this afternoon he carried them forth into the light and rather angrily I thought lashed on the polish, and then worked away mightily with a cloth to give them a barrack-room shine. But all wasted work really.
And all the while this was going on, it was myself trying to draw him out about Osu. There were little snatches and sparking illuminations and ill-remembered moments of it that were still bothering me. I tried first to winkle a way in by talking about his beloved Highlife music, which only launched him into a panegyric about E. T. Mensah, the man who wrote ‘Freedom Highlife’, part of Tom’s ‘under his breath’ repertoire. Tom, no more than myself, doesn’t like to hit nails on the head, seemingly, he likes to come at things sideways, or rather, move away from them sideways. But this is the way of the world. A direct question in the company of men is in most contexts a sort of insult, something you learn young in Sligo bars.
He had got from a woman he called his ‘Aunty-aunty’ some sort of concoction in a little twist of paper, and, having put the boots back in the cupboard, this he then tipped out on a saucer, mixed it with water, using a tiny salt spoon that I never use for salt, a survivor of a little vanished hoard of such things from my in-laws, and then, really without asking me, undid my white shirt, laid my chest and belly bare, and still talking about Highlife and its byways and main roads, without much in the way of interruption, he proceeded to dab a little button of this stuff on each mosquito bite, which he well knew were causing me tremendous itchiness. My belly in particular was a dreepy constellation of disintegrating red stars. He let this all dry and then he put on my shirt for me again, as if I were suddenly armless myself, and did up the buttons, and, just before he left now for the day, gave what amounted as far as I could see to a bow in my direction, which wordless gesture flummoxed me.
‘Thank you, Tom,’ I said. ‘Jesus, there’s great cooling in that stuff, right enough. How much does Aunty-aunty need for it?’
‘I will give her sixpence, with your permission, major.’
‘You certainly will,’ I said, and fetched out the coins from my trousers. ‘Oh, there’s an old one,’ I said, glancing as I always do at the dates of the coins, an old habit. It was a worn, deep-brown penny from 1860, with the head of a youngish Victoria on it. Tom Quaye smiled, but he didn’t bother looking at it.
Then he was readying to go off, and not for the first time I felt a little tug of regret. I like having him about. When you live as if you were Robinson Crusoe on his island, everything starts to get gathered into what you have left to you – and what I have at the moment is the friendship of this man, whom of course I pay to come in and do the damn chores. It’s not exactly an empire of family and friends. But, remarkably enough, it does me for the moment.
So off he went, singing as is his wont. The door closed on his song, and the mosquito screen rattled against it ineptly like a small child’s idea of drumming:
Before it starts raining
The wind will blow
I warned you but you did not listen
*
Mr Kirwan banned me from the house. There was an unfortunate incident in Sligo town, as he was wending his way home one day from his insurance selling. It was just the worst bit of luck. I suppose he was heading up to the station to retrieve himself from the mean folk of Sligo. It was a bleak, dark evening in December and I had spent the day with pals in Hardigan’s Bar. I do remember him vaguely, standing above me in Wine Street, with that same absent stare, and his top hat incongruous against the scudding clouds. I was heeled up like a cart against the wall of the bank building. I couldn’t have spoken to him if he had asked me a question, but he didn’t bother himself with that. I remember the roar of the Garvoge in the near distance, because it had rained mercilessly for three days
And all the while this was going on, it was myself trying to draw him out about Osu. There were little snatches and sparking illuminations and ill-remembered moments of it that were still bothering me. I tried first to winkle a way in by talking about his beloved Highlife music, which only launched him into a panegyric about E. T. Mensah, the man who wrote ‘Freedom Highlife’, part of Tom’s ‘under his breath’ repertoire. Tom, no more than myself, doesn’t like to hit nails on the head, seemingly, he likes to come at things sideways, or rather, move away from them sideways. But this is the way of the world. A direct question in the company of men is in most contexts a sort of insult, something you learn young in Sligo bars.
He had got from a woman he called his ‘Aunty-aunty’ some sort of concoction in a little twist of paper, and, having put the boots back in the cupboard, this he then tipped out on a saucer, mixed it with water, using a tiny salt spoon that I never use for salt, a survivor of a little vanished hoard of such things from my in-laws, and then, really without asking me, undid my white shirt, laid my chest and belly bare, and still talking about Highlife and its byways and main roads, without much in the way of interruption, he proceeded to dab a little button of this stuff on each mosquito bite, which he well knew were causing me tremendous itchiness. My belly in particular was a dreepy constellation of disintegrating red stars. He let this all dry and then he put on my shirt for me again, as if I were suddenly armless myself, and did up the buttons, and, just before he left now for the day, gave what amounted as far as I could see to a bow in my direction, which wordless gesture flummoxed me.
‘Thank you, Tom,’ I said. ‘Jesus, there’s great cooling in that stuff, right enough. How much does Aunty-aunty need for it?’
‘I will give her sixpence, with your permission, major.’
‘You certainly will,’ I said, and fetched out the coins from my trousers. ‘Oh, there’s an old one,’ I said, glancing as I always do at the dates of the coins, an old habit. It was a worn, deep-brown penny from 1860, with the head of a youngish Victoria on it. Tom Quaye smiled, but he didn’t bother looking at it.
Then he was readying to go off, and not for the first time I felt a little tug of regret. I like having him about. When you live as if you were Robinson Crusoe on his island, everything starts to get gathered into what you have left to you – and what I have at the moment is the friendship of this man, whom of course I pay to come in and do the damn chores. It’s not exactly an empire of family and friends. But, remarkably enough, it does me for the moment.
So off he went, singing as is his wont. The door closed on his song, and the mosquito screen rattled against it ineptly like a small child’s idea of drumming:
Before it starts raining
The wind will blow
I warned you but you did not listen
*
Mr Kirwan banned me from the house. There was an unfortunate incident in Sligo town, as he was wending his way home one day from his insurance selling. It was just the worst bit of luck. I suppose he was heading up to the station to retrieve himself from the mean folk of Sligo. It was a bleak, dark evening in December and I had spent the day with pals in Hardigan’s Bar. I do remember him vaguely, standing above me in Wine Street, with that same absent stare, and his top hat incongruous against the scudding clouds. I was heeled up like a cart against the wall of the bank building. I couldn’t have spoken to him if he had asked me a question, but he didn’t bother himself with that. I remember the roar of the Garvoge in the near distance, because it had rained mercilessly for three days
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