Short Story: 'A Friendly Visitor'

A FRIENDLY VISITOR

Dennis Dignam’s back was at him again. He stood up and stretched it out, leaning back with his hand in the curved base. It was no good he couldn’t get it to click back just right. Still, he’d done a fine job. The black lettering on the grave now slick and fresh. He’d had to scrub it clean first, then carefully go over the letters with a small brush, dipping it rhythmically in the pot of black emulsion he’d found on a shelf the garage. Now it was good as new -

‘Hilda Gibbons

1901 - 1957’

She was only a young woman it turned out. Dennis had nearly twenty years on her now. Still she looked old to him then. ‘Our friendly visitor’ his mother would mutter under her breath on the way to answer the door. In the days before school when Dennis was mum’s happy helper, Mrs Gibbons would call in every day just after eleven with a sweet smell of sherry on her breath.

Dennis remembered her squat legs as she heaved herself into the old chair in the kitchen. Mum would busy herself with the dishes, folding the clothes in off the line, or wiping the down cabinets while Mrs Gibbons would talk at her, all the time tipping her cigarette ash onto a saucer. Mother wouldn’t concede to buy an ashtray. “It’s enough she parks herself on my new lino for half the day,’ she said to dad, “if we get the ash-tray she’ll only see it as an invitation to move in.”

While his mum never regarded her as a welcome visitor, Dennis had liked Mrs Gibbons. He supposed at four years-old he had the freedom to like her. He wasn’t yet saddled with the daily jobs mum had to get on with. He remembered her warm throaty laugh and big doughy fingers pinched with gold rings. She would sneak Dennis aniseed balls from her bag with a wink when mum’s back was turned.

Mum was different of course, very proper, proud, clean, precise, - all qualities Dennis was glad to have inherited. Still, there must have been a stray streak in him back then, something of a fascinated child pressing its nose against the shop-window of mischief. That streak must have died with Mrs Gibbons.

He remembered the fuss outside when the doctor was called, the neighbours lining the street in little scuttling groups like pigeons. It was his first memory of something very important happening.

“We’ll have to go to the funeral,” said mum, “There’ll be nobody else there. I hope she had enough for a gravestone but we’re not getting involved in that.” Dad agreed.

But here it was, the gravestone, and Dennis visiting. He would call in occasionally on his afternoon walk. Just to check everything is as it should be with mum and dad’s grave - pinching out little tufts of green between the stones. And then he’d search out Mrs Gibbons grave, almost as a test to see that he still could do it. Four rows over and seven across. He’d snap his fingers with victory upon seeing the name. The lettering had been fading for a few years. He’d done a grand job fixing it up.

He thought of how lonely she must have been.

These were all the people that knew him now. The Lannigan boys he’d been in school with - though he’d never been friendly with of course. A rough crowd, but harmless now he supposed. Mrs Gunniver and her son Patrick. She would wheel Patrick around the village in his chair, always with a smile and a nod. She had a tough go of it all the same, Mrs Gunniver - they didn’t have the dipped curb-stones then of course. Pauline Jones who came up from the country to spend her life in the sweet shop. Big Mick Grady who pelted Dennis with conkers on the way home from the hill school. All gone now. The sky was slate grey. Dennis best get on home.

The house was still. Dennis put on three potatoes to boil and fried up some canned tuna. That would do him nicely today.

Afterwards, he washed up the plates and the pot. Everything in the same drawers. Mum had created the system and still worked just fine.

He sat down and looked at the television. After a few minutes he got up and turned it on.

There was nothing but game-shows and celebrity cooking so he watched an episode of Columbo on video. They’ve changed all that now of course but he knew his way around the video machine so was sticking to it.

He tried to read for a while. He used to read on the bus to work and would get through a book a week at least. But recently he couldn’t stick to it, after three or four pages the words began to swim. He missed getting that bus to work now. He had a regular seat and people knew him by it.

He tried the television again but there was nothing worth watching. He stuck with the documentary on penguins he was sure he had seen before. Documentary makers seemed to have a special fascination with penguins.

At half nine it was off to bed. He found himself starring at the ceiling.

There was that feeling that was too big to be looked at directly. But still, he’d always been happier alone. He must have dozed off at some point.

The creak on the stairs woke him. There it was - another one, more definite. Dennis fumbled for the light. He lay still. Another creak. He whipped off the sheets and opened the door onto the landing. Nothing there but darkness.

“Hello?” he called out, his voice was dry and small. There was nothing. He turned the landing light on and went back to bed. He lay still for a while, the house echoing with emptiness.

The next morning he was clearing out the tins to wipe down the cabinet when he got the first sniff of it. A definite smell of cigarette smoke tickled his nostrils. He hadn’t left the hob on. He checked the bin but it wasn’t coming from there. He’d read how you can get a smell of burning before a stroke. He steadied himself with a glass of cool water. His hand trembling. No he wasn’t having a stroke.

Then he heard a laugh - a throaty gargle. He turned - the kitchen was empty. He put down the water and made his way to the hall. The clock ticked. Stillness. He put on his anorak. He would have to get out of this house, he was going funny.

Dennis went to the library and sat for a while. It must have been something in the tuna he reasoned. He could write off to them and complain but was sure they wouldn’t respond. They never do. Still, it had passed now. It was indigestion. Silly of him.

Satisfied, he made his way to the shops and picked up a flaky Danish for after supper. There were new girls on the tills. He used to know them to say ‘hello’ to but sure now they wouldn’t know any of the old locals and people tended to look at him funny if he tried to make polite small-talk. They don’t go in for that these days.

He made his way home but with every step an empty feeling in his stomach grew.

The house was still. Dennis nodded. All as it should be.

He turned on the hob to heat up some beans that would go nicely with a pork-chop and turnip. But the beans weren’t there.

He was sure he got three tins in last week because they were on sale. He flung open the cabinets - everything was wrong - the tea-bags were where the baking bowls should be - the vegetables were under the sink - the the beans were there nestled against the cleaning sprays. Head-spinning he fumbled backwards. Someone was playing a trick.

And there - the laugh. Dennis spun around. The smell - cigarettes. It was stronger now. It was strong and definite. He went to the phone - but who could he call? The police would think he was going doolally, he didn’t know who the priest was anymore - and sure what would the priest do? The laugh came again - a hearty wheezing gurgle of a laugh.

“Leave me alone!” Dennis called out meekly, “I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all now. Stop it.”

Silence.

The laugh again. And the smoke. It filled his head. Filled and taunted and spun in his head. Dennis clambered for his anorak and swung the front door shut behind him.

Out into the night he walked in beat with a racing heart. The cool air couldn’t sooth him. He marched on and on, past the shops and the old cottages, past the park with the rotting benches where the teenagers drank cider, on and on until the sound of that laughter faded from him. He found himself in the village - outside Brennans pub, glowing with amber from within.

A shaking hand touched his lips. ‘And why not?’ he thought. A drink would steady him, shake this off - but then he was never one for the pub. It had always been alien to him. He’d pass it quickly on an evening walks, the hearty laughing friends inside seemed to share an inside joke he would never be privy to.

He went to the bar and ordered half a beer. The barman nodded. There wasn’t too many about but Dennis daren’t look around. He felt he was on enemy turf and must tread carefully to get away with it. The drink arrived, a handsome honey-colour with giddy bubbles rising. Dennis told the barman to keep the change, he supposed it was the done thing. It went over okay.

He had taken a few sips when a hand landed on his back.

“It’s not Dennis Dignam is it? It is - sure I thought it was yourself,” It was Maurice Sheehy - a lad who was always first picked for the cricket team. Dennis hadn’t taken to cricket, much to his dad’s disappointment. Maurice had a fine big red face and stocky square frame, though maybe a bit stooped now.

“Ah hello Maurice. Good to see you,” said Dennis politely before returning to his drink.

Maurice made his order and Dennis tried to make himself small as possible, his heart racing for the moment to be over.

“Sure come over to the lads - there’s Jimmy and you know Con don’t you?”

Dennis turned and saw Jimmy O’Mahony nodding with arms folded across his barrel chest as Con Ready conducted a strong argument using his finger.

He’d forgotten their faces, all rushing back to him now.

“Oh no, I’m only having the half - “ Dennis began.

“Ah nonsense, for God sake, us old fellas have to stick together. Now come here and tell me, what ever happened to that Sarah Joyce that lived on your road? Con was only thinking of her the other day and sure I’d forgotten all about her - though I knew her cousin well enough now - “

Before he could protest further, Dennis was shepherded over to the table and found himself welcomed with nods from the others as though he’d been expected. He sipped his drink as Con debated the merits of the new car-park at the back of the carpet shop and how it would block up traffic on Church Street. Dennis sipped and nodded - but found he could correct Con on a minor point when he said Symond’s grocers had been where the Boots was now, he was of course thinking of the barbers.

“Ah you’re right enough,” conceded Con with a mighty sup of his drink.

From there the chat flowed into the firm-footing of the old days - how old Mr Hopkins would fire a duster at you if you got your latin wrong - how Teasie McDonagh from the corner shop would clatter anyone if she thought was looking at the sweets for too long - how they used to drive sheep through the village down to the butchers - and a moment of solemn nodding as they remembered young Michael Halpin, the best-looking boy in the village, who was knocked down outside the local cinema that Saturday night before Easter.

And then the golden moment, Dennis ventured if they remembered how Father Donaghy would do his rounds on his bike and after a full day of house-calls with ‘just a drop of whiskey’ in each he’d be wobbling down the road singing show-tunes to himself. They did remember. And they laughed. Laughed!

Dennis glowed. Took a sip, and smiled to himself.

It was after eleven when he got in. He’d been warmed by the drink and company and nearly forgotten the fright until he was on the front-step.

But then. The house was still. There was no smell.

He did the rounds and checked the rooms. All was as it should be.

He met the lads again on the Sunday night and they made plans to attempt a game of poker the following Thursday. Con was the expert on poker now but Jimmy warned him that he’s not going to be betting big again - not after last time. Dennis hadn’t played poker before but found a book on it in the library.

On the way back he went to the shop and then stopped by the graveyard. A late evening light was just breaking through.

He laid the flowers on Mrs Gibbons grave.

He stayed there a while, whispered his thanks, and made his way home.

****

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