You turn the corner. Two high windows already open like eyelids. The house awake.
Mum slows the car. Puts the blinker on.
And there he is. Front door ajar. Leaning on the jamb and smoking his pipe. Raising a lethargic finger to say hello.
You get out, head for the gate. Mum loiters by the fence. ‘What time will it be over?’ Her words float across the small garden.
‘Hard to say.’ He clears his throat. ‘I’ll drop him home later on, sure.’
‘No ya will not.’
‘I will. I’ve to see a man about a dog up yer way anyway. And besides, must be two, three years since he came to visit.’
‘That’ll do.’ She returns to the car. Speaks over its roof. ‘See ya later, Son?’
‘Aye.’ You say.
As she drives off, he comes down from the step, lifts the doormat and shakes it onto the grass. ‘Alright, Son?’
‘Aye alright, Granda.’
‘Head on in, Son. I’ll be through in a minute.’
The hall carpet is brown and faded floral, almost worn to nothing by the step. In the living room, a television screen huffs in the corner. Hoover hums upstairs. You turn right, pass through the narrow kitchen and out into the back yard. Sun peering over the tree line.
You hunker down, fingertips upon the concrete to steady yourself. Watch a huddle of pigeons’ peck at breadcrumbs and mumble their throaty language to each other.
Granda appears then, standing hands on hips and gazing the pink morning sky with its orange through-ribbons. ‘Looks like the right kind of weather.’
‘What time do they set off?’
‘Shortly.’ Granda stoops into the shed. You follow into the gloom and dust and foul smell. A couple of pigeons sit upon wooden struts.
‘Alright my girls?’ He reaches into a box on the wall, offers a cupped handful of seed to each bird.
‘Are they sick, Granda?’
A pigeon coos. Sits up straighter and flaps her wings. Nestles down again.
‘Not sick, Son. Just old. Come on.’ He heads for the door. Pauses at a scuffed wooden box, carries it to the coal bunker outside. ‘This is for when they arrive home later.’
As he opens the lid, you lean in. Mechanical contraptions inside. A predominant brass wheel with fourteen numbered bays.
‘Why do these ones not race, Granda?’ You point to the pecking yard-birds.
‘Too young, most of them. Some too old.’ He takes a comb from his back pocket. Runs it once through his oiled grey hair. ‘Only the ones in their prime are flyin’ today. They were driven down to Cork last night.’
The creak of a door. A neighbour emerges. Small man with big black eyebrows. He lights a cigarette. ‘Mornin’ Jimmy! Set to be a scorcher the day!’
‘Alright, Victor? Aye, looks like a good one.’ Granda hooks a thumb into his braces.
Victor limps to the hedge. Cheeks concave as he sucks on the cigarette. He nods towards the timing clock. ‘Flip, is it yer big race today?’
‘Tis.’
‘Skibbereen Cup?’
‘Aye.’
‘Well, best of luck with it.’ His brow furrows, sincere enough to be offering condolences at a funeral. He blows smoke into the hedge, momentarily spreading like morning field mist.
Quack-quack-quack.
Victor rolls his eyes, talks to the ground. ‘You can’t be hungry again! Bread, bread, bread! Every five minutes!’ He smiles, half-turns. ‘That reminds me. I’ve eggs for you. Hold on.’ He hobbles into the house. Returns with an egg carton. Hands it over the hedge.
‘That’ll do our lunch.’ Granda taps my arm. ‘Have ye ever had a duck egg, Son?’
‘Nope.’
‘Well, ye haven’t lived. And ye’ll get one today.’ He holds a hand above his eyes, like a sun-visor. ‘What’re ye at yerself, Victor?’
‘Gonna cut the grass. And if I’m not wrecked, maybe trim the hedges.’ He hobbles off towards his shed.
Granda sets the egg carton on the coal bunker. ‘Right, let’s keep busy or we’ll be demented waitin’ on them comin’ home.’
You follow him through the gateless gap, from the concrete yard down into the long and grassy garden, past Granny’s washing line, to the bottom where wooden posts stand vertically and evenly spaced along the furthest boundary.
A stack of timber rests in the sun.
‘There’s a wee dog from the house through that hedge,’ he points, ‘and he keeps comin’ over and crappin’ in our grass. Yer Granny’s had to throw out two good pairs of slippers. So today, me and ye are gonna put this fence up.’ Granda gestures with a hand to show what is not yet, but what will be. ‘Otherwise, if I ever get the hold of him, he’s gonna get a severe boot in the hole!’
He lifts a length of timber. Holds it between two posts. ‘Here, take that end. Hold her horizontal.’ He slaps a nail in with the hammer. Comes to your side. ‘I’ll do this first one, then ye can do the next one. Alright?’
‘Yep.’
‘So ye hold her up until she’s level, then nail her on.’ He steps back. ‘Actually, away up the yard and shout over the hedge to Victor, for his spirit level.’
You look at him.
‘Go on. Tell him would he lend us his spirit level.’
You return to the yard where pigeons have finished their crumbs and congregate now on the shed roof. You bum-hop onto the edge of the coal bunker.
‘Victor!’
Nothing.
‘Victor!’
After a moment, he appears in the shed doorway.
‘Granda’s lookin’ a lend of yer spirit level.’
‘No bother.’ Victor reaches to a shelf, then hobbles to the hedge and hands you a worn plank of wood that looks like a dog has chewed both ends of it.
‘Thanks.’
‘No bother, Son.’
You run back down the garden. ‘Here ya go, Granda.’
‘Great job, Son.’ Granda taps it with a finger. ‘This tells us when somethin’s straight.’ He places the level horizontally onto the timber. ‘See this wee window here? See the air-bubble? Ye just adjust her until the bubble’s right in the middle.’
The bubble slides. Settles.
Moves slightly. Settles again.
‘That’s her level. Get the hammer. Nail her on.’
You’ve never hammered a nail before. Hesitate. He sees it. ‘Go on! And watch yer fingers.’
You tap the nail. It goes in a little bit. ‘Ye have to hit it harder than that, Son. Don’t be afraid of it.’
It feels dangerous. Exciting. You whack-whack-whack and in it goes.
After the first couple of planks, you establish a routine.
Plank.
Nail one side.
Spirit level it straight.
Nail the other.
After half an hour, you complete a full section from top to bottom. Stand back to admire the work.
Granda lights his pipe. Pup-pups on it. ‘So, is that ye aff school for the summer?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘When do ye go back. September?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘And how ye likin’ yer new house?’
‘Good.’
‘Nice to have yis livin’ a bit closer. Hopefully ye’ll come visit a bit more?’
‘I will surely, Granda!’
He nods a couple of times. ‘Well, away and ask yer Granny is the kettle broke or wha?’
You head for the house. Stop for a peacock with his feathers all a-show and his hundred eyes staring you down.
‘That’s Victor’s peacock. He’ll not touch ye.’ Granda flicks a finger. ‘Go on, just walk on past.’
You wonder if a peacock could kill a human. Those eyes look poisonous…
As you near, it steps forward.
You scarper past. Burst into the house. Granny at the kitchen sink in her waist apron. She comes over, gives you a sturdy hug and you are reminded of her smell – pear drops.
She smiles. ‘It’s lovely to have ye here, Son.’
‘Well, Granda sent ma up to ask, is the kettle broke or wha?’
She chuckles. Reaches over and clicks the button. A little orange light comes on. ‘Tell him it’s workin’ alright.’
Outside, you search the blue sky for pigeons returning home. Then there is Victor at the hedge with a rake over his shoulder. ‘Excuse me, Son. Would you ask yer Granda if I could loan his hatchet?’
You nod. Head back down the garden. Peacock up on the boundary hedge now. Wings closed. Watching you pass…
‘Victor says he’s lookin’ a loan of yer hatchet.’
‘Every bloody week he’s loanin’ my hatchet. If he would ever buy his own hatchet…’ Granda stands. Winces. Is slow getting up. ‘Right, come with me.’
In the concrete yard, Granda stops by a worn, brown ladder that leans up the other neighbour’s wall. ‘Away up that ladder and shout over for Sydney.’
You climb. The ladder creaks.
The other side has a garden filled with beautiful flowers and the rise and settle of bees going about their business.
‘Don’t see anyone, Granda.’
‘Well, shout over for Sydney and let’s see.’ He hooks a finger into the air, demonstrates how to shout over the wall.
‘Sydney!’ You study the neatness of Sydney’s garden. The colours. The royalty of it. ‘He’s not there, Granda.’
Granda takes a step toward the wall. ‘Sydney!’ Cocks his head to listen, shouts again. ‘Sydney!’
A door opens. Woman appears on the back step. Scowls. Then ignores you and speaks through the brick.
‘Was that you callin’, Jimmy?’
Granda addresses you. ‘That’s Muriel. Sydney’s wife. Down ye get.’
Slowly, he climbs the ladder. Leans an elbow on the top of the wall. ‘Hello Muriel. Is Sydney about?’
‘He’s away up the town to the butchers.’
‘Oh.’ Granda nods. ‘Do ye know if he has my hatchet?’
‘He was doing sticks the other day right enough. Hold on.’
A lock unlatches. Door scrapes. Rattle of plastic pots.
‘This it?’
‘Aye that’s it alright. Thanks, Muriel.’
Granda descends the ladder. Walks over and sets it on the hedge for Victor.
‘Right. Time for tay.’
In the kitchen Granny has laid the small table. Triangular rows of egg sandwiches, two cups of tea and a plate of buns.
‘How are ye likin’ yer new house, Son?’
‘Good, Granny.’ You sit.
‘That’s good, that’s good, Son.’
Granda looks at her as he settles into a chair, and you catch something unsaid between them, before she turns to the sink. You know they want to ask how you are, about not having a dad anymore, how you feel about the fresh start and moving house, but they don’t.
Granda lifts a sandwich. Points inside.
‘Look at that. Do ye see the colour of that duck egg? Like lookin’ into the sun itself.’ He takes a bite. Talks through his food. ‘Ye’ll never taste an egg like it.’
You take a bite. Tastes rich and smooth. Like nibbling a little cooled sun. ‘What time ya think the pigeons will be back, Granda?’
‘First one should be around six. But any time before six and we’ve won for sure.’
‘Ya really think we’ll win?’
‘Put it this way Son, we can’t lose. I’ve a pigeon, Arnold, and he’s like Apollo 11.’ Granda sips his tea. ‘People’ve offered me five hundred quid for him. But he’s too good to sell.’
‘Five hundred? He must be brilliant!’
‘He is. And don’t worry, I’ll pay ye for yer help today out of the winnin’s.’
You grin. First ever pay.
During lunch you think a little about your dad, and part of you still waits to be asked about him; he had always said there would be pocket-money when you turned eleven. Maybe you could bring it up with mum.…
Afterwards, you step outside to the crack-crack-clatter of sticks in Victor’s yard, then return to the fencing.
‘We’re makin’ steady progress here.’ Granda nods. ‘Let’s move some of this wood closer to our next row. Save us walkin’ back and forward when we’re nailin’ it on.’
As you transfer planks of wood across the garden, Granda says, ‘Have ye any women on the go, Son?’
‘No way!’
‘No? What age are ye now anyway. Seventeen?’
‘Ten.’
‘Right.’ He stops what he’s doing. A bead of sweat trickles his temple. ‘I was seein’ a girl one time – before me and yer Granny were married, ye see?’ A smile broadens his face. ‘And I went to her house one night after a dance – we went to dances in those days – and her mammy made us a cuppa tay.’ His eyes alight now. ‘So, that was all grand. I went home. Got a phone call the next day and she dumped me.’ He chuckles. ‘And ye know why she dumped me, Son?’
‘No.’
‘Have a guess.’
‘I don’t know, Granda.’
‘She dumped me cause I set the empty teacup down into the sink, just before I left, and didn’t wash it.’
‘Oh?’
‘Isn’t that ridiculous?’ He smiles so wide his gold tooth winks from the side of his mouth.
‘It is!’
By the time it rolls into late afternoon, you dash to the house for a pee followed by a gulp of orange juice.
‘How yis gettin’ on with the fence, Son?’
‘Goin’ good, Granny.’
She looks to the kitchen clock. ‘Any sign of them pigeons yet?’
‘Not yet, Granny.’ You rinse the glass. Set it on the drainer.
Back in the yard, the peacock blocks the gateless entrance to the garden.
You look at him. He looks at you.
Then he steps forward and unfurls his hundred eyes.
You scamper back into the house.
‘What is it?’
‘That big peacock is out there!’
Without a word, Granny steps out. Lifts the yard-brush and shoos him away. ‘There ye go, Son. Bloomin’ nuisance that peacock.’
Down at the new fence, Granda contemplates the sky. It isn’t long before you are finishing up the final planks. Spirit-levelling. Hammering.
You both stand back to admire the work.
‘Good. He can crap in his own garden from now on.’
Ducks quack through the hedge. Victor’s lawnmower hums the grass. You step onto a stack of spare timber, catch Victor’s head bobbing up and down. ‘What happened his leg?’
‘Whose leg?’
‘Victor. Ya know, his limp?’
Granda pauses for a moment. Lowers his voice. ‘He was born with one small foot. Wears this little black boot. Mind ye, doesn’t stop him doin’ anythin’. Do ye know, he nearly ended up workin’ for NASA?’
‘Right?’
‘This was years ago, mind ye. Got offered a job, was gettin’ ready to move to the States, when Winnie got pregnant. So they ended up stayin’. Victor’s got brains to burn. Smartest man I know.’
‘Uh-huh.’
You try imagining what Victor’s little black boot might look like, and then it is heading for six o’clock, nearly time for the pigeons to return.
Granda sets a handful of seed beside the timing clock. Summer evening. Sky cloudless blue.
He sits on the low wooden bench by the living room window, wrinkles around his eyes all smiling. You are about to sit too, when suddenly, he is on his feet.
‘Here he comes!’ Granda checks his watch. ‘Five forty-five! Ha ha! We’ve won for sure, by a country bloody mile we’ve won!’
The pigeon flies along the tree line at the bottom of the terraced gardens, then turns for Granda’s house and swoops in to land on the shed roof.
‘Here ye go, Arnold. Here ye go!’ Granda lifts some seed in his hand. Makes a kissing noise. ‘Just have to clock him and we’ve won. Three thousand quid!’ He rattles the seed in his hand. ‘Come on. Here ye go!’
It is then that the pigeon, instead of coming to Granda, flaps up onto the roof guttering of the house, where he stands cooing.
Granda rechecks his watch. Tosses seed onto the ground. ‘Here ye go! Here ye go!’ He makes lots of kissing noises now.
‘What’s he doin’ Granda?’
‘Just wait will ye, just wait.’
Granda makes a face I’ve never seen before. Starts pacing the yard, looking up at the bird. ‘What’re ye doin’ up there? Arnold, would ye come down to get clocked?’
The pigeon lifts a wing. Pokes underneath it with his beak.
‘I don’t believe it.’ Granda throws his hands up. ‘Won by a country mile and that’s where he sits.’ He checks his watch. Clasps a hand over it. ‘If he doesn’t come down in the next two or three minutes, we’re not gonna win this.’
‘Here boy! Come on boy!’ You try the kissing noise.
‘He’s not a dog. Ye can’t call him like a dog.’ He pushes his chin out. Eyes widen.
Victor sets the hatchet onto the hedge then. ‘Thanks, Jimmy.’ Pauses. ‘How’s the race goin’?’
‘The winner’s up there and won’t come down.’ Granda points. A strand of grey hair flops down into his eyeline.
‘Hold on, I might have somethin’.’ Victor hobbles to his shed, emerges with a yard-brush, but with an extra length of pole secured to it. ‘I use this for cleanin’ ma top windows. It might reach him if you go up the ladder?’
‘Huh! I’ll not be swingin’ that. Do ye wanna kill my prize pigeon!’
Victor shrugs. Heads inside.
You wait then. Granda runs a comb through his hair. Looks inside the timing clock on the coal bunker. Stares at Arnold, still on the roof.
‘Here come two more!’
They shoot along the tree line, cut left, and over to land on the coal bunker for some seed. Granda lifts them swiftly, clocking each leg ring into the machine. Checks his watch again. Shakes his head. ‘Too late for a prize.’
You both look up. Arnold still on the guttering.
Granny steps out the back door. Smiling. ‘Well?’
‘Arnold’s up on the roof and won’t come down!’ you say, pointing.
‘And what about the other ones?’ She looks at you, hopeful, then Granda.
‘No good.’
‘Ach, I’m sorry, love. I’ll stick the kettle on.’
It doesn’t take long until all pigeons have returned, been clocked, and are nestled back inside their shed. Before going into the house, Granda takes out his brown wallet and hands you a tenner.
‘Thanks for yer help today, Son.’
‘No problem, Granda.’ You smile, fold the note. Slide it into your pocket. Maybe this means you are old enough to need your own wallet…
At the small kitchen table, you sit down to dinner and watch dusk fall slowly into the pink sky.
Granny has made pavlova for dessert, with crumbled flake on top, and as you eat it, you find yourself studying framed certificates hung on the wall with Granda’s name and a picture of a pigeon on each. Two second-place finishes. A fourth-place. Then an empty space with a nail waiting for its frame.
You clear the plate. Sit back and pat your stomach. ‘I’m bustin’. That was lovely, Granny.’
‘Glad you enjoyed it, Son.’
Granda doesn’t say anything. Looks lost inside himself. Gets up and goes out into the yard.
Granny makes the face people do when they feel sorry for someone, an expression you have seen countless times since your dad.
She tilts her head as if to say, go after him.
And you do.
It is cooler now. Light almost gone. Granda sits on the wooden bench by the living room window, sucking on his pipe. The red glow of it like an angry eye.
Suddenly, a flutter. And down comes Arnold the pigeon onto the coal bunker. Granda steps forward then. Grabs him by the head and before you can ask what he’s doing, swings it fiercely in a circular motion, walks over to the bin and tosses the bird in.
‘Right, Son. Let me get the car keys, and I’ll take ye home.’
‘Okay, Granda.’
Jamie Guiney’s short story collection The Wooden Hill was published by époque press and is available here.
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(Photo: General Views/flickr.com/ CC BY 2.0)
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