When All Is Said(70)

I want to move away. I want to drink my whiskey that’s sitting all alone on the bar. I want my peace and quiet. What I don’t want is someone else’s problems to solve. My scar itches. I need to rub it but she’s still too close. I have no choice but to stand, as rude as it may seem. I let her hands drop back to her lap. I rub hard at my skin, smelling the earth of my fingers and watch the rest of the band, or at least they must be, given they’re all dressed in black suits with white dickie bows and cowboy hats, pass by me, all amps and equipment and elbows. I step back a little out of their way. And when they are through the double doors, I say:

‘You want me to be the bad guy, is that it?’

I look down at her expectant face.

‘If that’s how you wish to put it, then, yes, I want you to be the bad guy,’ she says, rising proudly and taking my hand, ‘please, Mr Hannigan, please. Just this one last time for us Dollards.’

I have no answer for her. It is all too much, trying to understand their convoluted history. All I can do is take her hand and hold it there for a moment in the foyer. I have nothing more to give to anyone. I look into those sad eyes of hers one last time, and leave.



* * *



I go back to the bar. It’s beginning to fill up again with those who don’t seem to be fans of the band.

‘You’re still here,’ Emily says, as she comes through from the kitchen. ‘Sorry I couldn’t make it down before now. It was mad up there. Still, all over now. Well, I mean the speeches and all that. The band is on, now. So far so good I have to say. But I tell you, my cheeks are actually sore from all that smiling for the photographs.’

She sits up on the stool beside me. She looks tired but still she manages to give me a tiny grin.

‘So go on, why are you still here?’

God but she is beautiful.

‘Here,’ I say to Svetlana, ‘there’s a bottle of champagne behind there with this lady’s name on it. Will you open it and give her a glass and put another Midleton in that?’

I shove my glass in her direction.

‘Champagne?’ Emily asks, watching me like I’ve gone mad.

‘Robert tells me it’s your favourite.’

Svetlana pops the cork and we watch her pour the bubbles. It looks magnificent, but I know it tastes like pure shite.

‘Are we celebrating something, Mr Hannigan?’

‘In a way. We are toasting my wife. Who two years ago today decided it was time to leave me.’ I smile at her and watch her bright eyes dip a little. ‘She was a great gardener, you know,’ I say trying to lighten the mood, ‘pinks and purples and yellows and oranges everywhere. Especially out the back in a little rockery. Irises, petunias, begonias, nasturtiums, the lot. Couldn’t tell one from the other, me. But I loved the smell in the yard when I’d arrive home. Hitting me in the nose as soon as I got out of the car. It was her, the smell was her, not honey, not jasmine. Essence of Sadie. Haven’t smelt that in two years. Weeds, that’s all there is now, choking the life out of what’s survived.’

Emily has the look of a woman who at any minute might reach over and hug me. I lift my glass to hers to ward off any of that.

‘To Sadie,’ I say.

‘To Sadie.’

Our glasses clink, high pitched and clear.

‘I was talking to your mother just now,’ I say quietly, when the moment’s silence begins to stretch uncomfortably. More and more people are arriving, escaping the band maybe, much to my annoyance. Oh, for the quiet hours just past.

‘My mother? My mother!’

‘Yes, your mother.’ I look around to see who might be within earshot.

‘You must have that one wrong. Mother never comes out of hiding. Especially not on a night like this. GAA’s not her thing.’

‘My mistake, so,’ I say, not having the energy to argue the point with her. I can imagine her slitted eyes turned on me as I stare ahead.

‘What did she want?’

‘Oh, you believe me now.’ My eyes dart in her general direction. ‘She didn’t say much. Other than telling me Thomas’ father wasn’t Hugh Dollard and that she knows all about me and this place.’

I take another sip of my drink, imagining her panic.

‘She knows? What do you mean, she knows?’

‘What I said. She told me she’s known all along.’

‘But that … but she’s never…’ She breaks off and stares at her bubbles for a bit.

‘Tell me something,’ I say, when I’ve given her long enough to digest it all, ‘would you have sold this place if I hadn’t offered to invest all those years back?’ My hand attempts a passing wave of the room but gives up mid-way. She raises her hand to her forehead, looking at me, totally confused. And I feel sorry for having asked the question.

‘I … eh … I’ve no idea.’

‘Would you sell now?’

‘What, do you want to buy it?’ she laughs sarcastically, ‘I thought you didn’t give a damn about this place.’

‘Just answer.’

But she doesn’t, simply stares back at me, trying to figure me out.

‘Ah, it doesn’t matter. Nothing fecking matters now anyway,’ I say, rubbing the stubble on my chin, considering my razor shipped off to Dublin, regretting having sent it now. Then I laugh at the stupidity. No need for a razor where you’re going, Sonny Jim.