A Bolt from the Blue

It started yesterday evening and it’s still coming down. Snow. There’s a carpet of the stuff as far as you can see. Huge flakes swirl in the wind. ’Course, now we’re into January, the odd frosty morning is no surprise. Even hailstone showers are ten a penny, especially the ones that clatter into your windows like handfuls of gravel and wake you up in the middle of the night. But real snow is something else. Real snow means snowmen and sledges. Round here, we don’t get real snow. Until now.

​

Anyway, I’m in the solicitor’s office staring out of the window. You’d think we were living in Siberia. Cars are crawling along, their drivers wondering where the roadside ends and the pavement begins. I hear the door open behind me.

 

‘I’m sorry for keeping you waiting. Thank you for coming in, Mr. Spillane.’

 

No mention of the weather. Amazing. He introduces himself and holds out a hand, so I shake it. A lot of folk don’t like to touch anymore what with the pandemic, but I don’t mind. I always think that a hand-shake tells you a bit about the person on the other end.

 

He’s German is Mr.Wagner. Erik Wagner. I don’t know what it is about the Germans, they just seem to be good at stuff, don’t they? Well, making cars and speaking English anyway. Whether or not Mr Wagner has any interest in car manufacturing, I couldn’t say, but his English is tasty. There’s a bit of an accent, but not so you’d notice.

 

‘The Doc … sorry, I mean Dr. Ryan,’ I say. ‘He said in the letter to contact you.’

 

‘Of course. Doctor Ryan was a client of my father’s before I took over the practice. We go back a long way. Please, sit. Will I call you Mally?’

​

‘No bother at all.’

 

‘Forgive me for coming straight to the point, Mally, but Dr. Ryan’s last will and testament contains a provision for you to inherit part of his estate. This provision was inserted quite recently.’

 

Talk about a bolt from the blue.

 

‘He wished you to have the gatehouse cottage. A parcel of land adjacent to it amounting to some three acres is also included. Were you aware of this?’

 

‘Jaysus, no,’ I stammer.

 

He smiles, a bit on the thin side.

 

‘The remainder of his effects, including the main house and gardens, was left to his niece.’ He peers through his glasses at some papers in front of him. ‘She is his only living relative. A Madame Yvonne Dubois. A lady who has lived in France for the last twenty years, it appears. She is Irish but was married to a Frenchman … obviously.’

 

He smiles at this so I suppose he’s trying to be funny, but it’s not really, so I smile back to be polite but with just a flicker.

 

‘At least until his untimely death last year,’ he adds, ditching the smile. ‘I am led to believe that she will be returning to Ireland.’ He says nothing for a few seconds, I’m guessing as a mark of respect to the dead Frenchman but then the smile’s back and he holds it like he’s waiting for me to say something. But I wait for him instead.

 

Eventually the smile fades away and he starts up again.

 

‘Following the change to his will, Dr. Ryan was most eager not to cause any … difficulties? You understand, I hope, Mally.’

 

I don’t reckon I’m being invited to answer even though he pauses for a while, so I say nothing. Instead I just nod seriously.

 

‘Madame Dubois has been informed of the provision in your favour. So far, she has expressed no opinion.’

 

There’s another pause but this time I join the conversation. ‘Is that unusual?’

 

He switches the smile back on. ‘Some inheritors tend to become a little possessive when they have to share something that they weren’t expecting to. It’s human nature, Mally.’

 

‘Yeah, I suppose it is.’

                                                                       ***

 

Annie Flavahan nudges the biscuits away with a half-formed fist. I expect it’s the arthritis that’s made her hands that shape, but she manages OK. Normally, she picks up the mug easily enough with one hand and drinks her tea nice and quietly. Today though, it’s both hands and she slurps a bit.

 

‘I had to  walk  to  Mary Healey’s to  report the lift,’ she says. ‘Nearly an hour it took me in the feckin’ snow. There was no one around to give me a ride back. Mary was on her own and couldn’t leave the shop. I was crippled when I got home.’

 

‘Denny was good to come straight over, wasn’t he?’

 

‘He gets paid to,’ she growls.

 

‘Yeah, but even so, it’s Saturday evening.’

 

I don’t blame her for being grumpy. It’s not as if she can use the stairs, not with the zimmer frame. Fair play though, you don’t get a lot of vandalism round here. Even the lift seems more like a bad joke than something really nasty. Some eejit had painted the buttons on the panel with model glue. Luckily, Denny had a spare unit in his van and had things back working in no time.

 

‘I’ve a mind to call the guards. I know who did it. It was that little fecker, Brian.’

 

‘Jaysus, Annie, you need to be sure of your ground before you start mentioning names.’

 

‘Little fecker Brian, little fecker Brian.’

 

It’s Walter, Annie’s budgeriar. He’s a grand talker, alright. His cage is on the sideboard next to the telly and he often chirps away with stuff he’s heard on the box. ’Course, if he hears something he likes from Annie, he’s straight out with it.

 

Annie ignores the bird. ‘He’s always hanging around the flats.’

 

‘That’s no proof, Annie.’

 

‘Maybe not. But his cheeky face was the last one on the CCTV before he plastered that with glue as well. Denny showed me the footage.’

 

‘Leave it for now, Annie. I see Brian on the park road a fair bit. If I get the chance, I’ll have a word and make sure it doesn’t happen again.’

 

She looks at me sideways over the tops of her glasses and scowls.

 

‘Mary Healey asked after you. She said you hadn’t been in the shop for three days.’

 

‘I meant no offence by it. I’ve a new customer in Glanmire. The shop’s in the opposite direction.’

 

‘It sounds like she’s missing you, Mally,’ she says, a glint in her eye.

 

‘Ah, stop, Annie. You’re just messing.’

 

‘I am not, Mally Spillane. Everyone knows Miss Healey has had her eye on you forever.’ She nods at me like it’s common knowledge and then winks.‘I can see the attraction, though. I’d snap you up myself if I was forty years younger.’ She puts a hand to her forehead like she’s about to swoon then grins empty-mouthed. 

 

‘Snapping me up, is it?’ I say. ‘Is that what you’d do to me?’ I think about asking her how she’s going to snap anything up without teeth, but thinking is all I do.

 

‘No, on second thoughts I’ve changed me mind. I can still remember the state of your nappies all those years ago. The thought of you laid on your back with a dirty arse would be a bit of a passion killer, wouldn’t you say?’

 

‘Mally Spillane and Miss Healey. Mally Spillane and Miss Healey.’ It’s Walter again.

 

‘That bird is as bad as you, Annie.’

 

‘You’re not the worst-looking, Mally. You’d make a fine catch for a lonely woman.’ Then she leans forward and takes off the glasses. ‘You wouldn’t be … you know? Would you?’

 

Annie Flavahan is gas alright, but sometimes she crosses the line. She really does.

​

                                                                  ***

 

There’d be no worries about bumping into Brian in the dark. He’d bounce off. He’s the light side of ten stones and mostly skin and bone. I’d say the tattoos weigh more than the rest of him put together. You should see him in the summer with the tee-shirt and shorts. Every inch of skin is covered with tattoos. He’s like a walking picture gallery.

 

Brian’s not his real name. Brian is the tattoo he has on his forehead. Apparently, it was supposed to be Brain but the tattooist wasn’t a great speller.

 

It’s been three days since it snowed, but there’s still plenty of it about on the pavements and in the gutters. I spot Brian ahead, hands buried deep in the pockets of his hoody and hunched forward lurching along the park road towards the flats. You’d hardly mistake him for another human being, even from behind. I pull level and stop.

 

‘Did I see you limping, Brian?’ The electric on the window is still broken so I’ve the door open and the icy wind is like a knife in the neck.

 

‘Fell off the bike. Feckin’ snow.’

 

 ‘Hop in, I’ll give you a lift. How’s the bike?’

 

‘Fecked. A lorry ran over it.’

 

He lopes round to the passenger side, putting on the limp. I order Bisto into the back.

 

‘Don’t mind the dog, worst she’ll do is lick you to death.’ Maybe he doesn’t believe me or maybe he’s allergic to dog spit, I couldn’t say, but he’s slow to get in.

 

‘Nice one, Mally,’ he says, as he eventually slides into the passenger seat. His eyes are on Bisto, though, who starts to whine and pant, tail beating against the side panel of the van like a drumstick.

 

‘If you just give her a bit of a stroke, she’ll settle,’ I say. ‘She’s keen to be introduced, that’s all.’ You’d think he’d been asked to stick his hand in a shark’s mouth, the speed that he flicks it out and pulls it back.

 

‘I don’t like dogs,’ he says.

 

‘Every dog in the world?’

 

He shrugs.

 

‘I suppose you heard about the lift,’ I say, casual-like.

 

‘Yeah. Pretty brainless thing to do,’ he smirks.

 

‘Brainless or Brianless?’

 

 He forgets about the dog. His eyes drill into me instead.

 

‘Let’s just say you owe Annie Flavahan a favour,’ I say, nice and gently.

 

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ He says this just as Bisto stops her whining and laps at his ear instead. ‘Jayus, feckin’ dog,’ he yelps, fighting with the seat belt as he tries to back away.’

 

‘You haven’t seen the CCTV footage, then,’ I say.

 

His whole face crinkles up into a frown. ‘Look, Mally, I was with a few lads, we’d been smoking a bit of weed. Things just got a little out of hand. I didn’t mean to upset Annie.’

 

‘Yeah, I’d heard you do a bit of dealing. I was going to ask you for some of that stuff you make with the mariuana. It would really help her arthritis. She’d really appreciate a tin or two.’

 

‘Ah come on, Mally. I don’t make it. I buy it in in. It costs a bomb does the weed cream.’ He’s whining worse than the dog now.

 

‘More than the fines you’ll get for possession of cannabis and criminal damage to council property?’

​

                                                                     ***

 

I take Annie’s arm but she shrugs it off.

 

‘I’ve the zimmer. I’ll be grand,’ she says. ‘I don’t need carrying.’

 

The snow is long gone and a soft drizzle is falling. One of those that’s wetter than it looks. Back to normal weather, in other words. We’re at the door to the gatehouse cottage at the Doc’s place.

 

‘It’s got three bedrooms,’ I tell her.

 

‘Well, you wouldn’t think it from the outside. The place looks tiny.’

 

‘They’ll be small, mind, the bedrooms. Look at the size of the dormers.’

 

I was expecting something half-derelict, but it’s not too bad. Good enough to move into, anyway. We go into the kitchen. I pull a chair out for Annie but she shoves me away again and parks the zimmer next to the table as easy as anything.

 

I put the bag down and take out the flask and biscuits.

 

‘When does Mrs. Dooboy get here?’ she asks.

 

‘Madame Du-bois.’

 

‘That’s what I said.’

 

I shrug. ‘Not for a couple of weeks.’

 

‘She’s about your age.’ She blows me a kiss, teasing. ‘Did you know that Erik Wagner is Mary Healey’s solicitor as well. She asked him, blunt as you like, how old Mrs. Dooboy was. I’d say Mary was checking out the opposition.’

 

‘Ah, come on, Annie. Would you ever stop that squit about me and Mary Healey?’

 

I pour the tea and slide a mug over to Annie who picks it up in one hand while taking a biscuit from the packet with the other.

 

‘The hands are a lot better,’ I say. ‘That’s good.’

 

‘The hand cream that little fecker Brian gave me is mighty stuff. There’s nothing written on the jar, though. No label or anything. What’s in it?’

 

‘I’m not sure. Medicinal herbs probably.’ I try to keep the voice steady.

 

‘Not cannabis, then,’ she says, as the grin deepens the wrinkles around her eyes.

 

I should know better than to jostle with Annie Flavahan.