Kevin Barry - There Are Little Kingdoms

If there was a heat-seeking device high up, mapping all movement by the glow of the blood, it would pick them out as two pulsing red ovals — tiny dots on a vast map. They moved eastwards at ninety rickety miles an hour and the old woman leaned across as though to confide and the ovals conjoined and pulsed almost as one. The girl took out a book and made a display of it. She peeled a clementine and looked to the passing skies. She tried to put a fence up, but the old one was a talker.

What if I told you, she said, that I can see how it’ll work out? What if I said it’s written all over your face? Pay no attention. I’m rambling. I’m only fooling with you. You’d think someone would come along and throw a shovel of earth over me. So would you head up often yourself? I go regular. Not that I’d have a great deal of business but I have the pass. Shoes, occasionally. I pick up shoes for a woman in Birdhill. There’s a shop above that specialises in extreme sizes. She’s a fourteen. I know, but we have to try not to be cruel in life. That’s the most important thing. And it’s an excellent shop. They’ll do you a practical boot, or a runner, or something dressy. Or as dressy as you’re going to get if you’re a fourteen. Don’t! This is a poor woman, the first thing she thinks about of a morning is feet. You step out of the bed and there they are. Always and forever, clomping along beneath you, like boats. You run for a bus. You step onto a dance floor. You try to pull on a pair of nylons. I’m a three myself — look. A three. Dainty.

Through and on, North Tipperary, weary hedgerows, and chimney pots, and the far-out satellite towns of reason, all of it stunned looking with the onslaught of winter, as if winter was a surprise to the place, and there were frequent apparitions — heavy-set men rolling tyres and twirling wrenches, stepping down from lorries, giving out to phones — and it darkened, as though on a dimmer switch, the morning became smudged and inky.

Losing the wheels, she said, was rough. When you’ve no wheels, the options are limited. You’d be inclined to pack it in altogether. Of course if I had sense, I’d be driving still but I rode my luck and it gave out. I turned it over outside Tullamore. They’d every right to take the course of action they took. The startling thing was there wasn’t a mark on me and the car a write-off. They threw the book at me and they had every justification. It was eight in the evening, for God’s sake, it was summer, it was still daylight, and I’m on the Tullamore Road after making shit out of a Fiesta? I ask you. I defended myself. I said, your honour, please don’t take this event in isolation. I went back forty years. I told him how it all turned crooked on me. How you can’t run away from things, you only store them for later. I gave him chapter and verse. Not that I thought I was going to walk out with a licence in my hand. I just wanted to explain. I just wanted to say. Of course, the eyes rolled up in his head. As a matter of fact, your honour, I said, I have no intention of ever driving again. And he looks down at me, over the top of the glasses, and he says, Madam, I am here to facilitate your wishes. Lovely deep voice on him. A gentleman.

The haggard verges of a town put in an appearance. Motor factors, light industry, ribbon development, new-build schemes, the health centre, an Aldi. Here was sweet life, and the common run, also the shades of mild hysteria. Here was…

Templemore, she said. I can never pass through without thinking of poor Edward. My cousin. The misfortune, you see this is where they train guards, and he was mad to get in. It’s not the case now. I understand there’s a shortage. But Edward was… you could only say… OBSESSED! He nearly went out of his mind. You had to be five ten in your stockinged feet and he was five nine and a half. Just that fraction shy and it sent the poor creature to his wit’s end. All he wanted in life was to be a guard. I have nothing against guards myself, despite what happened to me in Thurles. Of course that was my own fault as well. But Edward? A half inch. And what happened? His father, my uncle, Joe, God rest him, a very intelligent man, though lazy, Joe got up out of the chair and he got two sheets. With one of them he bound his son at the wrists and with the other he bound him at the ankles. He tied one end to the bumper of the car and he tied the other to the back axle of the tractor. I think it was a Belarussian they had. A powerful machine. And he climbed onto it and he looked out back and he called down, Edward! EDWARD!

Heads swivelled in the carriage. Newspapers were raised just a little bit higher. They said it with their eyes — we have one across the way, watch? Careful now.

Edward, he said, son, there’s no pressure on you. And Edward looked up at him and he said, Da? Start that engine. That same day Edward strode back into Templemore. He took off the shoes and he stood up against the wall and he said MEASURE ME! And he wasn’t five foot ten. He was five eleven. If you want to talk about dedication. If you want to talk about a man with hope. He would always say after it was an extraordinary length to go to. That’s as true as I’m sitting here, Sarah, even if the guards didn’t work out great for him in the end. And by the way, would you mind taking that thing out of your ears while I’m talking to you?

The light was scratched, molecular, the sky about to give in on itself, about to break up, a mist descending already, and they went slowly through and on, at a creaking rumble, then it built up on a straight stretch, and there was a descent to the midland plain, where confused-looking ducks sailed a small drowsy lake. The trolley went past — flattened vowels, lazy wheels, scalding drinks — teascoffees, lads, ladies? Teascoffees? By a tiny grey village there stood an enormous pink funeral home.

Death, she said. Would you think about death much, Sarah? Of course you wouldn’t. I dare say you have other things on your mind. I’ve been meaning to ask, actually, have we a boyfriend on the scene? No? Come off it! Who are you trying to kid? I’d say they’re like flies around you. I’d say they can barely keep a hold of themselves. No? Well I suppose you could do with weight. Excuse me, what muffins have you? I see. I’ll chance a blueberry.

They outpaced the weather, by and by, and the arcs of a weak sun swung across the waiting fields, and the country eased into itself, and there was woodland passing. The girl considered changing seats but she didn’t want to be rude. Some days you suffer.

Trees, said the old woman. What’s it they call it? Photosynthesis. Amazing what you’d remember, for years. Is it chloroform or chlorophyll? Or is that toothpaste? Or is it tap water? Or is it what the dentist put on rags? I’m dating myself. Trees! Calming, apparently. Or so they’d tell you. I wouldn’t be too sure. Would you believe it if I told you I was walking through a wood one day — this is in Clare I’m talking about — and I saw a man buried to the neck? Only a young fella. This time of the year. It would have been mulchy underfoot. Whatever way he managed it, he scratched out a hole in the ground and dragged the earth in after him. Buried to the neck. Some job of work. Now the young fella wasn’t well , obviously. It turned out after he was known around the place. It wasn’t his first time at this kind of messing. Of course it was just my luck to come across him. Who else would go out for a breath of air and walk into the likes of it? And what are you supposed to say to someone? You’d want nerves of steel to deal with that kind of situation and do I look as if I have nerves of steel? Trees! Arbour. Isn’t it? Arboreal. There’s a word for you. Lovely. Photosynthesise. Come on we all go and photosynthesise. Trees can give you a sore throat. Something in the sap I think. Put me near trees and I find the throat goes septic on me. I come over class of hoarse. I come over husky. On account of trees. Septic. Sceptic. Anyway, tell me, Sarah, what’s it you’re reading? Go ’way? And would you be much of a one for the reading?