The guys are scrupulously, methodically providing Rushborough with a normal night out. Dessie Duggan is giving out loudly to Con McHugh about something to do with shearing, and Bobby is explaining his mother’s latest blood tests to Francie, who doesn’t appear to have registered that he’s there. None of them have dressed up for the occasion. Bobby has washed till he’s even pinker and shinier than usual, and Con has flattened down his unruly dark hair, or else his wife has, but they’re all in their work clothes—except Mart, who has given free rein to his sense of the artistic and is wearing a flat tweed cap, a threadbare grandfather shirt, and a hairy brown waistcoat that Cal had no idea he even owned. He could do with a clay pipe, but apart from that, he’s a tourist board’s dream.
Mart and Senan are sitting next to each other so they can argue more conveniently. “That hat,” Senan is telling Mart, in the voice of a man repeating himself for the last time, “is no loss to you or anyone. You oughta be thanking God it’s gone. Say there was a news reporter here, and he caught that yoke on camera—”
“What the hell would a news reporter be doing here?” Mart demands.
“A report about…” Senan lowers his voice a notch and tilts his head at the fair-haired guy. “That, sure. And say he put you on the telly, wearing that yoke. This town’d be the laughingstock of the country. The world, even. It’d go viral on YouTube.”
“Because the rest of ye are a shower of fashion icons, is it? Linda Evangelista wore that there polo shirt on the catwalk? That hat of mine had more panache than anything you’ve ever been next nor near. If that news reporter ever arrives, I know what you’ll be wearing to greet him.”
“I wouldn’t wear that fuckin’ offense against nature for—”
“You’re both beautiful,” Cal says. “How’s it going?”
“Ah, ’tis yourself!” Mart says with delight, raising his pint high to Cal. “Shift over there, Bobby, and make room for the big fella. Senan oughta thank you, Sunny Jim; I was working on him to give me my hat back, but now that’ll have to wait. Mr. Rushborough!”
Rushborough turns from laughing with Sonny, and Cal gets his first good look at the guy. He’s somewhere in his forties, probably, with the kind of thin, smooth, pale face that’s impossible to pin down any closer. Everything about him is smooth: his ears lie close against his head, his hair is slicked down neatly, his shirt falls cleanly with no bulges, and his light eyes are set flat in his face.
“Let me introduce you to Mr. Cal Hooper,” Mart says, “my neighbor. Cal’s the man that lives in between myself and P.J. over there.”
Johnny Reddy is a couple of seats down from Rushborough, in conversation with P.J. He doesn’t look one bit pleased to see Cal sitting his ass down among them. Cal gives him a big friendly smile.
“A pleasure to meet you,” Rushborough says, leaning across the table to shake Cal’s hand. Even his voice is smooth and flat, what Cal would consider fancy-type English. Against the rich sway and roll of the Ardnakelty accents all around, it’s jarring enough to feel like a deliberate challenge.
“Likewise,” Cal says. “I hear your people come from round here.”
“They do, yes. In a way I’ve always considered it my real home, but I’ve never managed to find the time to visit before.”
“Well, better late than never,” Cal says. “What do you think of it now that you’re here?”
“I haven’t had a chance to explore properly yet, but what I’ve seen is really stunning. And these chaps have been giving me a wonderful welcome.” He has a rich man’s smile, easy and understated, the smile of a man who isn’t required to put in effort. “Honestly, it’s a better homecoming than I ever dreamed of.”
“Good to hear,” Cal says. “How long are you planning to stay?”
“Oh, at least a few weeks. No point in doing things by halves. Possibly more; it all depends.” He cocks his head. His pale eyes are measuring Cal up, working fast and competently. “You’re American, aren’t you? Do you have heritage here as well?”
“Nope,” Cal says. “Just liked the look of the place.”
“Clearly a man of excellent taste,” Rushborough says, laughing. “I’m sure we’ll speak again,” and he nods to Cal and goes back to his conversation with Sonny. His eyes stay on Cal for one second too long, before he turns away.
“He’s my third cousin,” Bobby says, round-eyed, pointing at Rushborough. “Didja know that?”
“I heard his grandma was a Feeney,” Cal says. “I figured you’d be related somehow.”
“You wouldn’t know it to look at us,” Bobby says a little wistfully. “He’s better looking than I am. I’d say he does great with the women.” He tugs down his shirtfront, trying to live up to his new standards. “I never woulda thought I had a rich cousin. All my cousins are farmers, sure.”
“If this works out,” Johnny says in an undertone, grinning over his shoulder, “you’ll be the rich cousin.” Cal has already noticed that Johnny, while giving P.J. his total flattering attention, is keeping sharp track of every other conversation in the alcove.
