Read Online The Temporary Gentleman by Sebastian Barry - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sebastian Barry
Ads: Link
door under me. I knew it, I knew it, I was going to lose her. My confidence ludicrously misplaced. Her vulnerability laughably misdiagnosed.
‘Alright,’ she said.
Like a jolt of electricity.
‘I’m sorry if I seem sad,’ she said, looking at me, smiling, ‘I can’t seem to help it. You’re so kind to me, Jack. And I do love you.’
‘April then,’ I said, laughing.
‘April,’ she said.
‘Marry for love,’ Pappy used to say when we were children, ‘or you’ll live your life on Standalone Point and be buried in Melancholy Lane.’ These were actual places in Sligo, one a sandy spit jutting out onto the sloblands of the Garvoge river, the other somewhere in the eastern end of town.
Chapter Eight
Just as night fell, I had two visitors, an officer and a constable of the transitional police force – so, I suppose, in being between two things, suitable people to appear in the twilight. One was a whiteman, sweating profusely, but a handsome individual all the same, the other one of those very severe-looking, very dark-skinned lads, mostly Nigerians, that dominate the rank and file. Just like in the old days in Ireland, when Eneas would be posted anywhere but his native Sligo, they prefer to have strangers policing strangers, because a local man will have too many ties among his own people.
The ‘new’ police don’t have a particularly good name in Accra, certainly not in Tom Quaye’s reckoning, and indeed he was just leaving as they arrived, and I watched the three of them from the porch window, talking for a few moments on the dry dust of the compound, Tom’s attitude and angle of body speaking eloquently of reluctance and fear.
The black constable at any rate was plain and forthright in his roughness and hostility, and it appeared Tom was now obliged to return to the house in their company, because in he came, quite apologetically, trailing the policemen.
‘These two men are here talking to you, major,’ he said.
‘Well,’ I said.
The white officer strode in just as a visiting friend might, at his ease, master of the moment. He enjoyed the rank of inspector, to judge by his cap insignia.
‘McNulty?’ he said. ‘J. C. McNulty?’
‘That’s right,’ I said.
‘A few questions, if I may,’ he said. I was thinking his accent was Irish, but North of the border, Belfast maybe.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Will I ask Tom to make some tea for us?’
The inspector didn’t look at his constable but declined for both of them. He waved me into one of my own cane chairs, then seated himself opposite on the chair I usually reserve for my feet. The constable stayed looming where he was, and Tom hovered at the door, hoping for a quick dismissal.
‘So what brings you to see me, inspector?’ I said.
Before the inspector could answer, the constable suddenly spoke very fast and confidently to Tom in what must have been Hausa, not Ewe at any rate. Tom replied with one brief syllable, which might have been yes or no, I couldn’t say.
‘The constable is just establishing that your houseboy was in your company when the fracas occurred,’ said the inspector. He had shaved with perfect meticulousness except for a miniature moustache just under his nostrils where the razor hadn’t been able to reach, due to the overhang of his nose.
‘What fracas?’
‘The fracas which occurred in Osu on Friday night.’
‘I don’t honestly recall any fracas,’ I said.
‘Perhaps you recall that a man, Kofi Genfi, was injured?’
‘No.’ I was genuinely surprised, but at the same time, playing back through my muddled memories of the evening, there did seem to be some mysterious elements floating about, such as me being sat on, or something of the kind. And then there was the equally vague memory of my amorousness.
‘We are questioning everyone who attended, but in particular the group you were in. You caused quite a stir apparently. Are you in the habit of going dancing with your
‘Alright,’ she said.
Like a jolt of electricity.
‘I’m sorry if I seem sad,’ she said, looking at me, smiling, ‘I can’t seem to help it. You’re so kind to me, Jack. And I do love you.’
‘April then,’ I said, laughing.
‘April,’ she said.
‘Marry for love,’ Pappy used to say when we were children, ‘or you’ll live your life on Standalone Point and be buried in Melancholy Lane.’ These were actual places in Sligo, one a sandy spit jutting out onto the sloblands of the Garvoge river, the other somewhere in the eastern end of town.
Chapter Eight
Just as night fell, I had two visitors, an officer and a constable of the transitional police force – so, I suppose, in being between two things, suitable people to appear in the twilight. One was a whiteman, sweating profusely, but a handsome individual all the same, the other one of those very severe-looking, very dark-skinned lads, mostly Nigerians, that dominate the rank and file. Just like in the old days in Ireland, when Eneas would be posted anywhere but his native Sligo, they prefer to have strangers policing strangers, because a local man will have too many ties among his own people.
The ‘new’ police don’t have a particularly good name in Accra, certainly not in Tom Quaye’s reckoning, and indeed he was just leaving as they arrived, and I watched the three of them from the porch window, talking for a few moments on the dry dust of the compound, Tom’s attitude and angle of body speaking eloquently of reluctance and fear.
The black constable at any rate was plain and forthright in his roughness and hostility, and it appeared Tom was now obliged to return to the house in their company, because in he came, quite apologetically, trailing the policemen.
‘These two men are here talking to you, major,’ he said.
‘Well,’ I said.
The white officer strode in just as a visiting friend might, at his ease, master of the moment. He enjoyed the rank of inspector, to judge by his cap insignia.
‘McNulty?’ he said. ‘J. C. McNulty?’
‘That’s right,’ I said.
‘A few questions, if I may,’ he said. I was thinking his accent was Irish, but North of the border, Belfast maybe.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Will I ask Tom to make some tea for us?’
The inspector didn’t look at his constable but declined for both of them. He waved me into one of my own cane chairs, then seated himself opposite on the chair I usually reserve for my feet. The constable stayed looming where he was, and Tom hovered at the door, hoping for a quick dismissal.
‘So what brings you to see me, inspector?’ I said.
Before the inspector could answer, the constable suddenly spoke very fast and confidently to Tom in what must have been Hausa, not Ewe at any rate. Tom replied with one brief syllable, which might have been yes or no, I couldn’t say.
‘The constable is just establishing that your houseboy was in your company when the fracas occurred,’ said the inspector. He had shaved with perfect meticulousness except for a miniature moustache just under his nostrils where the razor hadn’t been able to reach, due to the overhang of his nose.
‘What fracas?’
‘The fracas which occurred in Osu on Friday night.’
‘I don’t honestly recall any fracas,’ I said.
‘Perhaps you recall that a man, Kofi Genfi, was injured?’
‘No.’ I was genuinely surprised, but at the same time, playing back through my muddled memories of the evening, there did seem to be some mysterious elements floating about, such as me being sat on, or something of the kind. And then there was the equally vague memory of my amorousness.
‘We are questioning everyone who attended, but in particular the group you were in. You caused quite a stir apparently. Are you in the habit of going dancing with your
Similar Books
