Malarky (18 page)

It's loud on the street, his phone breaking up. Is there a bus? She'll come and grab him. I'll pick you up in Foxford off the bus if you can get down this way. Sunday, Sunday is when he'll come. Sunday, yes come Sunday. Her husband is going to Tubbercurry on Sunday to look at yet another trailer.

—I want to show you the horses, she says.

—You have horses?

—Not yet. Not yet. But soon we will have a horse. My husband will be very interested to meet you, she assures him.

—How'd she get a ticket at LIDL? Himself perplexed.

Met a fella,

knows a lot about horses,

invited him Sunday, he'll come, see whether one might fit.

—I'm heading for Tubbercurry Sunday.

—I'll cancel him. I'll tell him come another day so. You need to be here.

—Not at all. Have him come and look sure. I won't be home'til late on account of the drive.

On account of the drive. Indeed not.

His name is Halim and by the time he arrived he looked entirely different without the insignia on his shoulders and a walkie-talkie mounted to his ear. Younger unfortunately – for she hoped civilian clothes and a bus journey might age him. She wants youth, but youth is fearful in its stretch backwards. He stood at the bus stop in Foxford, not uncomfortable, but curious looking, like he'd never quite fit.

—Do you like it here? Tea tray down. Handed him plate of pie.

—I do.

—Are you sure?

—Irish people are very friendly, he said before a pause. But this is the first time I've visited someone apart from students in the college.

—How long have you been here?

—2 years. He bit the pie edge gently. Hesitant Halim, Our Woman thinks, while fussing over how he'd like his tea and do they drink tea in Syria? Lots of tea. Tea like this? Not quite like this, but tea. Every time she mentions his country, he lights up. Except she has to keep reminding herself the name of his country. A scrimper of a beard that cannot decide whether it should stay or go and a set of peaty brown eyes, overwhelmed by eyebrows. His eyes are brighter or bolder than those she is used to, so she cannot stare long at them because they stare back at her.

Is he cold?

No, he's not.

Is he sure? She can get him a blanket. She can add something to the fire.

—Have they fires in Syria?

Daft question. But since he loves to talk Syria he's off transported by heat, fires and weather. She's gone to get him a blanket. His plate moves to the side table. He reaches in his bag, he brought her something. A stack of books. One, she can keep, three she can borrow

Borrow, she likes borrow. Come again, it says.

—Here now, she hands him the blanket but moves instead to pat it around him, slips her hand beneath his legs in the process, along the side, moving to tuck him in firmly further up his thighs. He's alarmed, just mild though.

I must wonder while I extract myself why I have nothing but the desire to keep pressing my hands all along the sides of this stranger. I could carry on up his torso until I reached his ears!

Who is this woman? And where has she come up with such bold ideas on an average Sunday, an average Sunday where
Mass and refilling the milk jug and sugar bowl, lest there be an avalanche of visitors were previously the order of her day.

That snicker of alarm on his face fades to a smile. Is that a knowing smile? Would she know a knowing smile. She couldn't give a snap of her fingers whether it's knowing or otherwise. She thinks of that cheeky twit swinging her leg over Himself and Our Woman left out in the cold, back here sweeping floors, lifting newspapers and making a bed for a man laid in another. Leave no misunderstanding to chance she thinks, and pats Halim firmly across his belly.

—Are you all full in there?

Her hand drops low enough to indent the top of his groin area. I am wondering what you've got in there, her eyes say.

She had risen this morning and baked. Strange choices that should have alarmed her husband, but he downed his egg put on his boots and hat and took off through the back door allowing the unusual whiff of apple tart to exit into the wind. There's a visitor coming today, but no reply, only he was agin goin to Tubbercurry to look
for
the box. A box has become The Box. He has looked at 15 different boxes in recent months.

Too big, too small, too chipped, wrong paint, wheel wear, rust inclined, not wide enough, too wide.

—I'd like you to meet him?

—Is it the horse fella?

Sort of True: She had met the Syrian when thinking about horses.

Not Ascertained: The Syrian knows something about horses.

Absolutely Untrue: The Syrian is a horse fella.

—Is he coming with his wife?

—He is.

—Bring him down to the field and let him see which way the grass is. He left it there at that single instruction.

She imagined showing Halim the grass and asking his opinion on whether it would suit a horse and that made her smile. This young fella, with a key to his locker, and a few textbooks from the RTC college.

—I'd like you to meet him, she repeated. This will ensure he'll never meet him. The I'd like you to sealing it.