The Visitors by Patrick O'Keeffe Read Free Book Online Page A

was walking up Drumcondra Road earlier, I said. —He was a fine builder. I heard it said many times at the creamery—
    —A laborer is what he was, she said.
    She looked at me. I looked away. Bus brakes screeched then hissed at the lights.
    —But I am so happy you came by, she said. —When the bell rang I knew well it was you. My mother had been saying that you would stop by some Sunday, but when the bell rang, I opened the curtain and looked out but could not see who was down there, and then when I was going down the stairs I had that odd feeling I was who I was six or seven years ago. I didn’t like the feeling at all, and I sat on the stairs for a while and shut my eyes till it faded. Do you know what I mean, Jim?
    —I’m starting to, Una.
    —I had to wait for it to pass, she said. —But in my mind when I sat up from the step and went toward the door you looked different than you do. You look nice, and you’ll visit me again. I hope you will, but I know I have been talking and telling too much. It’s just that they arethings you’d understand, being neighbors, being from there, our fathers being such good friends.
    —I’ll visit you whenever you’d like, Una. I’ll ring the bell next Sunday.
    —Do so, Jim. Please do. I’ll be looking forward to it all week. I’m fine, you know. I’m grand, but I never know what to do with myself on Sundays. During the week I have the work and I am so knackered when I get home that I eat a bite and fall into the bed and stay in it till I have to get up for work the next morning. I look at the telly, but there’s nothing much on it. Then on Sundays, I couldn’t be bothered with Mass, where everyone around me is a stranger. You are going to write to your mother now and tell her you saw me. Tell her the things we chatted about.
    —I don’t have to tell her anything, Una. I don’t have to tell anyone anything.
    —I’d like you didn’t say a word, Jim.
    —I’ll say I never saw you, Una. I’ll make something up.
    —Do so, Jim. I won’t say a word to my mother either. The less they know, the better. And take a few ginger biscuits with you. You didn’t even have one.
    —I’m grand, I said.
    —Oh, take a few, she said. —I brought them out especially for you.
    She went to the cabinet, pulled out a plastic bag, and put six or seven biscuits into it. I stood and thanked her when she handed me the bag. She folded her arms and smiled.
    It was after three when I left her flat. The sun was shining. I crossed the bridge and walked up Lower Dorset Street. I stepped into a newsagent to buy a Sunday newspaper. I passed the North Circular Road and wandered into a pub between there and Eccles Street. The bartender handed me a Club Orange. I sat underneath a window, in a seat warmed by sunlight. No one sat around me, but a man was sitting on every barstool. They were watching the football match on thetelevision, a dense cloud of cigarette smoke above them. I opened the newspaper but then folded it up.
    In front of the pub was a bus stop. I considered taking a bus to the city center to see a film, but I’d seen every film that was showing. Many I’d seen twice. I’d do that, to pass the time, on days off, sit in the cinema all day, and there was nothing like it. You got to see and hear all the things you missed the first time around, and you got to escape the things that were in your head. Or I could buy a record. I had a list of them written down, along with a list of books, but the record shops and Eason’s were close to closing. A few friends I knew from the bar trade drank in a pub that was in walking distance. They were either there or in the games arcade next door, playing Space Invaders, pinball, poker, but I wasn’t in the mood for them, and game arcades bored me, and like everyone else, they would be watching that match. On my walk home, I’d stop at the Italian chipper and get something to eat. I’d chat with the young dark Italian woman. We didn’t