Belinda McKeon - Solace

‘It’d fuckin’ want to be,’ Brady said, laughing. ‘The fuckin’ price of putting it up. Jesus, it’s like Knock. Or Old Trafford or something.’ He looked up to the skylights, to the blue sky beyond. ‘Isn’t it?’

‘It’s something like it all right,’ Tom said.

‘It was the young fella was at me to do it. Sure they’re all like this now, all the good places around the country. Sure you have to keep up. What I had here for the last twenty years, sure it was nothing better than a hayshed.’

‘Ah, you’re dead right,’ Tom said.

‘You’ve seen some changes around this part of the world, I’d say, no more than myself,’ said Brady, and he walked over to the huge tractor in the middle of the room. ‘Now,’ he said, putting his hand to the tread of the high front tyre. ‘If you want the best of everything, this is the lassie to climb up on.’

Tom laughed with Brady as he rubbed the tyre vigorously, slapped it. ‘Get up on her there, sure, can’t you?’ said Brady, but Tom shook his head.

‘No thanks,’ he said, and he saw how Brady’s face became careful. ‘What’s the next one you have after this one?’

Brady nodded. ‘Right you are,’ he said. Tom followed him outside.

‘Now this one,’ Brady said, as he walked ahead, ‘this one is an unbelievable tractor for the price.’

*

He had the whole lot picked little more than an hour later. Everything he wanted. Brady slid a docket across the counter, printed with the name of the shop, and with the price of each machine written on it in Brady’s crooked hand. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘And we’ll call it that.’ He pointed to the figure on the bottom of the docket. ‘Sure, you’re buying in bulk,’ he said, spittle springing to his lips with his laugh.

‘What about cash?’ Tom said, and Brady froze for an instant. He looked again to the number he had written down. He looked to Tom.

‘All cash?’ he said, frowning.

‘About the half of it,’ Tom said. ‘I’ve the rest in a cheque.’

Brady glanced out to the yard. ‘You’re a hard man,’ he said, and he pulled out another docket. He scribbled on it intently. He totted the figures up, tapping them with the tip of his pen. ‘How’s that?’ he said, and his face was serious as he slid the paper across the counter to Tom.

Tom looked at the price. ‘Now, you can do better than that for me, Gerry,’ he said, and he stepped back.

‘Ah, now, Jesus,’ said Brady, but by the way he glanced out to the yard, Tom knew he would come down again. They went back and forward, and Brady sighed and chewed his lip and shook his head, and when they finally shook, it was on a price Tom knew was a good one, and Brady asked Tom where it was he had the new farm.

Tom looked at him, surprised. Then he remembered: he had told Brady he was stocking a whole new place. ‘Ah, I’ll be keeping them up in the sheds at home for a while,’ he said, the words tumbling out in a hurry. ‘I haven’t the new yards ready for them yet. And you don’t need to worry about delivering them. The son will be down from Dublin tomorrow and myself and himself can come in to you and drive them out. It’s just as handy.’ He thought of the neighbours watching: Keogh behind the shop door, Jimmy Flynn maybe going past on his blue Ford as Tom and Mark turned the new tractors in at the lane.

‘Grand, so,’ said Brady. ‘You’re out near Edgeworthstown, isn’t it?’

‘Dorvaragh,’ Tom said. ‘Just ahead of the crossroads there as you go out the Bal road.’

‘I thought so all right,’ said Brady, and he looked again at the cheque Tom had handed to him. ‘Tom Casey,’ he said. ‘Sure I know you, of course,’ and there was in his voice the note Tom heard in most voices now: the commiseration; the fascination. And as soon as the next thought flashed into his mind he hated himself for thinking it: that there might have been more off the price still, had Brady recognized him, had he made the connection sooner. He was shaking his head to get rid of the idea when he realized that Brady was studying him.

‘I have you now,’ Brady said. ‘Didn’t you buy that Massey from me there a few years before?’ He did not wait for a response. ‘That Massey was a very nice little runner,’ he said. ‘At the time. But, Jesus, you’ll get better satisfaction out of these two.’ He laughed. ‘And you never thought of trading her in? You’re a man in a hurry.’

‘Ah, I’ll keep her,’ said Tom.

Brady nodded. ‘Fair enough, Tom. No harm in having her around the place. Sure, maybe the son can run her around.’ He winked at Tom. ‘Ha? Don’t let him get his hands on these beauties.’

‘Ah,’ Tom shrugged. ‘It’s a lot of interest he’ll have in them anyway.’

‘I doubt that,’ Brady said. ‘Unless he’s blind altogether.’

‘We’ll see,’ said Tom, as Brady handed him the receipt. ‘Thanks very much.’

‘Thanks yourself,’ Brady said, offering his hand. ‘And the very best of luck to the two of ye with the new place.’

*

The phone on the kitchen counter rang that evening as Tom was sitting down to his dinner. He was over to it and had the receiver to his ear before it finished the second ring. It was Mark.

‘I was trying to get you earlier,’ Tom said. ‘What were you at?’

‘Work,’ Mark said. He sounded tired. ‘And then Aoife.’

Tom cleared his throat. ‘Working on the Edgeworthstown one, was it?’ he said. He hoped Mark would recognize the generosity of the question, the interest it showed in his life. His heart speeded up as he waited for Mark’s reply. It took a moment to come, and it came flat.

‘Yeah,’ Mark said. ‘Edgeworth, yeah.’

Tom nodded. In his mind’s eye he saw the old manor at Edgeworthstown, the porch with its two black pillars where he used to wait in the car for Maura to finish her shift. When first he started to call for her, when first they started to go together, it was like picking her up from school. There was always a nun watching from the door. And Maura would come down the steps like a schoolgirl, her coat over her uniform, the thin strip of her handbag swinging from her shoulder. As she slid into the car, there was her perfume and her bare knees and her sideways hello. Granard and Longford and Mullingar for the dances then. As far away from Edgeworthstown as they could. Wanting something different.

‘Anything new with you?’ Mark said then.

Tom hesitated. ‘Aoife’s asleep?’ he said, looking at the clock over the range. It was seven.

‘No,’ said Mark. ‘She’s here beside me. She’s watching one of her DVDs.’ He seemed to yawn. ‘What did you do yourself today?’

‘Ah,’ said Tom. ‘Just tipping around. You know yourself.’

‘Yeah.’

He took a long breath. Now was the time. Now was when he would have to tell him. He should have told him already; he should have phoned him from Brady’s again and again until he answered. ‘I went up to Brady’s for a while to look at a few things,’ he said.

‘To Brady’s?’

‘Aye,’ Tom said, carefully. ‘He had me looking at all his new machinery.’

Mark clicked his tongue. ‘That bollocks. He got the timing as wrong as he could get it with that place.’

In his chest, Tom felt a jolt. ‘How do you mean?’ he said, and he knew it sounded too anxious. ‘He says it’s doing well,’ he added then, more lightly.

‘Well, he’d say that,’ Mark said, in the same tone full of scorn. ‘But if he thinks anyone’s going to be stupid enough to shell out for his overpriced rubbish the way things are going now, he’s mistaken.’

‘What do you mean, the way things are going?’ Tom said.

‘Do you not listen to the radio? The country is fucked.’