“I suppose,” Noreen concedes, throwing her one more suspicious glance and turning to get the cigarettes. “Cal’d malavogue you if he smelled smoke off you. Remember that.”
“Yeah,” Trey says. She wants to leave.
“Come here to me,
Trey leaves Noreen to ring up the shopping and goes to him. Tom Pat takes hold of her wrist, to bend her down so he can see her—his eyes are filmed over. He smells like a hot shed.
“You’re the spit of your daddo,” he tells her. “Your mammy’s daddy. He was a fine man.”
“Yeah,” Trey says. “Thanks.” Her granddad died before she was born. Her mam doesn’t talk about him much.
“Tell me something, now,” Tom Pat says. “Yourself and that Yankee fella up at O’Shea’s place. Do ye ever make rocking chairs?”
“Sometimes,” Trey says.
“I fancy a rocking chair,” Tom Pat explains, “for in front of the fire, in the winter. I do be thinking about the winter an awful lot, these days, to keep myself cool. Would ye ever make me one? A small one, now, so these little legs of mine can touch the ground.”
“Yeah,” Trey says. “Sure.” She says yes to just about any work that comes their way. She’s aware that, for government reasons she doesn’t understand and doesn’t care about, Cal isn’t allowed to get a job here. One of her fears is that he won’t make enough money to live on and he’ll have to move back to America.
“Good girl yourself,” Tom Pat says, smiling up at her. His few teeth look as big as horses’ teeth in his fallen mouth. “Ye’ll have to come down to me, now, to sort the ins and outs of it. I can’t see to drive any more.”
“I’ll say it to Cal,” Trey says. His hand is still around her wrist, loose bony fingers with a slow tremor shaking them.
“Your daddy’s doing a great thing for all this townland,” Tom Pat tells her. “A thing like this doesn’t stop with a few diggers in a few fields. A few years from now, we won’t know ourselves. And all because of your daddy. Are you proud of him, now?”
Trey says nothing. She can feel silence filling her up like pouring concrete.
“Sure, when did the childer ever appreciate their parents?” Mrs. Cunniffe says with a sigh. “They’ll miss us when we’re gone. But you tell your daddy from me, Theresa, he’s a great man altogether.”
“Listen to me now,
“Yeah,” Trey says. She doesn’t like Brian. He was in Brendan’s class. He used to wind Brendan up till Brendan lost his temper, and then run to the teacher. No one ever believed a Reddy.
“Your man, the Sassenach, he’ll be needing someone to help him go scooping about in that river. Hah? He won’t want to get his fine shoes wet.”
“Dunno,” Trey says.
“Brian’s not a big lad, but he’s strong,” Tom Pat says. “And it’d do him good. All that lad needs is a bitta hard work, to get his head on straight. His mammy’s too soft on him. You say that to your daddy, now.”
“Brian’s not the only one that’ll want that work,” Noreen puts in, unable to stay silent any longer. “There’s plenty of lads around here that’d only love to get a foot in the door there. My Jack’ll be in the pub tomorrow night, now, Theresa. You tell your daddy to introduce him to that English fella.”
“I dunno if he even needs anyone,” Trey says. “I never met him.”
“Don’t be worrying about that. All you’ve to do is say it to your daddy. Can you remember that?”
All of them are focused on Trey with an intensity she’s not used to. Everything feels very weird, like some crap old film where people’s bodies get taken over by aliens. “I’ve to go,” she says, moving her wrist out of Tom Pat’s hand. “My mam needs the dinner.”
“That’ll be thirty-six eighty,” Noreen says, neatly backing off. “Them cigarettes are awful dear. Would your daddy not try the vaping instead? I’ve Dessie on the vape yokes a year now, and he’s off the cigarettes altogether—don’t be giving me that look, I know what he was at last night, I’ve the use of my nose. But mostly.”
The shop bell dings cheerily and Richie Casey comes in, smelling of sheep shite and scraping his boots on the mat. “Fuckin’ roasting,” he says. “The sheep’ll be coming up and begging to be sheared, if the wool doesn’t melt offa them first. How’s it going, Theresa? How’s your daddy?”
Richie Casey has never said a word to Trey before in her life. “Grand,” she says, shoving her change into her pocket, and escapes before anyone can get even weirder.
It takes her most of the walk up the mountain to get her head clear and understand what’s happening. All these people want something from her. They need her help, the same way her dad needed her help last night.
