocal cords on its way down. That’s another thing about my voice, it makes me come across as younger. Oh, yes, if I’m on the blower it doesn’t let on that I host a hundred haggard wrinkles, or dentures that have a mind of their own. It pretends I’m a fine thing, distinguished and handsome. A man to be reckoned with. On that, it’s not wrong. Don’t know where I got it from – the only one in the family blessed with the gift. It was how I drew them in, those out-of-town estate agents; not that they needed much convincing, what with our farm being on the royal side of the Meath–Dublin border, the envy of all around.