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Authors: Colm Tóibín
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it,’ he began again, joining his hands in front of him like a man being interviewed on television, ‘is that I don’t have all day. Now I have three cheques with your signature on them out there somewhere, and they might seem for small amounts to you, but those amounts are not small to us. However, we will honour them too. And that’s the end, no more cheques. And instead of cheques, what I’d like to see are repayments every month on the dot without fail. That’s the sort of business I run.’
He opened a drawer in his desk and found a diary or an address book, he put it in front of him and flicked throughit. He became absorbed in it for several minutes before he looked up at her.
‘Do you get me, Mrs Sheridan, do you get me?’
It did not occur to her to cry, but later she wondered if she had broken down at this point and become the stricken widow whether he would have stood up and comforted her and suggested a more lenient policy. Instead, she became more aggressive.
‘So I go now, is that right?’ she asked.
‘Well, if you don’t mind,’ he said, his Cork accent suddenly sounding pronounced.
S HE WENT HOME and wrote down the names of all her suppliers, deciding which of them was most likely to tolerate late payment, and which of them she most needed to continue supplies. She marked them in order of priority. She thought first of opening another bank account in Bunclody or Wexford, and getting a chequebook from them and cashing her cheques there. But it occurred to her that all these bank managers would be in cahoots; they would know what she was trying to do. Instead, she took fifty pounds from the cash register the following day and, leaving Catherine in the shop, she drove to Wexford, walked into the Munster and Leinster Bank and asked for a bank draft for fifty pounds in favour of Erin Creamery, her milk supplier. The assistant made out the draft without asking any questions, charging her two pounds extra. She went home and posted the draft to the creamery. This, she thought, would keep them quiet for a while.
She waited for days to see if she would catch a glimpseof Betty Farrell from the Croppy Inn wandering past her window. Or if she would meet her in the square. Betty had come to her several times at the cash register when there was no one in the shop and held her hand and looked into her eyes and told her that if she ever needed anything, she was just to ask. Nancy had thought of it as a kind way of expressing sympathy, but she had been struck, nonetheless, by Betty’s saying the same thing each time.
In the end she phoned her and arranged that she would call into Farrells’ at the end of business the following day.
She was surprised, when Betty answered the door, by her clothes, and wondered if she had specially dressed up because she knew Nancy was visiting. She was wearing a thin loose woollen suit in a sort of light purple colour that Betty had never seen before. And when Betty led her upstairs to the floor over the pub she was surprised by the largeness of the two rooms with interconnecting doors, and the newness and brightness of everything. There was a tray on a side table with china.
‘You sit down there now, Nancy,’ Betty said, ‘and I’ll go and wet the tea.’
Nancy had never been upstairs in this house before. She knew Betty from the street or the square or the cathedral or whist drives. She had known Jim, Betty’s husband, all her life, but Betty was not, she knew, from the town. As Nancy looked around, she noticed that the rug on the floor was faded, yet the fading seemed to have added to the richness. The wallpaper was the same; it looked old and faded without looking shabby, and this meant, she thought, that it was new and had cost money.
‘I put my foot down, Nancy,’ Betty said when the teawas poured. ‘I said to Jim: “We’re doing up this house, or we’re building out the country where no one will know our business.” But sure Jim was born here and
He opened a drawer in his desk and found a diary or an address book, he put it in front of him and flicked throughit. He became absorbed in it for several minutes before he looked up at her.
‘Do you get me, Mrs Sheridan, do you get me?’
It did not occur to her to cry, but later she wondered if she had broken down at this point and become the stricken widow whether he would have stood up and comforted her and suggested a more lenient policy. Instead, she became more aggressive.
‘So I go now, is that right?’ she asked.
‘Well, if you don’t mind,’ he said, his Cork accent suddenly sounding pronounced.
S HE WENT HOME and wrote down the names of all her suppliers, deciding which of them was most likely to tolerate late payment, and which of them she most needed to continue supplies. She marked them in order of priority. She thought first of opening another bank account in Bunclody or Wexford, and getting a chequebook from them and cashing her cheques there. But it occurred to her that all these bank managers would be in cahoots; they would know what she was trying to do. Instead, she took fifty pounds from the cash register the following day and, leaving Catherine in the shop, she drove to Wexford, walked into the Munster and Leinster Bank and asked for a bank draft for fifty pounds in favour of Erin Creamery, her milk supplier. The assistant made out the draft without asking any questions, charging her two pounds extra. She went home and posted the draft to the creamery. This, she thought, would keep them quiet for a while.
She waited for days to see if she would catch a glimpseof Betty Farrell from the Croppy Inn wandering past her window. Or if she would meet her in the square. Betty had come to her several times at the cash register when there was no one in the shop and held her hand and looked into her eyes and told her that if she ever needed anything, she was just to ask. Nancy had thought of it as a kind way of expressing sympathy, but she had been struck, nonetheless, by Betty’s saying the same thing each time.
In the end she phoned her and arranged that she would call into Farrells’ at the end of business the following day.
She was surprised, when Betty answered the door, by her clothes, and wondered if she had specially dressed up because she knew Nancy was visiting. She was wearing a thin loose woollen suit in a sort of light purple colour that Betty had never seen before. And when Betty led her upstairs to the floor over the pub she was surprised by the largeness of the two rooms with interconnecting doors, and the newness and brightness of everything. There was a tray on a side table with china.
‘You sit down there now, Nancy,’ Betty said, ‘and I’ll go and wet the tea.’
Nancy had never been upstairs in this house before. She knew Betty from the street or the square or the cathedral or whist drives. She had known Jim, Betty’s husband, all her life, but Betty was not, she knew, from the town. As Nancy looked around, she noticed that the rug on the floor was faded, yet the fading seemed to have added to the richness. The wallpaper was the same; it looked old and faded without looking shabby, and this meant, she thought, that it was new and had cost money.
‘I put my foot down, Nancy,’ Betty said when the teawas poured. ‘I said to Jim: “We’re doing up this house, or we’re building out the country where no one will know our business.” But sure Jim was born here and
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