Crowing Cock and sporadic work as an auto mechanic, he fell into that most superficial of categories, generally known as “Jack of all trades and master of none.”
The young Gusty’s arrival at Kilfeckin had been as unceremonious as one could imagine. He’d simply materialized one hot August morning with a change of socks and a note that read: I rared him from scretch now its yew’s turn . His washerwoman mother had found better prospects—a used-car salesman with a mobile home set on two acres and a Triumph Toledo pickup that was “going places”—a couple of weeks after the errant Eustace had dropped dead of a hepatitic seizure outside a pub in Clonmany, County Donegal. In this new and unexpected state of affairs, the sixteen-year-old Gusty had become surplus to requirements and was thus unceremoniously sent back to his roots.
So Ned, a childless widower with more living space than was respectable, reluctantly accommodated the lad. Never quite accepting the fact that his “ward” was the issue of the wayward Eustace (even though Gusty carried the undeniable proof of the Grant progeny in his big feet and trophy-cup ears), Ned sought toadvertise the falsity of such a claim by housing the boy in a lean-to attached to an old garage out the road.
Over the years, Kilfeckin Manor saw Gusty’s constant coming and going as he both slaved for and befriended his crotchety uncle. The pair grew to like and loathe each other in equal measure, blowing hot and cold with the sureness and contrariness of the seasons. As time passed and Ned retreated more to the bedroom on the first floor, he became less aware that Gusty was even in the house. Raidió Teilifís Éireann’s afternoon shows with their hourly news bulletins, coupled with encroaching deafness, would mute footfalls and creaking doorknobs and muffle the odd shouted salutation from the front hall door. These days even the roars and rattles of Gusty’s truck were progressively going unheard.
Thump, thump.
“Hoi! Are ye up there?”
There it was: the all-too-familiar summons, made by the broom shaft the oul’ boy kept by the bedside, sending tremors through the armchair. Veronica snorted and opened one piggy eye.
“Och, what d’ye want now?” Gusty muttered, half to himself and half to the uncaring universe.
With resignation he stood up, licked a grubby thumb to mark the page about the curious star-nosed moles, took another gape out the window, and kicked a trunk before lumbering down the stairs, piglet trotting behind him.
Old Ned was propped up as usual in his Elizabethan four-poster, sucking on a pipe and sending out great gouts of smoke that hung in the room like thunderheads over the Serengeti.
“Where’s me tay?” he demanded.
“Rose is comin’ today. Did ye forget, did ye? She’ll make yer tea.”
“She is, is she? Aye, Rose’ll make me tay and not crab about it like you . Better take a piss afore she comes then. Help me up, willye?” He hoisted himself up in the bed. “And get that bloody pig outta here. It ate one-a-me socks yesterday.”
“She doesn’t eat socks. Ye lost the sock yerself.”
Gusty clumped over and helped haul his uncle out of bed. He knew that Ned was well able to get up unaided but assisted him anyway, if only to keep the peace.
“Now, open that windee for me.”
“Och, ye don’t need tae do it out the windee no more. That’s why the commode’s over there in the corner. That Mrs. Hailstone’s up in Dora’s now.” In the past, he hadn’t minded the old man using the yard as a toilet, but the arrival of Mrs. Hailstone had changed all that—hence the provision of Lord Kilfeckin’s ancient commode.
“Aye, she’ll not see nothin’ she hasn’t seen afore. The day I sit down on a chair tae piss is the day they kerry me out in a box.”
“Ye didn’t see me wallet, did ye?” Gusty was changing the subject, trying to forestall the repellent act while checking for activity on the hill.
“Naw, how
The young Gusty’s arrival at Kilfeckin had been as unceremonious as one could imagine. He’d simply materialized one hot August morning with a change of socks and a note that read: I rared him from scretch now its yew’s turn . His washerwoman mother had found better prospects—a used-car salesman with a mobile home set on two acres and a Triumph Toledo pickup that was “going places”—a couple of weeks after the errant Eustace had dropped dead of a hepatitic seizure outside a pub in Clonmany, County Donegal. In this new and unexpected state of affairs, the sixteen-year-old Gusty had become surplus to requirements and was thus unceremoniously sent back to his roots.
So Ned, a childless widower with more living space than was respectable, reluctantly accommodated the lad. Never quite accepting the fact that his “ward” was the issue of the wayward Eustace (even though Gusty carried the undeniable proof of the Grant progeny in his big feet and trophy-cup ears), Ned sought toadvertise the falsity of such a claim by housing the boy in a lean-to attached to an old garage out the road.
Over the years, Kilfeckin Manor saw Gusty’s constant coming and going as he both slaved for and befriended his crotchety uncle. The pair grew to like and loathe each other in equal measure, blowing hot and cold with the sureness and contrariness of the seasons. As time passed and Ned retreated more to the bedroom on the first floor, he became less aware that Gusty was even in the house. Raidió Teilifís Éireann’s afternoon shows with their hourly news bulletins, coupled with encroaching deafness, would mute footfalls and creaking doorknobs and muffle the odd shouted salutation from the front hall door. These days even the roars and rattles of Gusty’s truck were progressively going unheard.
Thump, thump.
“Hoi! Are ye up there?”
There it was: the all-too-familiar summons, made by the broom shaft the oul’ boy kept by the bedside, sending tremors through the armchair. Veronica snorted and opened one piggy eye.
“Och, what d’ye want now?” Gusty muttered, half to himself and half to the uncaring universe.
With resignation he stood up, licked a grubby thumb to mark the page about the curious star-nosed moles, took another gape out the window, and kicked a trunk before lumbering down the stairs, piglet trotting behind him.
Old Ned was propped up as usual in his Elizabethan four-poster, sucking on a pipe and sending out great gouts of smoke that hung in the room like thunderheads over the Serengeti.
“Where’s me tay?” he demanded.
“Rose is comin’ today. Did ye forget, did ye? She’ll make yer tea.”
“She is, is she? Aye, Rose’ll make me tay and not crab about it like you . Better take a piss afore she comes then. Help me up, willye?” He hoisted himself up in the bed. “And get that bloody pig outta here. It ate one-a-me socks yesterday.”
“She doesn’t eat socks. Ye lost the sock yerself.”
Gusty clumped over and helped haul his uncle out of bed. He knew that Ned was well able to get up unaided but assisted him anyway, if only to keep the peace.
“Now, open that windee for me.”
“Och, ye don’t need tae do it out the windee no more. That’s why the commode’s over there in the corner. That Mrs. Hailstone’s up in Dora’s now.” In the past, he hadn’t minded the old man using the yard as a toilet, but the arrival of Mrs. Hailstone had changed all that—hence the provision of Lord Kilfeckin’s ancient commode.
“Aye, she’ll not see nothin’ she hasn’t seen afore. The day I sit down on a chair tae piss is the day they kerry me out in a box.”
“Ye didn’t see me wallet, did ye?” Gusty was changing the subject, trying to forestall the repellent act while checking for activity on the hill.
“Naw, how
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