Like A Harbinger

A blue Skoda was parked outside the Berrills’ home when I got there.  Not exactly the envisaged wheels of the wealthy.  Maybe Dunshaughlin had the thrifty ones.  Phyllis answered the door for me and when I got into the sitting room I saw Oran sinking into his chair as normal with the bedgown and slippers (he had absolutely no desire to present a respectable image for himself and absolutely no instinct for politeness.)  Standing by the shelves or what remained of them after the blaze was a man shorter than any I had encountered in Earlship or its neighbouring boroughs – shorter even than myself, which was very short indeed.  It was a good thing Oran was sitting down for if he’d been upright on his feet the slightest turn from him would have sent the wee man flying.  The visitor had a thin, corrugated face, with his hair tied back in a ponytail, and he was about as old as Oran and Phyllis, maybe even had a few years on them.  He was a greasy looking chap, like the kind you might see standing outside the bookies every day offering the best tips in exchange for whatever social capital he could get; or was he there to sell drugs, or just to perv on the young girls walking past?  He didn’t look wealthy whatsoever.  But neither did Bob Geldof who by measure of all fairness in the world was rolling in it.  Considering the rather unsavoury semblance he brought forth, he made an admirable first impression. 

Well, buddy, he said to me as I entered, and his smile was unashamed of a few missing teeth.

I hadn’t been called buddy since God knows when.  Probably never – in all truth.  Not even Oran called me that, be we thick as thieves or not.

‘Will you have a cup of something, Mr Grant?’ Phyllis asked.  Seeing as refreshments were only now being offered, I figured I may have arrived in about the nick of time.  But it was also possible there was a delay in the offering on Phyllis’s behalf.  She wasn’t always so expeditious.

‘Sure I might,’ said the man.  ‘I could do with a quenching.  Came all the way from Dunshaughlin.  Do you know how far away that is?’

‘I don’t,’ I said. 

‘It’s far.  Farther than yous think.’ 

‘Near Carrickphelimy?’

‘Not that far.’

‘We have Horlicks, said Phyllis.  I can put some gin in it if you want.

‘I don’t drink Horlicks.  Went off that stuff years ago.  And no gin.  I’m driving.  Water’ll do if you have any.’

‘Lemonade?’

‘Nah, don’t drink lemonade.  Don’t like it.’

‘Milk?’

‘No, a cup of water’ll do.’

‘A glass?’

‘A glass’ll do.’ 

 

Oran leaned forward and we were treated to a cascade of settled crumble.  The splotch of cream on the tip of his nose suggested it had been an éclair.

‘You said something about a family connection with Montescu.  You’re not his grandson, are you?’

‘Next best.  Great-nephew.  By law.  The wife was a McGloin. God love her, she’s passed on now too.   As you know, Montescu never married or produced offspring so in death most of what he had went to the few nephews and nieces he had.  Lily, my better half, got what artworks were in the room when the paleness finally took him.  About nine completed paintings, dozens of sketchbooks.  My own personal interest aligns in other ways too.  I was in that trade myself for many years – the arts.  Well, not on Montescu’s level.  Christmas cards and the like was my business.  I was accomplished enough to be hired by some of the more respected names in that industry.  Norcross and Hallmark and such.  If you can remember a plump Christmas robin on a country road, then it’s probably one of mine.  I was known for the ones that looked they’d just stuffed their faces.’

‘You take after your great-uncle.’     

‘You could call it legacy by proxy, I suppose.  Our lives overlap in some ways, but I think that’s where the similarity ends.  I’m a pretty average, level-headed sort of man, whereas I believe old Mr McGloin was a rather unusual one.  What I know of his character from family chatter was this fear he had of the apocalypse.  He had a thing about the end of the world.  They say that in every painting the animal is conveying the end of everything.’

‘Like a harbinger.’

‘Yes. And you know about the eyes.’

Oran grunted, but in the affirmative.

‘What about the eyes?’ I asked.

‘It’s thought that he painted his own eyes into every animal.  You might notice if you see enough of them that they are all wide, round, and amber – which matches descriptions of his own optic features – whether planted in the head of a squirrel or a grebe, a mallard, or a hedgehog.  They are the eyes of a human and imbued with Mr McGloin’s unique consternation.’

I looked down at the wild sika stag.  I hadn’t thought it was saying anything that would be of interest to humans until now.  It made some sense to me.  The eyes were as Mr Grant said.  Then I thought about the martlet in Lavery’s office and how it too possessed eyes which were strangely more human than avian.

‘They have said of the Montescu paintings that if you get close enough to one and listen carefully you might just hear the animal say something to you.  I’ve heard they may reveal the exact date of the day of judgement but that’s probably hokum.  Have you listened to your wild stag, by any chance?’ 

‘Course not,’ said Oran.  ‘Sure nobody speaks stag these days.’

‘An annoyed soul, was he, this Montescu?’ enquired Phyllis.  She picked up the stag painting and looked into its eyes. 

‘Over-suspicious is how Lily used to describe him,’ continued Mr Grant.  ‘She never met the man but in the family they talked of him as withdrawn and forever companionless, which made him an easy target for melancholy perhaps.’

‘We’re all in the same boat here,’ said Phyllis.  ‘Unmarried.  You might say unencumbered.  Prime targets.’

‘Oh, really?’ said Mr Grant, some shock in his voice.  ‘All three of you?’  He paused and reconsidered.  ‘I wouldn’t worry about it.  People go on about fulfilment and success but I’ve always believed the line between what is a fulfilled life and what is a wasted one is kind of intangible, a thing of complexity, which we might only comprehend through evaluating peace of mind and fullness of belly.’ 

‘Oran here has that part covered alright,’ said Phyllis. 

‘I’m not sure what you mean by peace of mind,’ I said to Mr Grant.  ‘I’m probably going to die without a penny to my name.  Are you saying that’s okay once I’ve got a smile on my face?’

‘For most people, it is.’

‘What sort of tool goes around smiling knowing there’s not a penny to their name.’

‘The whole thing’s complex,’ said Mr Grant, sounding slightly strained in defence of his proposition.

‘That’s why he’s always coming round here,’ said Oran, nastily.  ‘He wants all this stuff when we kick the bucket.  What’s left of it.’

I could feel my face redden with embarrassment when he said this.  Sometimes I wanted to batter the miserable fucker.

‘Anyway,’ continued Mr Grant.  ‘If you’re of the mind to part with your stag, you should know that it will be seeking celebrity in the coming months.  I’ve been in talks with a few people about having them displayed.  There’s interest, you know.  Who would have thought that a lie would fascinate people so much?’

‘It wasn’t that big of a lie,’ said Oran.

‘A harmless one, yes,’ said Mr Grant.  Nobody was killed, I suppose.’  He laughed.

I laughed too.