Filthy Old Machines

How was I to resist this woman that had controlled my every waking thought for nigh on twenty years?  The ability to hold my tongue went on the blink.  It wasn’t her fault.  Not as though she was using her feminine wiles to get the truth out of me or anything so heinous.  None of that.  She just had what it took to swing me.  The mere five feet of her was enough to knock me down.  It frustrated the balls off me she was with Colreavy being as he was much too tall for her – she was more my height really.  The whole thing was simply unfair.   In my mind she hadn’t aged since the first time I saw her, somewhere back in the teen era, but of course she had matured, and I was just slow in seeing past the vision in my head impressed by heavy inks of desire.  This vision I definitely prioritised, but I was no fool and could see the woman she had become and loved that version too.  The up-to-date model had a clean blonde helmet like that on Janet Leigh in Psycho which sat so settled on her head it might as well have been a wig.  It really looked like a wig. Never once did I see a strand out of place.  I could see in the older version of her features which others may have faulted her for.  For example, she probably wore too much make-up (it was starting to run now in the rain).  A little too gloopy maybe. 

In the old days Lucy hardly knew me.  I was the friend of a friend of a friend of a friend.  Of a friend.  And in that first part of our lives we had clinked glasses at a birthday party, shared tokes on a joint, and even briefly conversed at a rock show (The Sultans of Ping FC).  But we didn’t get to know each other proper until we ended up in this job together.  The infatuation was worse in those middle parts.  When she was marrying Colreavy and having wee ones and me dyspeptic between bad romances.       

Presently, I was happy to obsess and fantasise.  Over time, I had adjusted to this state, and coped relatively well. 

Okay, brace yourself, I said.

She leaned in closer, excitedly.  Black pudding on her breath. 

Well, I said, it all begins with a set of Berrills . . .

And like that my secret was out.  At long last, I was saying to myself, as I’d kept it inside for so long not thinking it a burden . . . until now upon its lifting.  Which surprised me.  Being a copyeditor, I believed myself blabberproof, impervious to sudden gushes of revelation.  I belonged to the hidden men of letters, the editors, the proofreaders.  I had not the instinct of the journalist to reveal my game at any cost, enslaved by the headlines and thirsting for those creamy scoops; nor had I the vanity of the general writer to get it all out in poems, or long screeds, or novels.  I was glad not to have that urge.  Those wordsmiths I knew were canaries, primed to release any amount of phooey if it upped their byline a mere inch on the page.  And this sorry condition brought on the torment of typographical, factual, and logical error, not to mention, of course, errors of the heart for some of those more intrepid and irrational poets out there.  Long before software allowed for simple deletion, we would type our lives into filthy old machines and even if you scrunched the paper up, or tore it up, or burned it, the physical indentation stayed with you.  You made efforts to erase because you knew it was now out there and all you could do was work hard to conceal.  Most of the time we didn’t scrunch the pages up, or tear them, or set them alight even.  Some of us flaunted our wares with unabating conviction.  Such as B. Bluster, the letter-writing savant, perhaps more prolific than anyone working at the Examiner in terms of output and who could certainly teach them a thing or two about meeting deadlines.  Every Wednesday post, without fail, there it was: another letter.  About something or other.  Lavery printed about ten of them in a year.  The rest went in a basket out back.  Though I retained for my personal benefit some of those sent in concerning the Tout.   

Sir,

I must write to inform you how much I am enjoying the new column by the Roving Martlet.  It is wonderful to know more about goings-on across the nation and the Martlet is a jovial companion.  As someone with no itch to venture outside of our town, I get barrels of amusement hearing about the ridiculous antics those in the other counties get up to. I thoroughly enjoyed the report on the puck fest in Kerry, not to mention the muck fest in Louth, and that one about the wild family in Longford with their dismemberment malarkey I admit I found pleasing if startling.  As servings of pure general interest, I find these articles equal in quality to anything printed in the Ireland’s Own.  Hell. Reader’s Digest.   

Best,

B. Bluster

Sir,

Though I am sorry to see the Roving Martlet go and hope that he is found alive and well before time, I must admit to being delighted with your new hiring, this Scouring Tout, whose adventures overseas have given this old hibernating bear much needed comfort in recent weeks and even inspired notions to brave unseen regions himself.  I have never had a great deal of interest in goings-on outside of our hamlet and especially not with the lives of screwy foreigners beyond the confines of the island so it is extraordinary how well your new correspondent has managed to snag me.  I am most impressed.

Best,

B. Bluster

Sir,

A loyal reader these past forty years, I have decided to hold you expressly responsible for the early demise of that local boy across in Europe.  Even after many of us conveyed our disapproval regarding the veracity of the Tout’s reports, you continued to publish without hesitation any old crap he submitted.  In an effort to jizz up your paper, you went and wrecked the confidence we had in you because it was only a matter of time before his false words led to catastrophe and death.  Personally speaking, I had had enough of the man’s subliterate tripe already and forgive me for the frankness but would prefer him dead than the boy.  Reveal his name, will you, and put all our minds to rest.

Best,

B. Bluster

At 11, the commotion began.  Lavery, on edge all morning, darting back and forth like a sparrow in the wind, rushed to the doors as Mr and Mrs Gilgan entered.   There was a bad perfume of sadness on them and it came in too and filled the place. 

Ida Roche, our advertising manager and a master at public relations whilst unfortunately blind to the rather sour countenance she gave off, was there to greet them, and she did so with an eloquence not equalled in warmth. 

Then Lavery arrived before them thinking he was about to save the day.

Hello, might I be first here to offer my condolence--- or . . . wait, Ida, have you . . . okay, might I be second in offering my condolences for your loss.  We were all of us here at the Examiner devastated by the news.  I hope you caught our two-page spread about your lad.  We spent a whole week putting that together and we had our very best on it.  If you please, would you like to follow me to my office?

We won’t be in long, said Mr Gilgan, gruffly.  So we’ll parlay with you here if you don’t mind.

We were all a bit embarrassed, being used to Lavery’s wrong-headedness, and the embarrassment we felt was not for him.  It came from a deep disgust in our standing as employees.  No matter how highbrow we felt we were in the town as custodians of record, we were but underlings of this prize twit.  It didn’t say much for our dignities.  I looked over at Lucy.  She nodded at me, smiling, happy with her secret knowledge.  I should still have been grinning myself but the perfume of sadness had gotten to me, curled its way up my nostrils to my brain to make new work of it.  I realised I had done good by Lucy in sharing my secret, and done good by myself in getting into her good graces.  Nevertheless, would you look at what I’d gone and done with negligence.  Only betrayed my friends, the Berrills, who were perhaps the only ones I could still call friends in this town, considering I had chased everyone else away.  Fink, snitch, Phyllis would say.  Traitor, squealer, Oran would perhaps say too.  Though he’d probably hold off before saying it as he wouldn’t be as quick to burn the bridge with me.

Mrs Gilgan slowly raised her sad face.  And slowly her sad turned.

Money, Mr Lavery, she said, threateningly.  We want . . . money.