Mike McCormack - Solar Bones

he would drive into the field with the transport box and bring the stone around the back of the house where he’d work away on it during the dry months of the summer, tapping and dressing and pointing it, building it up layer by layer so that if everything ran in his favour he would have the whole thing done before the weather turned at the back end, the wall capped and pointed and a couple of grand saved into the bargain, the whole project so clear in my mind that

even if I half admired the kind of opportunism which had brought him out into the rain to meet me I saw there was something mean in it also, that small mentality which enabled small minds to thrive on such opportunities or to spot them in the first place, something in the whole thing which made me resentful so that now

I was pissed off with the whole fucking thing

him and his extension and the granite and the whole fucking lot, this shite swilling through my head, as if there wasn’t enough there already and

these were my thoughts

driving home that evening, not bothering to turn the radio on, just listening to the road as it sped by under the wheels with the rain rolling away now and the evening opening out into bright sunshine for the hour of daylight that remained, so that coming round the bend at Belclare the road turned into the full glare of the sun going down over Clew Bay, a silver streak over the sea from the horizon, nearly blinding me behind the wheel so that I had to pull down the visor and coming around by the Deerpark the side of Croagh Patrick was so clearly present, so close, it appeared as if I could put my hand out to touch it, all the glad sights of a spring evening giving me the idea that Mairead and I might go for a walk together after we had something to eat, which

we did, pulled on light jackets and set off as night was beginning to close in, starting off along the main road and then skirting the village by the sea path across the Black Hill, the breeze crisp on our faces and as we walked Mairead told me about a documentary she had watched recently, telling me

there’s a nomadic tribe in Mongolia who cross the Gobi desert, herding their goats and sheep and horses, and pitching their yurts on the outskirts of towns and cities to trade with the settled communities, nothing odd in any of that but, what was really interesting, was that at the centre of the tribe there was a holy-woman or witch-doctor who had the usual tasks of healing and invoking the gods, all the shamanic and medicinal duties, a vocation that had come down to her through the family, the line of apostolic succession, which meant that she had this other function also of keeping the tribe’s world in balance and harmony by living her life backwards and

how do you mean backwards

I mean she walks backwards and talks backwards and rides her horse backwards, she gets up in the middle of the night to eat her dinner and she goes to bed when everyone around her is beginning their day and

why would she do that

this is fascinating — it’s their belief that if everyone is walking and talking and doing things in the same direction then there is real danger that the whole world will tip over, so one person is needed to work the opposite way to keep the world balanced and

that makes sense, it’s basic engineering, any load bearing structure will topple over if it doesn’t have balancing counterweight, cranes will topple over if they are not properly weighted

I don’t think they understood it as engineering

probably not, but that’s what it is, some mechanisms have to be counter-geared to keep them tensioned

all I could think of was that only a woman would get a job like that

maybe only a woman could do a job like that, one weighty and contrary soul to keep the world in balance

I thought of Darragh when I saw it, it’s just the sort of thing he’d be good on

yes, he’d make hay with that all right, he might even see himself in that role already, the way he goes on

you’re too hard on him

he’s hard on me as well as

we came in the Westport road under the street lighting, about five miles in all so that by the time we got home it was well dark and I was pleased there was no twinge in my heel, that pain coming and going with a mind of its own, so I took a mug of tea into the office where a quick check told me that Darragh was online so I dialled him and he came on after a moment, his bushy head filling the screen, telling me after saying hello, that

I saw the photos

what photos

the photos from the exhibition, she had them up on her Face- book page

whose Facebook page

Agnes the Unhinged, the Abbess of the Abyss, Anagnorisis

Darragh, that kind of name-calling is very wearing –

he held up an apologetic hand

no disrespect meant, Dad, just a bit of sibling sparring, all I’m saying is it seemed like a pretty exciting evening, Agnes standing there like a pale accuser decrying the whole world, it must have been strong stuff

it was different, that’s for sure

I’m not surprised you were upset

how did you know I was upset

Agnes emailed me a full account of the whole thing, it seemed like a real occasion

yes it was, lots of people there and they seemed to be enthusiastic about her work

which was a far cry from the usual oil-on-canvas

yes

a bit of a shock

you could say that

her account was very vivid, a great colour piece — if the visual arts thing doesn’t work out she has a bright future as a writer

which was exactly the kind of threat Agnes held over Darragh, the likelihood that her dogged abilities would outshine his real but fragile talents and that one day he would find himself conclusively shamed by her willingness to apply herself and wring the most from her lesser gifts, because while his own sporadic commitment to his studies would always enable him to get by without ever fully achieving what he was well capable of, too often he shielded himself from Agnes’s threat behind an antic persona of sniggering and scoffing, so frequently lapsing into a language that went completely over my head that it was easy to get the impression he was speaking from a different realm of understanding altogether, a credible enough idea in the present circumstances since he was now talking from the opposite side of the world, his voice burred as if the words had travelled through some warping disturbance in the ether between us which was pushing them out of shape, not that it got in the way of those things we discussed, our conversation skimming through sport, politics and local gossip, those things we felt sure of — Hatton would not go the distance with Pacquiao, not at ten stone, and Mayo would find it hard to get out of Pearse Stadium with a win this summer — and those things we felt unsure of — would Kenny’s leadership of the opposition hold till the next general election, since it seemed likely he would have his work cut out defending no-confidence motions in the months ahead, twenty minutes talking as two men putting the world to rights before he asked

are you still watching Battlestar Galactica

yes, it’s halfway through the third season, are you keeping up with it

no, getting to a telly is a bit haphazard here and I haven’t got around to streaming it — are you taping it

I think so, it’s on the box somewhere if someone hasn’t deleted it

great, I’ll look forward to watching that when I get back and how’s Mam, did she have a good time at the exhibition

Mam’s fine and she had a great time, herself and Agnes, we would have stayed up the night but both of us had work the following morning so the three of us went for a meal after the opening and then drove home, it was after midnight when we got back — she’s lying down now, taking a rest after all the excitement and