A Brilliant Day
An Audio Recording can be found here
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You know when you wake up and your first thought materialises and it just happens to be really happy and positive, and you realise there and then that you’re going to have a brilliant day? It was just the same as kids when the mother took us to Inchydoney beach, an hour by bus from the thrum of Cork city. She’d yell up the stairs, ‘Come on, we’re off to the seaside,’ and you’d be up and out of the bed like a shot, because a brilliant day was the least it would be … if the sun was shining … if she had a few bob in the purse … once in a blue moon, then.
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Today was going to be just as good and you didn’t need to be a genius to sense it. The mother’s reveille it wasn’t, but waking up to someone else’s tongue flipping up your top lip and licking your teeth is a fair old start, wouldn’t you say? Especially when you sleep alone.
I swear to God, I didn’t think she’d make it. Neither did the vet. He didn’t say so straight out, but you could tell.
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‘I’ve given her a big shot of antibiotic, Mally, but she’s sick enough, alright. Did she get out on her own, then?’
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‘Yeah, for a while she did.’
‘I’d say it’s poison. It just depends on how much she ate.’
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That was yesterday. Talk about a miraculous recovery. She’s licking and barking, barking and licking. ‘OK, OK,’ I say, wiping dog spit off my face. She’s doing her best to pin me to the bed. ‘Stop that now, we’ve stuff to do.’
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We make it to the ground floor without seeing Annie Flavahan, but only because we sneak up the stairs to the tenth floor and take the lift down from there. She’s always giving out to me about owning a dog and living in a block of flats.
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I always leave the van on the downhill corner of the estate road. It’s handy enough for a bump start … as long as the fella in the red Toyota doesn’t park bang in front. I open the van door and the dog’s straight in. My seat first, then over to hers. She’s panting and whining a bit, wondering why I’m taking so long. I click the ignition one notch and ask the alternator to cut the battery a bit of slack on account of it being knackered and would it ever consider doing its best to persuade the starter motor to get off its arse. I stare out the windscreen at the red Toyota, and psych the van to start on the key. And it does.
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I tie Bisto up outside and nip into Healey’s Centra.
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It’s the last tenner. I pay for the grub and the coffee. ‘How’s it going, Mary?’ I buy a €2 scratchcard with the change and slip it into the wallet for a bit of excitement later on.
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It’s ten minutes to Doc Ryan’s place and for once I’m on time. I never mean to be late. It’s not like I don’t care. It’s just sometimes things go wrong, plans go pear-shaped … you know yourself.
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He’s grand is the Doc. Jeez, he must be ninety if he’s a day. Fit as a fiddle and all there. The deal is I do four hours work and then four hours of pure heaven. That’s my definition, not the Doc’s. He likes the drive raked, the leaves picked and the weeds pulled. And the lawns nice and neat. And there’s always something to fix. So those are the work jobs. The pure heaven bit is me in the garden. Since his missus died, he doesn’t mind what I do, but out of respect I keep it the same — except for the vegetables. She was more interested in the beds, so apart from a few tomatoes in the greenhouse, that used to be it. Now I’ve all sorts.
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I don’t let Bisto wander and I think the Doc appreciates that. He’ll come over and fuss her, then say something about how he likes well-behaved dogs. I don’t tell him that if it wasn’t for the rope and the stake, she’d be halfway to Kerry by now.
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‘Mally, if you want to work a few extra days, do,’ the Doc says. ‘The vegetables are a pure treat. You must grow more if you can manage it.’
‘No worries, Doc, I’d like that. The weekdays are a bit tight at the minute. Would you mind the odd Sunday?’
‘Whatever suits, but you must have a little time for yourself as well. See how things go.’
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Jeez, what a bonus. He’s always telling me to take plenty of the veg home anyway and the extra pay’ll take the pressure off.
That’s the new battery for the van sorted, no bother.
The day flies like they always do at the Doc’s. We’re driving back to town and Bisto’s curled up asleep on the passenger seat. Dog-tired. We’re on Sweeney’s Lane. It’s a bit longer this way but it’s lovely. Especially now with the sunset. It’s part of the old road to the castle and there are massive oaks on both sides. Chestnuts and beech as well. There’s a flash of light ahead like someone’s waving a torch. I recognise him straight away, why wouldn’t you? It’s Mr. O’Riordon, the chief accountant at the bank. I pull over.
He straightens and points at the front wheel with the torch beam.
‘Thank you for stopping. I was beginning to think no one would.’
‘Supervalu’s just up the road,’ I say. ‘The drivers might have been women. You couldn’t blame a woman for not stopping to help a strange fella. No offence, Mr. O’Riordon.’
He’s a big, lanky type, mostly bald, with a thin stripe of hair above the ears.
‘Sorry, do we know each other?’ he asks. He’s eyeing me up and down, trying to remember who I am.
‘I couldn’t be after forgetting you, Mr. O’Riordon.’
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‘I’m sorry, I don’t …’
‘Mally Spillane — I used to own the garden centre, next to the garage.’ I squat and look at the tyre. ‘Straightforward puncture it looks like. Should be fixable enough to get you home.’
‘You said you used to own the garden centre?’ he says.
‘Yeah.’
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But that’s all I say. I go round to the boot. It’s already open and the carpet’s been lifted.
‘I couldn’t find the spare wheel,’ he says. ‘I assume it’s bolted underneath somewhere.’
‘No spare wheel in a lot of new cars these days, Mr. O’Riordon.’
‘No spare wheel? That’s absolutely ludicrous. I wasn’t told this when I bought the car.’
‘No, I don’t suppose you were. Wouldn’t be a deal-clincher, would it?’
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It’s a chilly evening alright, and he buttons his suit jacket and pulls up his collar, then stuffs his hands into his trouser pockets. I go back to the van and lean into the back for the coat, hanging onto Bisto with the other hand. She’s wide awake now and keen to meet Mr. O’Riordon. I shut the dog in the van and hand him the coat. ‘Best put that on, Mr. O’Riordon.
We’ll be a few minutes sorting the wheel.’
‘How on earth can they justify not providing a spare?’ he says.
‘I’d say most people buy one when they find out,’ I tell him. ‘Best part of five hundred quid, though. Probably an accountant’s idea, wouldn’t you think?’
He splutters a bit and clears his throat, but puts on the coat and zips it up.
I get out the kit for the temporary repair and ask Mr. O’Riordon to plug in the wee compressor. I connect it to the foam capsule and then to the air inlet on the wheel.
‘OK, pump away.’
He turns it on and the two of us wait while the tyre starts to rise.
‘It’s only a temporary sealer. You’ll need to get to the garage tomorrow. Chances are the tyre’ll be wrecked anyway.’
‘You’ve been very kind, Mr. …?’
‘Spillane. Mally Spillane.’
‘I’m sorry I don’t remember you, Mally, where did we meet?’
‘Oh, we didn’t meet. But it was your name on the letter. And with you being well up in the bank, your picture is often in the local paper.’ I collect up the repair kit and put it back in the boot. ‘Right, I’ll be off then.’
I think he’s waiting for me to tell him about the letter.
‘Sorry, Mr. O’Riordon, but I’ll be needing the coat.’
‘Oh yes, of course.’ He takes it off and hands it over. ‘You mentioned a letter. What letter was that?’
‘The foreclosure letter for the garden centre.’
He splutters again.
‘You can’t be expected to remember them all, Mr. O’Riordon. You must have sent a fair few over the last couple of years, what with the pandemic having had such an effect.’
‘Some of those decisions were extremely difficult, Mally. But you must also appreciate that we have a duty to our shareholders.’
‘I do Mr. O’Riordon, absolutely. Mind how you go.’ I get in the van, quieten the dog and have a gentle word with the battery for one last effort.
He taps on the window. The electric doesn’t work so I open the door a few inches.
‘I haven’t paid you, Mally. Please take this.’
He tries to stuff a fifty euro note into my hand, but I push him away — gently. ‘That won’t be necessary, Mr. O’Riordon.’ I give the key a turn and the lads under the bonnet do not let me down.
‘I’m sorry about the garden centre…’ His voice trails off into the sunset.
We get back to the flats and park a good ways up the hill from the red Toyota.
As the lift door opens, Annie Flavahan wheels herself out on a zimmer frame. She looks down at Bisto. ‘Your crap factory of a dog was roaming the estate yesterday. I got dog’s mess in my wheels. How disgusting is that?’
‘Pretty disgusting. I’m sorry, Annie. She slipped the lead in the park but it wouldn’t be Bisto’s mess. She’s not like that.’
‘So it’s a mythical beast you’ve got there, Mally, is it? A dog that doesn’t crap.’
She’s gas is Annie Flavahan.
I open the mail box by the lift and take out the letter I guessed would be there today. We get into the flat and I put the kettle on. Bisto gets her biscuits and I get tea and a couple of slices of toast.
I read the letter twice but it says the same thing both times. My creditors have confirmed the final payment and my bankrupcy is discharged forthwith.
‘Well, Bisto. It would have been grand to have had a beer tonight. We’ve earned it, I reckon.’ I fish out the wallet and check inside but I know I’m wasting my time. ‘Never mind, tea’ll have to do.’ And then I see a wee bit of the scratchcard poking out …
I just knew it was going to be a brilliant day.