When All Is Said(7)

Did I even manage to buy the children presents that year? That had always been your mother’s department.

That was the start of it, the first of the talk about the home. Well, when I say that, I mean the first time it was ever discussed in my presence. I’m sure it had been the topic of many a conversation before it reached my ears. Sure I knew it would come. What poor widow or widower living alone out there hasn’t dreaded its arrival?

‘Would you feck off,’ I told you out straight. ‘Wouldn’t I look the right eejit sitting in playing Telly Bingo with a load of old women in cardigans rather than out tending the cattle?’

In fairness, you laughed. That big, confident laugh – perhaps there’s something of my vocal genius in you after all.

‘Alright, Dad,’ you said, laying a hand on my knee, ‘we just thought you’d be safer there.’

‘Safer? What do you mean safer?’

‘Well, you just hear stories nowadays about people, you know, coming on to your property and—’

‘Sure isn’t that what this beauty’s for?’ I said, laying a hand on my faithful Winchester.

You looked bewildered. But I wasn’t giving up my life until I was good and ready.

As hard as it might be to hear, in a way I’m glad you live as far away as you do. I couldn’t stand the constant reminder that I must be a worry. I’d say your biggest fear is that I’d end up shooting some poor unsuspecting fool of a hill walker who might stumble on to the land.

Perhaps it’s a small consolation but I hope when you’re home you see that at least I’m clean. I manage perfectly on that score. I don’t smell, not like some I could mention. Old age is no excuse for stinking to high heaven. Sparkling, that’s what I am, having a good wash every morning with the face cloth and, of course, there’s the bath once a week. I had one of those rail things put in about five years ago and now I can lower myself in and out as easy as lifting that first pint. I’m not one for showers, could never take to them. Whenever I look at one I feel cold, that’s why I refused to have one installed despite your mother’s protests.

My greatest discovery of late has to be the launderette over in Duncashel that collects my offerings and drops them back three days later. Not like the local one, you wouldn’t find her doing anything as helpful as that. Every week Pristine Pete’s gets my business, sending me back my shirts, crisper and cleaner than Sadie could ever have managed, however blasphemous that might sound.

And what’s more there’s Bess, cleaning the house. Twice a week, never fail. Polishing and scrubbing it back to perfection. I think your mother would’ve liked her.

‘I’ll take your best cleaner with no English,’ I told the agency in Dublin, ‘I don’t want anyone local. I want someone discreet who’s not a gossip. I’ll pay extra for her petrol if needs be.’

She cooks too. Leaves me a couple of stews for the week. Mind you, they taste nothing like Sadie’s; in fact, I couldn’t tell you what they are. It took me a while to get used to them. Garlic, lots of that, apparently. But I surprised myself when I started to look forward to them, especially the chicken one. All that time with Bess, keeping me going, Robert was killed telling me I could’ve gotten the Health Board to foot the bill for a cleaner and gotten Meals on Wheels into the bargain.

‘Are you mad?’ I said, ‘I’ve never had a handout in my life and I’m certainly not starting now.’

Svetlana has sauntered over. Finished with her inspections and cleaning and glass stacking. She’s been pacing the bar for the last few minutes, waiting for the hordes to arrive.

‘You here for dinner later, yes?’

I like that name of hers. Svetlana. It’s straight up, sharp yet still has a bit of beauty about it. I wonder how I look to her? Nuts, no doubt. Sitting here, lost in my thoughts, the odd mumble escaping every now and again. She leans forward on the counter, eager for something to happen, even a lame conversation with the auld lad at the bar will do, it seems.

‘I’m not,’ I say, and it’s there I’d normally leave it. But tonight is no ordinary night. ‘Is tonight your first night here?’ I ask.

‘Second. I work last night.’

I nod, swirl the last drop at the bottom of my glass, before downing it. Ready now to begin the first of five toasts: five toasts, five people, five memories. I push my empty bottle back across the bar to her. And as her hand takes it and turns away, happy to have something to do, I say under my breath:

‘I’m here to remember – all that I have been and all that I will never be again.’





Chapter Two



7.05 p.m.

First Toast: to Tony

Bottle of stout

There’s stirrings out in the foyer. Looks like the boys in all their finery are beginning to trickle in. I’ll not have this place to myself for much longer.

‘Another stout, there,’ I say to Svetlana who looks like she’s having an attack of first-night nerves. ‘Keep that seat for me there. Don’t be letting those lads take it. The best seat in the house.’

It’s time for the little boy’s room. One of the perks of being eighty-four, your legs get regular exercise from all the toilet trips.

‘By the neck, yes?’ she asks, as I’m heading off.