When All Is Said(22)

But it’s his living presence I’ve missed the most since your mother’s left. And no amount of talking to him in my head can take the place of being able to see the man, to touch the skin and bone of him, to hear him sup a pint in Hartigan’s. What I wouldn’t give for just one hour of his company. No need for much conversation at all. Our elbows on the counter. A bottle of stout each in front of us. Half empty glasses. Looking out at the town. Tapping our feet to the music on the radio or laughing over the madness of the world. The company of the trusted, what? Being understood without having to explain and not having to pretend all is fine. Being allowed to be a feckin’ mess. The feeling of his pat on my back as he passes behind me to go to the jax. Is it too much to ask for a simple resurrection?

But I’m grateful for those years I had him. Isn’t that why I’m sitting here? Giving thanks for a man who shaped me, guided me, minded me and, most of all, taught me to never give up. But he’s fierce quiet today, son. Hasn’t said a word in my ear this whole time. I wonder, has my plan finally baffled him into silence.





Chapter Three



7.47 p.m.

Second Toast: to Molly

Glass of Bushmills – 21-year-old malt

If there’s one thing I like about the bar room of this hotel, it’s the light; not that I’ve ever shared that compliment with Emily. Perhaps I should. There’s something about how the evening creeps through those front windows. They’re not the original ones, the windows. They’re long, thin rectangular panes that stretch from top to bottom. You can’t open them. I’ve only ever seen the like in modern churches before. At first, I didn’t take to them but now I can’t get enough of watching that light streaming in at the slanted angles, showing up the dust and movement of the place. I could watch it for hours. Hypnotic, it is.

The bar is fairly hopping now. The men nod in my direction as they give their orders and extend their elbows, allowing the counter to take their weight. The cavalry has arrived to help Svetlana. Emily and a lad. Whizzing up and down. They’re all arms. You’d swear they’d more than just the two each, pulling one pint while reaching for another glass to start the pump beside it flowing. Their speed and efficiency are to be admired. I could watch this dance all evening.

I recognise most of the crowd. You would too, son. Crimmens joins me. Leaning on the bar, all serious, like he’s bothered by something. I take a sip of this fine whiskey before looking over at him again. It’s the suit that’s troubling him. He looks about as uncomfortable as I would in that get-up.

‘Let me get you a drink there, Mr Hannigan.’

‘I won’t, now. I’m grand with what I have.’

‘On the whiskey, what?’

‘Are you having one yourself? Here, Emily, could you throw on a pint for Crimmens here?’

‘Don’t be minding him. I’ve one over beyond.’

For the life of me, I can’t remember the chap’s first name. If you were here, you’d know it. I’m sure you would. I steer my way around my memory loss as best I can. It’s the faces I remember no problem these days, but the names have me stumped. He’s out of Lissman. Did some business together a few years back. One of the new breed, organic this and corn-fed that. I tried it for a while. But I’ve let it slip of late, like everything. Still, I have to hand it to these young farmers; they’ve a vigour and commitment to the land that’d make my father smile.

‘Do you know much about the solar panels, Mr Hannigan?’ he asks, after a moment of silence between us. ‘I’m thinking of getting into it. There’s lads over there in England who’ve made a fortune giving over fields and fields to it. What do you think, would I be mad?’

‘You’d be mad not to. If I were a younger man you wouldn’t hold me back. I’d have done it long ago and set my sheep to graze under them.’

‘Is that right? I might look into it so,’ he says, nodding his head to the counter.

And then we fall into our silent contemplation again. Happy with our wanderings over this farming life and all we do to keep the bellies of the world full and our own hearts and bank balances at ease. A gong booms in the background, making me near spill my Bushmills. I never knew the place had a gong, hardly surprising, I suppose. And true to Irish custom, the horde ignores its request. Each group has to be encouraged by the hotel staff to loosen their grip from their conversations and the bar. They herd them like sheep dogs, blocking all exits and means of escape, in the direction of their dinner. Gearstick would’ve loved this, giving it his all until he had every last arse sitting in their seats below.

‘That’s me so, Mr Hannigan.’ Crimmens stretches out his hand and shakes it with a strength I envy.

‘Good luck now,’ I say, as I watch him and the last of the crowd make their way out of the bar.

‘Can you believe they’ve actually gone in on time?’ Emily says, proud that all is going to plan. A bit of her hair has fallen out of her tight bun. It falls down at her cheek in a curl that reminds me of Sadie.

‘They’d be afraid not to,’ I say, grinning, getting down off my stool and heading in peace to the toilet. ‘And don’t be drinking that when I’m not looking,’ I say, pointing at my Bushmills before going through the door with a smile.

I remember the day I took my first sip of whiskey. I was no more than twenty when I had the notion to try it. My father never touched the stuff, but I was always drawn to that rich liquid sitting in the bottles behind the bar in Hartigan’s. One day I felt the bravery and ordered a glass. Well, it nearly cut the throat out of me. Coughing and spluttering, I was. Mrs Hartigan thought it hilarious. I swore there and then, I’d never do it again. But the taste stayed with me over the following days, its vileness mellowing with the passing of time, so much so that I did indeed take another. The day I tasted the 21-year-old malt, I took my cap off in reverence to her magnificence. This one here, son, is for the sister you never knew – Molly.