Chapter One #6
“And I’ve heard nothing from His Lordship either,” Mart says.
He considers his tower of Marys, decides the fourth one will lead to disaster, and changes his approach, arranging them in orderly single file.
“He’s being awful choosy about location, did ye notice?
All the bits he’s chasing are over on the Kilhone side.
If I hadta guess, I’d say ’tis something to do with that factory. ”
For the last few months, there have been rumors of a factory being planned on the far edge of the townland.
No one is sure what it’s going to make—Cal has heard pharmaceuticals, industrial cleaning products, medical supplies, and something improbable to do with AI—but general opinion, with a few chronic dissenters, is in favor of it.
A factory will bring jobs and money, maybe some road improvements, and possibly even decent broadband.
“That fucker knows something we don’t,” Senan says.
“I’d say he knows they’ll be bringing in workers,” Mart says.
He places his pint in front of the lead Mary, so that they’re all lining up for their turn.
“Specialized skills, they might need, that they can’t get local.
Tommy’ll pull a few strings and get that land rezoned to residential, no bother to him.
Then he’ll slap together a buncha town houses outa cardboard and gaffer tape, and sell them for a hundred-odd grand each. ”
“And you playing straight into his hands,” Senan says to Bobby. “Fuckin’ typical.”
“I don’t care,” Bobby says defiantly. “I got Róisín outa the deal, and she’s worth every bitta that land—sure, ’twas all rocks and weeds anyhow. Why shouldn’t Tommy get something as well?”
“ ’Cause he’s a shitehawk,” Francie says. “He’ll get nothing outa me.”
“Go on and cut off your nose to spite your face, so. I’m happy.”
“I’m cutting off nothing. I didn’t want a floozy anyhow.”
Bobby draws himself up to his full height, such as it is. “Róisín’s not a floozy,” he says. “You apologize.”
Francie looks at him like he just grew an extra head.
“Fuck me sideways,” Senan says, rearing back on his stool to stare at Bobby. “Look who found a pair of balls for himself, over in France. Did they sell those at the shrine as well?”
“That’ll be the oysters,” Mart says. “I heard they do mad stuff for the aul’ manhood. D’you have to tuck it in your sock now?”
“You apologize to Róisín,” Bobby repeats. His chins are out.
“She’s not fuckin’ here,” Francie says.
“Here you go,” Mart says, pushing one of the Marys across the table. “She can stand in.”
“I’m not apologizing to a fuckin’ bottle.”
“You are,” Bobby says. “Or we can take this outside.”
Senan bursts out laughing. “I’ll have you as well,” Bobby tells him belligerently, pointing across the table.
“The blood’s up now,” Mart says, watching with immense enjoyment. “That’s the hormones activating. Once he gets his leg over, there’ll be no holding him.”
“I got this covered,” Cal tells Francie.
On the off chance that Bobby manages to get his fistfight on, a little pudgeball like him is going to be no match for Francie.
While Francie wouldn’t do him any physical damage, Cal feels that Bobby deserves to hang on to his newfound sass for a while longer.
“I’m from the South; we do apologies better’n anyone. Repeat after me—”
“I will in me hole.”
“ ‘Dear Miz Róisín,’ ” Cal says. He has no idea whether this will work. A couple of years ago, Francie would undoubtedly have told him to fuck off back to the South and take his apology with him. Bobby folds his arms and waits pointedly.
“Fuck’s sake,” Francie says. He looks around the table for support, but public opinion is on Bobby’s side here; not that anyone cares about Róisín’s honor, but everyone wants to see Francie apologize to a holy water bottle.
“Quit your whinging and get on with it,” Mart says. To Cal: “Wasn’t it worth having the dinner late for this?”
Francie shakes his head in disbelief and raises his eyes to the ceiling, but he says, “Dear Missus Róisín.”
“ ‘I never intended to insult a lady,’ ” Cal says. “ ‘Please accept my heartfelt apologies for my indelicate language.’ ”
“I never intended to insult a lady. Please accept my apologies for my indelicate fuckin’ language. Will that do you?”
“That’s better,” Bobby says, mollified and settling back on the banquette. “Watch your mouth, but.”
“That was poetry,” Mart says, raising his glass to Cal. “No wonder Theresa Reddy’s turning out so civilized.”
“Here,” Senan says, reaching for his Mary bottle. “Give me that yoke. Mine’s going up there.” He squints and aims the bottle towards the fishing net that hangs from the ceiling, tastefully scattered with glass balls and a wide variety of less probable objects that people have added over the years.
“You have some respect,” Bobby orders him. “That’s the Holy Virgin.” Bobby’s new status appears to be going to his head. P.J., unsettled by this version, is edging away from him on the banquette.
“I’m not messing,” Senan says. “I can’t think of anywhere that needs a bitta sanctifying more than this fuckin’ madhouse.” He tosses the bottle with a neat overhand snap right into the fishing net, where it lands between a stuffed Pikachu and a tube of sheep wormer.