Кен Бруен - A Fifth of Bruen - Early Fiction of Ken Bruen

“Just come,” she said. And he did.

Crammed together in the single bed, Alison cradled his head on her breasts. Soft cooing noises began in her throat as she started to sing, “Momma’s gonna buy you a mocking bird.” Her fingers gently caressed his face, and tears formed in his eyes. Her hand froze as his tears trickled and then washed over her fingers. Grief howled in him as her fingers wiped at his eyes. She continued to sing to him in her soft Scottish burr, and he slipped away to sleep.

He skipped work the next day and crept home. Alison had kissed him and said, “I’m here for you.”

He let himself into his flat with a heavy heart. Amanda was sipping coffee, an impressive volume lay open on her lap. The Russians, no doubt.

“What sort of hour do you call this?”

“Morning?”

“Don’t adopt that tone with me, Mister Ford!”

“Ary, take a tunning leap for yerself.”

“I beg your pardon!”

“Lep — a leap. You bend yer aristocratic legs, you hold yer whist, then you jump as if a large flea was up yer ass.”

While her face digested the shock, he continued, “And on considation, darling , I’d say in your case, a major flea.”

He turned on his heel and walked out. You had to hand it to them Stones, they got the juices flowing.

Neville fired him.

At work the following day, Alison whispered to him, “I think you’re for the high jump.”

“Or leap,” he said.

At coffee break, he was summoned. Neville had dressed for the occasion. A dark worsted suit and dark navy shirt. The school tie was un-windsored. He was all business, fixing papers and glancing at memos, ignoring Ford. Five minutes elapsed. He looked up from his desk.

“Ah, Ford, there you are.”

“I like the suit.”

“I have some bad news to convey.”

“Well, you have the clothes to prove it.”

“Ahem... Alas, I regret you haven’t proved to be the fettle for which I had hoped.”

“Fettle?”

“If I might continue, the business of Isobella, your conduct was not wholly professional. I’m not casting aspersions on your compassion. Your talents may lie in another discipline.”

“You’d know about discipline, wouldn’t you, Neville?”

“I’m not saying it’s entirely fair, but I must now give you a month’s notice. I will, of course, provide a reference.”

“Well, Neville, you’d like to change the world, am I right?”

“One tries.”

“Thing is... you’re not even capable of changing your mind. Stick your reference up yer tight ass. I’m outta here. You know why you’re firing me?” Neville stood, all flustered dignity. “That’s quite enough, Mr. Ford.” Ford yanked the still shiny wedding band from his finger and bounced it on the desk.

“Give that to your literary sister, amigo. Tell her it’s a family heirloom.” It didn’t take long to clear his desk. The phone rang. His cockney friend Bill said, “So Ford, aren’t you talking to me any more?”

“Oh, I’m talking to you, Bill, I’m just not talking to you very much.”

He put the phone down... and Bill. The staff stood awkwardly a moment and, as he prepared to leave, they all sat and busied themselves. “A sitting ovation,” he thought.

At his flat, he could hear the sad piano of Gershwin. Amanda was spray foaming the carpet.

“Don’t put your feet there,” she said.

He planted both feet where she’s indicated.

“Sit down,” he said.

“I’m far too busy for nonsense this morning, Mister, so allow me to continue.”

Ford rummaged through his work files for five minutes and didn’t look up.

“Ah, Amanda, there you are.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I have some bad news to convey.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“Ahem... Alas, I regret you haven’t proved to be the fettle for which I had hoped.”

“Have you lost your senses? Fettle?”

“If I might continue, the business of the chicken, your conduct was not entirely professional. I’m not casting aspersions on your compassion. Your talents may lie in another discipline.”

Amanda just looked at him and he continued. “I’m not saying it’s entirely fair, but I must now give you a moment’s notice. I will of course provide a reference.”

“Are you telling me I have to leave our home?”

“That’s quite enough, Mrs Ford.”

He went to the kitchen and began to make coffee. Amanda stood amid the spray-foam. She didn’t remove her ring, shiny as it was.

As Ford sat, he listed all the reasons he shouldn’t go to the pub:

   1. Daytime drinking

   2. No job

   3. Self-pity

   4. Money

   5. Hangovers

This list was good and he liked it a lot. Jumping up quickly he knew he’d have to run if he was to beat the lunch-time crowd.

Amanda said, “Athol Fuggard. I must make a sincere effort to read him.”

Ford didn’t really think a South African was the comfort she needed right now. They weren’t noted for it. The White Lion was a new pub for him. It was empty save for a few pensioners munching crisps and bickering over pension rights. Or was it the other way round? A big man behind the bar was cleaning glasses. His dominant feature was a riot of pure wavy, white hair. A broken nose took away from a tough, turn-down mouth. Beer had swollen his gut but a force came from him. The forearms were huge. He looked at Ford with neutral, blue eyes. The radio was playing loudly.

“Radio bother you?”

“No, sir, I like the wireless.”

“Sir, is it? Don’t hear much manners these days. Irish are yah? Wireless. Haven’t heard that much either.”

“Yes, sir.”

“My mother was from Mayo. The bad bitch.”

“The county? Or your... er —?”

The man smiled, “Not from Mayo, are you?”

“No, sir.”

“Good lad, what can I get you?”

“A pint of Guinness.”

As he prepared the drink in the Irish fashion, Barbara Streisand came over the radio. “Send In the Clowns.” Ford mad a supreme offer to block out the lyrics but he heard it. Clearly and loaded, “I’ve come to feel about you what it is you felt about me.” That past tense. It gutted him every single time. He thought too how it is the dead are forever confined to a single tense... And further thought he wished he didn’t. He ordered another pint and said, “Something for yourself?”

“Aye, I’ll charge you for a coffee. I’m Jack.”

“Ford.”

They shook hands self-consciously. Jack put a coffee on the counter and from beneath produced a bottle of Courvoisier Four Star. He dolloped a large measure into the cup. A healthy sip was taken.

“Ah, Jaysus, I’m lit!”

All lit up, thought Ford.

“Do you like music, son?”

“The whine kind.”

“Come again.”

“Music you can whine to.”

“Gotcha! The Irish connection. Not so much what you can sing to as cry along with.”

He then moved up and down doing bar things. A hive of activity punctuated by coffee pit stops. Ford had so wanted to tell Grace about “The Way We Were”. Streisand plays a radical student who falls in love with Redford’s young writer character. A passionate love follows, then break-up. The movie’s end, Redford’s now a successful commercial writer without belief. He’s emerging from a hotel with a bimbo on his arm. Streisand bumps into him. A look. Full of loss and might-have-beens. She puts her gloved hand on his face and her palm rests on his cheek. Then they separate. The moment to tell Grace this just never presented itself. Wasn’t too likely he’d get to tell her now. The awful thing was the very sound of her name was a kick. He loved and loathed it. What’s in a name, he’d thought, and back bounced the answer, “All you know of heaven and hell.” A vicious truth.