Anne Enright - The Green Road

Back in the kitchen Dan was still romancing their mother, feeding her anecdotes about some woman who was too wonderful to be famous.

‘She lives with just a housekeeper now, and someone to look after the dogs.’

‘And he never came back?’

‘He never came back.’

Hanna cleared some cups into the sink and signalled to Emmet, who was still stuck in the newspaper.

‘Will you walk out the road,’ she said. ‘It’s Christmas Eve.’

‘Oh right.’

‘They’ll all be below in Mackey’s.’

‘I suppose.’

And in three minutes flat they were out the door, over the humpy bridge, and passing the bright forecourt of the Statoil garage, where there was, Hanna realised, cheap wine on sale in the shop, if she needed to get some on the way home.

‘Jesus God,’ said Hanna.

The wind was against them, and flecked with rain.

‘I told her,’ she said. ‘I told her Hugh was taking the baby for the day.’

‘ I told her,’ said Emmet.

‘You think she’s losing her grip?’

‘What?’ said Emmet.

‘Just.’

‘She’s sharp as a tack,’ said Emmet, because he could not countenance it.

The eaves of the houses on Curtin Street were draped with icicles that rained blue light on them as they walked beneath and the decorations continued tastefully into the main street where Christmas Eve was in full swing. It was taking your life in your hands, said Emmet, but it was more like passing your life on the road; some drunken geezer slapping you on the shoulder only to find — my God — Seán O’Brien from national school, who Emmet ran with and loved with the frank and unrepeatable love you have for another boy, when you are eight years old.

‘Seán O’Brien, how are you?’

‘Emmet, you langer.’

His eyes as blue and ironic as ever, in a scalded, red face.

Hanna, meanwhile, crouched low and flung her arms out, as a woman stumbled towards her — on to her, indeed — wearing gold sandals on bare feet, a golden cardigan, her hair gold blonde and leaping, fountaining, out of her head.

‘Mairéad!’

‘How are you, you good thing? How are you, my darling? Hanna Madigan.’

‘My God, look at you. My God! Look at you!’

‘You think?’ She dabbed at the bright blonde hair.

‘I thought you were in Australia.’

‘We’re home! We’re up in Dublin. Home for good.’

Mackey’s was jammed. They passed friends and the brothers of friends. Everyone was dressed, clipped, groomed; no beards, no stubble, no naked nails, some naked thigh, cleavage, muffin top. A pub that, in their youth, smelt of wet wool and old men was now a gallery of scents, like walking through the perfume department in the Duty Free.

Hanna stuck close to Emmet as they forced their way through the crowd. How was she supposed to recognise anyone, she said, when everyone’s hair was dyed and all the same damn colour?

‘They’ve all taken to the bottle,’ she said.

Emmet caught his reflection in a bar divider and he saw another decade — not just the unkempt hair or the cheap shirt, but something about the ordinary, diffident look in his eye which made the others look a bit mad, he thought. He wondered how much cocaine was in the place. And then he wondered at the thought.

In Mackey’s. Cocaine.

‘How are you Emmet Madigan? I thought you were out on the missions. Will you have something, now, on me. A Christmas drink, on me.’

It was one of the McGraths, a nephew of Dessie’s — and of Constance, therefore, by marriage — son of the real estate McGrath who was minting it these days. Michael or Martin. He was, as far as Emmet knew, a young lawyer beyond in Limerick. Not the worst of them, with the stubby McGrath thing. Walk through a wall for you.

‘I will not, thanks.’

‘You will.’

‘I won’t.’

‘You’ll take something anyway, for the good work. Keep up the good work.’

The man had his wallet out, and was thumbing through notes, half bent over, as though in humility. He could hardly see the damn things. Purple ones — five hundreds he had in there. He took out a wedge of apricot-coloured fifties and pushed it at Emmet.

‘You will,’ he said.

‘I will not.’

‘You will. Humour me,’ and when Emmet backed away, there was a horrible pause. His hand pulsed mid-air, as though marking time with the money. Then he lifted his eyes slowly to say, ‘It’s for a special intention, all right?’

There must have been four hundred euros there. Emmet looked at the man and wondered if he had murdered someone. What shame or sorrow afflicted him so badly he had to get it off his conscience in this way? Nothing, perhaps. The shame of being rich. He couldn’t hold on to the stuff.

‘I’ll get you a receipt for that.’

‘Fuck the receipt,’ said the McGrath nephew, and he loomed up into Emmet’s face. ‘Do you get me? Fuck the fuckin’ receipt. All right?’

‘I get you,’ Emmet said. ‘I get you. Fair play to you.’ Thinking he’d never be able to get this through the system: they were a charity, not a money-laundering operation.

‘We do have to keep things straight.’

The McGrath man leaned back and gaped at him then, as though to start a real fight, but Hanna, who had gone looking for a place to sit, was back by his side.

‘It’s bedlam,’ she said. ‘I went double.’

She had two dirty pints for him, encircled by thumb and forefinger. The other fingers held symmetrical small bottles of white wine, and in her right pinky, the stem of a glass.

‘Hanna Madigan,’ said the McGrath boy. ‘It’s well you’re looking.’

‘Ah, Michael,’ said Hanna, with blatant insincerity. ‘I didn’t see you there at all.’

He turned away and, ‘Why does everything feel so mad?’ she said to Emmet. ‘It’s like. I don’t know what it’s like. Everyone’s so.’

‘I know,’ said Emmet.

‘Showing off.’

‘It’s the money,’ said Emmet.

‘Like everyone’s a returned Yank, even if they’re living up the road. Hiya, Frank! home for the duration?’ She lifted a glass, then turned back to her brother.

‘That fecker. People you ran away from, years ago. Then back to the house, for more of it, I suppose. No wonder they’re fucking pissed.’

She was drunk herself, halfway down the glass. It happened all in one go, the shutters rolling up on a whole different woman. Emmet noted the transformation. Hanna’s eyes clouding with a kind of mid-distance indifference, a twitching lift of her chin, a tiny smile.

Here’s Johnny.

‘Fucking baby this, baby that. Who knew she was so keen on babies? Why don’t you have a baby? Take the onus off.’

‘Yeah, well,’ said Emmet.

‘She’s very worried about you.’

‘You don’t say.’

It was what Rosaleen said: ‘I am very worried about Emmet.’

‘God, you’re cold,’ Hanna said. ‘You know that. You’re a cold bastard, really. Does that Dutch chick know how cold you are? Does she know?’

It was a good question. Emmet ignored it.

‘She always liked babies,’ he said. ‘It’s adults she can’t stand.’

‘Puberty,’ said Hanna.

‘At least you didn’t go bald,’ said Emmet. ‘She took that very personally. As I recall.’

‘Anyway, she’s very worried about you.’

It still got to them. Rosaleen never said it to your face, whatever it was. She moved instead around and behind her children, in some churning state of mild and constant distraction. ‘I am very worried about Hanna.’ It was her way of holding on to them, perhaps. Rosaleen was afraid they would leave her. She was afraid it was all her fault. ‘I’m really very worried about Constance, I think she might be depressed.’ All the things that were unsayable: failure, money, sex, drink. ‘I am very worried about Hanna, she is looking very puffy about the face.’ And, for a while, to everyone’s great amusement: ‘I’m really worried about Dan, do you think he might be gay?’ to which Emmet had replied, ‘Don’t ask me, I’m only his brother.’