The Thing About December (25 page)

Johnsey listened away and he closed his eyes so that he could picture Himself more clearly and when the flow of words softened and slowed he asked to know what had happened to Mumbly Dave.

Dave? Oh Lord, Dave is the solid finest so he is, thanks be to God, that Minnie Wiley ran with a half a story as usual! Don’t you know the way the mouths around here work? He slid on that auld bad bend above and he got trapped inside in his car and the brigade had to take the roof off of it to get him out and sure I think half the time they do be only doing that for show, as much as to say Hey lookit, everyone, aren’t we the fine boys with our big expensive cutting machine and our jaws of life, and if it was years ago when common sense trumped all, that car would have been righted by three or four strong men and dragged out by a tractor and drove away the finest and the driver gave a bandage and a
brandy. But now the minute an ambulance is seen or a siren even heard the worst is presumed and the likes of that Minnie the Mouth do be off with tall tales made taller with each telling. Dave will come round and be up out of that hospital bed in no time and the two of ye will be palling around again and this auld craic will all blow over and be forgot, wait till you see. Like the winds of last winter, Johnsey, love.

Love.

And Johnsey heard a quaver in Himself’s voice and saw in spite of himself a picture in his head of a man like one of them men Daddy used talk about that would lie about a beast’s provenance beyond at the mart and put wrong numbers on tags and try to sell disease on to another man’s herd and the man in the picture had a forked tongue like a snake’s because that’s the way Daddy would describe a man like that and wasn’t it a fright to God how things was gone to be such a way that Johnsey could even imagine Jimmy Unthank to be one of them men?

All talk is lies in a way. Only the doing of a thing can make it true. All words are lies unless the thing spoke about can be set before a person and seen and touched. Things said on mobile telephones and wrote down in ink on paper to be read by all and sundry can’t be given any credence any more, nor could they ever. Was it only he could see that? What hope had the world if that was true?

And then Himself was talking again and his voice was lower and the words were coming at a pace that put him in mind of a tear making its slow way down a person’s face the way he’d seen the one on Himself’s face do as he stood holding on to the edge of Daddy’s coffin that day long ago or the one last night on Mumbly Dave’s face, and someone was whispering behind him or beside him and Himself was saying No matter what anyone said or says ever in the future, myself and Herself only ever
wanted what was the best for you, for we love you the very same as if you were our own child.

And Johnsey lowered his head and his hand let go of that auld mobile phone and went down to the heavy wood of the butt of Daddy’s gun and he chanced a look up from his seat on the easy chair and he saw no one in the gateway but he felt them all there, building up and up, waiting to explode in on top of him, like the water behind that mighty dam the young Dutch boy tried to hold back with his finger, and he wondered was it a true thing that a heart could feel heavy or was that another of them auld sayings where the words don’t mean what you might at first think.

The mobile buzzed again from the floor and his breath rushed from him and he picked it up and flung it towards the hearth and it bounced into the grate where it hopped around like a thing propelled by magic and finally came apart and lay in bits in there among the cold ashes.

And that was the end of auld talk on telephones, for good and glory.

WHEN JOHNSEY GOT
to the front door and opened it, he heard a roaring wind. But there was no stir out of the trees beyond the haggard. It was the sound of his blood, rushing around his body. He’d want to go handy or his heart would burst. He still couldn’t make out what your man was saying. Something about using force and then crackle, roar, crackle, roar, crackle. He was badly stuck for a new bullhorn, that fella.

PADDY SAID
duck shot never killed nobody, it’d only blister lads. No harm now to give these boys a fright and they’d know then to go on away and leave him alone to hell. The bullhorn
lad was gone quare now altogether around the corner of the wall, roaring and screaming out of him, but none of them words made any sense. He was an awful yahoo, that lad. He tucked the butt into his shoulder again. Lord, it fit lovely all the same. They’d get a fright now and they’d all feck off with the help of God. He took one step forward and aimed at the cold blue sky and

THAT’S THE
thing about December: it goes by you in a flash. If you just close your eyes, it’s gone. And it’s like you were never there.

THANKS:
To Antony Farrell, Sarah Davis-Goff, Daniel Caffrey, Fiona Dunne, Kitty Lyddon and everyone at The Lilliput Press; to Eoin McHugh, Brian Langan, Larry Finlay, Kate Green and everyone at Doubleday Ireland and Transworld UK; to Chip Fleischer, Roland Pease, Helga Schmidt, Devin Wilkie and everyone at Steerforth Press; to Peter Holm and Graciela Galup; to Marianne Gunn O’Connor; to Helen Gleed O’Connor, Declan Heeney, Simon Hess and the team at Gill Hess; to Jennifer Johnston, John Boyne and all the writers I’ve met who have shown such kindness and generosity; to my wonderful parents, Anne and Donie Ryan, for everything; to my sister Mary, who believed in me long before I did; to John, Lindsey, Christopher, Daniel and all my family, for their constant love and support; to Thomas and Lucy, the lights of my life; and to Anne Marie, my beautiful wife, without whom I wouldn’t have written a single word.