wasn’t much on. There was talk of Ireland getting a lot of money from the Common Market and a man had been blown into the sea in Bray, County Wicklow. Just then there was a knock at the door. “Hmm,” pondered Pat to himself as he set down a dish on the draining board, “I wonder who that could be now?” He untied his apron and went off to see who his visitor might be. He opened the door and discovered a shortish man in an old sports coat and hay coming out of its pockets standing on the step. His trousers were held up by a fraying halter and the top of his gray felt hat (which had once boasted a band) seemed quite bashed in.
“Hello,” Pat said, smiling, adding, “And what might I do for you?”
“There you are now,” the man said. “It’s looking like it’s not going to be such a bad day.”
Pat nodded and made as if to inspect the sun, which was positioned just above the chemist’s.
“No—it certainly looks as if it’s going to pick up,” he replied.
The man nodded and inhaled some mucus.
“I’m selling turf,” he replied.
Pat leaned over—for no apparent reason—and replied, “Indeed. I see.”
“I have it here in a bag,” the man said.
He opened a plastic sack which was half-filled with turf. It was the sort of sack which normally contained fertilizer or perhaps chicken feed.
“It’s grand turf,” the man said. “It comes all the way from Ardee.”
“Ardee?” mused Pat.
“Aye,” the man said. “It’s in County Louth. Did you ever hear tell of it, I wonder?”
Pat frowned and placed his index finger close to his lower lip.
“I think I might have heard a fellow talking about it one night in Sullivan’s.”
The man made a sucking sound with his teeth and hoisted up his trousers.
“There’s a man by the name of McNab lives in it,” he said. “He’s from this town. You would probably know him all right.”
Pat chewed the tip of his index finger.
“McNab?” he said, frowning.
“Aye!” the man replied perkily. “He’d be a Tom McNab!”
Pat shook his head.
“No,” he said, “I don’t know any Tom now, I have to say.”
Now it was the visitor’s turn to frown.
“Or maybe it could be Joe. I’m not sure,” he said.
“No,” asserted Pat, “nor Joe either.”
The man tugged absentmindedly on a nostril hair.
“Unless of course his name isn’t McNab at all,” he said.
Pat nodded, unthinkingly.
“It might be somebody else, I suppose,” he said.
“Aye,” came the reply, “it might be Grue, for example. Or Halliwell, maybe.”
Pat placed a hand on either hip.
“I wouldn’t know him so,” he said.
“No. Sure he’s gone out of this town this years, anyway!”
“Oh—is he?” replied Pat.
His caller nodded—with vigor.
“Aye!” he continued. “He says it was a dump. He says all there is in it is child molesters and men whose idea of enjoyment is to batter their wives.”
Pat felt a litde bit of tension manifesting itself just over his left eye.
“Batter their wives?” he said. “Beat them?”
The man looked at his toes.
“Aye,” he said, “with hammers.”
Pat swallowed.
“Hammers?” he gasped, incredulously.
The man knitted his brow.
“Sure didn’t one fellow leave half his wife’s head on the wall of the coal house,” he said.
Pat drew a deep breath.
“Half her head? No!” he weakly responded—half as a question.
The response was quite firm.
“No—not, no! Took the hammer and hit her with it, I’m telling you! For nothing! It was like eggs. They say her brains was like eggs.”
Pat found himself swallowing again.
“Like eggs?” he said.
The man gazed directly at him.
“On the wall. For nothing.”
“Good God Almighty,” moaned Pat.
The man was continuing.
“There you are now,” he said, “that’s the type of people you’re dealing with. Hitting women with hammers for doing damn all.”
He paused and hooked a weather-beaten thumb into the waistband of his trousers. They were oatmeal-colored.
“Well—not damn all, exactly.”
He sighed. Then he said, “Women can be odd sometimes, you know.”
Pat tossed back his head and laughed.
“Oh now! Sure don’t I know it only too well!” he cried.
The man brightened.
“Indeed and I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that, sir!” he said. “Sure don’t you have eyes of your own! And I dare say there’s any amount of women around this town would be glad to go odd if they were let!”
“Indeed and there sure is!” laughed Pat, now hitching up his own trousers.
At the far end of the town, a woman went by with her shopping. The turf-selling visitor hesitated and said to Pat, “Sometimes you couldn’t even be sure of your own sister.”
“Sure?”