Stratton motors, the McCulloch chainsaw, the ancient spirit level that lived in the workshed beside the dairy, the same bubbly level that caused Scully junior to have ideas of drawing and building. Ah, those things . The old girl thought it was idolatry, but she had a brass thimble she treasured more than her wedding ring.
It wasnât getting things and having them that Scully learnt; it was simply admiring them, getting a charge out of their strange presence.
Scully wiped the windowpane with his sweatered elbow and saw the rhinestone blaze of the frozen fields. Too good a day for working. He couldnât spend another day at it, not while the sun was out. Pete was right, he wasnât seeing anything, buried alive in work. He didnât even know where he was living.
On the kitchen table he began a letter home but he realized that it wouldnât reach them in time. He looked at the little aside he had written to Billie in the margin. Even if I fall off the world, Billie Ann Scully, I will still love you from Space.
He smiled. Yes.
â¢Â  â¢Â  â¢
T HAT MORNING HE DROVE INTO birr and organised his banking. He had a cheque made out to Peter Keneally as part payment. He bought a leg of New Zealand lamb and a sprig of rosemary at insane cost. He found oranges from Spain, olives, anchovies, tomatoes, things with the sun still in them. Men and women greeted him as he humped a sack of spuds to the Transit in a light drizzle. He bought an Irish Times and read about themad bastard in Melbourne killing eight in the Australia Post building. Jumped through a plate glass window on the tenth floor. Someone else in Miami, an estranged husband killed his whole family with a ball peen hammer and gassed himself so they could all be together again. Shit, was it just men?
Two kids in fluorescent baseball caps walked by singing. He started the van. Yes, at least they sing here, whatever else happens.
â¢Â  â¢Â  â¢
A LONG THE WINDING LANES HE drove, contained between hedges and walls, swinging into turns hard up against the brambles, skidding mildly on puddles hard as steel, until he came to a tree in the middle of the road, with rags in its stark branches. It stood on a little island of grass where the road had been diverted around it. Scully pulled up alongside and saw the shards of cloth tied here and there, some pale and rotten, others freshly attached. A sad little tree with a road grown around it. It looked quite comical and forlorn. He drove on.
â¢Â  â¢Â  â¢
A T C OOLDERRY HE PULLED UP outside the village school. He got out into the light and stood by the hurling pitch as the bell clanged for lunch. The bleat of children made his heart soar.
A car idled down the hill.
âHow are you, Scully?â
He turned and saw that it was Pete-the-Post with his arm out of the van.
âMe? A bit toey, Iâd say.â
âToey?â
âAnxious, impatient, nervous . . .â
âAntsy, then.â
âNo, toey.â
Pete smiled and turned off the motor. âNot long, son. Two days now, isnât it?â
âHowâs Conor?â
The postman pursed his lips and looked out across the muddy pitch where gangly boys began to mill and surge, their sticks twitching. âAuld Conorâs losing, moment by moment. The drink, as if you didnât know. Itâs the saddest sight to see, Scully, a man lettin his own life slip through his hands.â
Scully scuffed his boots in the gravel. âAny reason for it?â
âAw, too long a story to bother you with. Somethin terrible happened in the family, five or six year ago. Somethin . . . well, somethin terrible. Conorâs the kind of man whoâll not let it be. He never mentions it, of course, never utters a word. But he broods, you know. Thereâs things that have no finish, Scully, no endin to speak of. Thereâs no justice to it, but thatâs the
It wasnât getting things and having them that Scully learnt; it was simply admiring them, getting a charge out of their strange presence.
Scully wiped the windowpane with his sweatered elbow and saw the rhinestone blaze of the frozen fields. Too good a day for working. He couldnât spend another day at it, not while the sun was out. Pete was right, he wasnât seeing anything, buried alive in work. He didnât even know where he was living.
On the kitchen table he began a letter home but he realized that it wouldnât reach them in time. He looked at the little aside he had written to Billie in the margin. Even if I fall off the world, Billie Ann Scully, I will still love you from Space.
He smiled. Yes.
â¢Â  â¢Â  â¢
T HAT MORNING HE DROVE INTO birr and organised his banking. He had a cheque made out to Peter Keneally as part payment. He bought a leg of New Zealand lamb and a sprig of rosemary at insane cost. He found oranges from Spain, olives, anchovies, tomatoes, things with the sun still in them. Men and women greeted him as he humped a sack of spuds to the Transit in a light drizzle. He bought an Irish Times and read about themad bastard in Melbourne killing eight in the Australia Post building. Jumped through a plate glass window on the tenth floor. Someone else in Miami, an estranged husband killed his whole family with a ball peen hammer and gassed himself so they could all be together again. Shit, was it just men?
Two kids in fluorescent baseball caps walked by singing. He started the van. Yes, at least they sing here, whatever else happens.
â¢Â  â¢Â  â¢
A LONG THE WINDING LANES HE drove, contained between hedges and walls, swinging into turns hard up against the brambles, skidding mildly on puddles hard as steel, until he came to a tree in the middle of the road, with rags in its stark branches. It stood on a little island of grass where the road had been diverted around it. Scully pulled up alongside and saw the shards of cloth tied here and there, some pale and rotten, others freshly attached. A sad little tree with a road grown around it. It looked quite comical and forlorn. He drove on.
â¢Â  â¢Â  â¢
A T C OOLDERRY HE PULLED UP outside the village school. He got out into the light and stood by the hurling pitch as the bell clanged for lunch. The bleat of children made his heart soar.
A car idled down the hill.
âHow are you, Scully?â
He turned and saw that it was Pete-the-Post with his arm out of the van.
âMe? A bit toey, Iâd say.â
âToey?â
âAnxious, impatient, nervous . . .â
âAntsy, then.â
âNo, toey.â
Pete smiled and turned off the motor. âNot long, son. Two days now, isnât it?â
âHowâs Conor?â
The postman pursed his lips and looked out across the muddy pitch where gangly boys began to mill and surge, their sticks twitching. âAuld Conorâs losing, moment by moment. The drink, as if you didnât know. Itâs the saddest sight to see, Scully, a man lettin his own life slip through his hands.â
Scully scuffed his boots in the gravel. âAny reason for it?â
âAw, too long a story to bother you with. Somethin terrible happened in the family, five or six year ago. Somethin . . . well, somethin terrible. Conorâs the kind of man whoâll not let it be. He never mentions it, of course, never utters a word. But he broods, you know. Thereâs things that have no finish, Scully, no endin to speak of. Thereâs no justice to it, but thatâs the
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