Say No To Him

It will lay thick on the ground today, the snow, for it comes in a crazy whirling fashion, like the weather has lost control of whatever cargo it meant to deliver.  Cold particles bite the skin, dampen and redden the face, their abundance makes it hard to walk, hard to see the path in front.  I watch the old man walking ahead of me dissolve soon after, the haze overwhelms, he might have turned a corner, but there are no corners here, or gone into a house, there are a few of those. 

Then, a feeling, not an uncommon feeling comes: the stir of anger.  Which quickly morphs into the desire for reprisal.  One imagines our baby-faced interloper getting his head handed to him with no regard for his youth, or his future, or aspirations in-between.  This tilt to retribution makes known the massive defeat at the heart of all our bloody efforts.  Persistence denied, and so too courage, the pluck to get in the face of evil and stay there; always pressed despite always pressing, always, always denied. 

She had rhubarb tart in mind.  I never baked cakes for Patrick.  He didn’t like too much sweet.  Certain biscuits and bread with butter did him fine.  He didn’t eat much at all on reflection.  Not in the years before we married, even less after the wedding.  And after the election: Jesus his appetite certainly went haywire during all that.  Sometimes he’d only have a bit of toast before going to bed.  If they hadn’t come and shot him, he’d have eventually died of malnourishment.  I used to say to him you’re out there campaigning for hunger strikers but you’re doing a better job of it yourself and you not even locked up.  Ah, be quiet, he’d say. 

I should be off the sugary treats myself, she says.  But you know, dear, a little hedonism every once in a while does the spirit a bit of good.  And in this, I say, I take your side.  Collins the King Charles also likes a wee bit of rhubarb tart and she chucks pastry fragments onto the carpet for him.  Is he alright with the sugar? I ask.   He friggin’ loves it, she goes.           

And any dog would surely wag it gladly if given these digs.  The parlour is as comfortable as I remember.  You know when you are in a place and the smell is one that anywhere else would put you off (not completely nauseating, just somewhat turned) but where you are it feels just right, even pleasing, as though it is an unknowable gift the building gives to you upon entering knowing no other place would ever think to provide it: it was a smell of that sort. While some things remain the same, others feel to me changed, though it is difficult to say what those changes are or why they have occurred.  That huge green-tiled fireplace, the most magnificent shrine of my youth because of the almost holy glow it radiated day after day, presently has a blazing fire going inside, which it was not unaccustomed to have, but it is contributing very little dust to speak of in the room, and this feels peculiar, or just misremembered.  Dust is a way of life, it has always been.  It has been a feature of everywhere I have ever lived and people don’t seem to mind living with it.  They say the act of sweeping it leads to eternal bad luck.  Real estate of the fairies, they say.  Though there was never much concern for such talk in our household.  That said, I cannot remember it being this dustless in the place.  I’d be more inclined to blame my father’s dying on that stuff if mam wasn’t so dead set on the Saxons.  I see you’ve stepped up on your dusting, I say to her.  Oh, married life has you very perceptive, hasn’t it? 

The house has three bedrooms upstairs, one was occupied by my aunt Therese when she lived with us, and the other I shared with our Desmond until Therese moved out and we were each given space to our selves.  She tells me she has lodgers in those other rooms from time to time and I’m quite sure it’s a miracle she has managed to hold on to the place.  Particularly in this day and age.  Even though we who lucked into middle class life – albeit at the lowest stratum – were less likely to be on eggshells continually, recent escalations had changed that; you can’t have a proper nationwide rebellion without a congregation of social ranks. Forget your stipend, board, or general standing, you had a target on your back no matter what.  Some of us more than the rest.        

I’ve been tidying the place a lot more these days what with greater numbers coming and going.  And I’ve had some classier folk stay, by the way.  Well, it’s always been the nicest house in this area, I’m not surprised, I say to her.  Patrick and I had to make do with a few shacks these last few years.  It’s a good thing you didn’t visit, to be perfectly honest with you.  Well, she says, I wouldn’t have minded.  I just wanted to see yous.  I’m surprised though.  I would have thought the office would grant yous suitable lodging.  In time maybe it would have.  But we were above the shop most of the year he was mayor.  Oh, come here and I’ll tell you, she says, a sudden burst of excitement. We’ve had a pretty fancy pair come and stay with us this past year.  And they’re due another visit.  I got a wire from Dublin just a few days ago.  Who’s this now? I ask.  Well, brace yourself.  Because they’re a big deal.  I’m dying with suspense.  Only himself William Butler Yeats and the wife.  You’re making fun.  I am not.  When did he marry?  I thought it was the thing to say no to him.  I was practising my own no for when he comes round.  Now now, her admonishment, don’t be at that.  He’s a great man.  A great Irishman.  I don’t doubt that, I say to her.  He’s done a bit, that’s for sure, though I’m not sure what any of it is worth.  He’s only the national poet, she goes.  And fair play to him for that, I go.   He’s bought a place in Galway.  A castle, I think.  They’re having it done up.  They’ve been here twice already but I’ll be honest I didn’t see much of them and stayed out of their business, hard as that was to do.

And what of Desmond?  Have you heard anything?  Ah, he’s well, I got a letter from him about a month ago.  Southampton seems a good fit for him.  I wrote back and said I’d like to visit next year but I’ll wait and see what he says.  I’m not sure he’d want me turning up on his doorstep.  Maybe.  Maybe not.  I can’t remember the last time I had rhubarb tart, I told her.  Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying it.  So’s Collins.  The dog is staring up at us, eyes buzzed and hankering.