The Fabulists | Page 6

still smoked, but not
a lot. He heard the bedsprings as she turned.'Is that you?' she called.
'It's me,' he called back.
'Well get some meat if you're going out.'
At least the children were fed and clothed. Nothing fancy, but enough.
The curse of Christmas was still to come, but if children couldn't have
Christmas, what could they have? He took some money and left the
house.
He went down Grangegorman, crossed North Brunswick Street and
turned left at North King Street, flexing his fingers as he walked, and
sweating a little at the effort. It took concentration. His New Year's
resolution would be to get the strength back in his hand and arm. If he
couldn't get a regular job then he could do nixers until the building
trade took up again, and someone had told him that that wasn't far off.
He had intended continuing along North King Street, but when he came
to Smithfield, he set out across the cobbles which stretch almost to the
river. On one side were warehouses, some of them derelict, covered in
colourful, garish murals. He passed the weigh house. There were young
trees planted in rows of three all the way down. On the other side was
new Corporation housing and, farther down, the new Children's Court.
In between were three travellers' caravans, smoke rising from the
aluminium chimneys.
'Mungo! Hey, head-the-ball!'
This was as he passed the Children's Court. An old drinking crony was
lounging on the steps.
'Hey Frankie! I thought you graduated from that place a while back.'
'Been rejuvenated. Mungo, you're a rich bleedin' culchie - any ciggies?'

'Sorry, pal. Don't smoke any more.'
'Ah, keep goin', so. You're no use to me.'
He walked on. That was about the size of it. Once you were one of the
lads, knocking it back a couple of nights a week, money no object, you
were a great fella, but hit bad times and you might as well never have
existed. When he thought about it, he hadn't one real friend. It was a
useful piece of knowledge.
His journey brought him past the derelict distillery on to the fruit and
vegetable markets, and as the pavements were blocked by crates of
produce, he followed a dray cart through the chaos of vans and lorries
and whining forklifts. He realized he was thirsty, so instead of taking
the more direct route along Little Mary Street, he checked the change
which he kept for himself, and went down to Abbey Stores on the
corner of Arran Street and Mary's Abbey. He saw the butcher talking to
a customer outside his shop farther along Mary's Abbey, and thought of
the meat. If he didn't get it now he'd forget it, as sure as daylight. So he
went down to McNally's. The butcher, who he presumed was J.
McNally himself, stayed outside, finishing his conversation in the
sunshine.
'I'll be with you in a minute,' the butcher called into the bright but
old-fashioned interior.
That was fine. Mungo was in no hurry. He had all the time in the world.
'Now, what can I get you, sir,' Mr McNally asked as he came back in.
'Can you give me a couple of pounds of stewing stuff?' 'Sure. Why
not?'
The meat was good and it was cheap. This was the way to do things -
combine a little business with a pleasant walk. Pleased with himself,
Mungo doubled back to Abbey Stores. It was a tiny shop but they had
nice oranges and they didn't mind if you only bought one.

'Magic,' the young shopkeeper said when Mungo handed him the exact
amount.
A juggernaut from Holland was parked in the lower, residential part of
Arran Street, being unloaded by a forklift. Tons of apples. Mungo
happily sucked on his orange. He turned into Little Strand Street to
avoid the quays. At the junction with Capel Street he paused, then
gravitated to a shop window and a multiband radio which caught his
eye. It cost what his family now lived on for a week, but it would give
him access to any station in the world, almost; to languages he could
never hope to understand, unless Spanish, perhaps. It was first year
college Spanish, brushed up a little on the Costa Brava, but it would be
something to build on. It was vaguely painful to know that he would
never be able to buy the radio, unless he was able to work again. He
tried to lift his arm, thinking it would never recover.
He turned and crossed over to Great Strand Street, away from shops
and dreams. There were Corporation offices, a pub and one single shop,
which sold guitars and amplifiers, but apart from a school, it was a
street of