Heartland, p.21
Heartland, page 21
He came right up as far as Jody and leered, goggle-eyed, into his face.
–You got any idea where that might be?
–No I don’t, Jody Kane spat back, and as I live and breathe I do not care – I just don’t care Mr Bonny.
–Lake Wynter, he heard his suave visitor whisper softly, that’s where I got ’em. We can only hope and pray that, please God, they are not yours. For, sure as geese go barefoot in summer, they sure do make me feel uneasy, little dogie.
When Jody looked up, Mr Bonny was gone.
With nothing but the sound of the soft wind moaning, and just the very faintest trace of his whispers.
Floating past like thin stray wisps of fog.
Chapter 27
A Delta Dawn in Dreams Embroidered
Red Campbell said he couldn’t stand it any longer.
His colour was high, and his eyes way too bright.
As he flung his cards, in a fury, to the floor.
Big Barney was heartbroken – why had he ever told them anything about the airport, he said to himself, or mentioned anything at all about Mercedes and the rabbits.
Because he knew, for sure, when all this was over, that they would all just go and get drunk and laugh their heads off about it, saying poor old Barney.
In fact he could almost hear them already.
Not that it was all that surprising. Because he had always suspected that they had been talking about him.
–Look at Big Barney, he had once heard them gossiping in the factory canteen, so slow the dead lice would nearly fall off of him.
It wasn’t that they hated him or anything, just that they didn’t figure on him being all that important.
Sometimes, when ever they felt confident enough, they would creep up behind him and swing their arms the very same as him.
He pretended not to notice, but, in fact, always had.
–Why did I have to go and do it? he moaned. Why did I have to go and say anything at all? Why did I have to open my mouth about that stupid airport.
Or Mercedes.
Whoever she was.
Just a likeness he had seen in a library picture book and snipped out with a scissors to keep inside his wallet.
What sort of person does the like of that?
He hated himself now.
As he always did, whenever he thought about her hidden in there, all creased up and so faded over the years you could barely even make out her features.
His imaginary love.
Big Barney’s missus.
His beloved life’s partner.
His special woman.
His lady.
Every night, after a few drinks, he would make his way home in the dark and stumble up the stairs in his farmhouse until he was alone in his bedroom where he would open his wallet and press Mercedes up to his face. Closing his eyes as he heard her husky voice whisper:
–I am your one and only love, Mercedes Starrs, sweet honey-lady of your yearning and imagination, lily-pure maid of Astolat and hunting Goddess of the Boetian Hill, so pure and fragile and yet still all woman. For I, Mercedes Starrs, am the very centre and circumference, diameter and periphery of your affections. I love you, Barney Grue, and I want you to plant kisses all over my face and hair.
–Would you go ’way out of that, he heard himself protest, fearful that someone might be looking right into his mind.
But nobody, then or now, was even looking in his direction.
No one.
Not Sonny.
Not Hughie.
Not Red.
And certainly not the twins – with Shorty having enough to worry about, considering the state that the Runt had got himself into.
–Why do you go on pretending it didn’t happen? he kept repeating. When I know that you seen him pointing as well? Why are you lying, our boy – what is wrong with you?
You could see that Shorty wanted to cry,
He was really devastated.
And wasn’t in any position to offer any form of contribution.
Any more than the barman appeared to be, away off somewhere best described as untouchable, preoccupied by his whistling of an ineffable little tune.
As he smiled.
With the result that nobody at all was paying any attention to Barney Grue, so he could think about whoever he damned well liked, he thought, and started chuckling again.
As he reflected on Mercedes and the place where he had first encountered her loveliness. But for the life of him, he couldn’t remember the picture book’s name.
The one he had rented from the Glasson County library.
He went there sometimes, but not specifically to borrow books containing pictures of American beauties. Mostly just to browse or have a look through the Farmer’s Journal.
Sometimes he’d take a look at other volumes on display but, as a general rule, couldn’t seem to make very much of them.
Which oughtn’t to have been all that unexpected, really, not considering that Barney had left school at twelve years of age to drive a tractor on his father’s land.
Make some sense of all them big hard books?
No chance.
The very idea of it …
He found himself chortling heartily all over again.
As an invisible fragrance appeared to envelop him, and he could have sworn that he heard a familiar voice – the one, unmistakably, which belonged to Mercedes Starrs.
–Those green hills of Ireland, he heard her murmur, so different to this country with its glamorous landscape of long twilights and hot dawns, but which I know from your conversation possesses its own unique magic. And one day, as an officer and a gentleman, Lieutenant Colonel Barney Grue, when all of these misbegotten wars are concluded, you and I will travel there together.
–The green hills of Ireland, he heard himself repeat, as they both stood there on the verandah, during a gala ball perhaps staged by the city for the benefit of its gilded citizenry, looking out over the formal gardens towards the bursting sparks and tails of light sent up by the mesmerising fireworks display, as the orchestral opera music drifted out through the open French windows, gradually dissipating in the warm breeze.
As, ever so slowly, rising above the drooping Spanish moss, they watched it break like magic across the delta, a dawn that could only have been embroidered by themselves, deep in the heart of the territory of their dreams.
Big watery tears lined up on either side of his nose.
–Upon, he whimpered, that rare and special dawn.
His temples were burning fiercely once more. He pressed the heels of his hands against them.
Finding himself suddenly compelled to do something completely out of character.
Such as growing wings, perhaps, and taking a run right across the room – maybe, even, leaping right out of the window, giving a cheer.
That would be good.
–Are you all right? he heard Sonny Hackett querying. Are you OK there, Barney?
As he thrust his jaw forward, grinning as he flipped back his forelock.
–Well, are you? he inquired again.
–I don’t know, replied Barney Grue.
–What do you mean you don’t know? he heard Sonny Hackett’s irritated reply. What kind of an answer is that?
–It’s just an answer, Barney said, I don’t know what kind of answer it is.
–You’re one great big mountain of laughs, so you are, maybe you ought to tell us your story about the airport again.
Big Barney stiffened and was on the point of responding: You are a very cheeky person, Sonny Hackett. And maybe, instead of trying to say smart things about me, you could tell us all about when you were a boy and you used to think that shirts might come out and strangle you.
In the end, however, deciding not to say anything
Because, to tell you the truth, he said to himself, I really do not care what they have to say or think about me anymore.
With the reason for that being that he wasn’t really happy any longer – and which, as he was now beginning to accept, had been the situation for a very long time.
Even though Sonny Hackett was doing his best to stop him, Red Campbell was repeating something about Wilson Gillis.
–That’s enough about that, do you hear? Hackett barked. Fuckingwell more than enough already, Campbell.
But Red just continued to ignore him.
–There’s no point in any of us kidding ourselves anymore, he suggested, because the facts are as follows – we broke into the house of an innocent man, and whether or not it happened by accident, Wilson Gillis is still dead. And it’s us that’s responsible.
–What we did is in the past, protested Hughie, and there isn’t any sense in you coming up with all this now. Do you hear me, Red?
–I’m telling you that there isn’t any such thing as the past. No past, no present and no fucking future. This world is a bad dream.
–Ah now, Red, don’t talk crazy. You will have to ease up on the jungle there, Red. No such thing as the past. Whee-hoo!
But Red was already in a daze, looking away.
And, as a matter of fact, looking like he too didn’t care much any longer.
As Big Barney Grue once again pressed his large hands against his temples, with his face this time contorting grotesquely.
And doing his level best not to think about the stylish and sophisticated Mercedes Starrs, standing on a balustrade attired in a swathe of lace as she plied a delicately decorated pink-and-blue fan.
Which she suddenly moved aside, revealing, to Barney’s horror, just about the tiniest of hands imaginable.
And which, most clearly, was not that of a fully grown woman.
But one, in fact, of a newborn infant.
A little pink round one, in fact, with the pinkest, loveliest, sweet little chubby digits – five small fingers.
–Look at them, the lovely lady was whispering, aren’t they just the last word? Aren’t they really just perfect? Why, a freshly born infant, another of the wonders of God’s many creations …
And it was at this point that the silent and subterranean fuse which had been travelling anonymously all the way along the complicated circuitry of Big Barney Grue’s nervous system, elected to ignite and silently explode right there in the centre of his head. With its white light almost blinding him as those watery tears turned into a flood.
–Once upon a time, began Big Barney Grue, with everyone slowly turning around to observe him, not without a degree of astonishment, there was a beauty who wandered by herself across this mountain, and she was mine … all mine … the lady belonging to the officer and much respected gentleman, Lt. Col. Bernard at your service.
He was trembling all over.
As Hughie decided it was time tell a joke.
–Did youse hear the one about the Mexican firefighter?
–No I didn’t, as a matter of fact, Big Barney roared, reaching out and grabbing him and holding him up by the collar with his short legs swinging, and I don’t want to!
Before releasing him and then just sitting there, staring straight ahead.
Staring out at the willow, in silence.
As everyone waited for another selection.
–Does anyone want to hear some music? asked Sonny.
But no one responded.
So none ever came.
No selection, I mean.
–I’ll just go over here now and see if he’s coming, said Hughie Munley, pushing down the grimy slats.
Nothing.
Chapter 28
These Are My Mountains
Then, out of nowhere, the door swung open again – but it was just another fleeting gust of wind.
–Nothing to worry about, said Mervyn reassuringly, you know what’s the cause of it.
–It’s just the wind, nodded Hughie, that’s all.
–Just the wind, agreed Red, nothing else.
But the Runt said no, that it wasn’t.
–I know what it was, he insisted, for I seen him. Out there, standing on the water.
–Ha ha! laughed Hughie. It’s finger-lickin’ good!
As he clapped his hands and swept in between the two of them.
–The Mexican firefighter – did you know he had two sons? Hose A and Hose B.
–That’s not funny, snapped Sonny Hackett, of all your fucking dumb wisecracks, that has got to be the stupidest yet. And that is saying something. Yes, that is really saying fucking something, Hickory Holler.
–I’m sorry it isn’t to your taste, returned Hughie, turning towards the door.
–Still no sign of him, he murmured, TB.
Red Campbell went over and put on a record.
–Once upon a time in a land made of gingerbread lived a happy girl and boy, sang Gregory and the Cadets as the needle dropped into the groove.
–Me and the Kid used to dance to this, announced Red. Me and the Kid, we used to always dance to Gregory and the Cadets …
–Easy, soothed Hughie, patting him on the shoulder, easy now Red.
–Once upon a time, sang Gregory, and then again.
The needle was stuck.
–Everything’s gonna be all right, said Hughie.
–No it isn’t, said Red Campbell, shaking his head, it isn’t gonna be alright at all …
As he stared at Hughie with red-rimmed eyes.
–They used to play regular in Heartland, he said, Gregory and his band.
Then he started laughing uncontrollably.
–What are you doing? Sonny Hackett shouted over. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?
But Red Campbell had already inserted a fistful of coins into the jukebox chute, and was in the process of performing an amusing little dance – a kind of arms-up, legs-out, boogie-woogie Teddyboy shuffle.
–I told you, hollered Sonny, I thought I fucking warned you, Campbell!
Rising to his feet as he whisked a pool cue from the rack and slammed the butt right into the glass of the jukebox – first once, twice, and then three times.
He didn’t seem particularly enraged or anything while he was doing it – he was thorough, however, and entirely committed.
As a spiderweb crack spread out across the machine’s transparent front, before Sonny Hackett replaced the cue and crossed the floor to sit back down.
Shards of glass lay scattered on the sawdust.
Curiously, Mervyn Walker elected to make no comment on what had just transpired, none of any kind.
Just watching Sonny ambling laconically back to the table. The barman smiled and said nothing as Sonny sat down.
With Wee Hughie doing his best, once again, to mask the tension. Appearing more excited than ever, in the process, repeatedly flexing his fingers as he cried out, hoarsely:
–Gregory and the Cadets – what a band! Yes sir, a famous outfit and no mistake. All the way from the land made of gingerbread, oh man.
As the barman, whistling a soft low tune, lifted the drop-leaf and set about sweeping up the jukebox debris.
–O Jesus, moaned the Runt, these pains in my stomach, I think they’re getting worse. I hope he’s not out there. Did you hear that noise? Listen – there it is again.
But Sonny Hackett, or everyone else for that matter, decided to offer the Runt McHale nothing by way of reply.
And instead just remaining there, drumming his fingers, counting out smoke rings – one two three.
What did they do in the land made of gingerbread, Gregory the singer kept on wondering – perhaps built castles in the sky.
Well, of course they did, because anything that had ever caused them trouble or made them feel terrible grief or sadness – all of that was, quite magically, now gone.
That was how it had been for Gregory and his band the Cadets.
A song which I too remembered, and as soon as it came on, had hit me hard in the gut.
And carried me away from my confinement among the roof-beams to a day long before when I had first heard it coming drifting from a transistor radio somewhere in the distance beyond the high grey limestone walls of Whiterock Orphanage.
And whose sentiments Jody and myself, perhaps more than most indeed, had implicitly understood, lying there in the High Country Meadow, with a canopy of blue overlooking the world – and we ourselves, where both of us lay on a vast carpet of sweet yellow flowers.
Such were the thoughts I found myself recalling as I lay there constricted underneath those cockloft rafters, an emotional knot forming in my throat, and I had to clench my teeth together in order to keep it together.
Thinking of us dreaming, like Red Campbell, in a way, of a future so beautiful and fragile it could never, in truth, have risked coming into being.
While, not so very far away in a tumbledown outhouse which might have been a coffin stood on end, that noblest of the noble, valiant and courageous warriors found himself awakening in the dank air once again, emerging from a state of near-delirium, during which, more than once, he could have sworn that, indeed, he had died.
To his dismay and bafflement, opening those exhausted, troubled eyelids to find himself the object of Mr Bonny’s renewed observation.
–I just didn’t think it was fair to leave you, he heard him say, not after all that you’ve been through.
He plied his hat and gave Jody a smile.
–Given the extent of your ordeal, he continued, it isn’t that surprising that your offended mind ought to play such tricks. Because whose wouldn’t, given similar circumstances?
Then he arrived over and opened up his hand.
–I wanted you to have this, Jody heard him say.
–Please, Mr Bonny, pleaded Jody, no bones.
And then looked down to see a single, green-stemmed soft little flower.
–In remembrance of the High Meadow Country, said Mr Bonny, the primrose – sweetest of all our Creator’s most precious blooms. For you, little dogie, to hold against your heart, in honour of a future that, in some other dimension or world, might have had the good fortune to be born. Goodbye, little dogie.
Beneath me in the bar, the proprietor had just now finished sweeping up.
–Don’t go thinking that I’ll let this go, hissed Sonny Hackett, don’t for a second let that get into your stupid dumb fucking head, Campbell!
