Cold Eye of Heaven, The by Christine Dwyer Hickey Page B

What age do you think I am in anyway?’
    â€˜Ah, you’re all girls to me,’ Farley says and walks away.
    There was a time he would have thought she was making a pass. A time, not that long ago, he would have been flattered by it. And a time, long before that, he would have been insulted that she’d think a bloke like him would be interested in someone like her. Now he knows she’s just being nice.
    He finds himself crossing back over O’Connell Street and turning onto the quays. Retracing the steps he would have taken every day, from the office to the Four Courts; forty years’ worth, that’s a lot of steps, a lot of miles. When he started he could do it in eight minutes flat. The week he retired it took ten. What would it be now? Not fair to challenge himself on a day like today, he decides, with the ground so uncertain and him not feeling the best. Next time. Maybe then.
    He’s halfway up the quay when he remembers that Slowey’s son had finally got his way and relocated. Somewhere in Capel Street, a whole floor of offices in a brand-new block; barristers and solicitors below and above, only have to reach out your hand to get a bit of business. Suffering now though in the slump and even solicitors getting the boot every day. ‘I’d say now the Sloweys is feelin the pinch.’ He can hear the voice in his head that said that; one of those voices that takes pleasure in a recession, but he can’t find a matching face.
    Farley stands for a moment on the first of the four granite steps. The railings, the door, the windows at the side – all the same. The brass plate is gone, leaving a bald square patch surrounded by dirtier brick. The company name is still etched in gold leaf on the ground-floor and firstfloor windows. He remembers the day it was painted, the office not long opened. A lad from the West slowly explaining the process and Farley torn between watching the liquid gold unfurl on the glass and attending to the screaming chorus of black phones behind him. Later, that evening they had come out onto the street to admire it; the painter, Slowey, himself, Brophy, that little blondie one who used to do the secretarial. They had crossed the road to stand at the quay wall; a warm dusky evening, the hum from the river. Slowey in shirtsleeves, the girl with her frock stuck to her legs. ‘Now,’ Slowey had said, nodding his approval. ‘Now, what do you all think of that!’ His voice had been shaky and for a minute Farley had thought he’d seen tears, actual tears, in his eyes. But then Slowey had turned round and started messing, pucking them on the arm, slapping them on the back of the head. Lifting the youngone up and swinging her around, her screaming like a seagull, while at the same time trying to hold down the hem of her dress. ‘Ah Mister Slow-eeey, Jaysus, Mister Slow-ee-eeey, will you stopit!’
    Farley looks up and over the windows; the house appears to be empty now. In his time he’d seen every room of it occupied over and over; a mixed bag of oddballs through the years. A struck-off solicitor, nose the shape of a little red arse, sniffing around for a few crumbs. The tailor, of course. The dress-hire woman. And there was an architect that only camein for an hour a day, sandwiches tucked under his jumper, like he was ashamed of them. A dodgy enterprise or two, usually called something with the word ‘Export’ in the title.
    Slowey & Co. had been the longest tenants; bit by bit taking over most of the rooms. Except of course for the top-floor flat where the sisters had lived. Three spinsters and one widow. The widow had lasted the longest: Jane, the youngest. Even into her seventies you could tell she’d been a looker, not because she still was, but by the way she behaved and the way she treated men, taking their attention for granted.
    Farley climbs the steps and stands at the door. There’s a planning permission