—Yeah.
He nodded at the hall, and the broken glass.
—You’re a neighbour.
—I’m her husband.
—She locked you out.
—Is she alive?
—She is, yeah, he said.—Just about. Where were you?
—We don’t live together, I said.
I tried to get past him - I tried to stand up.
—You don’t live together? he said.
He’d never heard of anything like that. He was only a young lad.
I got up from the chair. He let me. He’d no right to stop me; he wasn’t a cop.
—Did yis have a fight, or what?
—Just get out of my fuckin’ way.
He did - quickly, although some of the smile was still hanging there.
—I have to ask, he said.
—Ask away.
I followed the stretcher. I went over the glass, out to the drive. The ambulance was out on the road. I went down the drive. The mouthy fucker from inside passed me.
—I’m coming with you, I told him - I thought I told him.
By the time I got out on the road, the ambulance was finishing a U-turn and heading back towards - I didn’t know which hospital.
—Where—?
I tried to shout.
She was gone.
I had to tell them all. Her neighbours, the hospitals, the Health Board - I was the widow’s husband.
The priest didn’t look surprised. He’d had bigger shocks.
—You married out of the parish, he said.
—It was a long time ago, I told him.
—Her surname isn’t Smart, he said.
—She thought I was dead, I told him.—She thought I’d been dead for years, before she met the other man.
—But she’d no proof of your death.
—Well, look it, I wasn’t dead. So no, she didn’t. But she could never have found it. There were dead people everywhere. It’s a long story.
—Keep it to yourself, so, he said.—It can be another of our secrets. Am I right?
I nodded for him. I thought he’d give me something back.
—Do you know where she is, Father? I asked.
—No, he said.—I don’t. Why would I?
—It’s your parish.
—I’ll bury her when she’s delivered to me.
—But she’s definitely alive?
—As far as I know.
—Where?
—I told you. Her cousin dealt with her, I’m told.
—Her cousin?
—Her cousin, he said.—Another powerful man. But, like us all, Henry Smart, not as powerful as he used to be.
—Ivan Reynolds.
—Ivan the Terrible, he said.
He made sure I knew he was sneering.
—He’ll tell you where she is, he said.
—Ah, fuck off, I said.
He said nothing to my back as I walked out.
—I’m not sure where she is, the woman next door to her told me.
This was the woman who’d phoned for the ambulance when she’d seen me under the bike, lodged between the wall and the hedge. She was a good-looking woman. I’d seen her waiting at the school gate for kids who were more than likely living and working abroad now, in England or America. She wasn’t unfriendly, but she was wondering what the retired caretaker was doing, looking for straight-backed Missis O’Kelly. (I’d stopped being the gardener before she’d moved in.) There was something small but cruel on her face: she knew what I wanted to know.
—I’m her husband, I told her.
She grabbed hold of the shock, and managed one word back.
—Husband? she said.
—Yeah.
—But you don’t live there.
—Where is she?
—And your name isn’t O’Kelly, she said.—Sure it’s not? What is your name?
—My name’s Smart, I said.
—Henry.
—That’s right, I said.—Please. Where is she?
—You worked in the school, she said.
—That’s right, I said.
—When did, she said.—When did you get married?
—In 1919, I told her.
I couldn’t help it; I smiled. But she didn’t.
—What about the other man? she said.—The man who died. Her husband. Mister O’Kelly.
—A misunderstanding, I said.—I’ll tell you another time. Do you know where she is?
—No, she said.
—No?
—Not really, she said.—I mean, a lady in the butcher’s told me she was in a nursing home.
I’d tried all the hospitals; I’d gone to them all. But it had taken me days. There’d been no Missis O’Kelly, no Missis Smart, no Miss O’Shea, and no records of any or all of those old women. Ivan Reynolds had got there long before me.
—Where’s the nursing home?
—She didn’t know where, exactly, said the woman.—And I’ve never really known Missis O’Kelly that well. Are you really her husband?
—Yes, I am. Where’s the nursing home?
—Howth, she said.—I think she said Howth - the lady.
—Thanks.
She wanted more but I turned away. I had a taxi waiting at the gate.
I found her. Just twenty minutes in the taxi. To a nursing home in Howth. With a view of the Bay that she was never going to see. She was lying on a bed, under the window, with her one eye open. Still alive - the only thing left living in her. Looking up at the ceiling.
—I’m her husband, I told the nurse.
—She’s a widow.
—She isn’t, I said.—She used to be.
—Oh lovely, said the nurse, a gorgeous fat young one from the country.—Did ye get married recently?
—No.
—Was it years ago?
—Years before she met her other husband.
—God.
She loved it. She watched me holding the dead woman’s hand.
—Will you have a cup of tea?
—No, thanks.
—Sure?
—Yeah, I said.—I’m grand.
She didn’t leave. She sat on the end of the bed, her toes just tipping the shining floor.
—There’s never a peep out of her, she said.—Was she always a quiet one?
—You’re jesting, I said, the proud husband.—She was mad.
—Was she?
—She was out in the War of Independence.
—Fighting?
—Yeah.
—Shooting?
—Absolutely.
—God.
Bad noise from another room sent her jumping off the bed and running. I watched her arse as she hit the hall.
—Back in a minute, she called.
But she left me alone for a while. I sat and watched the eye, and hoped. And hoped for weeks.
The pride became anger. I wasn’t angry at her, not just her. I was angry at both of us. We should have done the sane thing. We should have grabbed the last few years and lived them in the normal way. She’d done that with the other man, for years. I should have made it my turn.
I went there every day. I didn’t have the money for taxis. I got the bus to Howth and hitched my way up the hill. In O’Kelly’s tweed and cotton I looked like I lived in that posh world above Howth village. I was never long waiting for a lift.
I sat there and held her hand. The fat nurse and the other nurses and kitchen staff all took their turns and looked in at us. I knew they were there without having to turn and hear my bones crack. I’d hear the squeak of their work shoes, or the romance and sadness of it all escaping in their breath. I’d know they were there and I liked it. The curiosity, the attention, and the soapy smell of the nurses.
Then, one day, the squeaks were sharper. I knew Ivan Reynolds was behind me. The man I’d trained to kill, who’d then tried to kill me. And the man who was paying for my wife’s bed.
This time I turned.
—Who a
re you? said the woman at the open door.—Why are you here?
She was an old woman now, but I was looking at my daughter. The hair was grey but that was my sixty-year-old daughter standing at the door, straight-backed as her mother used to be. It was her face, puzzled but sure, and angry. And something too, behind it - in her eyes. It was the face behind the face I recognised. But she hadn’t a clue who I was.
—Who are you? she said.
—Well, fuck it, I said.—I think I’m your father.
—My God.
—Now you’re talking.
She stood there. For ever. She didn’t look at me - not properly.
—You took your time, I said.
—Excuse me?
—I said, you took your time.
—I didn’t know, she said eventually.
—You phoned, I said.—1964, was it? Nothing since.
She stepped into the room.
—And what about you? she said.—My father?
Her mother lay dead on the bed - maybe listening. The eye was open, but I wasn’t sure about the ears. I believed she could hear, because I wanted her to, just as I believed she could see me when I hung my face over hers. But she hadn’t squeezed my hand when I’d held hers, not even slightly. And she’d never blinked when I’d asked her to - one for yes, two for no.
—So, said the daughter.—Here we all are.
She was standing beside me. She looked too, to see if her mother was listening, if the eye was up to anything. It was open, but nothing else.
I’d no idea who this woman was, only who she’d been. She stared down at me like she’d found me on her shoe.
—It must be a bit strange, I said.
—What?
There were years of American living in the accent that carried her question. But the question itself was Irish.
—Finding out you’ve got a father, I said.
She didn’t answer. She looked at her mother but made no attempt to get closer, to muscle me out of her way. She had a man’s watch on her wrist and she kept looking at it.
—Where’s Ivan? I asked.
—Uncle Ivan?
—He isn’t your uncle, I said, and I felt stupid as I said it.
—He was more of an uncle than you were ever a father, she said.
If this was a war, she’d won it already. I looked at her mother. But the eye wasn’t backing me up.
—That’s how you remember it, I said.
—That’s how it was.
—You saw me fall under the train, for fuck sake.
—But I never saw you crawl out from under it, she said.—But you must have.
—You know what happened.
—Clearly, I don’t, she said.—You were dead until a minute ago. And forgotten.
—I didn’t know—
—The world’s a small place, Mister Smart, she said.—Nobody is very hard to find.
She was making sure I wouldn’t like her. And she was good at it. I could have killed her. Mister Smart. Had she really forgotten the good years? I was too old to re-examine them. I needed them as they were, solid and mine.
—Where is he? I asked again.—Why isn’t he here?
—He is, she said.
—Is he outside?
She didn’t tell me to follow, but I knew I was supposed to. She was still in the hall by the time I’d made it to the door. She was going into the next room.
He was on the bed - in the bed - both eyes open. Wide awake and dying. I’d forgotten: I was the man who trained Ivan for leadership but he’d always been older than me.
He was smiling - before he saw me, before he knew there was someone else in the room. The smile, for my daughter, took all the energy he had and it was gladly given. I envied, but I couldn’t hate him. The fucker loved her - it was clear and shocking. He loved the child she’d been and he didn’t mind the fact that she wasn’t a child now. He’d seen her grow.
I’d been waiting for this, wanting it, for years. Eyes locked to Ivan’s, the confrontation. Now, though, I wanted to step back out of the room.
He saw me, and he knew me. The terror that ran across Ivan the Terrible’s grey face did me no good at all. But the way he flicked it off did; he was still thinking, still on the make. It took less than a second. He could look straight at me.
—Captain, he said.
He was using his death rattle, hiding behind it. She stood beside him.
—Ivan, I said.
—A long time.
The rattle again, and a cough. I was too late if I wanted to kill him.
—A lifetime, I said.
—That’s right, he said.—More than the one lifetime, faith. You’re looking well, Captain. Still the handsome man.
—Fuck off, Ivan.
—You’ve come to see me off, he said.
—No, I said.
—No?
—I came in to say hello.
—You’d be doing me a favour, he said.—If you helped me on my way.
—That’s grand, I said.—But I’d hate to think I’d ever done you a favour.
I didn’t look at her.
—No grudges, so?
—None, I said.
—Hard feelings?
—No.
—You got the looks, Captain, but I got the land.
I shrugged - I tried to.
—You still have the land, I said.
—And the looks fucked off on you many moons ago, said Ivan.—I told the lads to go for your face. Make him ugly, I told them.
He was still Ivan.
—And no hard feelings?
I saw her hand pat his shoulder.
—No, I said.—None. It’s good to see you.
I looked at him, but I spoke to her.
—I wish this had happened years ago, Ivan.
—Do you now?
—Yeah, I said.—But better late than never. I still have time to thank you.
—For what?
—Looking after my family.
—Sure, aren’t you family yourself, Captain?
—And you tried to kill me.
—For Ireland, he said.—It was all for Ireland.
—Was it worth it?
—God, it was. Sure, look at us.
I watched while two of the people who’d made this country died. And, outside, the country was already dead. I was in the nursing home most of the time, or coming to and from the place, but I couldn’t ignore what my eyes still made me see.
Ratheen had always been a village of walkers but they’d been old men and young mothers, pushing themselves or their prams, killing the slow time before death or the time before the school bell freed their kids. I’d avoided the oul’ lads but the mothers were a great idea: women with time on their hands, still young after three and four children. They, as much as their kids, were the measure of my success. I’d created the land that fed them - me and Ivan and Miss O’Shea. These good-looking girls who wore trousers and threw back their heads when they laughed. They blessed themselves when they passed the big church but they weren’t going to cringe or hide. Early summer took the fuckin’ years off me, as they gathered at the school gate, chatting and laughing. The smell of idle Irishwomen - it was my victory.
And the oul’ lads too. When I was born, at the start of it all, forty was the ripe old age. My parents never got near it. Working men and women who crawled across the forty mark often wished they hadn’t. Crippled, toothless, broken-lunged, they sucked the Dublin air and hoped for the end, even as they fought it. But when I came back it was different. Women of forty were vital and solid - fine things with decades of sex and madness still ahead of them. And old was properly old now. Men could walk up to sixty, and seventy, and still chew raw carrots at eighty. I stayed clear of the oul’ lads but I liked them. They had their pensions and enough of their health. They were walking success stories, written by me, secretly happy with the work that strolled and hobbled past me every day. The young arses and the old ones - I signed them all. Best wish
es from Henry Smart.
But then it changed. It didn’t happen suddenly but, for a while - for years - I didn’t want to see it. The walkers were joined by men I hadn’t seen before, because they’d been at work. The builders, the plasterers, the young lads who’d gone into the offices - there was no more building and no new offices. The working men were killing the day.
They didn’t walk. They stood. Outside the bookies, outside the pub, outside the new library. Their backs to everything; nothing belonged to them. Staying out till they could go home. And now that the streets had been taken by their husbands, the women stayed at home - and aged. They couldn’t go out while their husbands did nothing. They couldn’t laugh while they worried about food and where the money would come from. They worried about their husbands. They worried about their children. The country became the old place again, killing everything young. The children were leaving, or staying. They were going to the old places - London, Liverpool, Boston; and to the new ones - Luton, Sydney, Düsseldorf. The ones who stayed were finding their own new country, where the dead walked - until they died too.
I knew this but it didn’t get in my way. Not in 1980, while I watched my wife die. I’d found needles in the school yard, in the last years before I retired. Thrown over the wall the night before, or used by ghosts who’d climbed the wall. I knew it was happening. I knew what a hophead looked like. I’d seen my share; I’d known them when I’d lived the life with Louis Armstrong. But they’d been jazzmen, irritating, sad, but never a mass, never a fuckin’ generation. They’d have filled a club but not the world. These kids, in Dublin, were grey. And yellow. Kids I’d seen running around in the school yard, whose mothers I’d wanted to pick up and bite. They were ancient teenagers, derelicts still in their early twenties. Taking over the corners that their fathers hadn’t already taken. While their mothers went to work and only laughed now when they needed to hear themselves, to prove that they still lived.
I noticed the boys - noticed, and ignored - and then the girls. Young ones being punctured and pumped up, fat and skeletal in the space of a week. Traces of their mothers in their faces, lovely women turned desperate. Junkies pushing buggies, making early grannies of the women I’d adored from the safe side of the school gate. I saw it while I waited for the bus and decided that the place was worse than it had been when I was the young, hungry king of Dublin’s corners. Poverty then had seemed natural, but this was just atrocious.