A Mad and Wonderful Thing by Mark Mulholland Page B

knows anybody who has made it to the top and come back down. Anyway, it’s the climb that counts.’
    â€˜Do many make it, Bob?’
    â€˜No, not many. It’s a vicious mountain. Deadly. A person has to climb over all of existence just to keep moving up. The worst of humanity must be crossed: debauchery, savagery, greed. The relentless struggle slows you down, drags you back, stops you, swallows you up. Most settle for survival, and make camp wherever they can. The climb to the top gets lost.’
    â€˜Doesn’t sound good.’ I commented. ‘Is there any hope at all?’
    â€˜Some have no chance. Some find a rope to help pull them up.’
    â€˜Hope on a rope, Bob. That’s great.’
    The old man took a drink from the teacup he held in one hand, and with his other hand he waved a slow finger to me.
    â€˜So where do we find these ropes?’ I asked.
    â€˜Every man must find his own rope. They are found all around us, in the simple truths of life. But they are found, too, in our hopes and fears, and those need great care.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜Without great care, a rope becomes a whip. The flesh of humanity is gouged deeply with the scars of those whips. Take care, my young friend, with what rope you take hold of in this life.’
    I had no idea what the old man was talking about. ‘So what’s the secret, Bob? How do we get to the top of this impossible mountain?’
    â€˜You and your secrets, Johnny.’ The old man looked to me. ‘There are no secrets.’
    â€˜At a mad guess, then?’ I pushed.
    â€˜Well, at a mad guess, I’d say it’s a pure heart.’
    After our lunch, I walked out into the sunlight of the afternoon. Across the yard the large steel doors of the workshop were open, and from the shadow Grimes and McArdle along with O’Connell and Cooney — two other buffoons — stepped boldly into the light, their work coats and shirts removed and tied around their waists. The four amigos approached the empty yard in broad steps, like out-of-town gunslingers looking for trouble. I laughed as I watched them.
    â€˜I know a problem we meet on that mountain climb of yours, Bob,’ I said, popping back into the oil store.
    â€˜Yes, son, what is it?’
    I pointed to the workshop. ‘It’s an avalanche of arseholes.’
    On Bob’s next birthday, I surprised him, replacing the ‘Oil Store’ sign with an engraved brass plaque I had made in the workshop. It read:
    THE PHRONTISTERY
    ROBERT J HANRATTY
    PURVEYOR OF LUBRICANTS AND OTHER MATTERS
    The old man polished it every day. He polished it every day until the day he retired. And Bob Hanratty was retired for only one week when he dropped down dead.
    I stand looking out into the estuary. ‘This is where they left from,’ I tell him, ‘the starving Irish. They went from here to Liverpool and then on to God-knows-where. That’s what they did to us, the English: starved us or ran us out of our own land. They brought hell itself onto Ireland. And they had no right to be here in the first place.’
    That’s a long time ago now.
    â€˜Not really, Bob. And they are still here, still a pain in the arse. The partition they insist on is an open wound on this island. As long as it’s there, it will fester and infect.’
    But you’ll make them pay, Johnny-boy. You’ll see justice done. And who’ll be next? The Vikings landed along this shore, and ransacked and plundered all before them. And the Normans sailed this very water, and what did they bring? Will you be off to Copenhagen and Oslo and Pembroke and London and Cherbourg next with that revengeful gun of yours? Don’t you see, son? Once you start, where do you stop?
    â€˜It’s not about revenge. Anyhow, they are gone; the English are still here.’
    But that’s just it, Johnny-boy, they are not gone. They, too, are still here. They are part of you;