Tom says, and she breaks our gaze.
There isn’t a brush. Peggy lets the chicken out of her cage and chases her across the room. We unpack the cart, arrange things and then rearrange them. We have an argument about it and then put things back where they were the first time. We light the fire, we all eat a slice of the bread, and, like every evening, Tom leads us in a rosary. Afterwards, he settles by the fire to count the cash in his money tin.
We’re at the time of year when the night comes in fast, thanks be to god, because I can’t face being awake at midnight, hearing the town ring in the New Year. Without a bed, we lie out on the unbrushed floor and Anna drapes a few blankets over us. Maybe tomorrow, I will talk to her.
And then, the first day is over. And the last of Kilmarra tries to leave us.
—
I wake to blonde light.
For a moment, there is nothing but this gleaming, pale yellow. What sweetness. What peace. Let me touch it. I chase it, trying not to come back to life.
But it’s too late. I am suddenly awake. All the appalling colour ofthe world rushes back to me, and there is no more room for the blonde of you. I have woken to the day of your first anniversary.
The comfortable smell of the newspaper and cooking rashers. The crushing weight of three hundred and sixty-five days. The urge within me to mention your name and force my siblings to dissect every moment of your death.
I sit at the table, Peggy alongside me, asking Anna where her school pinafore is gone. Tom puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes without looking up from the paper. It’s hard to say how many times he has told me that time heals all wounds. Hard advice to be grateful for when you aren’t something that I want to heal from. I feel every muscle in his hand and send the small bit of good that’s left in me back to Kilmarra, back to you. Blessing myself, I take the heel of the bread the doctor left.
Do you know that I would have helped your sisters today? I’d be below at your father’s house now with the cart, waiting to bring them all down to Mass. And then I would have stayed on and looked after him. I would have looked after him for the rest of his life. I hope that you know how much they mean to me. Yet another thing out of my reach. I butter the bread and try to find a way to make the best of this.
But sure look, I hear your voice telling me, look at all the good things that are here. And it’s true, as the sun begins to show itself, I see that I’ve Peggy, and bread, and blackberry jam. Somehow, I’ve enough strength left in me to believe that 1965 could be good to us all. And in the mornings, however briefly, I have blonde light.
Tom
FOR A SMALL TOWN, BALLYCREAis an awful big place. It bleeds out for miles and miles into the countryside. The type of edgeless endlessness that could scare a person. There’s always people to meet, townlands to memorise. All day, every day, I make my way around the town, shaking hands and introducing myself to the locals. Like a politician. A little bit pathetic, I know. But I do what I have to do. And it appears to be paying off, because today, at last, I have been invited to the pub with some local men.
Ger Doyle’s pub is all dark wood, a wall of shelves lined with bottles, stained glass from Murphy’s brewery, a typewriter and record player up on the bar. Ger Doyle lets his two girls pull the pints. I don’t like to see a woman pulling a pint. They haven’t the wrists for it. One stands behind the bar, only a few years younger than me. Smoking a cigarette, waiting for somebody to tell her what to do. Another girl, perhaps my age, comes out from behind the bar in the full bloom of pregnancy. She puts a shiver through me, which I choose to ignore.
‘The price of pork is gone astronomic.’
Bill Nevan says, sitting his pint on the bar. Barrel-chested and going grey, he seems to be the oldest of these men. I agree with him emphatically; I would agree with him if he said the price of pork hadgone through the floor, also. I try to somehow hide the sliced ham I bought this morning, though it’s wrapped and left on the counter in front of them all. Whatever these men say, I will take on as my own opinion. Just until we’re settled and they like us. Then I’ll see about speaking my mind.
‘Isn’t it a great thing?’
Another man, whose name I haven’t caught yet, replies. He is the only one drinking beer among pints of stout. Bill has the deepest, loudest laugh, which spills out of his mouth as he pats the man on the back.
‘’Tis well for you, boy.’
The unnamed man is some class of a pork farmer, I suppose. Their conversation moves fast, and they don’t pause to catch me up. I do what I can to laugh along and act like I know what they are talking about, afraid to say the wrong thing in case they revoke the offer to drink with them and pour my pint out onto the floor. We stopped farming meat when I was a child, it’s just as well they moved on from pork.
‘What’s your game, Tom?’
John Moore asks. I have already met his wife in town, but I don’t mention this to him. The words ‘medicine’ and ‘law’ almost jump out of my mouth. The chance to make something of myself, here and now, is so tempting. But I steer myself back to something truthful. Better to be humble, to lie low. These don’t seem like the sort of men who would be impressed with anything too extravagant, anyway.
‘Turf.’
It’s only the last few years I’ve been a turf man. It doesn’t mean much to me, it’s just the most recent position I fell into. The false smiles they offer let me know that Ballycrea already has a turf man sorted. The conversation hops on again. But I can’t stop myself from interrupting.
‘But I was never workshy. You know the way. I was always glad todo whatever came my way. Turf, farming, barkeeping, you know, I’ve done it all like.’
I get a sympathetic nod from Bill. They know what I’m getting at. I can’t be the only man who has stood in this pub begging for a job. My God, it’s mortifying to try.
‘Con will give you a bit of work, I’m sure. I’d say he’s overrun with all his pigs.’
John Moore says. They all start laughing again as Con rolls his eyes, all of us absolutely certain that he won’t be giving me an ounce of work. And at my own expense, I have to laugh along with them. Well, at least I’ve learned another name. They start to talk about horse racing; a man from two towns away is a jockey, and they all have opinions on him. I don’t know the first thing about racing. I don’t feel like much of a man right now. When the pints are drained, all of us file out of the pub, and I let defeat take me by the hand.
This is the rhythm that most of my days have taken since we arrived in Ballycrea. Talking to whoever I can, wherever I can, so that I might get myself into a bit of employment before the money in the tin runs out. Mammy left us that money for our weddings. That almost makes me laugh now.
