Malarky (9 page)

He started not changing his jumper. Socks stayed on him several days. I could hardly bend down at his feet and remove
them. I could have I suppose, but I chose not to. Have her remove them I thought. Had he removed them in the bed of Red the Twit? Let her take them off him.

I did give in.

I gave in because the smell off him would knock a pig.

—Give me those socks you have on ya, I said. He obliged, robotically stretching out his foot so I might retrieve them. And when I saw the state of the feet on him. Painful and neglected they were.

He was, I must say, obedient in this state and that was not inconvenient. I still hadn't done anything.

Soon however it became difficult to watch him sat there and so wasn't I forced to leave the house. We had swapped: him inside, me having the car, off to Ballina to pick up feed at the Co-op, for the cattle would die for the lack of food and care.

When I was out and about I began to see an odd cut of the world I'd never noticed. Like Himself advised I would go in and sit places and sometimes have a bowl of soup or a cup of tea for my trouble. Once I even had a piece of pie in the morning.

And since he wasn't rising from the chair I opened the back door and started to attend to things. It wasn't pleasant nor unpleasant. It was a chore. Another chore. Chore after chore. The neighbours asked after him. And I told them a sort of truth.

—Sure he's killt with all the work, I said.

Oh it's a killer, they all agreed.

—It'd drive you to despair, I said.

It would, they agreed.

I was glad to get out and about a bit in it. For too long I had been inside.

It was more difficult when day after day he sat in the chair. Speechless, he sat. Read the paper without remarking much. Unusual, disturbing. While he was ranting Our Woman worried less. Now she worried hard. She had no idea what to do with him. She thought the cattle prices had him in the chair and sure there was nothing she could do about the cattle prices.

She sent two cows to the factory without his permission. She got a man to bring them in for her and he docked her money. You don't get a fair price these days, he said, handing her a pittance. When Our Woman told Himself she'd sent the cows to the factory she hoped it might spur him up from the chair. She hoped it'd make him cross.

—Very good, he said, you did well. How much did you get? You did well, he repeated, without listening for the answer.

She elected not to explain that she had to send them because the bills were piling. Nor did she say she'd no idea how long he might sit in the chair and she couldn't rely that he might feed them into the winter.

She paid the bills that time. Everything except the phone bill. She left that one to mount.

If he wasn't going to do his chores, they still had to be done. Our Woman had to get out and do them.

Briefly she decided how much feed to buy and whether to treat for fluke.

And then one day he stood up again and announced he was going to look for a trailer. All would be well if he found a trailer his arm gesture said.

I had been looking for the muck when I was out and about. I'd paid attention and d'ya know it was going to be a great deal harder than Red the Twit suggested these things were. I had no
man express any interest in me, other than throw me the odd sentence at the Co-op between the aisles about the weather or a bit of chatter down the field that usually was only asking after Himself. I'd swear every one of them was in a coma.

I still could not fathom how he'd done what she proposed he had. I was perplexed agin. Furious and perplexed. But the bigger fear was at me: would he sit down again? While he was up it was great but if he sat down we'd be sunk. I could not allow for it and a plan formed in my head. A plan that had to be got on with. A hunt.

In a place with a window that looked out on the street, the hunt commenced so if what Our Woman must watch is too unpalatable, she can avert her gaze. She began in the place where all of it commenced, that bar of the hotel where Red the Twit originally found her. The place she sat down for soup. She began where he told her to begin. In the window. Everything is in the window.

Beside her a conversation unrolled about what happened behind a nightclub last night. It was unpalatable, so she looked out the window. If she was forever looking out the window, how would her hunt begin?

It took a further six weeks and three bowls of soup over a few visits to the same place, just as she'd concluded it untenable, then she spied one, ginger haired male, humpy towards mid forty, who it transpired came through the hotel near weekly. A greeting card sales-man, fat fingered, with wide thumbnails she noted each time she saw him drinking a cup of tea.

It wouldn't be long now, for what would a blabbing fella like that do here, in this place, at night, only be hanging about, so certainly, when she went into town, whether it was for
animal feed or the library, she carefully positioned herself in that place with a cup of tea, late afternoons, every week, and tracked his movements.

Lonely and predictable he was, having no one to care of in the town, except the shopkeepers he visited every few weeks to hawk his cards at, and talk his do you know any Haggerty's in Cobh conversations – so her presence eventually led to nods and greeting. Being a salesman, he was swiftly stirred to sell her something. Velvet cards, he tossed. Had she heard of such a thing?

She listened with is that right curiosity in her face, solemnly infused with language of feigned interest (perky question) and deep attention (would you ever, I never knew that now, very interesting). She used the good eyes God gave her to stare at him. This fella needed attention the way birds need nests, so he'd pick and pluck and lift and twist whatever he could grab. He couldn't grab much blather from Our Woman as she's unusually careful in what she'll reveal in this instance, having in her mind a much greater purpose for him that required little in the way of discussion and more in the way of disrobing. Her strategy was to keep him on this path. When he talked of the velvet cards he could order for her, his tale of how he'd the official business and the sideline and he was talking to her now about his sideline she told him warmly hadn't he great initiative, while noticing the collar of his shirt very mucky on the inside by his neck where he sweated. No woman to mind his collar, or no woman properly attending to them. He was a sweaty man, but he'd do. She contemplated her strategy of what she needed to do with this moist, nervy salesman, while he persisted with the line his cards could change the lives of many around her. She half listened, and mentally bumped brain to limbs and decided today, yes today would be the day to move toward him and collect whatever she needed. She had to be clear and strategic about what she
was looking to understand. She hesitated. Could she stomach licking such a dense specimen, as the licking according to Red the Twit's description would be required. However, more heartily came the thought, surely he'd do, because she was looking for a quick insight, not a thesis on the matter. Thus she swallowed and tolerated him through three pints – two bought with her husband's money – an extraordinary length to endure such a dull man. Giggled at his jokes, smiled at remarks and diverted inquiries about her people and yes, that'd be great altogether when he suggested he'd go upstairs to fetch the half dozen mauve cards he intended to sell for the outrageous price of three Euro. She prided herself on telling him he could have the whole three Euro and not at all she would never take a discount. And no, there was no need to bring them down; she'd go up to collect them.

This was her move, all hers. Now she owned it.

His eyes noted this sprightly gesture. Awkwardly noted it, mouth slackened a bit, brain too, surprise no doubt. He lost his balance when he pushed back the chair as she watched him calculate her intended boldness and blurted out how was she for Mass Cards, he'd lovely harvest sympathy ones, apples and a cart, pack of six, he could do her a deal a bunch for 20 Euros. Wait now 'til we see, he said.

Upstairs, offered he did, a cup of tea, from his travel kettle. I've only the one cup, but I'll give ye a bag of your own – otherwise we'd have to share, him chuckling at his own gargle. Her, in order to prevent him launching into yet another chapter of his life story and who did she and didn't she know from bally-below, moved and sat on the soft single bed, noting the dustbin, beside the tacky side table had been decorated with a glued piece of white lace. On the opposite wall, there hung a picture of the Pope, arms out, his thumb extended. For some inexplicable reason he reminded her of a stout legged rugby player, egging her on, saying come on now and don't be letting
your team (the lads) down. Don't be weak said his upturned palms, it may not be palatable, but what do you think your husband has been at? He was hardly trimming that woman's toenails now was he?