Chapter Two #3
He’s only ribbing Mart, who considers women to be interesting in the abstract but not a field in which he has any urge to get personally involved, like space travel or raising ostriches.
Mart snorts smoke out of his nose. “I will not. Who’d want the likes of me?
Now that J.Lo’s gone back with your man. ”
“Don’t underrate yourself,” Cal says. “You’ve got conversation. A lot of women value that.”
“I never underrated myself in my life, bucko. I’m looking at it from the other perspective, is what I’m doing.
Think it over: d’you know who’d want me?
Some widow woman that’s got time on her hands and needs a new project to keep her occupied.
I’d make a first-rate project, so I would.
The efficient type could roll up her sleeves and get stuck right in here.
The wardrobe alone could keep her going for years.
” Mart bounces the car over a pothole, for emphasis.
“You could fix up her wardrobe, instead,” Cal points out.
“She might need some good hats.” From the neck down Mart’s wardrobe is the standard farmer ensemble, mainly pilled fleeces and well-aged work pants, but he also owns Ardnakelty’s most varied collection of headgear.
Today, in deference to the weather, he’s wearing a shiny yellow sou’wester.
“I’m not sharing my hats with no one,” Mart says.
“A woman would disrupt my lifestyle. I can’t be doing with that.
” He rolls down his window to let the smoke escape, out of consideration for Cal.
Cool damp air sweeps in. “Wee Bobby hasn’t a clue what he’s after getting himself into.
There’s the logistics of getting back and forth to wherever she is, and the social minefield when he introduces her to this place, and there’s the joys of living with two women in the same house—and that’s before you even start in on the emotional territory, and the question of when he’s allowed out to the pub.
There’s a reason why all the old love songs are sad ones, Sunny Jim: because love’s a head-wrecking little bollocks. ”
“Me and Lena are doing fine,” Cal points out. “No one’s head’s wrecked.”
“Ye are,” Mart concedes. “The two of ye are getting along swimmingly. I’d say ‘so far,’ only that’d be impolite.
But the difference is, ye’ve both got a bitta experience under your belts, so ye can spot the pitfalls.
Bobby’s got no more experience than a baba—apart from the aul’ internet porn, and that’s grand in its own way, but I wouldn’t say it prepares you for marrying a receptionist from Tipperary. ”
“How do you know she’s from Tipperary?” Cal asks.
Mart lets out a wheeze of laughter. “I don’t. I’ll test it on Bobby tomorrow and see does he look caught out.”
He pulls up in front of Cal’s gate. Cal’s windows are lit; in the kitchen, Lena is at the cupboards, her thick ponytail falling down her back as she reaches for plates, while Trey’s cropped brown head moves back and forth behind her.
Their faces turn between the work and each other; they’re talking.
“Off you go now and enjoy the aul’ domestic bliss,” Mart says, “and don’t be wasting any sentiment on me.
I’ll admit there was a time when I usedta get the odd craving for a woman, back when the sap was rising, but that was in a different millennium, sure; I’m all recovered now.
I wouldn’t have one if she was handed to me on a plate. ”
“Fair enough,” Cal says. “Thanks for the ride.”
Mart is still looking out the window at Cal’s house, the car idling and his hands loose on the wheel.
The windshield wipers give a soft intermittent swish.
“What I wouldn’t mind having,” he says, “is a son, or two or three. Or daughters, sure. I’m not one a them sexists; that’s for eejits that have no sense of practicality. ”
“I’d pay to watch you change a diaper,” Cal says.
“I’d manage,” Mart says with dignity. “Like I was telling Francie, I’m a great believer in the new experiences.
But that’s not my point. My point is, I’ve no plans to go dying in the foreseeable, but it’ll haveta be done sooner or later.
I’ve no quarrel with that. But what happens then, Sunny Jim?
” He smiles across at Cal. In the faint light from the dashboard, his face is a mass of quick-moving creases.
“That’s the million-dollar question, hah? What happens then?”
“Are we talking about the afterlife?” Cal asks. “It’s only six-thirty.” If he had thought Mart was that drunk, he might not have taken the ride.
Mart snorts. “I am in me hole. I wouldn’t discuss that kinda carry-on with a Protestant anyhow; sure, all ye have to offer is fire and brimstone, and there’s no getting up a worthwhile conversation around that.
If there’s any such thing, I’ll deal with it when I get there. No: I’m talking about the land.”
His face turns to look up the road, towards his farm.
It’s too dark to see anything but the strip of tarmac and the falling rain in the headlights, but Mart can see it anyway.
“That won’t die when I do,” he says. “If you wanta get philosophical about an afterlife, sunshine, there it is in front of you: that land. That was my daddo’s afterlife, and then my father’s, and now ’tis mine.
Only what do I do with it? I’ve no childer to leave it to.
The brothers are emigrated or dead, or both for all I know.
I’ve cousins by the dozens, but half a them would sell the land to Tommy Moynihan or some other gombeen man for shitey town houses, and I’ve got no way of knowing for certain which half is which.
What do I do, to stop a perfectly good afterlife from going to waste? ”
Cal is silent. He doesn’t come from farming stock; he has nothing to offer here.
Mart puts the car into gear, with a ferocious grinding noise.
“I shoulda found some young one that fancied a baba or two but couldn’t be arsed putting up with fellas’ nonsense,” he says, “and come to an arrangement. ’Tis a bit late for that now, sure.
I’ll haveta interrogate the cousins. You can dust off the aul’ detective skills and give me a hand. ”
“I’m no match for any cousin of yours,” Cal says, and Mart laughs. Cal gets out and waves his thanks, and Mart lifts his hand in response as the car bumps off up the road, headlights glittering on the dripping hedges.
Cal’s front room is bright after the dark road and smells of varnish from the back-room workshop, where he and Trey have been finishing up a shoe cupboard for Michelle Healy.
The dogs, his and Lena’s, come bouncing over to welcome him and check out where he’s been.
Normally Trey’s dog, Rip’s littermate Banjo, would be there too, but Trey has been leaving Banjo at her mama’s place more often these days.
Cal suspects she might not want to trail a dog behind her everywhere, like a little kid. He hasn’t asked in case he’s right.
Lena is kneeling by the fireplace, laying out kindling; in the kitchen half of the room, Trey, her hair still rucked up and damp from the shower, is setting the table. “ ’Bout time,” she says. “ ’M starving.”
“So let’s get this show on the road,” Cal says.
He dumps the eggs on the counter, along with a packet of mini Twix bars that Noreen threw in to get them out of her sight, hangs up his jacket, and bends to kiss Lena.
Lena is tall and fair, with deep curves and deep blue eyes, and to Cal a room feels warmer with her in it.
“Congratulations,” he says, holding up a hand for Trey to high-five.
“Lisnacarragh were fuckin’ raging,” Trey says with satisfaction, slapping his palm. “They thought they were gonna flatten us like ten–nil, just ’cause they have your woman that the scout came to look at. She didn’t even score.”
“She didn’t reckon on Trey and Kate,” Lena says.
Trey is small for a defender, at around five foot five, but she’s wiry, fast, and used to taking advantage of being underestimated.
“The face on her, when you intercepted that high cross.” Over the past couple of years, Cal and Lena have both gone from being clueless about football to understanding the offside rule.
“They’ll know better next time,” Cal says.
“We’re gonna need ham and cheese for this, chopped up small.
You do that, I’ll do the eggs.” He’s talking to Trey.
Lena doesn’t cook; it’s one of the things she decided to leave in her old life, when her husband died.
Cal has no problem with this. He likes cooking, and he likes the opportunity to differentiate their relationship from her marriage.
He doesn’t know much about her marriage, any more than she does about his, but he knows it was a powerful thing and not one she thought she’d ever be able to leave behind her.
“Lisnacarragh’s used to having things their way,” Lena says. “They’ll be out for revenge. When’s the rematch?”
“Coupla weeks,” Trey says, pulling ham and cheese out of the fridge. “My boots’re in tatters. When’s Michelle Healy paying us?”
“Her cupboard’s about ready,” Cal says. “One more coat of varnish and we’ll take it down to her.
I’ll lend you the money till then, if you need new ones sooner.
” He knows better than to offer to buy Trey the boots outright.
A couple of years back, even the suggestion of a loan would have gotten his head bitten off.
“Nah. I’ll be grand till then. Get the cash outa Michelle before you give her the cupboard, but. She’s a hoor for not paying her bills.”
“Damn,” Cal says, getting out bowls to separate the eggs. “I’ll have to get you one boot for Christmas and the other one for your birthday.”
“I know what I want for Christmas,” Trey tells him. “Can you teach me to drive?”