A Mad and Wonderful Thing by Mark Mulholland Read Free Book Online Page A

the boy as she passes.
    â€˜Cormac, give over,’ she says. She is an attractive woman. Her red hair is tied behind her, and her eyes are the lightened green of an August meadow. ‘Come in, come in,’ she says. ‘I’m Fionnuala. I’m Cora’s mammy.’
    â€˜Hello, Missus Flannery. It’s very nice to meet you,’ I say, stepping into the narrow hallway. I feel my breath quicken as I move inside the door. Suddenly I am unsure how to stand. I stand straight, I lean forward, I put my hands in my pockets, and I take them out. I settle on a partial forward leaning, and I clasp my hands low in front of me. The boy watches me.
    There are footsteps on the staircase. It is Aisling.
    â€˜Hi, handsome.’
    â€˜Hello, Aisling.’
    She approaches, kisses me on the cheek, and takes my hand. ‘Listen, Johnny,’ she says, ‘there’s still time to change your mind. Me and you, what do you think? We could be great lovers.’
    I add a burning face to my struggling breath and my awkward stance.
    â€˜Mammy, quick, get her off him,’ Cora calls, running down the stairs and pushing her sister away. The two girls laugh.
    â€˜Well, it was worth a try,’ Aisling says. ‘Right, I’m off. I’m meeting the girls. See you later, handsome,’ she says, running her hand through my open coat as she leaves.
    â€˜Hey, you,’ I say to Cora.
    â€˜Hey, you, yourself,’ she answers, a blush ripening in her pale face. She leads me to the end of the hall and opens a door. ‘Give me five minutes?’ she asks, and disappears.
    I push through the door. It opens to a kitchen. A large, ivory-coloured range stands against the opposite wall, and to the right of the range the back wall has been removed, and through a broad arch is an extended dining and living area. There is a long couch against the far wall of the extension, and sitting on it is Bob, a folded newspaper resting on the lap of his green overalls.
    Isn’t this just lovely? he says.
    It was when I started my apprenticeship in the engineering works that I met Bob Hanratty. He was alive then. The old man was a caretaker in the machine workshop, and would spend one half of each day lubricating the various machines with his diverse collection of oilcans and grease guns. The other half-day he would empty the scrap bins and sweep the floors. At work breaks, Bob took his newspaper and ate alone at his workbench, preferring the peace and solitude of the oil store to the bustle and raucous banter of the works’ canteen. He intrigued me, and I watched as he pushed his trolley to each machine, one after the other, lubricating the controls and levers, oiling the motors and greasing the machine beds, wiping each handle, point, and nipple, before and after, with a large, red rag that hung from the pocket of his green overalls. It was the old man’s calm, methodical work and his quiet refrain from the coarse taunting of the factory floor that plucked my interest.
    For weeks I observed him until, one Monday morning, I walked towards the centre of the workshop as Bob, pushing his trolley, approached the central intersection from the side. Grimes and McArdle were two buffoons who worked the inspection booth opposite the clerk’s office. McArdle was unkempt — a slight frame in a dirty work coat, with a pitted weasel face under oily, brown hair. Grimes was clean, but he was a monster — a huge bulk of a body under a pink head.
    â€˜Did you ever get the ride, Bob?’ Grimes shouted as the old man neared. ‘There’s still time. Is there life in the ould sausage yet? Are you still keeping palm busy?’ he guffawed, leaning forward and signalling the motion with his hand. ‘Hey, Bob, I gave it to her up the junction last night, like this,’ he roared again, as he turned sideways and held his hands out and demonstrated. ‘Then I went home to the wife,’ he said,