Went in and couldn’t believe it, one of the sentries was propped. He nodded, asked,
“What kept you?”
“Where’s the other guy?”
“He had a heart attack.”
“Jaysus, how is he?”
“If you had one, how’d you be?”
“Right. Can I get you ajar?”
He looked at me as if I’d propositioned him, asked,
“Will I have to buy you one back?”
“No.”
“And you won’t put chat on me?”
“Count on it.”
“All right then.”
The pub was old, like a small kitchen. Could hold twenty customers tops. The barman was in his fifties. Two professions that require age
Barmen
and
Barbers
He didn’t know me. What a bonus. I ordered the drink and looked round. Those old signs for Guinness, a guy lifting a wagon and two dray horses with the immortal words:
Authentic, right down to rust. My own favourite is the pelican with a feast of creamy pints in his beak. Now, that is one happy bird. There were signs for Woodbines and Sweet Afton. Even had the lines from Robbie Burns. The barman said,
“I don’t like change.”
“Gets my vote.”
“Guy was in the other day, wanted to buy the signs.”
“Everything’s for sale.”
“Not here it isn’t.”
I went and grabbed a corner. Wooden table, old hardback chair. The door opened, a large farmer came in, said to no one in particular,
“We’ll hardly get a summer.”
My kinda place.
Of the wino
Mrs Bailey said,
“You’ve got mail!”
“What!”
She handed me a letter. I didn’t know how it could be possible. Opened it:
A Chara,
In compliance with the terms of your termination, it is required you surrender all property belonging to the Government.
See Article 59347A of Uniform and Equipment. It has come to our attention you have failed to return Item 8234 — A regulation garda all-weather coat.
We trust in your speedy return of said item.
I bundled it up. Mrs Bailey asked,
“Bad news?”
“Same old.”
“I’ve noticed, Mr Taylor, you don’t take breakfast.”
“Call me Jack. No, I’m not big on mornings.”
She gave a small smile. I knew she’d never call me Jack. As certain as Item 8234 not being speedily returned. She said,
“I haven’t had breakfast since the fourth of August, 1984.”
“Oh.”
“That was the day my husband died, Lord rest him.”
“I see.”
I didn’t. But what the hell. She continued,
“I had a big breakfast that day. It was after the races and we’d been busy. Oh my, we had the business of the town back then. I remember it so clearly. I had
2 Rashers
Black Pudding
2 Sausages
Fried Bread
And two cups of tea. Then I read the Irish Independent.
She gave a nervous laugh.
“Whoops. Now you know my politics. Anyway, I went up to call Tom. He was dead. Him lying cold and me stuffing myself.”
I didn’t have a clue as to how to respond. Sometimes, though, when people reveal a piece, they don’t want an answer, just a receiver. Then she said,
“I miss the sausages. From McCambridge’s. They have them made special.”
Now she composed herself, got her hotel face in place, said,
“I wonder if I might have a few minutes of your time? Something I’d like your views on.”
“Sure, whenever you like.”
“Grand. I’ll be closing the bar round eleven. We could have a nightcap.”
Bar! Jesus, right under my nose.
Go figure.
I said,
“I’ll look forward to it.”
“God bless, Mr Taylor.”
Outside, considered my options. I wanted to find Padraig. The envelope for him was burning a hole in my pocket. With my brown envelopes, I felt like a little government.
Went to Nestor’s. The sentry was in place but I ignored him. I could feel his gratitude. The bar guy nodded and I said,
“You do coffee?”
He held up a mug, said,
“Sure do.”
Took the hard chair. The daily papers were spread on the table. Took the Independent. For Mrs Bailey, if no other reason.
Top story was about a man who’d had his new car stolen. He lived in a neighbourhood with a heavy influx of refugees. Later the same day, a Romanian had asked him for money. The man had beaten him to an inch of his life. It turned out a local kid had “borrowed” the car.
My coffee arrived and the bar guy said,
“He lost his car, but the other poor bastard lost his country.”
I put the paper down. He said,
“The new Ireland. Ten years from now, I’ll be serving Romanian-Irish, African-Irish.”
Thought I’d best play my cards, said,
“Better than the parish pump shite of the fifties.”
“Way better.”
On Eyre Square, I approached a band of winos. Most were semiconscious, nodding to the phantom orchestra. I’d heard some of the music in my time. I asked,
“Anyone seen Padraig?”
A guy with a Boyzone sweatshirt and a Glasgow accent said,
“Wit di ya win wit im, Jimmy?”
Roughly translated means, “Why?”
“I’m a friend of his.”
He conferred with his colleagues. A woman rose from the group. She gave new dimensions to the description “bedraggled”, croaked,
“He’s in hospital.”
“What happened.”
“The Salthill bus hit him.”
The way she put it, sounded like the bus had been gunning for him. The Glasgow guy asked,
“Pris i cip i tee, Jimmy?”
I handed over some cash. This brought a shower of blessings, benedictions and spittle. God knows, I needed them.
Only later did it register that the woman had an American accent. The drinking school had gone international. A United Nations of Despair. I checked an old copy of Ross McDonald and found this nugget.
There were drab thumbprints under her eyes. Maybe she had been up all night. Americans never grow old, they died: and her eyes had guilty knowledge of it.
I headed for the hospital. Foreboding writ large.
So that’s the list
I said at last
so full of breeze, so full of
booze,
well let me sign it with
a flourish, end it with
a sadder kiss
just one of course.
En route to the hospital, I brought
Roll-up tobacco
Paper
3 Pairs of thermal socks.
I made enquiries from a porter. He was obstructive as required by his status. Eventually I got through to him. Cash helped. He said,
“The oul wino. He’s in St Joseph’s Ward. He’s had his final blast of meths.”
“Thank you for sharing.”
“What?”
I didn’t recognise Padraig, not only because they’d washed him, but he’d shrunk.
“How yah?” I said.
“They won’t let me smoke.”
“Bad bastards. Will I roll you one?”
“I would be for ever in your debt. They are not overly fond of me here. Do my brethren on the square prosper?”