lift, Dessie.’ I swung the door shut and patted the muddy roof. Off you pop now, like a good chap.
He leaned into the passenger seat and rolled down the window. ‘Ah, you’re grand,’ he said, ‘you’re very good but I won’t.’ I blinked at him in incomprehension. ‘I won’t come in for the cup a tea cause I’m up to me teeth, but I appreciate the offer, so I do. You’re a gent. I always said that about you. Always stood up for you, no matter what they accused you of. Mental psychopathic things. Dodgy satanic shit. Ah, not at all, I’d say: you have him all wrong. Bit up his own hole, I grant you that, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly. An as for his lovely manners! His dead mammy would of been proud.’
He hauled himself back into the driver’s seat and stepped on the accelerator. The keys. I had forgotten to retrieve the keys. ‘Hey!’ I shouted after him but he didn’t hear me. The setters did. They came belting around the corner in response, pebbles flying in their wake, ears tossed to the wind, for the fact of there being two of them seemed to egg the other on, turning every endeavour into a competition.
Halfway across the courtyard, the pair simultaneously about-turned and scrambled back to the arch at the same frenetic pace, having been summoned to heel by Father. I stood to attention when he appeared, awaiting one of his caustic remarks – Is that the company you keep now , I see you’ve found your level at last – but he simply walked past me as if I were dead to him, pausing briefly to note the skid marks that Hickey had carved in the gravel.
Stop. Poor Prince. The damage.
Stop. Poor Prince. The damage.
At the time, I did not envisage that I would remain in the country for more than a day or two, so I did what I believed was best for him under the circumstances, seeking to remove a fraction of pain from the world, to relieve an iota of suffering. I went inside and rang the vet and arranged to have him destroyed the following morning.
The date is on the paperwork in front of you.
The date is on the paperwork in front of you. Was it the following week perhaps? I am poor with numbers and getting worse with time but the good news is I left a paper trail. About a week after the expedition to Hilltop with Hickey, I pulled open the front door to encounter a blond man in blue overalls on his knees, a hammer in his hand. I had been wondering what the noise was. A toolbox was set out by his side, its tiers fully extended.
I stepped outside to see what he was up to. He was mounting a brass plaque to the door surround. ‘What do you think you are doing?’
The man nodded at the plaque to indicate that he was mounting a brass plaque to the door surround – yes yes, I could see that, I wasn’t blind. Father, by some small mercy, was out. A smart blue minivan was parked in his spot, Transylvanian Tradesmen printed on the side in livery matching the man’s overalls. I gestured at the plaque. ‘Who authorised this?’
The man returned to his work. Tap tap with his hammer, whir whir with his drill as if I weren’t there, an exemplar of the implacability of the Eastern European that confounds the Irish psyche to such a degree. Instead of embarking on long-drawn-out descriptions of the task at hand, followed by a rundown of potential pitfalls to unnerve the customer, concluding with a few horror stories to illustrate that the competition are cowboys and that the cost of labour is not as extortionate as it may at first have seemed, all the while angling for a cup of tea as any self-respecting Irish workman might, this man simply got on with it.
Castle Holdings read the italic lettering on the plaque, which was the name M. Deauville had chosen for the Irish branch of his company. Sorry, Fergus? Yes, apologies, my mistake. You are quite right: Castle Holdings was not a branch but a separate financial entity.
When the workman was gone I inspected the plaque. It was dappled with his fingerprints,
He leaned into the passenger seat and rolled down the window. ‘Ah, you’re grand,’ he said, ‘you’re very good but I won’t.’ I blinked at him in incomprehension. ‘I won’t come in for the cup a tea cause I’m up to me teeth, but I appreciate the offer, so I do. You’re a gent. I always said that about you. Always stood up for you, no matter what they accused you of. Mental psychopathic things. Dodgy satanic shit. Ah, not at all, I’d say: you have him all wrong. Bit up his own hole, I grant you that, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly. An as for his lovely manners! His dead mammy would of been proud.’
He hauled himself back into the driver’s seat and stepped on the accelerator. The keys. I had forgotten to retrieve the keys. ‘Hey!’ I shouted after him but he didn’t hear me. The setters did. They came belting around the corner in response, pebbles flying in their wake, ears tossed to the wind, for the fact of there being two of them seemed to egg the other on, turning every endeavour into a competition.
Halfway across the courtyard, the pair simultaneously about-turned and scrambled back to the arch at the same frenetic pace, having been summoned to heel by Father. I stood to attention when he appeared, awaiting one of his caustic remarks – Is that the company you keep now , I see you’ve found your level at last – but he simply walked past me as if I were dead to him, pausing briefly to note the skid marks that Hickey had carved in the gravel.
Stop. Poor Prince. The damage.
Stop. Poor Prince. The damage.
At the time, I did not envisage that I would remain in the country for more than a day or two, so I did what I believed was best for him under the circumstances, seeking to remove a fraction of pain from the world, to relieve an iota of suffering. I went inside and rang the vet and arranged to have him destroyed the following morning.
The date is on the paperwork in front of you.
The date is on the paperwork in front of you. Was it the following week perhaps? I am poor with numbers and getting worse with time but the good news is I left a paper trail. About a week after the expedition to Hilltop with Hickey, I pulled open the front door to encounter a blond man in blue overalls on his knees, a hammer in his hand. I had been wondering what the noise was. A toolbox was set out by his side, its tiers fully extended.
I stepped outside to see what he was up to. He was mounting a brass plaque to the door surround. ‘What do you think you are doing?’
The man nodded at the plaque to indicate that he was mounting a brass plaque to the door surround – yes yes, I could see that, I wasn’t blind. Father, by some small mercy, was out. A smart blue minivan was parked in his spot, Transylvanian Tradesmen printed on the side in livery matching the man’s overalls. I gestured at the plaque. ‘Who authorised this?’
The man returned to his work. Tap tap with his hammer, whir whir with his drill as if I weren’t there, an exemplar of the implacability of the Eastern European that confounds the Irish psyche to such a degree. Instead of embarking on long-drawn-out descriptions of the task at hand, followed by a rundown of potential pitfalls to unnerve the customer, concluding with a few horror stories to illustrate that the competition are cowboys and that the cost of labour is not as extortionate as it may at first have seemed, all the while angling for a cup of tea as any self-respecting Irish workman might, this man simply got on with it.
Castle Holdings read the italic lettering on the plaque, which was the name M. Deauville had chosen for the Irish branch of his company. Sorry, Fergus? Yes, apologies, my mistake. You are quite right: Castle Holdings was not a branch but a separate financial entity.
When the workman was gone I inspected the plaque. It was dappled with his fingerprints,
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