Hard Features

In a move to persuade the assailed siblings back to their home, I offered to help them with clearing their scraps off the street, reminding them that if it rained again, the stuff would likely worsen in condition, and my offer was made in good faith even though in my heart of hearts I was deeply reluctant to take on the additional labour.  It didn’t matter.  Oran seemed for now set on staying in the Pompadour.  With dark approaching, I hoped he might decide to leave but while mooching about he’d discovered a tiny electrical charge was getting into the building by some means – left of the auditorium, a bulb in the hallway seemed to work well enough.  And so we sat downstairs in the front row seats of the theatre to be nearer the light.   

After eating, we took to reminiscing about movies we had seen in the place – my own entries were of course a few generations after theirs – less of the b/w variety and largely in colour, with less transatlantic accents and a good deal more swearing. 

As evening descended outside and the light source grew in efficacy, shadows started to rise up and flit, and when Phyllis walked towards the loo exit on the right side of the cinema I suddenly realised why that child had previously mistaken her for the long woman.  There was something definitely ghostlike and rather miserable about her movements.  She gave Oran a scare when eventually she returned from the loo and her tall silhouette broke the light.  When I asked him if he was okay, he said he thought for a second it was his mother back from the dead.  I had not made the connection myself, for I had never seen a photo of Mrs Berrills or her Mr.  And even though I’d seen Mr Peter Berrills’ name pepper The Martlet over the years (known and esteemed as he was), both he and his wife seemed to have narrowly escaped the age of personal promotion being as neither of them were represented pictorially in the archives. 

We were all upset by the state of the Pompadour, but Phyllis was particularly offended and kept returning to the subject, moaning about its dilapidation, and the state of the nation as a whole.

They fairly cold-shouldered the place, didn’t they?  Not a care.  Not a care.  History might as well just give up.

In my experience, I said, people always remember in the end.  They might forget for a short time while other things occupy their minds, but buildings like this, no matter how decrepit they become, will stay right where they are until their place in time is reclaimed once again.

And what do the poor buildings do until then?  Left to the rats.  And to rot.  If my mammy was around to see this, she’d throw a hundred fits and punches and more.  No love at all for those lasting objects. 

Well, I said, maybe that’s a good reason to get home and see what you can salvage of your precious belongings, eh?  I met Adam out at the chippy.  I’m sure he’d want to help saving those valuables – wasn’t he helping you sell parts of it off?  It would do you both a power of good to start putting your lives back together, you know.

Oran sighed:  It’s all worthless.

I turned to him and said, sharply, Then why have any of it if you deem it worthless? 

Comfort, he almost whispered, resignedly.   A point for dispute now we know someone could throw a bomb in the window given half the chance. 

You know well I have no faculty for stockpiling myself – I’ve never quite understood it.  But I can say I now respect the hobby, the archival nature of it, while also recognising how bonkers it is.   

Come now, man, we’re not that bad, replied Oran.  I saw on the TV last week a fella whose primary collection consists of the Crash Test Dummies album on CD.  He has about three thousand of them.  We might have tens of thousands of things . . . but just one of each.

            It’s still a load when all combined.  Did you ever think about what will happen to it after yous go into the ground?  Will Adam be the one to take it on and sell it?  He looks keen, from my observations.

            Sure we’ll outlive him the way he fusses, said Phyllis.  He’s from the Casey side.  They’re all nervous wrecks.  Rarely make it past 64. 

            You’re no picture of health yourself, Phyllis, I said, mockingly.  In truth, she looked fitter than me.

            I’m fitter than you, you stick of rock!

            She was right.  I was terribly gaunt.  Not slim.  Boney.  A tiny bit plump in the belly which only made me look odder. 

Thinking on the matter of Adam further, Phyllis and Oran were also rather jittery like these distant relatives the Caseys, but I opted not to quibble.  (It wasn’t that they were physically frantic; they didn’t move around much; it was their minds which seemed all the time on-the-go.)

            I’m just expressing my concern as any kind and decent acquaintance would.  I’m sensitive to your circumstances, the fact that there are no apparent heirs.  After a scare like this, it might be worth getting a proper inventory done on your chattels.

You say this to us rather presumptuously, but what about yourself, eh? Phyllis said pointedly.  The age of you – and no wife or childer.  That’s shocking!  Absolutely shocking!  We might be past our primes and close to death’s door, but we’ve outlasted the time for excuses.  You’re still ripe for questioning, my love.

Don’t shame me.  Cause I’ll shame you right back, you know. 

How so? said Oran.  Spread rumours about irregular relations?

I could do.  Maybe not as far as spreading them like the rest, but I may at least participate in that carry-on.

I didn’t usually argue or disagree with either of them, so I was aware of a tremble in my voice as I spoke.

Even if we were the foul sex maniacs this town would dream us into being . . . said Phyllis, glancing at her brother, I wouldn’t!  If you shoved a thick wad of cash in my purse, I still wouldn’t.  He’s far from being my type.

Oran tutted like a severely wronged yet obstinate schoolboy and said, You’re a real bitch, aren’t ye?

It’s not that you’re ugly, dear brother, it’s just that your face is too soft for my liking.  I go for hard features in a man.

I don’t know what the hell that means. 

In front of us, on the empty wall-space where the screen used to be, which had already been greeting shadows in the late stage of day, a significant crack we hadn’t noticed in the natural light was now visible.  It looked like the wall might break apart if you pushed it hard enough.  Oran got up and went to it inquiringly.  Phyllis told him to be careful.   He put his ear against the wall and listened.  He stalled there for quite a long time, an inordinately long time actually, and Phyllis and I both looked at each other with unease, wondering what it was he could hear, for he must be hearing something, mustn’t he?  He was there so long I thought he might go asleep right there on his feet.

What is it? asked Phyllis, perturbed.  Do you hear something? 

Nothing, he said, one short dramatic pause later.  I thought we might hear some of those old films echoing back.

Get away, ye nutcase.

Sounds like something the Scouring Tout would report on, I joked.

Oran then took his ear away from the wall and stepped away.  He looked up at the crack.  It began dead centre then veered down and about three feet along the wall like a warped tree branch. 

It doesn’t appear deep enough to make the whole thing come down, said Oran.  Thanks be to God.  Might survive a few more years if the storms are easy.      

Or if the Gullivers don’t take a disliking to it, I said. 

There’s nothing controversial showing anymore to get them upset. 

Phyllis turned back to the front row seats.  She picked up The Martlet which Oran had found in the projection room, folded it up neatly, and tucked it underneath her arm.

Right, she said, sending her brother a non-negotiable look.  Let’s get going.