Heartland, p.23
Heartland, page 23
Such dreams as he used to have up there, on that pink-painted balcony.
Heartland: Where beats the pulse of love’s deepest desires …
Then another night came back to him – a special one, again.
When he and Mr Monroe – yes the one and only Walter, the King of Country – the two of them had retired alone to the quiet of the back bar, with the floor swept clean, and the chairs all neatly stacked.
There wasn’t a sound.
With the dance long over as they treated themselves to a couple of well-earned shotsa juice.
–You’re the best bouncer ever, he recalled WW complimenting him, because roundabout Glasson County there ain’t no one dumb enough to give much grief to Big Barney Grue.
They talked about this and that. About WW’s further plans to make the very bar in which they were having their well-earned, late-night shot into a watering hole the like of which no one could ever have conceived, bedecked with money, state-of-the-art cocktails, airline stewardesses, college sweethearts.
And to hell with Austin Price ‘The Diviner’ and all of his jumping Jesus friends – around-the-clock working judies.
Then, after a while, somewhat unexpectedly, they had gotten around to discussing those kindsa things that no men ever get to talk about.
Not much, at least.
Including love affairs.
Yearnings.
All that kinda stuff.
–All those hidden secrets, he remembered WW remarking, that come to us all when our head touches the pillow last thing at night.
Monroe had been drinking quite a bit that day, and as a result had confided something quite unexpected to Big Barney Grue.
That he had fallen in love recently with a woman who wasn’t his wife.
–It’s Dawn, WW Monroe had admitted, eventually, it’s her – the singer Dawn ‘Kit’ King.
But Barney had just nodded, mainly on account of he hadn’t really known what to say.
–I love her, Barney, WW continued, every day when I awake she’s the very first thing that comes into my mind. When I think of her smile, it’s like the very first morning that has been breathed upon the world. I know that sounds stupid, but that’s the way I feel. It’s crazy, I know. But that’s just the way it is.
–The very first morning in the world, Big Barney had mused, staring towards the rooftop with its irradiated, inspiring pink heart.
–And now she tells me she’s going to have a child, lamented WW.
Who would ever have expected that, thought Big Barney – a showband singer, making cadence with the likes of WW Monroe?
But everyone knew that Dawn was something special. An enigma, he remembered, was what WW had called her. Having arrived in the valley out of nowhere and disappeared just as mysteriously, leaving nothing behind her but a string of unpaid bills in the Lodge, which she’d left a wreck, filled with empty bottles and a barely legible note covered in stains, which read: reality is nothing but a fucking conspiracy – see you whenever, love you Dawn.
–I did some digging on her background, Barney, he had informed him, and although I didn’t find a lot that was of very much use, I did establish this. That she doesn’t come from anywhere near Serenity, Ohio. Or anywhere in America, come to that. She’s from someplace down the country, far as I can make out – Mayo, maybe. I heard Crossmolina mentioned once or twice. Having spent a while in a coupla children’s homes, and has constructed this magnificent lie around herself. But you know what’s the strangest thing? It makes me want her even more.
Someone with such a beautiful, respected wife and with so much – so much to lose. How could it happen? puzzled Big Barney.
How?
–If I lose her – if I lose my Connie, Barney, so help me God I don’t know what I’ll do. But I can’t seem to able to give Dawn up. I just can’t stop thinking about her, and that’s the truth. I’m worried, Barney, real fucking worried. My heart is close to broken; if you want to know the truth.
He was cold all over, in his chair, remembering that. Still lying slumped in the chair with his improvised bandage as Sonny Hackett tapped his head.
–Earth calling, Grue – Big Barney, are you there?
Big Barney didn’t answer, now almost grateful for the constant throb of pain, distracting him as it did from the memory of that night with WW.
Because he knew what it would lead to – directly to his very own memory of a certain other girl who went by the name of Bridie.
Bridie Cullen, who used to live not far away from him, in 17 St Martin De Porres Terrace, Midford.
And who had spent a summer working the line in Glasson Meats.
And with whom, on one shocking occasion of which he had never spoken to anyone, he had found himself in the act of ‘making love’ in a hay barn just a little outside of town, one Saturday night after the dance in Heartland.
And upon whose countenance – without ever daring to consult or confide in her – he had taken the liberty of conferring the astounding features of the incomparable Mercedes Starrs, his own sweet lovely calico Southern belle.
Yes, Bridie Cullen, even though she was only just gone seventeen, she was already everything that a man could ever need.
And who, subsequently, had given birth to the sweetest of little baby boys.
But who, unfortunately, had been fated to spend most of his very short life confined to a hospital incubator, in the children’s ward of Midford Hospital.
Although it was considered highly irregular by the authorities – given the circumstances, the secretary informed Mr Grue that it had been agreed he would be permitted one single visit.
And he remembered so clearly standing there alone that morning, staring into the small glass case through which, although a little fuzzy, nonetheless provided him with a view of five little fingers.
Moving slightly – just a tad.
Yes, just a little.
First one, then two.
Two barely perceptible twitches.
There was a television set beside him on a shelf, with the volume at the time turned way down.
On the screen, carrying on, you could see the big rooster, Foghorn Leghorn, stomping around in the dust, complaining.
–Ah say. Ah say that boy, he kept on repeating.
Very shortly after, the little boy died.
As he left the hospital that morning, Big Barney had made it his business to seek out the nun who had interceded on his behalf – to thank her.
The same sister who, incidentally, had registered no discernible hint of affront or displeasure whenever she had encountered Big Barney standing there waving his large knotty fist.
Bawling, quite hysterically, at the TV screen:
–Shut your mouth, you big fucking stupid big chicken – why don’t you try shutting your mouth for a while? Maybe, for once, you ought to try doing that, huh?
–Try your best to put your faith in the Lord, the nun had urged, taking him by the hand in the corridor as he departed.
–I’m sorry, I really am so sorry, Big Barney had apologised, stumbling as best he could out into the devastation of the early afternoon.
After which he had made his way into the back bar in Heartland and remained there all day, drinking himself practically into a coma. But, just before his eyes had closed and his arm had slipped off the edge of the counter, what had come on the jukebox only Frankie McBride – yes, his favourite band playing his favourite song, ‘Five Little Fingers’.
–Give me one reason to live, the melody continued somewhere in the distance, give me one reason to live now that my darling has died.
He knew that, in a way, he too had betrayed WW – by not having shared his own personal pain that intimate night.
When he knew he ought to have opened up his own heart and divulged his secrets like his employer, with such candour, had done.
To have been open and honest and genuine with WW, just the very same as he had been with him.
And told him all about Bridie and the night that they’d spent making love in the haybarn.
And the baby.
And those five little reaching-up fingers.
But he didn’t.
Because he couldn’t.
Just couldn’t manage to bring himself to do it.
Even to admit that there had never been a proper woman in his life, apart from the imaginary Mercedes of the South.
Something he knew was never likely to happen again.
Not after this.
He had met Bridie Cullen a couple of times after that, but they didn’t know what to say to one another.
Someone told him that they thought that she’d got married and had bought a house in Dundalk, so far as they knew.
Remembering all that – and, indeed, properly admitting to it for the very first time – had more or less knocked the stuffing out of Barney. As he began to laugh at the top of his voice:
–Ha ha, we sure did have some good times in Heartland!
Chapter 30
The Arrival of Tony Begley
But nobody was paying him the slightest bit of attention – Barney Grue, that is.
Being much too preoccupied by the subject of grinding teeth.
–It was the last time I was gonna warn you, thundered Sonny, I thought I told you, fuck!
–Your wife is right, Red Campbell taunted, everyone knows there’s a weakness in the Hacketts!
Sonny walked over and whisked out a pool cue.
–Easy, cautioned Mervyn, laughing just a little as he nodded towards the jukebox.
–Ha ha, he continued, I can’t afford any more damage.
–I’m afraid of the likes of him? I’m not afraid of him, spat Red Campbell, kneeing his chair out of the way as he strode towards the centre of the floor, entirely ignoring Wee Hughie bleating loudly:
–I got to tell you about the night with the Crackaways! O man, I swear, it was it the night of all nights!
–Easy now, urged Mervyn, cautiously approaching Sonny, we don’t want no more damage, do we? My poor Rock-Ola!
Sonny said nothing, ominously turning the stick in his hands.
As the barman sighed and gave a broad grin.
You really had to hand it to Mervyn Walker.
–NO ONE HAS THE RIGHT TO SAY THE LIKE OF THAT TO ME! bawled Sonny Hackett. YOU HEAR?
Before flinging the cue away and taking refuge in the bathroom, loudly slamming the door behind him.
Far in the distance, I could hear the roar of the flush.
Laid out across three chairs, the Runt released a drawn-out groan.
–We’re finished, he said, that’s it now. We’re done.
As Mervyn brushed up what was left of the few remaining fragments of glass. And as he did so, keenly observing his clientele – one by one.
Those men who had been busy one night, a long time ago.
When they’d paid his old friend a nocturnal visit.
–Amber days, he smiled contentedly to himself, amber days.
Before Hughie announced he didn’t care about Begley, or what he did. Shaking his head as he emptied a quarter-glass of jungle.
–Yes! he hollered. That old Meester Señor Begley he might have thought he was the great big motherfucking shot back in the factory, but I’m sorry Señor Beggs but zat was a very long time ago. Hey Tony! Tony, did you hear the one about the Mexican who walked into the bar?
He was so drunk now that he didn’t hear the door gently closing behind him, or notice Sonny Hackett waving his arms and trying to warn him. No, he didn’t – because Hughie the comedian was once again in full, irrepressible flight, rubbing his hands vigorously as he welcomed everyone to ‘Hughie’s Comedy Evening’.
–Yes, I am here to help you put that sad right back in the bottle where it belongs, he announced, and especially for that Big Shot Mr Tony Begley, wherever the fuck he has decided to get to!
–Please, said Sonny, lowering his head.
But Hughie Munley already had his eyes closed, forcefully slapping his thighs as he continued, with his high-pitched voice now close to hysterical.
–Did youse ever hear the one about the Mexican who walked into the bar? He says: I am looking for my compañero Senor Begley. Yes, I am looking for ze leetle greasy motherfucker who thinks because he is WW’s big special amigo that he can walk around telling everybody what to do. Except, you see, zat is not true. Certainly not where a Miss Tiny Smallwoods is concerned, at any rate. Because she write to Tony: Dear Tony, fuck off!
Barney Grue was looking unbearably pained, and, like Sonny Hackett, doing his best to capture Hughie’s attention. But without success.
As the rotund comedian feverishly continued, now closely observed by the mute figure standing directly behind him.
TB.
–So what you gonna do about it, Señor Begley, Hughie went on, send me some of your famous oranges, maybe? No wonder Miss Smallwoods was seen sitting crying above at Lake Wynter, chain-smoking cigarettes with her mascara all running – probably thinking about how lucky she’d been, getting away from someone like him, that everyone knows has got a tile off!
–Hi, said Tony, his voice barely audible, sorry I’m late.
–O Jesus, Sonny Hackett said. O Jesus.
Tony’s clothes as a rule seemed just that little too big. His mother had always been scolding him about it, he said. Those clothes you wear – they don’t fit you, she regularly used to say to him.
He had told them that a number of times.
And, looking at him now, standing in the centre of the floor of Mervyn’s Mountain Bar, you would have had to agree that she was right.
With that oversized anorak and the ill-fitting suit underneath.
He draped the anorak across the back of a chair.
Sonny Hackett was drinking like a fish.
–For God’s sake Sonny, take it easy! urged Wee Hughie, wringing his hands, still reeling from shock.
But his advice only seemed to make Sonny Hackett worse.
Then Red Campbell started doing the same, shoving down slug after slug of jungle.
And then calling out for more.
Begley was standing underneath the Woolworth’s picture, saying nothing as he stared up at it.
–Poor wee fella, they heard him murmur.
TB was short and blocky, with the glistening, accordion-pleated waves of his hair shining underneath the light.
He was wearing a pair of brown, elastic-sided boots, which he kept on looking down at.
–I was wondering what youse might think of the elaborate detailing on the uppers? he asked.
Nobody had any opinion – or if they did, they elected not to advance it.
–Kind of like Oxford brogues, he went on, not that I care, to be honest. Because it’ll be a long time before I ever go to Oxford, won’t it Hughie?
–Yes, replied Hughie, looking around him uncertainly, I suppose it will. It would be, yes.
–Would you like something to drink, Mr Begley? called Mervyn from behind the counter.
–Thanks a lot, Mervyn. But no thanks, if you please.
–Very well, said the barman, right you be.
Begley hoisted up his loose blue pinstripe trousers and, somewhat out of breath, sat down on an upended crate.
–You don’t have to sit on that, Mr Begley, offered Mervyn, let me bring you over a chair.
–It’s fine, the other man replied, I’m perfectly comfortable sitting here, believe it or not.
–That’s no problem at all, smiled Mervyn.
Then, adjusting the oversized knot of his tie for a moment, TB lowered his head and rubbed his two hands together. Before looking up, and smiling again, winningly observed:
–So here we are then, gentlemen, eh?
Scrutinising each individual in their turn before releasing a protracted sigh.
–That it should come to this.
Subsequent to which, he lapsed once more into silence.
After a long time, raising his head.
–I was thinking, before I came over, about names.
Nobody said anything – as Mervyn Walker folded his arms and watched the willow, with its leaves as they swished this way and that.
–What I’m trying to say is, Tony Begley went on, if you weren’t called the name you are, would you still be the same person? Hughie, what do you think? Your opinion of a statement like that, what would it be?
–I couldn’t say, Hughie Munley replied, I’m not even sure that I know what it means.
Tony Begley stood up and, after gazing out of the window for some time, cleared his throat and looked back at Hughie.
–Say your name was Poindexter Rufus Gallantry. Ichabod Kiernan, Vanderbilt Coyle. Would you still be the same person – as the one you are now, I mean.
He looked across at Red.
–So – what do you think, Red?
–I don’t know. I really couldn’t say.
–You don’t really know. You really couldn’t say?
–That’s right – I don’t really think I could honestly say.
He turned to Sonny.
–Mr Hackett. Your opinion?
–I don’t really have one. Not now. At the moment, anyway.
–Poindexter, Bigelow, Begley repeated softly, Bigelow, Poindexter – all those names. Tommy Squidge.
Begley shook his head.
–Would we all be the same people, that’s the question.
He went over to Barney and laid a hand on his shoulder.
–I just don’t get it, he said.
–Which? said Barney, which is that now?
–The world, he explained, I just can’t seem to grasp it.
Before walking over to Hughie Munley and, standing right behind him, beginning to gently massage his shoulders.
–You know what it is I’m trying to suggest? he said.
–I don’t really think … not for sure, I don’t think.
–Say that the world is a very strange place, will you Hughie?
–What?
–The world is a very strange place – say it.
–The world is a strange place.
–The world is a strange and extremely forbidding fucking place. Say that.
–The world is an extremely strange and forbidding fucking place, complied Hughie.
