it, those people! They’ll bring you nothing but grief!’
‘Name of Jesus, mam, you’ve torn me shirt!’
He struggled to free himself, but she pushed past him and stood in front of the door so that he couldn’t get out unless he lifted her bodily out of the way.
‘I said
no
, Brendan! I’m not having you hurt for the likes of them!’
‘Oh, I see! So your man thinks he can threaten me mam and then leave his scabby Range Rover blocking up our front gate so that I can hardly get in for me dinner and that’s all right, like?’
Niamh said nothing but stayed where she was with her arms pressed against the side of the door frame, breathing deeply and staring steadily at Brendan as if she were challenging him to risk everything she had ever put into his upbringing – every cup of milk, every kiss, every song, every day by the sea.
They heard Mânios Dumitrescu’s Range Rover start up with a roar and a rattle of a loose exhaust, and then he was gone.
Brendan went back into the living room, shaking his head. Niamh lifted up his torn shirtsleeve and said, ‘If you take that off, I’ll sew it for you now. It’s a small price to pay, you know that. Those people will cut the tripe out of you as soon as wink at you. I’d sooner be sewing the shirt of a boy who swallowed his pride than standing over the grave of a boy who wouldn’t.’
‘Mam, you can’t let these people treat you this way. I don’t care what fecking country they come from, they’re tinkers, and I’ll not be having no fecking tinkers putting my own mother in fear of her life.’
‘Wash your mouth out and give me your shirt.’
Mânios Dumitrescu drove down to Pope’s Quay and then along by the river. He was slapping his fingers so that his heavy silver rings clattered on the steering wheel and singing ‘
Dragostea din tei
’,
which had done so well for Romania all those years ago in the Eurovision Song Contest, although he interrupted himself now and again to cough and sniff noisily up his left nostril.
He was feeling much more pleased with himself now. He had just received a phone call from his solicitor’s telling him that the circuit court hearing about his custodianship of little Corina had been brought forward until next Tuesday afternoon, and that one of the key witnesses to her alleged mistreatment had unreservedly withdrawn her evidence. Unless there were any dramatic developments, Corina should be back at home at number thirty-seven with him and his mother by Wednesday.
He sucked at the last of his cigarette and threw the stub out of the Range Rover’s window. He knew that he had only two or three left in the packet, so he stopped outside the Spar grocery halfway along McCurtain Street to buy himself some more, and some chocolate, too. For some reason, he had a craving for chocolate.
He was no longer than three or four minutes in the shop, but when he came out a garda was carefully tucking a ticket under his windscreen wiper.
‘Hey!
Hey
! What are you doing?’ he demanded. ‘Anybody can park anywhere in this street!’
The garda was large and placid, with blond eyelashes and a face like a pink boiled ham. He pointed to the Range Rover’s windscreen with his pen and said, ‘Nothing to do with parking, sir, although this street is a clearway between 4 and 6 p.m. Your insurance is three months out of date and you don’t have your NCT certificate on display.’
‘What? NCT? What is that? I am foreign visitor, I don’t need such a thing!’
‘You need to have valid insurance, sir, wherever you come from, and since this vehicle is over four years old and registered in Ireland, it needs to be tested. On this occasion, sir, I’m going to allow you to drive it away, mostly because it would be a fecking nuisance to have to call for a truck to tow it. But you must immediately insure it and test it as soon as possible and produce evidence of both at your nearest Garda station.’
Mânios Dumitrescu was so angry that his
‘Name of Jesus, mam, you’ve torn me shirt!’
He struggled to free himself, but she pushed past him and stood in front of the door so that he couldn’t get out unless he lifted her bodily out of the way.
‘I said
no
, Brendan! I’m not having you hurt for the likes of them!’
‘Oh, I see! So your man thinks he can threaten me mam and then leave his scabby Range Rover blocking up our front gate so that I can hardly get in for me dinner and that’s all right, like?’
Niamh said nothing but stayed where she was with her arms pressed against the side of the door frame, breathing deeply and staring steadily at Brendan as if she were challenging him to risk everything she had ever put into his upbringing – every cup of milk, every kiss, every song, every day by the sea.
They heard Mânios Dumitrescu’s Range Rover start up with a roar and a rattle of a loose exhaust, and then he was gone.
Brendan went back into the living room, shaking his head. Niamh lifted up his torn shirtsleeve and said, ‘If you take that off, I’ll sew it for you now. It’s a small price to pay, you know that. Those people will cut the tripe out of you as soon as wink at you. I’d sooner be sewing the shirt of a boy who swallowed his pride than standing over the grave of a boy who wouldn’t.’
‘Mam, you can’t let these people treat you this way. I don’t care what fecking country they come from, they’re tinkers, and I’ll not be having no fecking tinkers putting my own mother in fear of her life.’
‘Wash your mouth out and give me your shirt.’
Mânios Dumitrescu drove down to Pope’s Quay and then along by the river. He was slapping his fingers so that his heavy silver rings clattered on the steering wheel and singing ‘
Dragostea din tei
’,
which had done so well for Romania all those years ago in the Eurovision Song Contest, although he interrupted himself now and again to cough and sniff noisily up his left nostril.
He was feeling much more pleased with himself now. He had just received a phone call from his solicitor’s telling him that the circuit court hearing about his custodianship of little Corina had been brought forward until next Tuesday afternoon, and that one of the key witnesses to her alleged mistreatment had unreservedly withdrawn her evidence. Unless there were any dramatic developments, Corina should be back at home at number thirty-seven with him and his mother by Wednesday.
He sucked at the last of his cigarette and threw the stub out of the Range Rover’s window. He knew that he had only two or three left in the packet, so he stopped outside the Spar grocery halfway along McCurtain Street to buy himself some more, and some chocolate, too. For some reason, he had a craving for chocolate.
He was no longer than three or four minutes in the shop, but when he came out a garda was carefully tucking a ticket under his windscreen wiper.
‘Hey!
Hey
! What are you doing?’ he demanded. ‘Anybody can park anywhere in this street!’
The garda was large and placid, with blond eyelashes and a face like a pink boiled ham. He pointed to the Range Rover’s windscreen with his pen and said, ‘Nothing to do with parking, sir, although this street is a clearway between 4 and 6 p.m. Your insurance is three months out of date and you don’t have your NCT certificate on display.’
‘What? NCT? What is that? I am foreign visitor, I don’t need such a thing!’
‘You need to have valid insurance, sir, wherever you come from, and since this vehicle is over four years old and registered in Ireland, it needs to be tested. On this occasion, sir, I’m going to allow you to drive it away, mostly because it would be a fecking nuisance to have to call for a truck to tow it. But you must immediately insure it and test it as soon as possible and produce evidence of both at your nearest Garda station.’
Mânios Dumitrescu was so angry that his
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