‘Feels alright, does it?’
‘Yes. Just hope I don’t …’
‘You won’t,’ he said. ‘Don’t you worry. I’m on the other end of the phone here all night, you know that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Mr Feeney.’
‘Brendan, when are you going to stop with thisMisterbusiness and start callin’ me Gerry?’
‘Probably never, Mr Feeney.’
‘Aye well maybe we’ll have to address that down the line.’
‘Aye, I’ve a feeling we probably will – down the line,’ I said.
‘One more thing, Brendan,’ he said, before I got out. ‘Somethin’ a wise man once said to me, “promise less, give more”. Somethin’ I’ve lived by in this business, the “more” part is the bit that families need on the day to help get them through, it’s that wee thing you hold back and keep secret that can just be the bit of strength they need on the day. Sometimes it’s a bouquet of flowers they didn’t know would be in the hearse, other times it’s a beautiful picture of their loved one they weren’t expecting to be at the graveside. But tomorrow,you, Brendan, driving this hearse,youare the “more”, and wait till you see how much that helps everyone on the day.’
I smiled as best I could.
‘Right, get yourself home there and get some food into you, you’re lookin’ very pale. Maybe I should drive you, them legs ’a’ yours are lookin’ a bit shaky.’
‘No, I’ll be grand, Mr Feeney, honestly.’
‘Right, well.’
I got out, keeping my head down, avoiding looking at the dark van, but gave Vinnie a quick nod and he nodded back.
I hooked the McMillan’s bag over the handlebars of my bike and cycled home. Mum was in the hallway when I stepped through the front door.
‘Brendan, where have you been?’
‘At Feeney’s.’
‘Not … not working? Or …’
‘Well, I did wash the hearse for tomorrow. Ronan … Ronan is there but I didn’t see him.’
‘Oh right,’ she said. ‘Getting the hearse ready for tomorrow … that was a lovely thing to do.’
‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘it’sready.’
‘Did you get breakfast this morning? You were away before we were up.’
‘No, I don’t think I did, but I think I could eat something now.’
‘Right,’ she said, clapping her hands. ‘I’ve some fresh poppy seed rolls from the bakery, cracker barrel cheese and some of the wafer ham.’
‘Sounds perfect.’
‘What’s in the bag?’ she said, pointing to the McMillan’s bag at my side.
‘I’ll show you in the morning,’ I said, making my way towards the stairs. ‘I’ll be down in a minute to help you with the rolls.’
I went upstairs to hang the suit in my cupboard. A flash of my reflection in the mirror on the inside of the door as I opened it; a glimpse of the ghostly whiteness in me. I swung it shut and went straight back down to the kitchen.
‘Will I grate the cheese?’ I said, as Mum buttered the rolls.
We invested all our energy in those rolls. We didn’t talk. We grated, buttered, cut, filled and sliced. When we sat down together at the table we ate loudly and messily and didn’t care. After the final bite, Dad arrived home to see us with our poppy-seed-sprinkled plates and butter-smeared lips.
