“Anything outa Johnny Reddy’s mouth,” Lena says, “I’d be more surprised if it hadda turned out to be true.”
Mrs. Duggan snorts, acknowledging this. “Now you have it. What are you going to do with it?”
“I haven’t thought of that yet,” Lena says. “Nothing at all, maybe.”
“There’s going to be trouble,” Mrs. Duggan says, with slow, pleasurable anticipation. “I know you tried to tell me you don’t be planning ahead, but if I was you, I’d make an exception this time.”
Lena says, “You never said this to Noreen, or Dessie, no?”
“If they hadda asked me right,” Mrs. Duggan says, “I mighta, maybe. But they never thought to ask me at all. They think your sister’s the one that knows things now. I’m only some aul’ biddy that’s gone past her sell-by date.” She leans back, the chair creaking, her wide mouth stretching in a smile. “So I’m just sitting here at my ease and watching them all run mad. ’Tis nothing to me if Dessie wants to make a fool of himself. I’ll be gone soon enough. While I’m here, I’ll take what I can get.” She nods at the ashtray. “Empty that, on your way out. Don’t be getting it in with the recycling. Your sister does be awful fussy about that.”
Lena takes the ashtray into the kitchen and empties it into the bin. The kitchen is big and bright and ferociously clean, with rows of matching mugs hanging below the cupboards and a fruit-patterned oilcloth on the long table. On one wall is a whiteboard with a column for each of Noreen’s children, to keep track of training times and orthodontist appointments and who needs a new hurling stick. Lena writes “Do something nice for your mam” in each column, while she’s there.
—
“Well, Sunny Jim,” Mart says, as he and Cal head up the lane towards their homes, taking it at an easy pace to spare Mart’s joints. The sun is only just starting to gentle; it throws their shadows sharp and black onto the road, to leap up and flutter at their elbows along walls and hedges. “I’d say that went well.”
“Everyone seemed pretty happy,” Cal says. This was the part that startled him: the men’s spontaneous explosion of shouts and cheers when Rushborough held up the first glittering traces in the pan; the ring of genuine, wild amazement and delight, like they had all been holding their breath waiting to find out if anything was in there. The gold has taken on a reality outside themselves and their actions. They’re like believers exalted by the holy truth underlying a relic, even though they know the relic itself is a shard of chicken bone.
“I wasn’t banking on that,” Mart explains. “When you’re dealing with the likes of Johnny Reddy, you’d always allow for things going a bit arseways. But I’ll give the lad this much: there’s been none a that. Everything smooth as butter.”
“So far,” Cal says.
“So far,” Mart acknowledges. “I’ll tell you one thing that took me by surprise, but. I wasn’t reckoning on putting my whole day into this.” He tries to arch his back, and grimaces as it cracks. “I thought all you had to do was give the pan an aul’ shake and tip out the muck, and away you go to the next spot. I wasn’t bargaining for all that fussing and foostering. Standing still that length of time is grand for you and the rest of the spring chickens, but it’s a whole other kettle of fish for the likes of me.”
“You should’ve gone home,” Cal says. “Left me and the other spring chickens to it.”
“I coulda,” Mart concedes, “only there’s not enough action around here that I can afford to miss out on any. And besides, anyone that takes his eye off Johnny Reddy deserves whatever he gets.” He cracks his back again and suppresses a wince. “I’ll be grand, sure. Are you coming down to the celebrations? You can’t be skipping those, now. We can’t have Paddy Englishman wondering if something’s wrong.”
“I doubt he’d miss me,” Cal says. “I don’t think that guy likes me much.” Rushborough was civil to him, with the pinch-lipped, flickery-lidded civility that Brits save for people they dislike, and looked at him as little as possible. Cal could see Johnny getting twitchy over it. He likes Johnny twitchy.
“To be honest, I wouldn’t say he’d notice either way,” Mart says. “He’s other things on his mind. Did you see the face on him? Like a child that just saw Santy.”
“Yeah,” Cal says. He thinks of Rushborough thigh-deep in the river, the pan held high as a trophy and his teeth bared in an exultant grin, sunlight splintering all around him and water streaming down his arms. He didn’t look like a kid to Cal. “I’m just gonna get some food and a shower, and I’ll be there. I’ve been sweating like a sinner in church.”
“You’ll have someone to give you a hand with both of those,” Mart says, grinning and pointing at Cal’s front yard with his crook, as they round the bend. “You might not end up any less sweaty after, but.”
Lena’s car is parked in the yard. Without meaning to, Cal quickens his pace. Normally Lena’s old blue Skoda is one of his favorite sights, but these days everything unexpected has the queasy shimmer of bad news about it. “Holy God, you’re in a hurry,” Mart says, grinning more broadly. Cal slows down.
He’s been getting edgier and edgier, the last few days. There are too many little things he doesn’t like. He doesn’t like it, for example, that Johnny came down to the river yesterday to help sow the gold. Cal had it all figured that Johnny was staying well clear of that part of the operation, but Johnny was right there on the riverbank with the rest of them, and Cal isn’t sure why. He doesn’t like his own enforced inaction, either: in normal times he’s happy to direct his fixing instinct towards old chairs, but these aren’t normal times, and the situation calls for a lot more than standing in mud watching some dumbass Brit play treasure hunter. He doesn’t like the way Johnny is cutting Trey away from him, as nimbly as Mart’s dog cutting out a sheep he has use for, and he doesn’t like the fact that he can’t work out what use Johnny might have for the kid. Most of all he doesn’t like Trey keeping things from him, although he knows she’s under no obligation to tell him anything at all.
“I won’t stop in to say hello,” Mart says. “Your missus isn’t mad about me, didja spot that? I never done anything on her that I can think of, but she’s not a fan.”
“There’s no accounting for tastes,” Cal says.
“When we’re all rolling in gold, maybe I’ll buy her a great big hamper of treats for them dogs of hers, and see if she changes her tune. Meanwhile, I’ll leave ye to it.”
“See you at Seán’s,” Cal says. Another thing he doesn’t like is the sense of alliance with Mart that’s somehow been thrust on him. He had the boundary between the two of them carefully and clearly mapped out, and it held firm for two years, although Mart sometimes poked at it just out of devilment. Now it’s lost its solidity. Johnny himself may be nothing but a yappy little shitbird, but he’s somehow brought with him enough force to pull the whole townland off true.
“Don’t be rushing,” Mart says. “I’ll tell the lads you’ve a good excuse for being late.” He lifts his stick in farewell and trudges off, the heat from the road making his legs waver like he’s about to dissolve into thin air. Cal heads round to the back of his house, over the withering lawn.
Lena is in her rocker on the back porch, where Cal knew she would be. She has a key to his house, but walking in when he’s not there is a border line she hasn’t yet been willing to cross. Sometimes Cal wishes she would. He likes the idea of coming home to find her curled on his sofa, absorbed in a book, with a mug of tea in her hand.