Page 5 of The Elements

“Have you come far?” I ask finally, aware that I sound like the late queen.

“From over there,” she says, nodding in some vague direction that might be anywhere.

“The farm with the cows?”

“That’s the one.”

“So, we’re neighbors.”

“For now.”

“What does that mean? Do you intend to run me too?”

She smiles, and to my astonishment her face lights up when she does so, and then she throws her head back in laughter. I can’t help myself. I laugh too. I taste my tea and offer a further concession.

“You’re right,” I admit. “It is weak.”

“Will you be with us long?” she asks.

“I’ve taken the cottage on a month-by-month basis. I’ll decide in time.”

“You don’t have parties, do you?” she asks. “We can’t be doing with parties.”

I stare at her, wondering how she could possibly imagine that I would. Who would I invite?

“No. No parties,” I assure her.

“Good. The queer lads had their music blaring half the night. Mr. Duggan wanted to come over but was frightened of what might happen if he did, so I had to do it instead. I read them the riot act, have no fear.”

“What was he frightened of?”

“That they might try to have their way with him.”

I smother a laugh. If Mrs. Duggan is anything to go by, I suspect that her husband would be of no interest to either of them, whose side I have taken in this historic row.

“And you’ll be from Dublin, I suppose,” she continues, employing a tense that I’m not sure exists in the language.

“I am,” I say.

“What part?”

I’m surprised by the question. I can’t imagine she knows Dublin at all.

“Terenure,” I say.

“The rugby players,” she replies, astonishing me even further.

“You mean the school?” I ask.

“I do. Sure, they’re always winning cups, aren’t they?”

“I’m surprised you’d know such a thing.”

“I read the papers,” she says, sitting up straighter now, apparently offended. “And I’m what you might call a sports aficionado.”

She pronounces the word slowly, carefully in syllables, as if she wants me to be impressed by the extent of her vocabulary.

“It means a person who has an enthusiasm for a subject,” she clarifies.

“I know,” I say.

“We have little enough of it on the island, of course,” she says. “A few good hurlers, I suppose. But they do say that Evan Keogh is as good a footballer as anyone has ever seen.”

“Who’s Evan Keogh?”

“The Keogh lad,” she replies, which clarifies nothing.

“Charlie Keogh wants him to go off to England and get a trial with a club over there. But, from what I hear, Evan isn’t keen.

Charlie’s a bitter piece of work, though.

Wanted to be a footballer himself but wasn’t good enough.

Still, I’d bet everything in my pockets on him getting his way in the end.

But keep that to yourself, you. I don’t want him hammering on my door some evening with a flea in his ear. ”

“No, I can only imagine how annoying that would be,” I say, wondering with whom I would spread such gossip, even if I was interested in it, which I’m not.

“And where, pray tell, is Mr. Hale?” she asks now, raising her voice and looking around, as if a man might unexpectedly appear from the fridge or drop down from the ceiling, like Tom Cruise in that film.

“There is no Mr. Hale,” I reply, which is true, for there isn’t. There’s a Mr. Carvin, of course, but he’s nearly two hundred kilometers away in Midlands Prison.

“You’re not married?” she asks, raising an eyebrow in disapproval.

“I’m divorced,” I say. A lie, but near enough to the truth.

“Marriage is for life,” she tells me. “What God joins together, may no man split asunder. You’re married.”

“I’m divorced,” I insist.

“Have it your way. But you’re not. We had a divorcée on the island before. She came over after her husband cheated on her and tried to get in with poor Denny Albright.”

I have no idea who poor Denny Albright is either, and don’t ask.

“And what happened to her?” I ask.

“We ran her.”

It occurs to me that I was fortunate not to meet Mrs. Duggan on my first day here. The warmth of her welcome might have undone me entirely.

“And you and Mr. Duggan,” I say. “How long have you been married?”

“Forty-five years,” she tells me. “We got married on my sixteenth birthday.”

“That’s very young,” I reply. “How old was he?”

“Thirty-one.”

There’s so much I’d like to say, so much I’d like to know, but, like Bananas, I understand that it’s best to remain silent.

“Do you have children?” I ask.

“Of course we do,” she snaps, as if even the question is ridiculous. “Eight. Four of each. They’re all away now, save Luke. We keep him here to help out on the farm.”

“I think I’ve seen him,” I say, for on my perambulations I’ve been vaguely aware of a figure in the distance, calling out to the cows and herding them around the fields.

It disturbs me to hear her speak of the boy as if he’s a possession.

Doesn’t she know that you should love your child, want to spend every moment with them, because you never know when they’ll be taken from you?

“Don’t get any ideas about Luke,” she says, glowering at me now. “He’s a good boy and we’d like to keep him that way.”

“I’ll do my best,” I say.

“Do more than your best.”

The tea has turned cold now, and I hope that she’ll stand up and leave, taking the troublesome cat with her, but she shows no desire to go. Instead, she asks the question that I knew was coming next. The one I had hoped to avoid.

“And you?” she asks. “Do you have any children yourself?”