There Are Little Kingdoms (3 page)

The plan had been: park in Wicklow town, walk the grade five to Tobar Pass, a bite to eat, a few drinks, stay the night at a B&B, walk back the next morning. They had booked three rooms. This had been complicated. Brian, obviously, was going to have a room to himself, but what were the girls going to do? If they shared a room, it meant they were marking each other for the night and what if something happened? They booked a room each. We might as well get a room each, they said, it’s cheap. This was an unspoken declaration of combat. Two channels had thus opened up for Brian, though he was not at all sure that this was the case.

The B&B was run by a tiny woman who conversed in the small hours of the night—every night—with an aunt dead twenty years. In the afternoon, when they got in, she put on her glasses and with a show of great ritual opened her bookings ledger. The bookings ledger gave her a tingling pleasure. It made her feel giddy and playful. When she opened that ledger she was like a cat with a ball of twine. She asked Marie and Teresa were they sure they didn’t want to share a room, she had a fine double out back, it would be cheaper. The girls glared at her, they said no, thank you, no, we’ll take the two. Brian flushed.

More money than sense! he said.

Crazy, said the tiny woman.

They went to their rooms, and each was glad of a short reprieve from company. These were single people, in their forties, each of them had lived alone for many years, and such a long morning of company was a trial. The rooms were pretty much identical. Each had a narrow bed with a lumpy mattress. Each had a wardrobe, a dresser, a tumbler, a cup and saucer, a kettle and teabags, sachets of Bewley’s coffee that had lain there since the previous millennium. Each room had an en-suite bathroom that had been haphazardly plastered by the tiny woman’s middle-aged nephew, a man who had savage dependency on drink, an addiction to cough bottles and a sullen, thyroidal glare. Marie’s view was of a galvanised tin roof on a shed at the back of the house. She sat on the bed and stared at the green wallpaper. The wallpaper showed a jungle scene. It was green for calm. She could hear the shower running in Teresa’s room next door.

Watch that bitch like a hawk, she said to herself.

If you were to ask me what it all goes back to, Teresa, said Brian, if you were to put me on the couch and say, well now, where does it all go back to? Tell me about your childhood, all that crap? Okay, fine, it’s obviously all rooted down there.

Is that right? said Teresa

My father died suddenly, he said, when I was eight years of age. Yeah, I know, boo-hoo. But the way of it was the worst thing. It was shockingly sudden. A brain haemorrhage. We were on our holidays. We were at the beach! Yeah. One minute he’s lying there in his togs, the next he’s lying there dead. My brother and myself were playing in the dunes. Were you ever in Lahinch, Teresa? Unbelievable dunes and there we are, rolling around in the sand, pretending to be Buck Rogers on the moon, or what have you, and after a while we said we’ll go back to Mam and Dad for the coke and crisps, you know, and when we go back, she’s kneeling in the sand, bawling. She’s going, John! Oh John! John! And my father is lying there on the towel with blood all over his neck. An amount of blood you would not believe.

Did you know that, he said, did you know, Teresa, that blood actually comes out the ears?

Go ’way? said Teresa.

Actually my most vivid memory isn’t the beach but going back to Sligo the next day. My brother and myself, we were in shock I suppose but innocent—all we could talk about when they were putting him in the hearse in Lahinch is how long is a hearse going to take to get to Sligo? We worked it out. If a hearse goes five miles an hour and Sligo is a hundred miles away, that’s twenty hours! It never dawned on us that the hearse would go at a normal speed until we got him home. We thought it was funeral pace all the way up through Clare and Galway. And this is the bit I remember vividly, isn’t that strange? We’re in the car, behind the hearse, with my mother up to the gills on tablets, she’s cruising, and my uncle is driving and your man is driving the hearse in front of us through Clare and he must be doing seventy. And all I can remember is the coffin bouncing around in the back of the hearse and thinking, ah Jesus, that can’t be right, like.

A few days later, myself and the brother are kicking a ball again, Teresa, we’re children, we’re Buck Rogers, and you get on with being a child, you do. But are you going to come out of it right?

After the morning’s long walk, after they reached Tobar Pass, they went to a pub for lunch. Soup, toasties, cups of coffee. The pub was rich on hillwalkers and had lately been refitted. A brand new coffee machine gurgled like an excited aunt. The lunchtime rush was just about done, and the slow hours of the afternoon yawned and presented themselves with a certain belligerence. Those who go mad go mad first in the afternoons. There was the usual fall-out of daytime drinkers, glassy-eyed, with their hearty talk and guilty-seeming cheer. A silence had fallen in on the three hillwalkers, it had a knuckly and mannish grip.

Well, said Brian at last, I don’t know about yourselves but I’m going to go out there and get the last of that daylight into me.

Don’t tell me you’re walking again? said Marie, who was out of puff still from the morning’s exertion. She was a pretty but dour woman, with eyes full of dread and rain.

Why wouldn’t I? he said. Aren’t we dead long enough?

Oh Jesus, said Marie, the legs are hanging off me. Are ye watching the calves? I have a pair of calves on me like an Olympic sprinter.

Ah now!

They’re having a great day in the graveyard! said Teresa.

Exactly so, said Brian. You might as well take it while it’s going. We can just circle back and around as far as Drumeenaghadra, then back down into the village. Come on, Marie, for God’s sake! It’ll do you good.

Oh look, I don’t know, she said. I might go back and rest up for a bit first. I don’t know. Ye’re putting me to shame!

Marie, come on! said Brian.

We’ll see you later on so, said Teresa.

Okay, so not only did the two of them go and walk for another three hours, but then they spent another hour in the pub, drinking Smithwicks, and Marie sat in her room looking at the jungle wallpaper. She went to pee in the en-suite and as she sat there a cloud of plaster dreamily descended and settled on her head. It was eight o’clock—eight!—when they arrived back to the B&B. She tried to make light of it, she honestly tried.

I thought the two of ye were dead in a bog someplace! I thought we were going to have to get the mountain rescue out.

Oh stop, said Brian, flushed.

It was hard to make light of it. There was something not far from hatred in her eyes. The three of them went for steaks in the restaurant at the back of the pub. Marie was thinking, am I after letting myself get beat very easily here? Teresa was thinking, she’s much prettier than I am, she always has been, am I only fooling myself? Brian was thinking, all they go on about in the women’s magazines these days is sexual performance.

I’d nearly take the whole cow onto the plate, said Brian.

I wouldn’t put it past you, said Marie, who had looked after half a bottle of decent Rioja in seven minutes flat.

It’s great to see an appetite, said Teresa.

Very quiet and smirky in herself, thought Marie. What went on on that walk?

What had gone on on the walk was that Brian had talked sense to himself. Marie, he decided, was just too good-looking for him: he wouldn’t have a hope in hell. Teresa, on the other hand, was at the back of the line when chins were being handed out and she had the eyes of a crow. Surely this might play to his advantage? Brian was versed in the cruel wiles of natural selection, he knew that the better-looking animal was the obvious choice, but natural selection is quick ignored when you’ve passed forty and you’re masturbating into a sock the grey mornings in a one-bedroom apartment, lounge-diner-cum-kitchen.

And so it was that Brian and Teresa managed a semblance of flirtatiousness on the way back down to the village.

God, Brian, we’re after getting some bit of fresh air into us today, said Teresa.

You’d nearly be driven wild with it, said Brian.

This, by his normal standard, by the normal old go of him, was richly provocative stuff. And suddenly she seemed to be walking very close. Her arm was touching off of his, and just the slight rubbery slap of Goretex on Goretex was enough to make him excited. Is that all it takes, he thought, the one ruby comment?

Some steak, said Brian.

It’s great, said Teresa, it’s done just right.

You can’t top well-hung meat, said Marie, who was making shapes on her plate with fried onions. Waitress! Another bottle of that please.

Partying tonight, Mar! said Teresa.

Why the fuck not? said Marie. Has anyone change for the fag machine?

I didn’t know you smoked, Marie, said Brian.

Many hidden talents, she said.

He sneaked a glance at Teresa then, who made a certain face which said: kid gloves here, pet, we’ll leave her down easy. Brian was already becoming literate in Teresa’s crow-like glances.

After the steaks, there was another painful hour in the pub. It was slow beer for Teresa and Brian, it was fast vodka for Marie. Teresa and Brian prepped each other carefully for the long opulent night that lay ahead.

Back at the St Ignatius of Loyola B&B, they said goodnight so, see you in the morning, bright and early! Brian went left for number nine, Marie and Teresa went right for six and seven.

Drink a glass of water when you go in, Mar, said Teresa.

Fuck off and rot, said Marie.

Half an hour later, Marie heard Teresa leave her room. She did not hear her come back again. She sat there with the light on, she felt headachey. She stood up on the bed and took the battery out of the smoke detector and lay down again and smoked fags.

First bus! She said it aloud.

She looked at the jungle scene on the wallpaper. Probably someplace like Mozambique, she thought. A nonsense jingle from an advert went through her head. Um Bongo. Um Bongo. They drink it in the Congo.

You don’t mind if we wait a little while, do you? he said. Thanks, love. It’s just that all this is very sudden for me, you know? But you ah… you can tell I’m pleased to be here with you anyway, can’t you? There’s no denying that!

There isn’t, said Teresa, coyly.

Teresa decided that she was having a terrific time. This intimacy, she felt, was powerful stuff. Yes, she was greatly enjoying the whole experience but she would enjoy it all the more when she was at home on her couch, alone except for the cat, with the lights dimmed and a glass full to the brim and the late programme on Lyric playing low on the radio. Then she would savour it all truly.

In the kitchen, there was the sound of a kettle coming to the boil, of tea being made, of a pair of slippered feet crossing the polished lino.

I’m thinking of painting the walls blue, Minnie, said the tiny woman. What would you think, Minnie? A blue?

Listen, Teresa, said Brian. I’m totally prepared to give this another go. I have no problem whatsoever getting back up on the horse. Look it, will you come here to me? Oh this is magic.

See The Tree, How Big It’s Grown

H
e turned to check his reflection in the window of the Expressway bus and some old quarehawk turned to look back at him. He appeared to be a man of about fifty. He did not appear to have set the world on fire. He looked beyond himself, and it had the look of South Tipp out there, lush and damp-seeming, with good-sized hills rising to the east, which would be the Comeraghs. He knew more about the hills than he knew about himself, but lush, yes, as if it was May, a savage growth that made each small copse of trees livid with bunched ferocity. The face seen dully in the window was a sad face, certainly, with a downcast mouth and emotional eyes, but it was strangely calm too. He took a glance south and found he was wearing an anorak long past its day, a pair of jeans with diesel stains caked into them and shoes straight off an evidence table. There was a bag, he noticed, in the rack overhead and he reached to take it down, breathing heavily. It was a Reebok holdall, scuffed and torn, and by no means a classy piece of luggage. He sat on the Expressway as it motored north through Tipperary this afternoon in the apparent summer with the bag in his lap. What kind of condition are you in at all, he wondered, when you wake up on a bus in the middle of countryside and you have no idea of who you are, or what your name is even?

The bus was quiet, with just a handful of sad cases thrown here and there, the elderly and the infirm, the free-pass brigade with their jaunty afflictions. He hefted the holdall, tested its weight. Come on now, what could be inside there? The head of John the Baptist? He opened it and with relief found just a sweatshirt and another pair of jeans. There was a box of fags, Bensons, and a yellow plastic lighter in a pocket of the jeans. There was a wallet in the other pocket, it held six hundred euro in cash and a scrap of paper folded over twice. The scrap of paper said ‘Rooney’s Auctioneers, 5pm.’ It was at this point that he got the first of the tremors. This is what he would come to call them: the tremors. A tremor was when a flash of something came to him. The nature of this was visceral, more a feeling than a thought, and this first tremor came in the form of music, a snatch of music, five sad slow notes played on a recorder.

‘Of course,’ said an old fella in the seat opposite, looking across. ‘I have the bus pass myself, I’d be going up and down the country on a regular basis.’

‘Is that right?’ he said, and his own voice was a surprise to him, a husky baritone.

‘Oh yes. I do be bulling for road, you see. And I find that the B&Bs these days are excellent value for money. They serve you a powerful breakfast. And at this stage, most of the rooms have tea and coffee making facilities. And the cable as well. You can be watching Sky News.’

‘I see.’

‘And where’ll you stay above?’

‘The chances are,’ he said, ‘I’ll be in a B&B myself.’