I walked down to the square. Tam was on
the corner, leaning against his barrow and affecting the worst Irish accent I
had ever heard:
‘Get yer loovely
toilet paper here – all de way from ould Doublin!’
‘All right,
Tam?’
He ignored me.
Someone had just picked up a sample. The transaction was completed, much to
Tam’s delight.
‘What’s with the
brogue?’ I said.
‘Ever seen green
bog roll?’ he said. ‘Course ye have. This lot, however, haven’t. Call it a
Celtic sales pitch.’
‘But they can’t
speak English,’ I reminded him.
He jingled the
coins in his hand. ‘Away wichi!’ he said. ‘Dey loove de ould blarney.
Interested?’
We still had
half a family pack at the flat. I was about to explain this when my attention
was seized by the sight of two men in leather caps pushing a barrow, larger than
Tam’s, into the square. They took a furtive look round, parked and carefully
removed the tarpaulin that was covering their wares.
‘Now there’s
something ye don’t see every day,’ said Tam, and scratched his head through
tartan.
A periscope was
lying inside an inflatable dinghy.
‘I hope their
patter’s good,’ he said, and looked at his own merchandise. ‘My stuff’s more
household oriented,’ he added.
I left him to
argue the toss with the competition, who were nudging their barrow closer. Tara
was sipping a gin tonic outside the Astoria. She wasn’t alone. I sat at the
next table and ordered a coffee. Maybe I’d chance a beer later. I’d be staying
off the retsina, though.
‘All right
there, Tara?’ I said. No reaction. I reached over to the old man who was parked
next to her. He was fiddling with the rims on his wheelchair. ‘Pleased to meet
you,’ I said. He mumbled something into his toga and looked at Tara, who patted
his hand.
‘There, there,’
she said. ‘You don’t need to know who it is.’
‘Hnn?’ he said.
The old boy was addled beyond repair. It must have been frustrating for Tara,
who, at fifty, had needs that couldn’t be fulfilled by her husband. She had a fucking big house, though, so maybe
it was worth being married to a cripple.
‘How are things,
Tara?’ I said.
She was still
stroking his hand. ‘Don’t try to ingratiate yourself with me, you cad,’ she
said. ‘You can forget about the exams.’
I had to smile.
Did she really think I was holding out for employment at her bribefest? And I’d
never been called a cad before. It sounded totally ridiculous. ‘I was just
being civil,’ I said. At this point, I lied. ‘I usually stay on speaking terms
with women I’ve...’
‘Oh don’t say
it!’
Her husband
raised his hands quickly to his ears. ‘Hnnnnnnn?!’ he went.
‘Does he speak
English?’ I said.
‘What’s it to
you?’ she said.
‘Thought not,’ I
said. ‘He doesn’t like the sound of raised voices, though, does he?’ He
reminded me of Priam for some reason. Fair enough, here we were in the land of
Homer, and there was, of course, the toga. I felt that he wasn’t as articulate
as he could have been, however. We plumb
the depths of human degradation...
‘Call yourself a
man?’ Tara huffed. She was talking to me, not him.
‘You should be
thanking me,’ I said. Priam leaned forwards until his face was hovering above a
soup plate of brown liquid. He vacuumed froth through a straw.
‘You don’t know
how to satisfy a woman,’ she said, and wiped his chin with a tissue. Again, I
assumed the remark was directed at me. Oh, dear, I thought. It was turning into
one of those conversations. The ones where no holds are barred.
‘I’ve never had
any complaints,’ I said. ‘Lots of moans, though.’
‘I’ve never seen
a smaller one in my life,’ she said.
Oh, please, I
thought. ‘I almost saw your anus,’ I told her.
Priam, with the
straw in his mouth, turned to me and Hnnnnned.
‘Yes,’ I said to
him. ‘Her arse is so flabby I wasn’t sure if it was her bumhole or her belly
button.’
‘Hah!’ he went;
the straw flew out of his mouth and sailed over my shoulder.
This wasn’t me.
It was as if someone was making me say these things. But she was asking for it.
‘You’ll never
work in TEFL again,’ she said, and wiped her eyes with the tissue. ‘I’ll make
sure of that.’
‘Oh, don’t
threaten me,’ I said. ‘Who do you think you are?’
‘You’ll find out
if you ever apply for a job with the Council,’ she said.
Tam threw his
barrow into the bushes. He didn’t bother to chain it up. ‘That’s me fucked,’ he
said, and crashed down into a chair. ‘Ever had a pistol pressed to yer ribs?
Awright there, Stanley?’
‘Ooh, aow’s it
goin’, Tam?’ It was the old man. The accent was more Stoke than Troy. I felt
like a complete idiot. He poked me on the forearm. ‘Aow’s it goin’, shaggah?’
he smiled.
‘Get this,’ said
Tam. ‘That’s the Commies moved in. Tell me this. How’s me selling toilet paper
going to affect sales of Russian Navy knock-off? Eh? Tell me.’
‘Tara,’ I said.
‘I’m sorry if I upset you.’
‘.....’
‘I mean it,’ I
said. ‘I didn’t come here to make enemies. I’ll be gone in a matter of days...’
She wailed into her gin tonic. Stanley gripped my forearm. His knuckles looked
like polished marbles. ‘You want to stop ’ere, lad,’ he said. ‘She likes a
good...you know...’
Tam looked at me
and closed an eye, like a camera shutter.
‘No,
Stanley,’ I said. ‘But I think I know the man to help you out. You’ll be
meeting him shortly.’
