issue partly political, but largely personal.”
“Politics is always personal here.”
“And how. So you understand: alliances are not simply to positions but to people. As such, our friend Angus MacBride is irreplaceable. For years he’s managed to conceal from the Prods that he’s intelligent. And he’s one of those rare fellows who can pat you on the back and turn a phrase with the latest idiom, and only later in bed might you realize what he said was anathema to you, if then. That he’s reasonable and open-minded about solutions to this situation is known only to his closest associates like you and me. To the rest he plays the part of a hardheaded holdout to perfection. I’m not telling you anything you don’t know. And sure I don’t need to tell you, either, that his drinking is out of control.”
Roisin inhaled. Anyone’s confidence hit up her sinuses like eucalyptus. “You fancy?”
“He is drinking not only after political functions but before. And are you aware that the glass he keeps beside him at press conferences is filled with vodka?”
“Angus has always been well oiled, Mr. O’Phelan.”
“Have you ever added up how many quarts that engine takes?”
“I suppose about half a bottle a day.”
“I will infer you are not talking Beaujolais. And Miss St. Clair, that’s the liquor you know about. Even so, that’s hardly well oiled, my dear, it’s pickled. Now, a friend of mine in the SDLP is your man’s physician. I’ve glimpsed the reports. I will spare you the details, but the outlook is grim.”
She gasped and pressed for specifics, but he was not forthcoming.
“So you see, I’d be leery of intruding on your privacy without cause. Angus speaks highly of you, though rarely, as he ought. I’ve come to believe you exert considerable influence on the man. As his friend and supporter, I appeal to you.”
“To do what?”
Farrell spread his hands. “Haven’t a clue. Mind you, for several years drink was more my own speciality than politics. Like most such experts, however, I’m a better source on how to get in than out.”
“How did you”—she nodded to his coffee—“get out?”
“I’m not, entirely,” he admitted. “Otherwise,” he patted her hand, “a long story. I turned a corner. I hadn’t a woman to help me. And little good she’d have done me if I had. I was a spiteful drunk.”
“Are you still spiteful?”
“Perverse. Telling me I’d had enough was the fastest way to get me to kill the bottle. Angus is more adult. I sense in him more of a—desire to please.” Retreating from the border of insult, he added, “And wisely he might please such a lovely lady.” Farrell broke his gaze and withdrew his hands to his lap.
“I’ll think about it. I can’t promise anything.”
“I can give you one piece of advice. Angus and I have a complex relationship. With your concern, he might behave himself. Had he an inkling I cautioned you, he’d booze himself to death inside the week.”
“Why?”
“Trust me.”
“Why should I?”
He laughed. “What is it you’ve heard about me?”
“That no one knows whose side you’re on.”
“Seems you’ve done a bit of line crossing yourself.”
Roisin fumbled with her jumper.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. Still, it must be difficult for you,” he ventured, “not being able to pour your heart out to girlfriends on the phone.”
Her eyes shot up, but he only looked sympathetic. “Yes, it’s claustrophobic.”
“Then”—he looked off—“I can’t remember the last time I ‘poured my heart out’ to a living soul. Sometimes I’m afraid there’s nothing to pour. Like Talisker at the end of the day—you know, I used to drain a bit of water in and rinse it about just to get the last drops out?”
“Sad picture,” said Roisin.
“Only thing more depressing than a drunk jarred is a drunk sober.”
“I meant the one of your heart.”
“I did want to mention”—he changed the subject—“I’m an admirer of your work. Especially Bare Limbs on Basalt. Though I imagine Neighbors Who Watch the Shore has received more critical acclaim.”
“Yes. Basalt is out of print.”
“Unforgivable! I know some editors at Blackstaff; we’ll see what we can do.”
“Och, you needn’t. Please don’t.”
He laughed. “You mean, please do. I heard an Irish comedian claim the other day that it was a stiff shock to go to the Continent and discover that there when they asked if you wanted a cup of tea and you said no you didn’t get one. But it’s no trouble, and that volume deserves to be on the shelves. Does that collection include ‘Stibnite Crystals with Druzy Quartz’?”
“No.” She looked at him in amazement. “That was only published once, in The Honest Ulsterman, three years ago. It’s unimaginable you remember.”
“Hardly. I quote a few lines from ‘Stibnite’ in one of my speeches. Since I repeat myself appallingly, that means I must have recited them two dozen times.”
“What lines?” She leaned forward. Her tea had gotten cold.
Constance Has Inner Beauty; About Farrell We Are Not So Sure
Though accustomed to shenanigans, Constance had found her assignment to dig up all of Roisin St. Clair’s published poems unaccountably disturbing.
Still, she found every damn one. If anything, Constance was competent. In the UWC strike of ’74 she knew where to get you milk. She was a wizard with maps, a seamstress with itineraries. She negotiated library stacks the way most women ranged confidently through Co-op. She was unintimidated by computers. She remembered post codes, account numbers, train schedules, hotel rates. Traveling, she packed dresses that didn’t wrinkle, and never forgot her toothpaste. She knew the best and cheapest shops for anything from light bulbs to woolens, and unlike Farrell would never buy top of the line unless it represented fair value; yet she never shopped for pleasure and stocked huge boxes of detergent and froze family packs of chicken to save trips. She could spell out any of the maze of acronyms in Northern Ireland and the complete title of governmental applications. She could get carpenters on the dole or file compensation claims with the NIO. As a result, she had imbued countless other women with that particular modern bravery, bureaucratic courage.
For Constance believed goodness was practical. So she would watch your bicycle while you ran in the smoke shop for a paper. She would give you clear directions to the bus station. She might not routinely shell out spare change to bad buskers—not to encourage a poor choice of careers—but she would recognize honest embarrassment in a checkout line and fill out your bill the pound three you came up short, all with a brusque officiousness that eased accepting her money. She arranged funerals while everyone else was weeping on dales, amid even her own tragedy making sure you had bread with your broth, a lift home. She remembered birthdays; if her gifts were dull, they were at least handy. And because she understood kindness as concrete, that Farrell had saved specific people by removing real wires from gelignite continued to impress her far more than all his talk and referendums now.
While Constance