The Searcher(91)

The river, out of its endless supply of contrariness, has decided to be charming today. The perch are little, but inside half an hour Cal has enough of them to make up a good dinner. He keeps fishing anyway, even when the cold sets up an ache in his joints, making him feel old. He only packs up his gear when the light coming through the branches starts to tarnish and contract, turning the water green-black and sullen. He doesn’t feel like walking home in the dark today.

As he comes up his lane he sees Mart leaning back against his gate, looking out across the road and the wild-grown hedge and the fields scattered with hay bales, to the gold in the sky. A thin curl of smoke trickles from his mouth and meanders off up the road. Beside him, Kojak nips through his fur after a flea.

As Cal gets closer, Mart turns his head and drops his cigarette under his boot. “Here comes the big bold hunter,” he says, grinning. “Any joy?”

“Got a mess of perch,” Cal says, holding up his kill bag. “You want some?”

Mart waves the perch away. “I don’t eat fish. They depress me. I had fish every Friday of my life, till the mammy died. I’ve et enough fish for one lifetime.”

“I oughta be that way about grits,” Cal says. “But I’m not. I’d eat grits any day and twice on Sundays, if I could get them.”

“What the feck is grits, anyhow?” Mart demands. “All the cowboys in the fillums do eat it, but they never have the courtesy to tell you what it is. Is it semolina, or what is it at all?”

“They’re made of cornmeal,” Cal says. “You boil ’em up and serve ’em with whatever you like best. I favor shrimp and grits, myself. If I could get my hands on some, I’d invite you over to try them.”

“Noreen’d order that in for you. If you bat the big aul’ baby blues at her.”

“Maybe,” Cal says. He remembers Belinda waving to him out her car window. He doesn’t think Noreen is in the mood to special-order anything for him right now.

“Are you getting homesick on me, bucko?” Mart inquires, eyeing him sharply. “I’ve twenty quid on you, down at Seán óg’s, to stick it out here at least a year. Don’t let me down.”

“I got no plans to go anywhere,” Cal says. “Who’d you bet against?”

“Don’t be minding that. They’re a crowd of aul’ fools, down there; wouldn’t know a good bet if it walked up and bit them.”

“Maybe I oughta stick a few bucks on myself,” Cal says. “What are my odds like?”

“Never you mind. If you win it for me, I’ll give you a bit offa the top.”

“You’re looking good,” Cal says. It’s true. Mart doesn’t have the raw materials to look fresh-faced, exactly, but both his perkiness and his movements have lost the effortful quality of the last few days. He appears to have no intention of explaining his presence at Cal’s gate. “You get your beauty sleep last night?”

“Oh, begod, I did. Slept round the clock. Whatever that yoke was, it won’t be bothering anyone’s sheep again.” Mart pokes Cal’s kill bag with his crook. “You did well there. What’ll you do with the ones you don’t eat?”

“I was thinking about that myself,” Cal says. “That little freezer compartment won’t hold ’em. If I knew where to find Malachy, I might give him a few, in exchange for the other night.”

Mart considers this and nods. “Might not be a bad idea. Malachy lives up the mountains, but. You won’t find his place. Give ’em to me; I’ll see he gets them.”

Mart and Kojak walk up to the house with Cal to get a bag for the fish, but they don’t come in. Mart leans a shoulder in the door frame, a ragged and bumpy outline against the sunset. Kojak slumps at his feet.

“The mansion’s looking well,” Mart says, inspecting Cal’s living room.

“It’s slow work,” Cal says. “I got a lot left to do before winter hits.”

“I see you’ve got yourself an apprentice,” Mart says, bending to pick brush out of Kojak’s fur. “That oughta speed things up a bit.”

“How’s that?”

“Trey Reddy’s been helping you out.”

Cal has been waiting for this for weeks, but the timing is interesting. “Yep,” he says, finding a big Ziploc bag in his cupboard. “Kid came round looking for work, I figured I could use a hand.”

“Didn’t I warn you about them Reddys?” Mart demands reproachfully. “Buncha gurriers. They’d rob the nose off your face, and sell it back to you the next day.”

“You did,” Cal says. “Kid didn’t give a last name; took me a while to make the connection. And I’m not missing anything that I know of.”

“Better keep an eye on them tools. They’d sell for a few bob.”

Cal goes to the mini-fridge for his ice tray. “He seems like a pretty good kid to me. These gonna be enough to keep the fish cold till you can get them to Malachy?”

Mart says, “He?”

“Trey.”

“Trey Reddy’s a girl, bucko. Did you not spot that?”

Cal straightens up fast, ice tray in his hand, and stares.

Mart starts to laugh.

“Are you shitting me?”