A Fifth of Bruen: Early Fiction of Ken Bruen
- Автор: Бруен Кен
- Год: 2006
- Язык: английский
- Год: Busted Flush Press
- ISBN: 978-0-9767157-2-6
- Жанр: Триллеры
Электронная книга - «A Fifth of Bruen: Early Fiction of Ken Bruen». Краткое содержание книги:
Ford recalled Neville hugging him and muttering, “We’re a family!”
No wonder he was ill. T’was far from hugs Ford was reared. He grew up in a neighbourhood where the only touching going on was for money. You kept your hands to yourself. Put them on another human being, you’d lose them from the elbow. People there weren’t big on affection. No doubt there was love in his family. He knew that, bit you didn’t outwardly show it. The odd time the family were gathered for a meal it wasn’t likely you’d hear, “I love you, Mother, pass the sugar.” You didn’t ask how someone was feeling; it was more, “How are you fixed?” Cash was the emotional currency. If you cared, you’d put your money where your hug was. As for feelings, well, you felt one of two things. “Mighty” as when the drink flowed, or “death-warmed-over” like in pay-back-time. All the songs were sad, and sadness was the great comfort. Dignity and self-esteem sounded like the names of race horses.
Ford knew his marriage to an Englishwoman put him beyond the pale. “Notions”, they’d say; ideas above your station. Amanda had insisted he’d wear a wedding ring. “Yes,” he thought, “and fix it firmly through my nose.”
“To have and to hold...” Ford felt he’d been holding his own.
Now the plan was afoot, he’d be needing all the native cunning of his race. Amanda wore a plain white dress, her hair in ringlets. Ford wore the blazer, the shortening pants and his mind in bits. Balzac wrote, “Nothing prepares you for the heartless cruelty of people,” and Ford added, “But maybe a marriage could be the salvation yet.” Not that he believed it for a moment.
They went to Tenerife for a week’s honeymoon. Ford was mortified. He felt their bright, shiny rings were screaming for notice. “Hey, hey, look it her, we’re newlyweds.”
The plane was crammed with yahoos. Any hooligan could afford a plane ticket, and it seems most had. The Brits at play, if not in The Fields of The Lord, the certainly on a Boeing 747. No sooner did they take off than the duty free was indeed liberated. Drunken roars of “Una Paloma Blanca” rent the air. Ford knew all the airplane superstitions. If you heard the pilot whistling, don’t board the plane. Was it on himself or were the hostesses all whistling? As a child Ford was taught that homosexuals couldn’t whistle. Mind you, at that time in Ireland, they hadn’t much to whistle about. On any given day on Ford’s street, you’d hear all the young lads whistling for dear life. He remembered Lauren Bacall saying to Bogart, “You know how to whistle, just put your lips together and blow.” Which was probably all you’d need to know.
Amanda said, “Ti amo.”
“I think, sweetheart, that’s Italian.”
“Oh dear. Well in any language, I love you.”
Ford thought of ten rude answers. What he did though was put his lips together and... blow.
They stayed in the South of Tenerife. “Playa Los Americanos”, it was called.
The Americans, quite wisely, went to Greece.
Amanda brought her cassette player and throughout the week she played Julio Iglesias and Jose Feliciano. Jose Feliciano! Ford thought he’d gone down the toilet with Cat Stevens. He’d left all his whining music in London. Amanda got sun scorched the first day and had to stay indoors with the shades drawn. This also kept love making to a minimum. Ford sat in bars and had long drinks in long glasses. The sound of Tenerife for him was the clink of ice and Brit voices. Numerous Doris and Bills engaged him in conversation.
“Hot, isn’t it?” they began.
“Raining in England,” Ford said.
“Are you holidaying alone?”
“No, no, the little woman is resting.”
Ford varied the little woman’s activities to shopping, sailing, and sightseeing. The urge to say “irritating” was ferocious. He liked the Spanish mornings. He liked them a lot. Order that kick Spanish coffee with the dark brandy as an apprentice. Mix them, drink and feel your heart leap to rainbows. Put a few of those away and adrenaline was king. One such morning he’d lingered till noon.
“I think I love you Amanda,” said the brandy. “Race back to the hotel and tell her,” urged the caffeine. And race he did. Amanda was lying in the cool darkened room. A light, short T-shirt was all she wore. A besotted Ford was in full gallop.
Near to the moment of bliss Amanda said, “Are you nearly finished?”
Love died a-howling. This episode and Amanda’s sunburn kept them silent for the remainder. On the flight back she said, “I’m prepared to give you another chance.”
Ford said nowt.
They decided to live at Ford’s flat until bigger accommodation presented itself. Ford returned to work feeling he’d gained less a wife than a lodger and not a particularly welcome one. Bernard Shaw had written that marriage provides the maximum of temptation with the maximum of opportunity. Ford was now more than ever convinced that Shaw was an old fart. Lovemaking was not resumed. A polite iciness ruled.
“How was your day, dear?”
“Busy. And yours?”
“Ditto. Shepherds pie be all right?”
“Lovely.”
Dalton disappeared. He’d not been seen since the night of the stag party. Neville, anxious to recruit him, made enquiries daily. Neville, in truth, appeared anxious anyway. He kept shooting furtive looks at Ford.
“Is something the matter?” Ford asked.
“Well... no — er — Any word of our prospective colleague?”
“He’s been sighted at Archway, in Kentish Town and... even in Kerry.”
“Any substance perchance to these sightings?”
“Well, those who lent him money sure hope so.”
“I wonder if I might lure you for a drink this evening?”
“I’m lurable,” said Ford.
They went to the Sun ’n’ Splendour at the top of Portobello. Yuppies lined the bar, contempt lined their faces. What Ford wished to know was who lined their wallets?
“What’s your poison, amigo?” asked Neville.
“Southern Comfort, neat.”
“Ah, an American institution!”
“Take yer comfort when you can.”
“You had an American girl, yes?”
“Just a passing fancy.”
“Well, it leads nicely to what I wish to discuss.”
Neville was drinking gin and lemon. Slim-line lemon. He also got two bags of plain crisps and a large roasted peanuts. He poured the nuts into the crisps bag and began to horse them. Loud gnashing noises assaulted Ford. The Southern Comfort was little comfort against that. Ford walloped his and ordered the same again, without the snacks. Neville took the lemon from his glass and sucked it with fervent concentration.
“Jaysus,” said Ford.
“It cleans the teeth.”
“And clears the pub,” thought Ford.
“I’d like to discuss sex,” said Neville. Ford night choked.
“If you feel you must,” he said.
“This is a little delicate, I’m not sure how to proceed.”
With extreme caution, thought Ford, so he said, “Tell it to me plain.”
“Our family... the — er — Billings...”
“I know who you are.”
“The deuced thing is, we’re not big on sex, it’s a sort of family heirloom. We don’t rate it as among our priorities.”
“Some bloody heirloom! The family jewels not too valuable, eh?”
“Please Ford, this is most difficult.”
“For you and me both, mate.”
“You may be aware that Amanda is a tad shy in this — er — area.”