The Railway Station Man (21 page)

He took out his handkerchief and wiped the chocolate from round his mouth.

‘I need you.'

He folded the handkerchief so that the chocolate stains were inside and then put it back in his pocket.

‘You need the clear eye. Only the vision counts. Some people find that hard to take.'

‘I suppose you're right.'

‘That's the ticket. Come on … we've seen all there is to see here. We'll get back to Dublin as soon as possible after lunch.'

He opened the door and they went out into the sunshine.

‘I presume your mother'll be giving us lunch?'

‘I imagine so, yes.'

They crossed the line and went out into the road through a little wicket gate by the level crossing and walked round to the front of the station where the car was waiting.

‘I'd say she had a clear eye,' said Manus.

‘Who?'

‘Your old lady.'

Jack laughed.

‘Tell me,' he asked as they got into the car. ‘Was your grandfather really a railwayman?'

‘Sure thing. He'd have loved that station. A really great job that Englishman has done.'

‘And Damian.'

Jack started the engine.

‘Bugger Damian.'

On Wednesday at about half past eleven Damian opened the door without knocking and walked into the kitchen. Mrs O'Sullivan was washing cloths at the sink.

‘Look what the cat brought in.'

She wrung black water out of a duster.

‘That floor is clean.'

He shuffled his feet on the mat.

‘Have you lost your tongue?'

She pulled out the plug and the dirty foamy water circled out through the hole.

‘I'm just surprised to find you here, that's all.'

‘It just shows how little you know about what goes on. I've been keeping this place in order for the past five year. If you're coming in, come in and close that door behind you.'

He pushed the door shut, remembering as he did so that he'd said he would take a piece off the bottom of it.

She turned on the hot tap.

‘Well?'

‘Is she about?'

‘Who's she? The cat's granny.'

‘Mrs Cuffe.'

She threw the cloths into the basin again and agitated them around.

‘What do you want with her? She's working.'

‘I have a message.'

‘She doesn't like to be disturbed when she's working.'

She wrung the duster out again and then cracked it in the air above the basin. His mother went through the same rigmarole, he thought.

‘It's a private message.'

She walked across the kitchen to the Aga and hung the cloth on the metal rail above the ovens.

‘Is your mother keeping well?'

‘She's grand, thanks.'

‘I've tea made.' She picked the teapot from the top of the Aga. ‘You can take her over a cup and save me the walk across the yard. That's a wind would kill you.'

She took down three mugs from the dresser and carefully filled them with tea, and a few drops of milk, pursing her lips as she poured, disapproving of Damian's presence.

‘And yourself.' She nodded towards the mugs. ‘Sugar?'

He shook his head.

‘Away on. You and your message.'

Helen was startled and pleased by Damian's appearance. She got up from the floor and took the mug of tea from his hand.

‘Thanks. What a nice surprise. Sit down. When did you get back?'

There was only one chair and that had a canvas standing on it.

‘Or rather I should ask… where have you been?' She lifted the picture from the chair and stood it against the wall. ‘You did a disappearing act.'

‘Is that me?'

He put his mug on the table and moved over the floor towards the painting of the man on the beach.

‘Well… yes and no.'

He peered closely at the picture, straining his eyes to recognise himself.

‘I'm not that thin. Am I?'

‘If it looked like you it would be a portrait. It's just a man on a beach. Any man on any beach.'

‘I was happy that morning.'

She smiled.

‘It was funny being naked in the daytime.'

‘Yes,' she said.

‘You haven't made it a very happy picture.'

She didn't say anything.

‘Why?' he asked after a long silence.

‘I just do what I'm told.'

He looked at her.

‘I paint. My hands mix and paint and scrub and scrape and squeeze the tubes empty. Light the cigarettes. I move. Down there on the floor.' She pointed to the canvas on the floor. He moved over towards it and stared down at it. A man ran through the unfolding water, light exploded above and behind him in the sky and his huge shadow filled the foreground of the canvas.

‘Is that me too?'

‘Yes and no.'

‘What do you mean you do what you're told?'

He crouched down beside the picture in the position she used for painting.

‘There is a voice … quite a clear voice. It's always been there, but when I was young it frightened me, so I didn't listen and it went away. If I kept quite still, moved with extreme caution it didn't bother me. I just have to thank God I didn't kill it with my inattention.'

‘He hears voices too. I hear him sometimes quarrelling, raging against them.'

‘Ghosts,' she said. ‘He lives with ghosts.'

Damian stood up. Helen noticed with a certain satisfaction that his knees also cracked.

‘Will someone buy them?'

‘I hope so.'

‘How… I mean … how?'

‘I'm not really too sure what I'll do. But, I think … when I've finished this series … I have four in my mind … then I'll pack them up somehow and a selection of the others and take them up to Dublin. See if I can find a gallery to exhibit them. It probably isn't just as easy as that. I haven't worked that end of things out yet. I will. When this is finished then I'll have time to think about that sort of thing.'

‘They're big for packing.'

‘Umm.'

‘I could maybe make you a box … a sort of case out of timber. We've lots of timber above … If only his trains were running, we'd have no transport problem. We can work something out between us.'

‘You're very kind.'

‘You wouldn't want them damaged. It might have to be padded inside. I'll start thinking up something for you.' He looked at the two canvases, measuring, judging with his eyes. ‘Easy as winking,' he said.

She handed him his mug of tea.

‘Drink this up before it gets cold. It'll be some time yet before I'm ready to pack them.'

‘I can be sorting out the wood I need … and the others, the smaller ones, if I can get to measure them up, I can make another box for them too.'

‘Where were you?' she asked.

He took a drink from the mug.

‘Why did you go away like that without telling anyone?'

‘I just felt like a trip to Galway. I take a run down there from time to time.'

He took another drink.

About once every couple of months or so. I have cousins, uncles, aunts. My mother's people are from down there. Don't tell me you were worrying after me?'

She looked around for her cigarettes. He saw the box before she did and bent to pick it off the floor.

‘Thank you.'

She didn't open the box, just held it in her hand.

‘I just wondered if it was anything to do with Jack, that's all. I know it's none of my business.'

‘Jack's your business.'

‘Not really. Not any longer.'

He drank again, looking straight into her face over the edge of the mug.

‘What gives you that idea anyway?'

‘Oh … I don't know… you were angry last week …'

‘Oh, that.' He remembered.

She took a cigarette from the box and put it in her mouth. She dropped the box onto the floor.

‘I don't like Manus.' He put his hand into his pocket and miraculously took out a box of matches.

‘I wasn't mad about him either,' she said.

He put the mug on the table and struck a match. He held it out towards her. She leaned forward and lit the cigarette.

‘Thanks. Where did you meet him?'

‘Around.' He smiled slightly. ‘I'm twenty-four you know, I've been around. Next question?'

‘People say things about you.'

‘Aye. People say things about anyone who doesn't quite toe the line. That's not a question.'

‘I just wondered if they were true.'

‘I thought we were talking about Jack.'

‘We are. You know as well as I do what I'm talking about. You know right well the question I'm trying to ask.'

He turned away from her and walked over to the window. A huge front of cloud was building up on the horizon.

‘The wind is getting up,' he said. ‘Helen,' he felt quite brave as he spoke her name. ‘Ask me the question. What are you afraid of?'

‘Are you in the Provos?'

‘No.' He laughed. ‘You asked the wrong question.'

‘I hate being messed about, confused. I've screwed myself up to hear some sort of truth, I wish you'd get on and tell it to me.'

‘What's truth? Manus's truth and my truth wouldn't come within a mile of each other. Perhaps I'll have a cigarette after all.' He held his hand out towards her.

‘No. If you've stopped, you've stopped.' But she picked the box off the floor and threw it across the room to him just the same.

‘At eighteen, seventeen, sixteen, whenever it is you stop thinking like a child, well to put it a bit differently, start to be your own man. Right?'

She nodded.

‘I thought… well there has to be more to the whole damn thing than just kick the Brits out and then wham … paradise. I thought a bit about how I felt people should be able to live. I talked around a bit. Listened. Read the papers. You've a lot of time to pass when you don't have a regular job. I did odd jobs, here and there. I've never wanted to be a layabout. But I'd time to spare. I joined the Sticks … you know…?'

‘Yes. The Official IR…'

He held his hand up.

Not a word. Excuse me, missus, the Workers' Party. We've gone straight, political. Fight elections, members in Dail Eireann. You must know…'

He pointed the cigarette at her, like an accusing finger.

‘I read the papers.'

‘I used to run messages for them. Do odd jobs …'

‘Quite the little odd-job man you seem to be.' Her voice was angry.

‘That was before they… modernised … saw things in a new light. Shut down … that side of things. That was a democratic decision, but…'

‘There's always a but, isn't there?'

‘There's always a few who like to do things their own way. I did the…'

‘Odd jobs again?'

‘Aye. A few. Not for a while though I haven't. Not for … I lost the heart for that sort of thing.' He laughed suddenly. ‘Must be growing old. I don't see much point in killing people. Maybe I'm just wet.'

He put the cigarette in his mouth and then took it out and held it out towards her. ‘I thought I was a great guy once upon a time. A God-save-Ireland hero.' He moved slowly towards her, the cigarette in his outstretched hand. She took it from him and dropped it on the floor.

‘You asked the question,' he said after a long silence. He let his hand fall slowly to his side.

‘And Manus?'

‘Manus doesn't believe in democracy. Manus likes to run things his way. He still believes that the gun is mightier than the word.'

‘Why doesn't he join the Provos then?'

Damian laughed.

‘The Provos have a structure, an army, rules. They wouldn't look at Manus, only to shoot him.'

She walked over to the chair and sat down. Her shoulders were very stiff.

She needed a spell in a deep hot bath. She needed … she needed …

‘Jack?'

What the hell about Jack, she thought. Jackson Cuffe. What the hell about him?

‘I shouldn't worry too much about Jack. He'll be okay.'

‘What do you mean don't worry? Don't be damn silly. He's my son. He's … he's …'

He thought she was going to cry. Don't let her cry. He crossed his fingers for luck as he used to do as a child.

‘Jack's only in on the edge of this. I mean I think he quite admires Manus … that sort of thing. I'm not saying his political motives aren't quite pure. I'm sure they are. He's just running messages too, like I was. You don't have to worry. He won't get any further than that. It's quite exciting you know. You feel alive, relevant. Manus knows that. Manus is no dozer.'

She shook her head.

‘Well, it is. But Jack hasn't the balls to use a gun. I don't think he could even light a fuse. Like me. I like to think I backed my way out of all that because I thought about it and came to conclusions, but I think I probably didn't have any balls either.'

She lifted her hand and rubbed at the left side of her neck.

‘What should I do?' she asked.

‘Nothing. Leave him alone. Paint your pictures.'

He put a hand on her shoulder.

‘Now you know why I went to Galway. It seemed the easiest thing to do.'

‘What did they want you for?'

He shrugged.

‘No idea.'

‘And you wouldn't tell me if you had.'

‘That's right.'

She gave a sudden little burst of laughter.

‘Oh God, if his grandmother knew.' That bitchy thought makes me feel a little better. ‘Will we go and have a drink?'

‘Another time. I must get back. I've stayed too long as it is. I just came around to tell you that he's bad the last couple of days.'

‘Bad?'

‘He just sits there. I mean it's happened before, but I thought that perhaps you … He likes you. He just sits there. I hate to see him like that.'