Noreen sighs, wiping sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. “Here was me telling you that you oughta quit your foostering about and marry him, d’you remember? And you got up on your high horse. I nearly gave you a clatter. But now I reckon you were right to ignore me, for once.”
Lena knows she’s not going to like this. She doesn’t like the way Noreen is mincing around it, either. She flattens the urge to whip her apple at Noreen’s permed head.
“Why’s that, now?” she inquires.
Sitting there on the stepladder with her elbows on her knees, twisting her apple stem, Noreen looks tired. Lena feels like everyone she’s seen in days looks tired. Johnny has worn out the lot of them.
“Everyone likes your Cal, now,” Noreen says. “You know that. He’s a lovely fella, a gentleman, and everyone knows it. But if that Nealon goes giving people hassle…”
Lena gets it. “If the wolves get close,” she says, “they’ll have to pick someone to push off the wagon.”
“Ah, for God’s sake, don’t be feckin’ dramatic. No one’s pushing anyone. Just…sure, no one wants to see their cousin or their brother-in-law locked up for murder.”
“They’d rather see a blow-in.”
“Wouldn’t you? If ’twasn’t Cal.”
“There’s plenty of people from here that I’d only love to see locked up,” Lena says. “Is there anyone thick enough that they actually believe he done it? Or are they only saying it outa convenience?”
“What’s it matter? They’re saying it, either way.”
“How many of them?”
Noreen doesn’t look up. She says, “Enough.”
Lena says, “And if Nealon makes a pain in the arse of himself, they’ll say it to him.”
“Not straight out. No one’s going to go accusing Cal of anything. Just…you know yourself.”
Lena does. “Tell us,” she says. “I’m only dying of curiosity. Why did he do it? For the laugh, is it? Or did he think I was after being swept off my feet by Rushborough’s fancy city ways?”
“Ah, Helena, for feck’s sake, don’t be like that. I’m not the one saying it. I said to them, are ye mad, I said, Cal’s no more behind this than I am. I’m only telling you, so you’ll know what you’ve to deal with.”
“And I’m only asking you. Why would Cal go killing Rushborough?”
“I never said he would. But everyone knows he’d do anything for Trey. If Rushborough was one of them perverts, and he laid a finger on her—”
“He didn’t. The man was trouble, all right, but not that kind. Do people not have enough drama on their plates, without adding in more?”
“Maybe you know the man did nothing on her. But the detective doesn’t.”
Lena knows, without having to think about it, exactly how this will unroll. The talk curling its way around the townland will be gradual, aimless, nonspecific; no one will ever say, or even hint, that it would be simplest if Rushborough had been killed by that Yank over in O’Shea’s place, but slowly the thought will thicken and take shape in the air. And down the line, someone will mention to Nealon that she didn’t like the way Rushborough looked at her teenage niece; someone else will drop a bit of praise about how Cal is like a father to Theresa Reddy, fierce protective; someone else will point out that Rushborough, as Johnny’s friend, must have spent time over at the Reddy house; someone else will mention in passing that Sheila, no harm to her, doesn’t look out for that child the way she should. Unlike Johnny, Cal is safe to hand over. He’s lived here long enough to understand that if he squeals to Nealon about the gold, Trey will be in the townland’s bad books right alongside him.
“I know you don’t like getting mixed up in things,” Noreen says. “You think I’m blind, or thick, or I don’t know what, but I’m not. Why d’you think I was so set on you meeting Cal to begin with? I hated seeing you lonely, and I knew you’d never go near a local lad, for fear of getting dragged into all this place’s doings. And now, if people start talking…you know what it’ll be like. You’d hate to be dragged into that.”
“Well,” Lena says, “too late. Me and Cal took your advice; sure, doesn’t everyone around here know you’re always right. We’re going to get married.”
Noreen’s head pops up and she stares. “Are you serious?”
“I am, yeah. That’s what I came down to tell you. D’you reckon I look better in blue or green?”
“You can’t get married in green, it’s unlucky— Mother a God, Helena! I don’t know whether to congratulate you or— When?”
“We haven’t set a date yet,” Lena says. She throws her apple core in the bin and slides down off the counter. She needs to get back to Cal’s and inform him of the news, before someone calls round to congratulate him. “But you can tell all them wee shite-talkers: he’s no blow-in now. Anyone who wants to throw Cal to the wolves will have to throw me as well, and I’m not easy thrown. You tell them that, and make sure they hear you.”
—
