“Ah... that’s a pity. You’re going to try again?”
“Not exactly.”
“Oh?”
“I need a wreath.”
A look of horror, then,
“Did she die?”
“No... no, somebody else, a friend.”
“I am sorry.”
A small priest walked by. He said,
“How ya.”
He had the jolliest face I’d seen in a long time. The girl asked,
“Do you know who that is?”
“He’s a small priest.”
“He’s the bishop.”
“You’re coddin’!”
“And the lovliest man you’d ever meet.”
I was astonished. As a child, I’d known bishops who ruled like feudal lords. That you’d see an exhalted cleric bounce down the street, in relative anonymity, was a revelation.
The girl said if I wrote down the name and details, she’d see to it the wreath was delivered, adding,
“I don’t think you want to carry it round town.”
I toyed with the notion of bringing the wreath into the bookies but let it go. The girl gave me a measured look, said,
“I’d say you were a fine thing when you were young.”
“It’s a good year for the roses.”
Harte’s was located off Quay Street. They’d had a bookies shop through three generations. Then the big English firms bought out the local outfits. Harte took the money, then opened right next door. The town was delighted. Not often you got to stick it to the Brits financially.
I’d known Tom Harte a long time. When I entered, he was leaning over form sheets, enveloped in cigarette smoke, said,
“Jack Taylor, by the hokey. Is this a raid?”
“I’m not a guard any more.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“I want to get a bet on.”
He extended his arms, encompassing the premises, said,
“You’ve taken the right turn.”
I gave him the name and asked for a price. He checked the teletext, said,
“Thirty-five to one.”
I wrote out a docket and laid all my cash beneath. He read it, lowered his voice, asked,
“Are you serious?”
“As the grave.”
Two other punters studying the dogs sensed the change in atmosphere, strained to hear. Tom said,
“Jack, I’m a bookie but you’re one of our own. There’s a hot thing in this race; he’ll hack home in a common canter.”
“All the same.”
“I’m trying to do you a favour here.”
“Will you take the bet?”
He gave a shrug they perfect in bookie school. I said,
“Right, I’ll be seeing you.”
“Sure you will. Hold that thought.”
I checked the docket again and headed out. One of the punters followed, called,
“Jack.”
I stopped outside Kenny’s, let him catch up. He had the pallor of turf accountant’s confinement. The smell of nicotine was massive. The eyes had the mix of fawning and slyness that takes years to achieve. He’d peaked. Gave me the half smile of the damned, asked,
“Got something?”
“Well, I dunno is it any good.”
“Come on, Jack, I need a break.”
“Rocket Man.”
He looked stunned. As if his winning ticket had been disqualified. He said,
“Be serious.”
“I am serious.”
“Arrah, feck you. What did I expect from a guard?”
Near the Protestant school, just a Catholic away from Victoria Square, is Bailey’s Hotel. Now, this is old Galway. New hotels are built on every available space, but Bailey’s seems to have escaped the gallop to prosperity. It hasn’t been
sold
revamped
rezoned.
In fact, it’s rarely noticed.
You don’t hear of “commercial travellers” nowadays. But if you’d a mad passion to find one, they’d be at Bailey’s. Country people go “for the dinner”. The exterior is pure weathered granite and the small sign reads “ OTEL”. The H is back in the fifties, lost in the mist of Morris Minor aspirations.
On a whim, I went inside. A reception desk is tucked in the corner. An elderly woman was leafing through Ireland’s Own. I asked,
“Mrs Bailey?”
She looked up and I’d have put her age at eighty. But her eyes were alert. She said,
“Aye.”
“I’m Jack Taylor, you knew my father.”
It took her a minute and then,
“He worked on the line.”
“He did.”
“I liked him.”
“Me, too.”
“Why have you a beard?”
“Notions.”
“Foolish notions. Can I help you, young Taylor?”
“I need accommodation... long term.”
She waved a hand at the décor, said,
“We’re not fancy.”
“Me either.”
“Mm... mm... there’s a bright room on the third floor that’s been vacant.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Janet, she cleans every other day, but she sometimes forgets.”
“That’s fine. Let me pay you.”
This was purely a gesture. All my cash was with the bookie. She asked,
“Have you a credit card?”
“No.”
“That’s good ‘cause we don’t take them. Pay me the last Friday of the month.”
“Thank you. When could I move in?”
“I’ll get Janet to air the room and put a kettle in. Anytime after that.”
“I really appreciate it, Mrs Bailey.”
“Call me Nora. It’s just a room, but I hope you’ll feel at home.”
I already did.
FROM: The Four Agreements
by
Don Miguel Ruiz
NUMBER 2: “Don’t take anything personally.
Nothing others do is because of you.
It simply reflects their own life
expressions and the training they
received when they were children.”
“... dream on.”
That night, I packed. Didn’t take long. Punctuated by the six pack. Telling myself,
“Ease on slow with these, maybe I can chill.”
Like all lies and the best illusions, it helped me function short time. I lined four black bin bags along the wall, said,
“My wordly possessions I thee endow.”
With those
broken fingers
a broken nose
and a beard
I wasn’t an advertisement for the Celtic tiger.
The phone went. Picked it up, hoping it was Ann, said,
“Hello.”
“Jack, it’s Cathy B.”
“Oh.”
“That’s warmth?”
“Sorry, I’m packing.”
“A magnum?”
“Gee, that’s funny. I’m moving out tomorrow.”
“Are you moving in with yer old lady?”
Sign of my age. Thought she meant my mother.
“What?”
“She likes you, Jack. At the gig, she couldn’t take her eyes off you.”
“Ann! Jesus, no... I’m moving into a hotel.”
“Weird city, dude. What hotel?”
“Bailey’s.”
“Never heard of it.”
I was glad, meant it was still a Galway thing.
“My friend Sean died.”
“The old geezer, who had the pub?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry. I think I liked him. Hey, I can get a van, help you move.”
“Naw, a cab will handle it.”
“OK. Are you free next Friday?”
“Unless they catch me.”
“I’m getting married.”
“You’re kidding... to who?”
“Everett, he’s a performance artist.”
“I’ll pretend that makes sense to me. Wow... congratulations... I think... how long have you been dating?”