The Fabulists | Page 6

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 light industry and dereliction in equal proportion. A granite-faced warehouse, refurbished and converted into small units, pleased him. It had been a while since he had been along here.
Just as he turned into Liffey Street, joining the streams of people walking between Abbey Street and the Ha'penny Bridge, he saw her. She gave a little start of recognition, just as he did, but he continued around the corner. Not knowing what to do, he stepped onto the road to let her pass, or whatever she might choose. She passed, but he could see that she was hesitant too. They walked almost together for a few moments, she slightly ahead; then he crossed over to one of the Pound Shops and pretended to browse, his heart pounding. She had paused