Belinda McKeon - Solace

‘Bloody cattle are breaking out over this drain on me all winter,’ he said, and took up the sledge.

‘Right,’ said Mark, and he bent to check on Aoife. She was gazing at her grandfather from beneath her fleece hood, her cheeks so flushed they seemed chafed. Her nose had started to run; he pressed a tissue to it, and she tried to turn away.

‘They buy those in from Poland now, you know,’ said Mark to his father, over the noise of the sledge as it came down on the wood.

Tom stepped back to examine the post. He drew the back of his hand over his mouth.

‘Do they,’ he said, lifting a bottle of orange from the transport box. He took a long drink, his head back, and glanced at Mark as he replaced the cap. ‘Poland. Didn’t that used to be Russian? Communist, like?’

‘Communist, yeah.’ Mark pushed at the post with one hand; it seemed secure. ‘Heavy work,’ he said.

‘Mmm.’ Tom scratched his head. ‘Them posts aren’t from Poland anyway.’

‘No,’ Mark said uncertainly.

‘Matt Francis gave them all to me for fifty euro there, a few summers gone by.’

‘I remember.’

‘They were pegging them out ’ithin at the station.’ Tom took up the pointed iron bar he used to make holes for the posts. He aimed it at a new spot and broke ground. ‘Ah, old Mattie Francis looked after me, though,’ he said. ‘I’ve been using these sleepers for fencing ever since. This is the last of them.’ He gestured back to the pile on the transport box. ‘Don’t know what I’m going to do the next time.’

Mark made no effort to reply.

‘Hardly go to Poland,’ Tom said then. ‘Hardly go over to the Reds for a few posts of timber.’ Mark saw that he was quietly laughing. He let himself laugh, too, at the sight of it.

‘Hardly,’ he said, and he tucked Aoife’s blanket more tightly around her legs.

‘None of those boys would give me too much of a bargain, now, I think,’ Tom said. ‘I see them in the bank of a Friday evening lodging more money into it than the whole town put together. Clever as fuck, them boys. You ever see them in there?’

‘Who?’

‘Them Polish lads. In the bank. Jesus, they do be lodging thousands. Thousands. Every week.’

‘I doubt that,’ Mark said, and he handed his father the shovel. ‘I doubt they’re all doing that well.’

‘Ha?’ Tom stuck the shovel into the ground. ‘Sure when do you ever see them? You don’t see them working fifteen hours of the day above at the piggery. Or beyond where Corrigan is building all the houses. I’m telling you. They’re making serious money,’ he said. ‘Serious.’

‘Fifteen hours a day, though.’

‘Ha?’

‘Who’d want to do that sort of work even if it was well paid? Which I guarantee you it’s not. Not a chance.’

Tom looked hard at Mark and nodded, once to him and once towards the pushchair. ‘She’ll get a cold out here,’ he said.

‘She’s all right,’ said Mark. ‘Well wrapped up.’

‘It’s colder than you’d think.’

‘I’m going to drop her back up to Mam now anyway,’ Mark said. ‘Do you want a hand with the fencing?’

Tom turned back to the shovel. ‘Whatever you think yourself,’ he said. ‘It’d be no harm to get as far as the lower bank before dark. This day won’t be long more in it. Midwinter’s day, is that right?’

As Mark took the handles of the pushchair, Maura’s car appeared at the gate. She blew the horn once and kept going in the direction of Longford. She had told Mark at breakfast that she was doing the last of her shopping today.

‘That’s that,’ Tom said. ‘Go on up to the house with the child. I’ll manage.’

‘If Mam’s back early, I’ll come down to you.’

‘Early? We’ll hardly see her again till tonight.’

‘Take it easy with that sledge, won’t you?’ Mark said. His father waved him off.

Mark had stayed in the house with Aoife all afternoon. She had been cranky, and when he had put her down for a nap she had slept for only a few minutes; he had allowed her to sleep too late that morning. He had sat with her in front of the television, and stood with her at the window, and when she would not settle, he decided to take her for a drive in the car. That sometimes worked, sometimes helped her to sleep. As he drove, he did not think about where he was going. It was only when he hit the outskirts of Longford and the traffic began to crawl that he realized he was headed for the town. He kept driving. She was quiet in the back of the car, and he wanted to keep her that way.

The evening was darkening fast and as if to speed the darkness in, to smooth its way, rain was beginning to fall in a steady drizzle. He parked on Ballymahon Street, competing for the spot with another driver — another father, he could see from the brood in the back. He met the man’s stare but did not react; there was no need. He was the one with a baby carrier strapped in the back, even if the man in the other car could not see this.

He was not sure he had bundled Aoife up warmly enough. But it would have to do. There was a thick blanket on the pushchair anyway. He unstrapped her from one seat, lifted her out and strapped her into another. Some of the people who passed gave him a glance — looked at him, then down to the pushchair. Most paid him no attention at all.

At Killashee Street, he met Gary McGrath. They had been classmates in St Mel’s, the boys’ college at the edge of town. McGrath had done his apprenticeship as an electrician straight after school, had started his own business at the age of twenty or twenty-one. He looked much the same as he had in Mel’s, except that his hairline had begun to recede. He grinned when he saw Mark and clapped him on the arm.

‘Caser,’ he said, using Mark’s old nickname. He gestured to the pushchair, his eyebrows raised. ‘So it’s true?’

‘Yeah.’ Mark nodded, trying to look casual. ‘Sure you know the way.’ What way? he thought. What did that even mean?

‘Let’s have a look, so,’ McGrath said, and he bent down to the baby. ‘Oh, hello.’

‘Is she awake?’ Mark asked, though he knew she was. He had checked on her not two seconds previously. What was this, was he trying to look to McGrath as though he was barely even aware of what his own baby daughter was doing in the pushchair? As though he didn’t care?

‘God, she’s lovely, man,’ said McGrath, still bent down over Aoife. ‘She’s a beaut. How old?’

‘Seven months now,’ said Mark. And then he felt it. He was proud. He was as proud as he had ever been. This was what he had wanted. To stand on a street corner with Gary McGrath, or anyone from Mel’s, or anyone from around, and show them his baby daughter. He was surprised at this. He had never felt like this in Dublin. He should have come into Longford sooner, he thought. He should have raced down here with the Moses basket the minute she was born.

‘A beaut,’ McGrath said again, straightening up. ‘Jesus, you’re a dark horse, aren’t you?’

‘Ah.’ Mark shrugged. He wondered how much McGrath knew — about Joanne, about how soon they had got pregnant, about everything. He felt himself wanting to tell him, to fill him in. They used to be the best of friends. He wished he had kept in touch with him more. He would like nothing better now than to go somewhere with McGrath for a pint, to watch the old easy understanding on McGrath’s face, the slow nod, hear the stories spilling out of him, too.

‘Do you have time for a pint?’ McGrath said.

‘No, no,’ Mark said. ‘I just can’t, I mean, now.’

‘Sure, sure,’ McGrath said quickly.

‘With the baby and everything.’

‘Ah, you’re dead right,’ McGrath said. ‘And, anyway, I’m meant to be fucking shopping. I have the whole rake of them at home to buy for yet.’ He laughed. ‘It’s an awful fucking nuisance, Christmas, isn’t it?’