J. Donleavy - A Singular Man

Yours faithfully,

J J J. & Associates

I dispute that this man is the result of what his mother and father did. Joyless as it must have been. If you get slammed with one thing. Another, don't worry, is on the way. Where once there was no hope there is horror now. And if you are sad and remembering, wham, not long till they wake you. One brief reply for Miss Martin to send off when she comes in on Wednesday. And ask the obvious question with perhaps something as a post script. Make jocularity his lot. For the moment.

Main Gate

Renown Memorial Cemetery

December 24th

Do choose a year.

J J. J. & Associates

i Electricity Street

Dear Sir,

Who are you?

Are you possibly a live wire?

Yours sincerely,

G. Smith

P.S. What are your connections?

George Smith's car pulling up in front of a grey stone building. Entwined with winter shrunken ivy vines and in summer full of buzzing bees. Tiny windows sunk in the thick walls. A gable roof, so like the little country cottage one keeps in a dream. Chauffeur popping up the steps. Nearly skidding on his arse on the porch. Whoops, neatly regaining balance. Pity. Gone by the board. Nice little action for damages. Liability for one shattered pelvis. And while I build my monstrous mausoleum my mother and father go to their small graves.

Cemetery looks whitely sleeping. Big tombs. One round, with pillars as high as five men standing on each other's heads. Something to be said for these blue spruce trees. For their silence. And cold perfume. My mother and father lived laced in by roses. And walked once a week along the train tracks by the sea to buy pressed beef, four miles away. A spring at the bottom of their garden. Grey cat called Snooky who was a good ratter even with his balls cut off. Nature's full of foolishness. They had me late in life. Nothing else to do in the country on the edge of a bog with the sea getting nearer every year until it would take it all. Just like the village postoffice fifty years ago, now three miles out under the waves.

Chauffeur carefully back down the steps. Smiles, looks over his shoulder, one glove on and his bare hand carrying a long white cylinder. His friendly face. What more can one ask for in these obtuse times. And handing the scroll through the window to George Smith, the car moved off down the crackling curving road. Sandalwood Drive. Marble, granite mausoleums bleak, cold. Up a steep hill. Along an avenue of leafless trees. Past a pink squat edifice, and a sharp turn into a narrow lane of spruce. Buttercup Drive. An open space of land, dark mud turned up on the snow. Tripod derrick and winch standing over the white stack of chiselled blocks of stone.

A man with a soft smile round the edges of his mouth walks out to Smith's car. The door opening. He climbs inwith George. The plan withdrawn from the cylinder is pulled open across their laps. Click, the map light. On.

" Well Mr. Smith, mighty cold."

"Yes. Cold."

"That way this time of year."

"Yes indeed."

"Well I think I know what you want here, Mr. Smith. Given it a lot of thought. Kind of gate house you have in mind. The fireplace has in fact been passed by the committee."

"Good."

"But the wall surrounding the plot the committee has decided must not exceed eye level."

"Whose eye level, Mr. Browning."

"Ha ha, Mr. Smith, that's what I said. And they want to be liberal Been objections raised by several neighbouring plot owners but as they are some way off we feel they won't object to a height of six three. And of course upon that will be your boxwood hedge which ought to give you another foot or two in five years."

"Mr. Browning are you a happy man."

"Ha, Mr. Smith you always ask me that question."

"Are you."

"No."

"Good. You always give me that answer. There's a blue jay."

"Savage mean bird Mr. Smith. A grabber. Steals."

"Seems I've blundered onto rather awkward ground here Mr. Browning."

"Are you satisfied with how the work is going. As you can see we're at about sixteen feet now. Might make completion date with a month to spare. With luck and a good summer. And we don't run out of stone."

"Know a gentleman by that name."

"Use him Mr. Smith when we run out."

"Ha ha Mr. Browning. Certainly you achieved my general vision. One gem of rustic simplicity. With several small inconsequential motifs of sadness. Ivy leaves unevenly hanging over the entrance. But discreet."

"Discreet, Mr. Smith. As we discussed."

"As we discussed. Glad about the wall. And a most merry Christmas to you Mr. Browning. And would you divide this among the men with my compliments."

"They'll appreciate this Mr. Smith. Thanks. And a most merry Christmas to you Mr. Smith."

"Thank you Mr. Browning."

"Just one thing before you go Mr. Smith. Nothing at all. But thought I'd just mention it. It's just had me wondering. But you know the great black slab over there, the big financier who died mysteriously. Well for about the last couple of months or so, maybe twice, three times a week a woman comes. Spends an hour or more. Sitting on the bench there. In black, thick veil over her face. I'd say she was fairly young, really beautiful legs is her distinction. For awhile we took no notice and just thought she's visiting the guy's grave but the funny thing is, I don't think she's coming to that grave at all but is watching this mausoleumgo up. Just strange. Thought I'd tell you. Brought opera glasses last few times."

"That is interesting Mr. Browning. But sounds like just someone interested, perhaps in the design, which as we know is a departure."

"To say the least, Mr. Smith. I mean, you know, pioneering so to speak."

"Well merry Christmas, do take care of yourself, Mr. Browning."

"You too, Mr. Smith."

"Bye bye."

"Bye."

Waves of the hand. Car moves off quickly across the hard snowy road. Past the black slab all white now. Brings opera glasses. Beautiful legs. Mr. Browning says it's nothing at all but why say it isn't anything if it isn't. At all. Legs. Black veil. Pity I have not employed the latter myself. Everyone tries to pry. And after prying they want to jeer. Good legs is her distinction. And my mother and father are dead. In a watery cottage with creepers growing out of the wall. But had they lived, to take them away from that, ripping them up, bringing them to a world of impersonal luxury. Snuff their lives out in no time. Crashes on you this Christmas eve. Lonely. Out the window, death everywhere. Stacked up. Sealed up. Paid up, a few celebrated, some famous, the rest rich. Things God gave them. And when I beat up my children's mother, they ran clutching round our batding knees and those who could reach higher did so, they screamed leave our mommie alone, leave her, leave her, tears streaming down their faces. Each of those four little bodies came on four distinct afternoons when take me George, take me, from behind, in front anywhere you fancy because golly. Never remember what side I took ShirL Four little freckled faces with constant throats and beating little fists drive it out of your mind.

George Smith directed the chauffeur to drive round die lake once before leaving Renown Memorial Cemetery. Near the frozen waterfall car halting. Smith viewing nature through the glass. Ice broken, two ducks swimming. One multicolored male, one drab female. Things are different in the spider kingdom. And over there, a monument sucking in the sky. Stiff stone garments in the cold grey air. Statue of a wife. One hand reaching out, upturned. Come hither.

Forty minutes past twelve. And the car sweeps out the high black gates. Grey guard, saluting. Back across the trolley tracks. Down through the woods again. By a lit-de hill. Children in bright red and blue caps sleigh riding. Ice crystals in the trees. Smith swallowing curious tears from the top of his lip. Christmas has always been so sad. At night when young with newly combed hair, tie and shirt all clean, all full of promise for this eve. I was sad.