Trey nods at their blank faces. “Hiya,” she says.
Long John straightens up off the counter and moves forward, blocking her way. “There’s nothing here for you,” he says.
Long John isn’t long—he got the name because he has a stiff knee where a cow kicked him—but he’s built like a bull, with the same bad, pop-eyed stare. People are intimidated by him, and he knows it. Trey used to be. Now she takes the look on him as a good sign.
“Need milk,” she says.
“Then get it somewhere else.”
Trey doesn’t move.
“I’ll decide who comes in my shop,” Noreen snaps.
Long John doesn’t take his eyes off Trey. “Your fuckin’ father needs a few fuckin’ skelps,” he says.
“She didn’t pick her father,” Noreen tells him tartly. “Go on home, before that butter melts on you.”
Long John snorts, but after a moment he shoulders past Trey and bangs out the door, setting the bell jangling.
“What’s wrong with him?” Trey asks, gesturing after him with her chin.
Mrs. Cunniffe sucks in her lips over her buckteeth and cuts her eyes sideways at Noreen. Noreen, swapping out the till roll with fast sharp jerks, looks like she’s not going to answer. Trey waits.
Noreen can never resist a chance to share information. “Them detectives are after giving him awful hassle,” she informs Trey curtly. “Not just him, either. They’ve everyone in the place up to ninety. They got Long John flustered enough that he let slip that one time Lennie O’Connor bet up some lad from Kilcarrow for trying to chat up his missus, and now the detectives do be on at Lennie about what did Rushborough say to Sinéad, and Lennie says he won’t let Long John lease his back field any more, so he’ll have nowhere to put the calves.” She slams the till shut. Mrs. Cunniffe jumps and hoots. “And if your daddy hadn’ta brought that feckin’ gobdaw round here, none of this woulda happened. That’s what’s wrong with him.”
Trey feels the savage surge of triumph right through her. She turns away to the shelves, pulling out bread and biscuits at random, so they won’t see it in her. The power of it feels like she could topple Noreen’s counter with a single kick and set the walls on fire with a press of her hands.
Now all she needs to do is line up her sights. Lena said she could take a guess at who it was that got Brendan, and Trey trusts Lena’s guesses. All she needs is a way to make her tell.
“And forty Marlboro,” she says, dumping her stuff on the counter.
“You’re not eighteen,” Noreen says, starting to ring things up without looking at her.
“Not for me.”
Noreen’s mouth tightens. She jabs the till keys harder.
“Ah, go on and give the child what she wants, Noreen,” Mrs. Cunniffe says, flapping a hand at Noreen. “You’ve to take good care of her, now ye’ll be practically in-laws.” She bursts into a high, one-note hee-hee-hee that carries her out the door.
Trey looks at Noreen for an explanation, but Noreen has her mouth pinched up even tighter and is fussing under the counter among the cigarettes.
“What’d she mean?”
“With Cal and Lena,” Noreen says crisply. She slaps the Marlboros on the counter and rings them up with a neat ding. “That’ll be forty-eight sixty.”
Trey says, “Cal and Lena what?”
Noreen glances up sharply, almost suspiciously. “Getting married.”
Trey stares.
“Did you not know?”
Trey pulls a fifty out of her pocket and hands it over.
“I’da thought Lena woulda asked your permission,” Noreen says, part bitchy, part probing.
“None a my business,” Trey says. She fumbles her change and has to pick it up off the floor. Noreen’s speculative eyes follow her all the way out the door.
The three old guys sitting on the wall of the Virgin Mary grotto watch her pass without changing expression. “Tell your daddy I was asking for him,” one of them says.
Nineteen
Lena is at the washing line when she sees Mart Lavin stumping towards her, across what used to be her and Sean’s back field and is now Ciaran Maloney’s. Her first instinct is to run him off her land. Instead she returns his wave and vows to buy a tumble dryer, since apparently nowadays this bloody place won’t even leave her the pleasure of hanging out her wash in peace. Kojak, trotting ahead, comes to exchange sniffs with Nellie through the fence; Lena gives them a moment and then snaps her fingers, bringing Nellie back to heel.
“That’ll be dry before you get it hung,” Mart says, when he gets close enough. “This heat’s something fierce.”
“No change there,” Lena says, stooping for another armful of clothes. Mart Lavin has never called round to her before, even when Sean was alive.
“Tell me, now,” Mart says, arranging himself comfortably on his crook and smiling at her. Kojak settles himself at Mart’s feet and starts nipping through his fur for burrs. “What’s this I hear about you getting yourself engaged to the one and only Mr. Hooper?”
“That’s old news,” Lena says. “I thought you’da heard it days ago.”
“Oh, I did, all right. And I congratulated your fiancé properly, although I’d say he’s recovered by now. But I haven’t seen you to felicitate you, and it came to me today that I oughta do that. Seeing as we’ll be neighbors now.”
“We might be,” Lena says, “or we might not. Myself and Cal haven’t decided where we’ll live yet.”
Mart gives her a shocked look. “Sure, you couldn’t ask the man to tear himself outa that house, and him only after putting in all that work getting it the way he wants it. Not to mention me putting in all the work getting him the way I want him, give or take. I couldn’t be doing with starting all over again. Likely enough, with house prices the way they are, I’d be stuck with some fool of a hipster that’d live on flat white craft beer and commute to Galway every day. No: you’ll haveta bite the bullet and move down our way. We’re great neighbors to have, myself and P.J. Ask your fiancé; he’ll vouch for us.”
“We might keep on both places,” Lena says. “One for the winter, and one for a holiday home. We’ll be sure and let you know.”
Mart giggles appreciatively at that. “Sure, there’s no rush,” he acknowledges. “I wouldn’t say you’d be in any hurry to the altar. Am I right?”
“When we set a date you’ll get your invite. Fancy lettering and all.”
“Show us the ring, go on. Amn’t I supposed to give it a twist on my own finger, to bring me luck in love?”
“It’s in getting resized,” Lena says. She’s had this conversation with every woman in the townland, and has decided that if she ever gets an impulse to make another snap decision, she’ll have herself committed. She digs a few more clothes-pegs out of her bag.
Mart watches her. “ ’Twas a good move, the aul’ engagement,” he says. “A wise move.”
“Funny,” Lena says. “That’s what Noreen told me. The two of ye have a load in common.”
Mart raises an eyebrow. “Did she, now? I wouldn’ta thought she’da been in favor. Not right now, anyhow.” He shifts his weight to pull a tobacco pouch out of his pocket. “Have I your permission to smoke?”
“The air’s not mine,” Lena says.
“Personally,” Mart says, propping his crook carefully against her fencepost, “I’m all in favor of you putting a ring on that fella. Like I said, I’m after rubbing the corners off him, but he’s got a little way left to go; he doesn’t always heed me the way he oughta. It’s been a worry to me, the last while. Now that he’s your responsibility, we can discuss the problem together.”