surprise as a shock. Already I have seen the signs: the shampoo for head lice in the chemist’s shop, the fine-tooth combs. In the gift gallery there are copy books stacked high and different coloured biros, rulers, mechanical drawing sets. In the hardware, the lunchboxes and satchels and hurling sticks are left out front, where the women can see them.
We come home and take soup, dipping our bread, breaking it, slurping a little, now that we know each other. Afterwards, I follow Kinsella out to the hayshed where he makes me promise not to look while he is welding. I am following him around today, I realise, but I cannot help it.It is past the time for the post to come but he does not suggest I fetch it until evening, until the cows are milked and the milking parlour is swept and scrubbed.
‘I think it’s time,’ he says, washing his boots with the hose.
I get into position, using the front step as a starting block. Kinsella looks at the watch and slices the air with his hand. I take off, down the yard, the lane, make a tight corner, open the box, reach for the letters, and race back to the step, knowing my time was not as fast as yesterday’s.
‘Nineteen seconds faster than your first run,’ Kinsella says. ‘And a two-second improvement on yesterday, despite the heavy ground. It’s like the wind, you are.’
He takes the letters and goes through them, but today, instead of making jokes about what’s inside of each, he pauses.
‘Is that from Mammy?’
‘You know,’ he says, ‘I think it could be.’
‘Do I have to go home?’
‘Well, it’s addressed to Edna so why don’t we give it in to her and let her read it.’
We go into the parlour where she is sitting with her feet up, looking through a book of knitting patterns. There’s a coal fire in the grate, and little plumes of black smoke sliding back down into the room.
‘This chimney, we never got it cleaned, John. I’m sure there must be a crow’s nest in it.’
Kinsella slides the letter onto her lap, over what she is reading. She sits up, opens the letter and reads it. It’s one small sheet with writing on both sides. She puts it down then picks it up and reads it again.
‘Well,’ she says, ‘you have a new brother. Nine pounds, two ounces.’
‘Great,’ I say.
‘Don’t be like that,’ Kinsella says.
‘What?’ I say.
‘And school starts on Monday,’ she says. ‘Your mother has asked us to leave you up at the weekend so she can get you togged out and all.’
‘I have to go back then?’
‘Aye,’ she says. ‘But sure didn’t you know that?’
I nod and look at the page in her lap.
‘You couldn’t stay here forever with us two old forgeries.’
I stand there and stare at the fire, trying not to cry. It is a long time since I have done this and, in doing it, remember that it is the worst thing you can possibly do. I don’t so much hear as feel Kinsella leaving the room.
‘Don’t upset yourself,’ the woman says. ‘Come over here.’
She shows me pages with knitted jumpers and asks me which pattern I like best, but all the patterns seem to blur together and I just point to one, a blue one, which looks like it might be easy.
‘Well, you would pick the hardest one in the book,’ she says. ‘I’d better get started on that this week or you’ll be too big for it by the time it’s knitted.’
7
Now that I know I must go home, I almost want to go, to get it over with. I wake earlier than usual and look out at the wet fields, the dripping trees, the hills, which seem greener than they did when I came. I think back to this time and it seems so long ago, when I used to wet the bed and worry about breaking things. Kinsella hangs around all day doing things but not really finishing anything. He says he has no discs for his angle grinder, no welding rods, and he cannot find the vice grip. He says he got so many jobs done in the long stretch of fine weather that there’s little left to do.
We are out looking
We come home and take soup, dipping our bread, breaking it, slurping a little, now that we know each other. Afterwards, I follow Kinsella out to the hayshed where he makes me promise not to look while he is welding. I am following him around today, I realise, but I cannot help it.It is past the time for the post to come but he does not suggest I fetch it until evening, until the cows are milked and the milking parlour is swept and scrubbed.
‘I think it’s time,’ he says, washing his boots with the hose.
I get into position, using the front step as a starting block. Kinsella looks at the watch and slices the air with his hand. I take off, down the yard, the lane, make a tight corner, open the box, reach for the letters, and race back to the step, knowing my time was not as fast as yesterday’s.
‘Nineteen seconds faster than your first run,’ Kinsella says. ‘And a two-second improvement on yesterday, despite the heavy ground. It’s like the wind, you are.’
He takes the letters and goes through them, but today, instead of making jokes about what’s inside of each, he pauses.
‘Is that from Mammy?’
‘You know,’ he says, ‘I think it could be.’
‘Do I have to go home?’
‘Well, it’s addressed to Edna so why don’t we give it in to her and let her read it.’
We go into the parlour where she is sitting with her feet up, looking through a book of knitting patterns. There’s a coal fire in the grate, and little plumes of black smoke sliding back down into the room.
‘This chimney, we never got it cleaned, John. I’m sure there must be a crow’s nest in it.’
Kinsella slides the letter onto her lap, over what she is reading. She sits up, opens the letter and reads it. It’s one small sheet with writing on both sides. She puts it down then picks it up and reads it again.
‘Well,’ she says, ‘you have a new brother. Nine pounds, two ounces.’
‘Great,’ I say.
‘Don’t be like that,’ Kinsella says.
‘What?’ I say.
‘And school starts on Monday,’ she says. ‘Your mother has asked us to leave you up at the weekend so she can get you togged out and all.’
‘I have to go back then?’
‘Aye,’ she says. ‘But sure didn’t you know that?’
I nod and look at the page in her lap.
‘You couldn’t stay here forever with us two old forgeries.’
I stand there and stare at the fire, trying not to cry. It is a long time since I have done this and, in doing it, remember that it is the worst thing you can possibly do. I don’t so much hear as feel Kinsella leaving the room.
‘Don’t upset yourself,’ the woman says. ‘Come over here.’
She shows me pages with knitted jumpers and asks me which pattern I like best, but all the patterns seem to blur together and I just point to one, a blue one, which looks like it might be easy.
‘Well, you would pick the hardest one in the book,’ she says. ‘I’d better get started on that this week or you’ll be too big for it by the time it’s knitted.’
7
Now that I know I must go home, I almost want to go, to get it over with. I wake earlier than usual and look out at the wet fields, the dripping trees, the hills, which seem greener than they did when I came. I think back to this time and it seems so long ago, when I used to wet the bed and worry about breaking things. Kinsella hangs around all day doing things but not really finishing anything. He says he has no discs for his angle grinder, no welding rods, and he cannot find the vice grip. He says he got so many jobs done in the long stretch of fine weather that there’s little left to do.
We are out looking
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