and waving a finger at Cal. “Ah no no no. That won’t do at all. You can’t be leading on a fine woman like Lena Dunne and then letting her down.”
“I only met her twice,” Cal points out.
“We’ve got the bloody village matchmaker here,” someone says.
“Even if I was,” Mart tells him, “there’s nothing I could do for the likes of you. I like to see people settled and happy, is all. This fella needs a woman.”
“No point in him courting Lena,” a deep voice says from the corner of the alcove, “if he’ll be heading back off to Yankeestania before the winter’s out.”
There’s a splinter of a pause. Across the pub, the tin whistle lets out an ear-piercing trill.
“He’s going nowhere,” Mart says, a little bit louder, glancing around the table to make sure everyone hears him. “This man’s a fine neighbor, and I’m planning to hang on to him.” He adds, with a grin to Cal, “Sure, none of this shower would be arsed getting me them biscuits.”
“If Lena won’t have him,” someone else says, “we’ll sort him out with Belinda.”
There’s a burst of laughter. Cal can’t get the flavor of it. There’s mockery in it, but around here mockery is like rain: most of the time it’s either present or incipient, and there are at least a dozen variants, ranging from nurturing to savage, and so subtly distinguished that it would take years to get the hang of them all.
“Who’s Belinda?” he asks.
“A blow-in, like yourself,” Senan says, grinning. “D’you fancy the redheads?”
“I wouldn’t say the carpet matches the curtains there,” someone else says.
“What would you know? You haven’t been next nor near a woman since Elvis was number one.”
“That’s not what your sister says.”
“Go on outa that. My sister’d roll the likes of you into a ball and use you to polish her floors.”
“Belinda’s an English one,” Mart tells Cal, taking pity on him. “She has a wee cottage up by Knockfarraney, been there near twenty year. Mad as a brush, so she is. Covered in great big purple shawls and jewelry with Celtic yokes on. She came here because she thought she’d have the best chance at meeting the Little People round this way.”
“Did she?” Cal asks. “Meet them?” The room is still realigning its angles every time he blinks, but less dramatically.
“She says she gets glimpses of them at the full moon,” Mart says, grinning. “Out in the fields, like, or in the woods. She does paint pictures of them and sell them in the tourist shops in Galway.”
“I seen her paintings,” someone says. “They’ve some fine sets of knockers on them, the Little People. I’ll have to start spending more time in them fields at night myself.”
“Off you go. You might be lucky and meet Belinda.”
“Dancing round a fairy ring in the nip.”
“Tell her you’re the king of the fairies.”
“Belinda’s grand,” Mart says. “She may be a Sassenach and she may be gone in the head, but there’s no harm in her. She’s not like your man Lord Muck.”
They all laugh. The mockery is right up front this time, loud and ferocious, an aggression.
“Who’s Lord Muck?” Cal asks.
“No need to worry your head about him,” Senan says, reaching for his pint, still grinning. “He’s gone.”
“Another blow-in,” Mart says. “Englishman. He was here for a bit of peace, so he could write a great novel. About a genius who rides the arse off a load of young ones because his wife doesn’t appreciate his poems.”
“I’d read that book,” someone says.
“You never read a book in your life,” someone else tells him.
“How would you know?”
“What’ve you read? Bitta Shakespeare, is it?”
“I’d read that one.”
“If it was a picture book.”
Mart ignores this. He says, “About eight year ago, it was, Lord Muck moved here.”
“All ready to civilize us savages,” Senan says.
“Ah, no,” Mart says fairly. “He started out grand. Lovely manners on him: always Excuse me, Mr. Lavin, and Might I trouble you, Mr. Lavin.” Senan snorts. “Don’t be jeering, you. A few more manners would do you no harm.”
“D’you want me to call you Mr. Lavin, is it?”
“Why not? Bring a bit of elegance to this aul’ place. You can bow to me off your tractor, when you go past.”
“I will in me arse.”
“Where it all went off the rails,” Mart tells Cal, settling to his story, “is when Lord Muck found out about the badger-baiting. D’you know what that is?”
“Not exactly,” Cal says. The first violent flare of the poteen is dying down, but