Nice One Brian

We don’t usually mind the wet days, the dog and me. There’s always stuff to do. Bisto’s having the mid-morning nap on an old coat at the far end of the polytunnel. The coat used to belong to Brian. You remember Brian. He’s the fella with the tattoos. Bisto’s related to him in a funny sort of way. Before the marijuana dealing, Brian was big into dogs. At one stage, he had five pedigree bitches and there were puppies all over the place. The idea was for Bisto to be pure Irish wolfhound, but with her mother attracting plenty of interest from the local mongrels, it didn’t turn out that way. There’s a family resemblance, alright, but she’s only half the height she would have been if things had gone according to plan. Whichever short-arsed mutt was the culprit, he did well to reach, if you ask me.

​

At the time, I was living in a block of flats and the last thing I needed was a puppy.

‘You can have her cheap, Mally,’ Brian had offered.

I’d smiled. ‘Why’ve you so many dogs, anyway? You don’t even like dogs.’

‘That’s not quite true. I don’t hate dogs, it’s just they make me nervous.’

‘Breed something else, then. What about pigs or cats?’

‘No money in pigs, just shit, and I’m allergic to cats. Dogs are good business. People pay daft money for them.’

I crouched down and held out a hand. The puppy leapt forward but Brian held it straining on the leash. ‘Cut her a bit of slack,’ I told him. So he did and the puppy sprang towards me and nuzzled my fingers, jabbing at them with teeth as sharp as needles.

 ‘She likes you, Mally, and seeing as you’re a mate, you can have her for five hundred quid.’

‘You must be joking. You don’t even know what the father looks like.’

‘I don’t even know what my own father looks like, but I’ve turned out alright …’ He’d looked at me with the same eyes as the puppy, hoping for the right response. Jaysus, you should have seen him. What with the track suit hanging off him like a scarecrow’s jacket, the shaved head and the straggly beard, you’d be wondering when he’d last eaten a square meal. To make things worse, any spare bit of scrawny skin that wasn’t tattooed was stuck with rings or studs.

‘Yeah, Brian,’ I’d said. ‘You’ve turned out alright.’ Sometimes the truth just isn’t the right answer. Then I’d taken a tenner from the wallet. ‘Final offer.’

‘Come on, Mally, her mother has won stuff.’

‘And her father is a crossbred shagger.’ I waved the tenner a bit nearer to him. ‘Think what a vet would charge to put her down.’

‘Wouldn’t cost nothing to throw her in the river.’

But you could tell he didn’t mean it. He was quick enough to grab the note.

Anyway, that was then. There’s been a fair transformation since. Apart from a solitary ear ring, the rest of his facial metalwork has gone. As well as using a razor on his chin from time to time, he’s a bristly thatch of hair on his head. There’s a bit more flesh on his bones and his clothes are clean. He says he doesn’t do drugs anymore, but you wouldn’t know.

He does a good bit of work for me now helping in the nursery. We do the markets together as well. These days, he even gets on with the dog. Making a fuss of her was how he came to lose his coat in the first place. He’d taken it off when he was working in the tunnel and dropped it on a patch of raised bed. Every dog knows that curling up on a human’s coat is a grand way to make a new friend.  

Bisto’s still asleep but I’ll give her a nudge at half eleven. It’ll be tea for Brian and me and a biscuit for her.

That’s the usual routine, anyway.

​

‘Bonjour, monsieur.’

I reckon dogs must sleep more lightly than us. There’s never any yawning or scratching with Bisto. She’s the eyes wide open the moment she hears anything. When it’s someone she doesn’t know, the tail still wafts away alright, but slowly, like she’s not quite ready to commit. If she could speak for herself, it’d probably be, ‘You sound friendly enough, but we haven’t met, so let’s take this nice and steady …’ She noses the air and edges forward but I stay her with an open hand.

There’s a boy standing in the entrance to the tunnel.

‘Come in,’ I say. ‘Do you speak English?

‘Of course, monsieur. And German. And some Italian. And a small piece of Chinese.’

‘That’s a mighty list for a young fella.  I’m Mally.’

‘Yes, I know who you are. My name is Claude.’

I’m guessing he’s ten or eleven, but he might be older. He’s small and skinny so it’s hard to say. The denim suit looks brand new and so do the leather sneakers. His hair is thinner and longer than you’d expect on a boy of his age. At the back, it hangs over his collar. It’s not scruffy, mind. I’d say it was cut that way.

A raindrop runs down his forehead and he blinks it away. He’s looking at the dog. A bit warily.

​

‘Don’t worry about Bisto, she’s friendly enough.’

​

‘In France, we have dogs in the streets and many have no …’ He stretches out an arm like he’s walking a dog.

‘Leashes?’

‘Oui, leashes. Une fois …’ He bares his teeth and snaps them together, then searches both

hands till he finds a small, dark scar on the fleshy bit of his thumb.

‘You were bitten,’ I say. ‘That’s very bad.’

‘Oui, bitten. Pardon, monsieur. Maman says I must speak only English here in Ireland. Mais c’est difficile.’

‘No bother. A bit of time’ll fix that.’ He’s still eyeing the dog nervously. ‘You don’t need to watch Bisto. She’s never bitten anybody.’

There’s a woman’s voice not far away, ‘Claude. Where are you? Claude. Can you hear me?’

The boy glances skywards. He tuts. ‘C’est Maman. She worries all the time … de tout.’

His mother appears. She’s not much taller than he is. Her eyes scan over him and her hand smooths his hair.

She brushes a speck of something off his shoulder and then dabs at his sleeve like she’s checking it still contains an arm. She turns to me and I get a zipped smile that lasts about a millisecond.

‘You must be Mally.’ She offers her hand. ‘I’m Yvonne. Yvonne Ryan.’

Well that’s a turn up. She’s ditched the married name already. Mother and son weren’t supposed to arrive till next week. I was going to leave something on the doorstep … just as a welcome. It’s a bit late now, though.

‘Yeah that’s right, Yvonne. I’m Mally Spillane.’ Her hand is as small as the rest of her but she’s a fierce grip. I call Brian over from the potting shed.

‘This is Brian Costello.’

He does a little bow but spoils the friendly effect by grinning. The teeth haven’t been fixed yet and the few he has are different colours.

‘He works here,’ I say. She makes no offer to shake his hand, so I add, ‘He’s a good

man.’

She does another of those millisecond smiles. ‘In that case, appearances must be deceptive.’

Harsh enough, you’d have to say, and it’s a bit of a surprise that she doesn’t sound Irish at all. Or even a bit French. It’s a proper English accent she has, like you get on the BBC.

But the boy repairs the damage with a grand touch. He takes a step forward, sticks out a hand and says, ‘Enchanté, monsieur.’

​

‘Claude. Please. English, if you don’t mind,’ says his mother.

I reckon a change of subject is called for. ‘Mr Wagner, the solicitor, said you’d be over next week,’ I say, trying to keep things nice and light.

‘Things happened a little sooner than expected in Orléans. People can be very demanding, Mally, wouldn’t you say?’

I nod and smile.

‘We should discuss the fence,’ she adds. ‘I think Mr. Wagner has provided you with its specification. I really would appreciate the minimum of delay.’ She gives Bisto a sideways glance. ‘I can’t have dangerous dogs roaming my land. Claude was bitten in France last year. Your dog is an obvious risk.’

​

                                                              ***

It’s been a good while since I’ve seen Mary Healey. When I lived on the council estate, I used to pop into Centra regularly. It was the time I was paying off the debt to the bank, and there were days when the wallet’d be a bit on the thin side. I’d call in early on the way to work and sometimes she’d have the odd sandwich left unsold from the day before.

​

‘Just the coffee is it, Mally?’ It was always her way of telling me I’d be getting a free sandwich. You can’t forget a kindness like that, and I feel really guilty about not calling in more often now that things are going well. But you know yourself … life’s busy.

‘Mally Spillane. What a sight for sore eyes,’ says Mary, making me feel even worse. ‘How’s the house coming along?’

‘Grand, thanks, Mary. You know, it’s the peace and quiet of the garden as much as living in the cottage that’s so brilliant.’

‘You deserve it, Mally. You were very good to the old boy.’

I shrug. ‘I don’t know about that. I’d say it was more the Doc being very kind.’

‘Have you met the new owner?’

‘Yeah. Mr Wagner said she was Irish but she sounds English enough.’

‘Her dad was a doctor in England and she was brought up there. He was Doc Ryan’s brother. The family used to come over for the odd holiday and stay in the big house with the Doc and his wife. I met Yvonne once. It’d be back in the nineties. We were only kids.’

‘I’ve to build a six foot fence at the boundary between us. The lawyer said it was either that or she’d contest the will.’

‘That’s not much of a choice, but it sounds like her. From what I remember, she never mixed with the local kids.’

I put the envelope on the counter. ‘That’s for you.’

She frowns and smiles at the same time. ‘What is it?’

‘Only one way to find out.’

She takes the card from the envelope and opens it. On the front is a cartoon picture of a woman in a red dress who looks like she’s had a drink too many. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘it’s nothing like you, but it was the only one I could find that wasn’t rude.’

She giggles. ‘Mally Spillane. How did you know it was my birthday?’

‘I’m not that old. The memory still works.’

She balances the card on top of the till and then pretends to swig at a glass.  

‘I was wondering, Mary. Would you be going out tonight?’

She shakes her head.

‘I’ll pick you up at 8 o’ clock, so.’

​

                                                                 ***

We’re in the hospital, me and Brian, doing what you do in hospitals. Waiting. There’s a clatter of feet as Yvonne Ryan runs down the corridor to the nurses’ station next to where we’re sitting.

‘My son. My son, Claude. Someone rang. I’m Yvonne Ryan, his mother.’ She’s panting away and sounds as frantic as anyone could be.

‘There’s nothing to worry about, Mrs. Ryan,’ the sister says. ‘ Claude is going to be fine.’

‘I must see him. Where is he?’

‘I’m sure the doctor will let you see him once she’s finished her examination. She won’t be long.’

‘What happened?’

‘He had a severe reaction. We think he was bitten.’

‘By a dog?’ she growls.

The sister smiles. ‘Goodness no, a mosquito probably. Or maybe stung by a bee or a wasp. The doctor will explain.’ There’s the sound of a door closing. ‘That should be her now.’

The doctor strides from one of the treatment rooms along the corridor. She has a folder in one hand and a paper coffee cup in the other. But instead of heading for the nurses’ station, she comes and stands next to Brian and me. Yvonne Ryan doesn’t have a lot of choice if she wants to hear the news, so she comes over.

‘Mrs. Ryan, Claude’s mother?’ asks the doctor.

Yvonne Ryan nods. I was expecting an interrogation, but she just waits.

‘Claude is sedated at present, but your son is going to be fine. He was very lucky. He had an anaphylactic reaction to an insect sting or bite and could well have died but for these two gentlemen … and a dog.’

Yvonne Ryan looks down at Brian and me. To be honest, I feel a bit sorry for her. She’s gone pale and seems unsteady. Brian’s up like a shot and gives her his seat. She nearly falls into it.

The doctor adds, ‘Mr Costello found your son lying next to Mr. Spillane’s dog and was only alerted by the animal’s constant barking. He immediately called the emergency services and administered CPR until the ambulance arrived. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that between them, they saved your son’s life.’

​

                                                             ***

When we get back to the cottage, I make the tea and hand Brian a dog biscuit. ‘Why don’t you give that to Bisto.’ He hangs back and looks at me a bit cagily. I expect he thinks I’m teasing him, so I give him a firm stare and shove the biscuit into his hand. ‘Go on. It was you and her that saved the boy.

Now he looks chuffed because he gives me the gap-toothed grin.

‘I meant to ask,’ I say. ‘Where did you learn to do the old CPR?’

‘They taught us in the rehab clinic. I never thought I’d ever use it. It’s amazing what you remember.’

‘Fair play to you, Brian.’ I raise my mug of tea towards him. ‘Nice one.’