Chapter One #5
“You never seen ’em? You oughta get out more.
” Cal is enjoying himself. When he left all his old buddies back in Chicago, he missed this, the shove and jostle of being part of a group of guys.
It’s only recently that he’s felt himself to have either the skill or the right to join in this one.
His first couple of years here, he mostly kept his mouth shut, tried to get some handle on the intricate codes and undercurrents ricocheting around the table, and stayed ready to deflect the tests that got aimed his way.
Things have shifted since then. Cal will never be what these men are, generations deep in this land; but he’s engaged to Lena, the two of them are more or less raising Trey, just about every house in the townland contains some of his woodwork, and he’s been useful in various other, less straightforward ways.
If he wants to get in a pointless argument with Senan, he’s earned it.
“So you’re telling us,” Francie says to Bobby, returning to the main point, “you spent two weeks in fuckin’ France, and the best thing you spotted for the wank bank was a loada aul’ ones on the bus tour?”
“That’s some talk in front of her,” Mart says reprovingly, tapping one of the Marys on the crown.
“I am not,” Bobby says. He’s getting flustered—Bobby is easily flustered, which is an unfortunate trait to have around here. “And the bus wasn’t just aul’ ones.”
“It wasn’t topless French crackers, I can tell you that much.”
“There oughta be that bus tour,” Mart says, diverted by this intriguing prospect from the serious business of putting Bobby back in his place.
“I’d go on that. When your mind does get in too much of a whirl from admiring the architectural masterpieces, you can take a wee break and walk round a cathedral. ”
“Hang on a fuckin’ second,” Senan says, putting down his pint. “Stall the ball. Look at the state of your man. What’s the story here?”
They all look at Bobby. He has in fact gone even pinker, right to the tips of his ears. He tries to hide in his glass, but when he comes back up everyone is still looking at him.
“What’re ye on about?” he demands, without conviction.
“Holy Mother a the Divine,” Mart says in awe. “Wouldja look at that. This fella was riding the arse off some French one down the back of the bus. Get the Pope on the line, lads: ’tis a Lourdes miracle.”
“I was not riding her,” Bobby says, stung past discretion. “And she’s not French.”
The alcove erupts in roars and fist-pumps and applause—“Get up, ya boy ya!” “Go on, ya good thing!” Cal joins in wholeheartedly.
Bobby has always longed for a woman in his life, but they’re thin on the ground in Ardnakelty.
Up until a couple of generations ago, leaving town was only for the strongest-minded girls, or the wildest, or the ones with vocations; then things changed, and the girls, mostly unfettered by the farm legacies that hold sons in place, started heading off for somewhere that offers a wider range of options.
Senan is the only one here who’s married.
The rest of the guys grew up eyeing their friends’ sisters, slow-dancing at discos and taking for granted they’d all end up paired off with broods of kids running around their yards; instead one day they woke up and half the girls were gone, leaving the men to get old trudging the fields alone and coming home to silent houses.
Bobby, humble about his own attributes, had more or less given up hope, but the wistfulness stayed.
“Let’s have a look at her,” Francie says, “before we go congratulating him. Show us a photo.”
“I’m not showing her photo to the likes of you,” Bobby tells him, trying to recover a little of his newfound poise. He’s crimson.
“Why not? If she exists at all.”
“I don’t blame the man,” Mart says. “You’ve a low mind. He doesn’t want her going in that wank bank of yours.”
“Wouldja stop. I’d say she’s got a head on her like a melted welly.”
“She does not,” Bobby says indignantly. “She’s lovely-looking.”
“Is she a bit, ya know?” Senan inquires.
“A bit what?”
“You know. Unfortunate.”
“She is not! She’s a receptionist. In an office.”
“You’d want to be sure. Before you get done for taking advantage.”
“You’ve a girlfriend?” P.J. asks, trying to get this straight. “An actual one, like?”
“Inflatable,” Francie tells him. Bobby manages to ignore this loftily and take a sip of his pint.
“Hey, congratulations,” Cal says, since no one else is doing it. “Where’d you meet her?”
“On the bus tour,” Bobby says, turning towards Cal with relief. “Her mammy and daddy were meant to be going for their gold anniversary, only her daddy did his back in, so Róisín went instead.”
“Róisín,” Mart says, pointing a finger and narrowing his eyes like a TV detective. “Now we know she’s Irish, anyhow. Or American, maybe.”
“She’s Irish. What would I be saying to an American one?”
“Well, that’s handy,” Cal says. “She from near here?”
Bobby casts a wary look at the other guys. “Near enough,” he says cautiously. “Not local, like. But not Dublin or anything.” His face is slowly fading back towards its normal color.
“Even better,” Cal says. “You gonna see her again?”
“I’d say she gave him a fake number,” Senan says.
“I’m not bringing her next nor near any of ye,” Bobby says with dignity. “She deserves better. I’m going down to see her next weekend.”
“Fair play to you,” Francie says, abandoning the ribbing and holding out his pint for Bobby to clink.
Everything Francie says comes out sounding gloomy, but he means it: Francie missed out on his true love, so he understands the importance of these matters, even if he also understands the importance of giving people shit.
“May ye never give each other a minute’s grief. ”
“We won’t,” Bobby assures him. “Róisín wouldn’t be into that carry-on. She’s pure peaceful. ’Tis from being a receptionist; she has to deal with so many mentalers, nothing rattles her.”
“There you go,” Senan says to Francie. “Go on and sell Big Tommy that field he’s been sniffing at, and off you go on a bus tour and come back with a woman.
If this fella can do it, anyone can.” Francie was engaged once, decades ago.
It didn’t work out—Francie was looking after his mother, who took longer than expected to die—but it’s generally accepted as evidence that Francie, unlike, say, Mart or P.J. , has romantic potential.
“I wouldn’t sell Tommy Moynihan the steam off my piss,” Francie says. “I don’t trust that fucker.”
The weight of his voice shifts the key in the alcove. There’s a second of silence. P.J., who is uncomfortable with unpleasantness, pokes at something imaginary in his glass.
“He paid me,” Bobby says, a little defensively. “I made sure I’d the money in the bank before I booked the trip.”
“Maybe he did. But that fella’s up to something. He won’t be using me for it.”
“What would he be up to?” Senan demands.
“What does he want land for? He’s sniffing around Rory Dunne’s back field, as well, and the Kellys sold him the three-acre last month.
And when Fat Pat McHugh died, Tommy had the Forge Field bought before the man was in the ground.
Tommy’s a fuckin’ suit, him and his father before him. What does he want with farmland?”
“He fancies himself as your man outa Dallas, is all,” Senan says. “He always did. The little fucker usedta wear a cowboy hat into school, when we were kids, till a few of the lads caught him and stuffed it down his kacks.”
“Then he’d be buying one big ranch for himself,” Francie says, “not bits here and there that don’t even connect up. He’s a cute hoor, that fella. He’s up to something.”
“Maybe he just wants land,” P.J. says simply. “Tommy never had land. I’d say he feels it, like.”
That gets a slight pause of acknowledgment.
Tommy’s status, though high, is undermined right at the foundations by his lack of land.
Tommy is the richest guy around by a mile, and the best connected; Tommy has a conservatory and a water feature, and if you want your planning permission to go through, or your speeding ticket squared, Tommy is the guy who knows the guy who can get it done.
Ardnakelty is pragmatic about giving him the show of respect that he requires in exchange, but the ass-kissing is underlaid by a fine sediment of something else.
What Tommy has is lightweight, ephemeral.
Banks can go bust, bribes can be outbid, compliant politicians can be voted out. A man who owns land can have and hold.
“It’d be like him,” Bobby says. “He could never let anyone have anything he didn’t. He made me sell him my Donkey Kong game that my uncle sent me from Canada, d’you remember?”
Mart is absorbed in carefully stacking the Mary bottles one on top of another, moving each one by its blue cap, like a chess piece.
“Don’t you be slagging Tommy Moynihan, now,” he says, arching an eyebrow at Bobby.
“Saint Tommy brought jobs to this place. You’re not allowed say a word against the man, don’tchaknow. ”
“He can stick his jobs up his arse,” Francie says.
“Tommy’s a cute hoor, all right,” Mart says. “I wouldn’t say he’s got ambitions towards farming; that lad’s too good to get his hands dirty. Was he talking to you at all, Sunny Jim?” He glances up at Cal.
“Nope,” Cal says. “Not about my land, anyway.”
“How about yourself?” Mart asks P.J. P.J.’s farm borders Cal’s few acres, on the other side from Mart.
“Ah, God, no,” P.J. says, startled. “Sure, myself and Tommy wouldn’t have much to say to each other. He’d nod to me in the street, only.”