When All Is Said(21)

‘A hotel.’

‘A hotel is it? Well, holy shamolie. Now there’s something this town could do with, what with all the tourists we have.’

‘I’ll have you know, Mr Hannigan, my family has been in the hotel business for a century. If anyone can turn this God forsaken backwater into a tourist destination, it’s me.’

I liked him even more.

I smiled and closed the door. Leaning up against its frame for a moment, I considered this new departure in the Dollard fortunes.

‘Who was that, Maurice?’ Sadie asked, coming out from the kitchen with you waddling behind her.

‘That, my dear, was Jason, the hotelier. He’s got big plans for this town. We’re getting ourselves a hotel.’



* * *



When I met your mother, it felt like she’d filled a small piece of the hole that Tony’d left behind. Certainly, her love took the edges off his loss a bit. It was like bubble wrap in a way. Keeping him safe and settled within me, the sharpness gone. But as mad as it sounds, I sort of resented her for robbing that little bit of him from me.

Hand on heart, in all my years without him, not a day has gone by without me chatting to him about the cows or the price of feed or whether I should buy or sell a piece of land. The Sunday game, now that’s one of our big things. He sits on my shoulder, pointing out where the players are going wrong. Such a bloody perfectionist when it comes to hurling. Addicted to it, when he was alive. Gone, every Sunday and every summer evening to play on the pitch above by the church. He dragged me along with him, even though I hadn’t the heart to tell him I didn’t share his passion. I played alright, but not like him, not with that soul, that drive, like he was fighting for Ireland’s freedom.

‘You don’t have to, Big Man, you don’t have to come. I get it,’ he told me one Sunday as we set out for the pitch. I must’ve been about fourteen.

‘What are you talking about? I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Watching you make a complete eejit of yourself on that pitch is the highlight of my week.’ He slapped me on the back and off we went, our hurls over our shoulders.

Only the other week when we were watching the Carlow–Westmeath match he said to me: ‘You were good you know, Maurice, better than me, if you’d put your mind to it. I’d have given anything to have had your talent. But you couldn’t’ve been arsed.’

But one evening, Sadie found me out at the car staring into space, looking all worried. We must have been married a good while by then. I don’t know where you were, were you even born at that stage? I thought my mind was beginning to let him go, for good. You see, I was driving home and looking out over our fields that ran a good bit of the road before our turning, when I saw him. Bent down, his arms digging away. The old brown shirt on him, like he’d always worn. I jammed on the brakes. Just before the driveway. I walked back the way to look for him, but he was gone. When I drove up the final bit to the house, it struck me that I hadn’t thought of him that whole day or the day before. His name, his spirit had not passed within one inch of me from the moment I’d risen until the apparition in the field.

‘Maurice, what’s happened?’ Sadie asked, coming out the front door, looking at me. She must’ve heard me pull up and been watching from the kitchen window.

I hadn’t realised I was crying until she lifted her hand to my cheek.

‘Nothing, nothing,’ I replied, coughing my tears away, moving my head out of her reach, ‘I’m grand, woman. It’s just the wind.’

I couldn’t look at her. I was convinced she’d replaced him. And I couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t bear losing what little I had left of him in that brain of mine. I walked away from her over to the sheds. Pretended at doing something, looking at the tractor, possibly. I waited until she’d gone back in the house and then I let those tears fall. Big bucketfuls of them. Holding on to the wheel arch, leaning in, feeling like the legs might just give way. One ear cocked for the back door opening again. No one came. Eventually, I pulled myself together and went off into the house to sit for the dinner and to give your mother the excuse of a flu for my puffy eyes and weary body. But the whole evening I couldn’t even glance in her direction.

I stayed in the bedroom for the evening, left her alone with the telly. I pulled out the old shoebox I had from under the bed. Dug through it and found as many photos as I could of him. I sat there on the floor, old negatives and pictures around me, staring at my favourite one: the one where we were sat in front of the butter churn outside the upper-room window of the old house. A creamy haze of a photo, curled in so much by then that I had to hold the edges back to see him properly. His left hand was raised to block out the sun. I concentrated on his face, trying to embed it in my brain. But the more I tried the more I failed. I had myself in such a state that Sadie had Lemsips, paracetamol and Vicks VapoRub all lined up. In the end I gave in, took the lot and went to sleep. I dreamed of the picture that night – Tony sitting on our old kitchen chair and me standing to his rear. My lower half hidden by the churn, my chest puffed out, smirking proudly. My hand lay protectively on Tony’s shoulder, holding on for dear life, refusing to let him rise, although he tried. In the end I remember his words like he was actually beside me.

‘Alright, Big Man, let me be. I’m not going anywhere.’

The next morning, I rose, knowing he’d never leave me again. Sadie was amazed at my recovery. Quizzed me on the exact concoction I’d taken for future reference. For years after we had to abide by my made-up instructions of that supposed cure whenever any of us caught a cold or flu.