The Long Walk
By Andy Hamilton
For days now, Mattie has been thinking hard about his public persona. Since coming west six weeks ago, he has become part of the town’s unique charm – as likely to leave a positive impression on a tourist as the imported flowers in Eyre Square or the buskers peddling Springsteen down Quay Street. And now, with the eyes of the world fixed on his newly adopted home, he has a responsibility to do better.
This notion led him directly to yesterday’s first breakthrough, when he swapped his unfathomably warm woolly hat for a very West of Ireland tweed cap, donated by the distractible sales assistant in the Aran Shop. His exposed ears ached all night from the cold as he poured his huge bulk into an open porch on Merchants’ Road, but it was worth the hardship to play his small part for the community. For his community.
This same civic zeal led him to obtain a permanent marker from the stationery loft in Easons this afternoon and make a drastic overhaul to his sign. Changing something that works well is not in Mattie’s nature and this sign has served him impeccably since his arrival in Galway. It has brought him kindness and charity. People have read it, and then looked him in the eye. It has been his talisman, one of the many small omens that have convinced him that good times are finally, finally close at hand. It was a malady to change it, but he has to do his bit. Self-sacrifice for the common good, that’s what it’s all about.
Meeting Tomás that first week in Galway had been another good omen. In all his time living rough in Dublin, Mattie had never met anyone quite like him. Someone smart and resourceful, someone who understands what it is to be homeless, even though he isn’t homeless himself. Not a do-gooder but a friend. A friend. The word made Mattie giddy.
As the lazy evening sun lingers over the high slate roofs on Shop Street, Mattie places his possibly improved sign at its regular spot on the street. He rests his giant frame against the security grill, freshly hauled down over the front door of Boots, and allows his body to slide slowly to the cobbled street below. The grill, Mattie thinks, is there to put off rough sleepers, to leave them with no decent shelter from the rain or space to make a bed. But he doesn’t mind. The evenings have been cold but dry, and the clean, womanly smells that seep under the door and through the grill give him a sort of comfort. He studies the early evening revellers as they pass, searching their faces for some sort of reaction as they notice his new sign.
“Well, boss?” says Tomás, who plonks himself down on the cobble beside Mattie.
“Tomás, the very man. What do you think?” says Mattie, nodding towards the sign.
“What are ya saying to me?”
“My new sign. Have a gawk. What do you make of it?”
Tomás gets to his feet with a groan. He steps backwards into the street, considering the sign with a director’s eye. His gaze moves from the sign to Mattie and back to the sign again.
“Sorry, big man. What am I looking at here?”
“The words at the bottom. I added them this afternoon. To make the sign more friendly, you know, with the City of Culture and all that. We all need to do our bit.”
“Sweet baby Jesus. What’s it with you and this City of Culture malarkey?”
“It’s nothing. I just feel part of the–”
“The community. I know, you said it last night and the night before.”
“Did I?” says Mattie. “I don’t remember.”
“You never do. Not to worry, you’re not the only person round here who can’t keep a thing straight in their head from one day to the next. There’s no harm in it.”
Mattie shrugs. “But what do you make of the sign?” he says. “It’s more friendly, isn’t it?”
“It looks good,” says Tomás. “Real proper.”
“Does it let the magic in?”
“Hah?”
“The words I added, does it inspire you like? Make you want to immerse yourself in the culture of the place?”
Tomás squints at the sign. “Woke up this morning. Smiled at the rising sun,” he reads. “That’s a good one, Mattie. Where’d you get that?”
“It’s beautiful,” says Tomás.
“I think so. But I’m anxious to see how it goes down with the punters tonight. They’re the ultimate judge. They’re my audience.”
Tomás returns to his spot beside Mattie on the path. He leans in and whispers. “You’ll do the walk-round with me this evening, won’t you?”
“Ah, Tomás, I dunno.”
“Come on, you big fucking lug.” He shoulders Mattie playfully. “It’s part of the duty of the job. The people expect to see you at my side. You’re Honorary President of the Galway Rough Sleepers’ Union for Jesus’ sake. You need to show your face.”
“I know, but it feels strange. I’m still new here and some of these people have been around for months, years even. And them giving up their money, coins and notes that they could be spending on themselves.”
“I didn’t invent the union dues, but we need them. Everyone pays what they can and I keep everyone safe.”
“I know but–”
“Have ya heard one person complain?”
“No, but–”
“There you go. Come on, have a go of this.” Tomás pulls a brown bottle from his overcoat and hands it to Mattie. “This will put the smile on the other side of your face.”
“What’s it?”
“It’s good stuff. It’ll cure what ailing ya.”
“Sure I’m grand. There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“I know that. But you never know how much grander you could be with a little help.”
“What’s in it?” says Mattie.
“It’s the new hooch. A totally new recipe. I’m bringing it around to the union faithful tonight. Ten yoyos a bottle but free to you on account of your honorary position. It’s strong stuff, fortified. It’ll keep them warm when the winter rolls in. Give it a swig.”
“I dunno, Tomás. I shouldn’t be drinking. It gets me in trouble.”
“That’s up in Dublin. You’re in Galway now, things are different here.”
“I dunno.”
“Come on, you’ll need something to keep your spirits up on the walk-round. You’ll be on show, remember? Representing the union to the tourists. Macnas have some palaver down the Docks this evening. There’ll be photographers crawling the streets, tourists out the wazoo, maybe even a few city councillors. It’s a big night for Galway. Everyone’s on show.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Mattie opens the bottle, gives it a precautionary sniff and drinks.
“Take it handy,” says Tomás. “It’s strong.”
Mattie hands the bottle back and wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his coat. His breathing quickens.
“It’s burning me, Tomás,” he says in a breathless whisper. His hand moves slowly to his chest. “I can feel it inside me. Inside in my heart.”
“That’s the stuff,” says Tomás. “It’ll keep you warm. Burn the sorrow out of you. Out of all of them.”
Tomás jumps to his feet. “Come on,” he says. “Time to do the walk-round. The quicker we start, the quicker we finish.” He holds out a hand to Mattie who grabs it instinctively and pulls himself standing.
“Tomás,” whispers Mattie.
“We’ll do Shop Street first, then Mainguard Street and down by St Nicholas’ Church, over to Quay Street, hit the Spanish Arch and back to Eyre Square. If we don’t have trouble, I’ll have you back in your spot in less than an hour.”
“But Tomás–”
“Don’t worry. No-one’s going to take your favourite spot once you’ve claimed it. They know better than that.”
“I don’t feel right, Tomás.”
“Come on, we’ll walk it off you. You’ll be grand in two minutes.”
Tomás links his arm with Mattie’s and walks him slowly down Shop Street. “Better?” he asks.
“Getting there,” says Mattie. “It’s strong.”
“I told you that. But it’ll keep you warm when you need it, you’ll thank me for it later. Here, stand up straight will ya?” Tomás shakes his arm free of Mattie. “We’ve got work to do.”
Tomás walks ahead to the intersection of Shop Street and Church Lane, where two middle aged men sit back-to-back on a bed of cardboard.
“How are tings, Micheál?” he says to the larger man.
“Níos fearr roimh a bhuail me leatsa,” arsa Micheál.
“Is fear greann thú, aba?” arsa Tomás. “You’re a right funny man altogether. Now tabhair dom fiche euro, maith an fear. I’ll take twenty quid for the pair of ye, in old money.”
“Níl aon airgead againn,” arsa Micheál. “We’re tapped out. You and the Dub will have to keep on walking.”
“An gceapann tú gur gobshite mé?” arsa Tomás. “Don’t try my patience. The big man isn’t in great form tonight and I wouldn’t be inclined to upset him.”
“Há! Breathnaíonn sé comh lag lé heinín gé,” arsa Micheál. “A strong breeze could land him on his arse.”
“You’re a brave man, Micheál. You know what he can do when the mood takes him,” says Tomás. “Éist liom, is duine uasal mé. I’ll make you a deal. Pay up quick and I’ll give you a drop of the new poitín to share between ya, on account of me being so very fond of the pair of ya.”
“No deal,” says Micheál. “Your diesel would land us in A&E as quick as I’d look at ya. If there’s one place worse than the street, it’s A&E.”
“Suit yourself.” Tomás calls over his shoulder. “Mattie! These two men want to meet you. They’ve never seen someone as big and strong as yourself before. They want to shake the hand of their honorary president.”
Mattie trudges forward, his eyes bleary and bloodshot. Towering over the two seated men, he stretches a giant hand out towards Micheál. His mouth forms into a grotesque half-smile, front teeth showing through his tight lips.
“Give ‘em a good strong shake now, Mattie,” says Tomás. “Make sure they’ll remember you.”
“You’re all right,” says Micheál, recoiling from Mattie’s outstretched arm. He nudges his companion with his elbow. “Tabhair dó an t-airgead, a hAindreas.”
“But Micheál–” says Aindreas.
“Pay him!” says Micheál.
Aindreas removes his hat. He unpins a thin wad of notes from inside the rim, slowly counts out four crumpled fivers and hands them to Tomás.
“Maith an buachaill,” says Tomás. He links his arm with Mattie again and walks him in the direction of Churchyard Street. “Stand up straight,” he whispers to Mattie. “We’re on show, remember.”
“Hey!” shouts Micheál. “What about the brew?”
“None for you tonight,” says Tomás. “If you behave tomorrow, we’ll see what ya might get for yourself.”
Tomás and Mattie turn onto Churchyard Street, the imposing steeple of St Nicholas’ Church rising like a mountain before them.
“Why’d ya not give ‘em a drop?” says Mattie weakly.
“It’s the first law of a strong union,” says Tomás. “Always leave ‘em wanting more.”
Mattie looks at him doubtfully.
“Listen,” says Tomás. “If you got everything you ever wanted, right now, right into the hand in front of you, what would ya do?”
“I dunno,” says Mattie.
“You’d make a total balls of it. No question. But if you get it bit-by-bit, you can handle it. You can make sense of it. It’s like gravity, it works every time.”
“I don’t understand,” says Mattie.
“I know you don’t. But you’re trying, that’s what matters.”
Mattie smiles and holds his hand to his head.
“Here,” says Tomás. He takes the bottle from his coat pocket. “Have another whack of the brew and we’ll keep moving. Best to keep the flame burning once it’s lit.”
Mattie grabs the bottle without a word and takes a long, slow drink. His body shudders as he hands the bottle back.
“Come on,” says Tomás. “Down the lane a bit. No point standing where every hen-party on Shop Street can see us.”
“Not a soul in the church tonight,” says Tomás. “Not yet anyway. We might call down again at the end of the walk-round. Chances are we’ll find a few union members taking shelter around St Nicholas’ once the sun sets.”
Mattie grunts, his head hanging loosely on his neck.
“What’s up?” says Tomás. “I’ve never seen you so bad. Your eyes are gone crossways in your head.”
“I’m gonna be sick,” mutters Mattie.
“Were you drinking before I met ya?” says Tomás. “Did you eat at all today? Is it the smell of the cheese?”
Mattie curls over, his head close to his knees. A sound like a nail going through a football gushes from his mouth.
“Get up you clown,” says Tomás. “Anyone could wander by and we don’t need people sticking their nose in our business. In union business.”
Mattie groans. He jolts forward, stumbling blindly, until his massive frame clangs against the iron gates that surround St Nicholas’ Church.
“Quit your shite,” says Tomás. “We’ve a job to get done.” He grabs Mattie from behind, steadies him.
Suddenly, the lane is filled with the clamour of fiddle and accordion. Without turning, Tomás knows that the back door of Tig Cóili’s has been opened, music streaming into its impromptu smoking area on Churchyard Street. He straightens himself. Through the corner of his eye he sees two figures struggling over a lighter.
“Come on,” says Tomás. “I’ve no time for your arse-holing around.” He threads his arm around Mattie’s waist and leads him onto Lombard Street. “We’ll head to Supermacs,” he says. “A snack box will put you right.”
Mattie shakes his head.
“Right,” says Tomás. “The River Walk then. We’ll get a quiet spot on the grass and you can sit down for a few minutes. Then straight to the Spanish Arch. We need to get the walk-round done before Macnas takes over.”
*
Five minutes later, Tomás and Mattie are sat on the thin grass of the River Walk – Tomás leaning against an overflowing bin, Mattie prostrate on the ground like an invalid starfish. Over the canal wall, the River Corrib rages towards the Atlantic.
“Look at ya now,” says Tomás. He slaps Mattie’s face lightly with the back of this hand. “The pink is coming right back into your gob.”
Mattie groans and waves him away.
“Rest yourself for five more minutes, then we’ll get your engine started again.” Tomás takes a handful of pebbles from around the base of the bin and, one-by-one, starts to lob them gracefully over the canal wall and into the river. “It’s something, isn’t it,” he says wistfully. “The river, the town, there’s something about it. Something intoxicating.” He grabs another handful of pebbles and tosses them into the river in one ungainly movement. “The Graveyard of ambition, that’s what we used call it. You come here full of determination and drive, but the longer you stay, the more your ambition deserts you. It’s taken from you without you even realising, slow but relentless, like waves lapping up on Dogs Bay. It makes you soft and turns good people into blaggards, and blaggards into heathens.”
A small group of tourists approach, their cameras snapping the Salmon Weir Bridge from every angle. They pause briefly when they see Tomás and nod, but speed past when they catch a glimpse of Mattie spreadeagled on the grass.
“Get out while you can,” shouts Tomás after them. “Before this place gets its claws into you.” He chuckles to himself.
Mattie stirs and opens one bloodshot eye. “What’re ya at?” he growls, his voice like gravel.
“I’m contemplating the positives and negatives of mass tourism in our increasingly globalised world,” says Tomás.
“Ha?” says Mattie.
“Ha, indeed,” says Tomás. “You seem a bit better.”
“I’m not,” says Mattie. “My insides are melted.”
“Come on,” says Tomás getting to his feet. “We’ll get you straightened up.” He takes Mattie by the hand.
“No,” says Mattie.
“Come on to fuck,” says Tomás. “You’re not getting better lying there like a gom. Sit up.”
Mattie struggles and manages to rise his torso. With help from Tomás, he rests his upper body against the bin. He dry-retches, turns his head to one side and then vomits.
“Better out than your eye,” Tomás says, half to himself. He pats Mattie on the back and, when the vomiting is over, straightens him again.
Mattie closes his eyes. He breathes heavily, his giant chest moving up and down like an iceberg bobbing on the ocean. A glob of spit forms in the corner of his mouth. Tomás watches as it transforms into an unnatural looking froth, bubbles forming and dividing in a steady stream of saliva. For a moment, Tomás is transported back to his younger days on the island, when he would take a straw to a glass of milk and make it foam until it overflowed. Until his father told him to stop.
“We’ll stay another while,” says Tomás. “We can leave the walk-round for one night.”
Mattie nods, his eyes still closed. He stretches out an arm, moves his hand from side to side as if shaking an invisible bottle.
“Afraid not,” says Tomás. “Tá an buidéal folamh.” He walks to the canal wall, slips the half full bottle from inside his overcoat and lets it fall gently into the Corrib.
*
As the last embers of the sun are dragged below the horizon, the first firebird appears. A giant raven, gilded with flames, it creeps slowly across Wolfe Tone Bridge to the beat of a dozen drummers.
Mattie starts. “Tomás,” he says, exasperated. “What’s happening?”
The firebird is followed by a troupe of stilted warriors, ten-foot-tall, clad in sheepskin and neon, like Neolithic savages on their way to Halo Nightclub. They follow the flaming raven, not hunting it, but protecting it from the onlookers standing on either side of the bridge.
Tomás chuckles. “Have you never seen a bit of Macnas before?” he says. “You must have lived a sheltered life above in Dublin.”
“My Christ,” whispers Mattie, as four kayakers, dressed in austere military uniform, speed down the Corrib. As they near Wolfe Tone Bridge, they raise their right hands in unison, seeming to cause an explosion of fireworks over the head of the firebird. The flaming raven squeals, the crowd on the bridge scream with delight, Mattie gasps. But the stilted warriors snap into action. They step into a close formation near the water’s edge and unleash a volley of dayglow arrows into the river. The kayaking soldiers are defeated, heads drooped, bodies still, they are pulled under the bridge by the current and out to sea. The night air is thick with the cheers of children.
“Tomás,” says Mattie, breathless. “I’m an alcoholic.”
“Ara Mattie–”
“I’m an alcoholic,” continues Mattie. “And not a nice one. I do things when I’m drinking. Bad things. I remember them after, I see them in daydreams. I’m not a fool. I’m a coward but I know what I am.”
“Hush now, Mattie. Don’t be upsetting yourself,” says Tomás. “Look. Did ya ever see the likes of that before?” Tomás points to a three-story siege tower, made almost entirely from brightly painted car doors, which is being heaved across the bridge.
“I know what I am, Tomás. But I’m trying,” says Mattie. “Do you hear me? I’m trying to be something else.”
“Will you quieten yourself,” says Tomás. “Could we not just watch the parade? Forget about drinking and the streets and all of the shite for a minute.”
“I’m trying to tell you something here. Something important.”
“Do ya think you’re the only one with problems?” snaps Tomás. “The only one whose life grew up to be a pile a shite?”
“I’m not saying that–”
“I’ve a degree in electronic engineering,” says Tomás. “Did I never tell ya that? Top of my class on the island. Parents spent every bit of money they could scrape to send me here. And here I am, taking money from gormless eejits on the street, brewing lunatic-soup for extra readies, no wife, no friends, no job. Look at me, Mattie.” He turns to face Mattie. “Look at me! Am I a happy man?”
Mattie shakes his head.
A dozen women, all dressed in flowing white dresses, sing mournfully as they cross Wolfe Tone Bridge. They throw flowers in the river as they pass.
“Look,” says Mattie after a moment. “Another firebird.”
Tomás settles back onto the ground beside him. “Wow,” he says, himself again. “Isn’t that something to see.”
*
Later, the parade finishes with a giant effigy of a woman, easily twenty-foot-tall, gliding across the bridge. Dressed in an ivy-green, evening gown with deep vertical tears running through it, she carries a long staff with a flaming tip. She lights the way.
“Who’s that?” asks Mattie.
“Dunno,” says Tomás. “A cross between St Brigid and Zena Warrior Princess.”
Mattie chuckles, then winces. His hand goes to his belly.
“You alright?” asks Tomás.
“I’m spent,” says Mattie. “I’ll be back to myself come morning. But I’ll sleep where I am tonight.”
“But you’ve no blanket,” says Tomás. “You’ll freeze.”
“I’ve the stars sat above me and the flames of St Brigid to keep me warm.”
“That won’t do much without a sleeping bag. Get up, I’ll get you back to Shop Street anyway.”
“I’ve walked as much as I’m going to walk today,” says Mattie wearily. “I’ll be asleep in no time. Just stay with me until I’m gone. Won’t you?”
Tomás gets to his feet. He removes his woolly hat and swaps it with the tweed cap Mattie is wearing, securing it carefully to cover both of his ears. Mattie smiles and rests his head on the grass. He closes his eyes.
“Don’t worry about a thing,” whispers Tomás before he leaves. “Every little thing’s gonna be alright.”
ENDS
Nice work, Andy.
ReplyDeleteThanks Daire, Glad you enjoyed it. Thanks for the read, Andy
ReplyDelete