so you see we’d be needing this bit of land round about here where the house is.”
Pat frowned and folded his arms.
“Round about where the house is?” he queried, tentatively.
Bat nodded and spat, narrowly missing the toe of his Wellington.
“Aye,” he said.
Pat scratched the back of his head.
“What house?” he asked.
Bat McGaw’s features displayed puzzlement.
“What house?” he replied, somewhat incredulously. “Ah, come on now, Pat. There’s only one house—that house there looking at you!”
Pat—still with his arms folded—turned to gaze upon the large Victorian building directly behind him.
“But that’s my house!” he said. “That’s Mammy’s house!”
Bat McGaw stripped his teeth in a grin.
“Mammy’s house! Do you hear you, Pat! And you a grown man! But don’t worry—I’d be giving you a fair price! The McGaws were never known for anything only giving a man a fair shake!”
Pat looked away and gave his attention to the horizon.
“I’m sorry, Mr. McGaw. It’s not for sale.”
Bat McGaw frowned. Pat perceived him moving a litde closer to him.
“How’s that, Pat?” he said, lowering his voice.
“I’m sorry, Mr. McGaw,” repeated Pat, impassively, “it’s not for sale. The house—it’s not for sale, I’m afraid.”
Now it was Bat McGaw’s turn to lower his head and scratch the back of it.
“I’m sorry, Pat, but you don’t seem to understand,” he continued, grinning. “You see—I own the rights to this land. And your mother—she doesn’t own the house at all!”
“What?” Pat heard himself say. His saliva thickened.
“C’mere!” Bat McGaw continued. “Come over here till I show you.”
Seemingly oblivious of the manure and mud stains which were a prominent feature of his paraffin-colored dungarees, Bat McGaw produced from his back pocket an expansive ordnance survey map which he proceeded to unfold on the ground before him. He might have been a professor illuminating the labyrinthine intricacies of biochemistry or advanced physics.
“You see,” he began, “all this here is McGaws’ land. And, back in 1942—during the war, Pat, when your father was away—or so they tell me—not that I’d know for I’m not from about here—your mother sold my brother this bit and this bit and this bit here. She was strapped for cash, you follow. And he allowed her to keep the house—to hold on to it until such time as—?”
Bat McGaw broke off and Pat felt a cold patch forming somewhere in the region of the base of his spine.
“Such time as …?” he said, hesitantly.
“Such time as we wanted to go intill the sheep or whatever. Do you follow?”
Pat’s brow knitted and he began to pick the sleeve of his jumper with the fingers of his right hand.
“No. I don’t follow,” he said, without emotion.
Bat McGaw fixed him with a piercing gaze.
“You what, Pat?” he said.
A nerve jerked—imperceptibly—in Pat’s right cheek. He smiled caustically.
“It’s a pretty good lie, Bat,” he said, “even if you’re not from the Town of Liars, I have to grant you—it’s still a pretty good lie.”
Bat hitched up his trousers and sighed.
“I suppose it would be, Pat,” he said, “I suppose it would be—if it was. Which it isn’t. So what do you say to ten big ones?”
Pat was taken by surprise.
“What?” was his reply.
“Ten big ones,” continued Bat, “in the paw. Right here and now. On account of you being out by Saturday.”
Pat smiled and looked down. From the tan water of the puddle hole, his smiling reflection stared back at him.
“Out by Saturday?” he said. “But you don’t understand. I can’t leave here! This is Mammy’s house! All my memories are here!”
There was a pause. Then Bat said: “All your what?”
His grin broadened and he placed his large left hand on Pat’s shoulder.
“Pat—you’re a gas, man!” he went on. “I heard a few yarns regarding your good self. I heard them say—I heard plenty!—but you’ve caught me up short with that, I have to say! Bucking memories, he says!”
Pat flushed—ever so slightly.
“Do you not have memories?” he said to Bat McGaw.
Bat shook his head—as if he could not for the life of him credit the words he was hearing.
“The only memories I have is of the last eejit I put one over on, Pat! That’s the only memories worth having in this world!”
Pat’s response was slow and grave and measured.
“Get out of my garden!” he said, his eyes locking with those of Bat McGaw.
Now it was the turn of Bat’s cheek to jerk a litde.
“How’s that, Pat?” he said.
Pat’s tone was now, however cautiously, a touch more strident in nature.
“Get out of my garden!” he snapped, placing his hand on the garden