I’m a blow-in to Tyrone, and always will be, but a new blow-in has appeared and I have climbed the ladder an inch.
He’s a bit of a hot-shot, involved in some tech business in Belfast and married to a girl originally from here. They have been seen on and off: breezing about the village like they bought it; chatting ostentatiously to all the bored old people; patting dogs that everyone knows have fleas.
With a new electric jeep and garish, high-end trainers, his name is Graham. He’s from somewhere posh down south, in The Pale, and I came across him first at the football, where his daughter is in the same team as Imogen. He has a sonorous voice, and when some of the local dads rolled their eyes discreetly behind his back, I joined in. Like Fr Dougal winking to Fr Ted I suppose, in retrospect.
His daughter wasn’t as good as the others but Graham wasn’t fazed. “She didn’t play Gaelic back at our last home, just hockey.”
He would march up and down like a coach on a TV show, encouraging all the kids and patting dads on the back. He seemed oblivious to the taciturn Tyrone company he was keeping and blathered and pontificated and laughed and danced, trying to blend in by wearing the “correct” gear that only contrived to mark him out.
And he was rugger-bugger to boot, and with absolutely no cop-on would ask why the GAA wouldn’t take on board the rugby way of doing things. “For starts, the players have to address the referee as ‘Sir’. Did you guys know that?” He took the mumbled, polite responses as a cue for more nauseating tropes about how perfectly-run rugby was: “Copy rugby, guys. It’s a no-brainer.”
I became a bit fixated with him and when I saw his car, I would marvel at his happy face, the chin pushed forward as he sped silently along. He never looked at anyone when driving, which was odd – the Tyrone ones look at everybody when they drive. He reminded me of the witch in the Wizard of Oz during the tornado, riding her bike that turned into a broom.
There’s no point in beating about the bush – I didn’t trust him.
“I actually think you are right this time, Fabien.” Fionnuala and I were in the wee café enjoying some morning respite from the children with smoked salmon on sourdough. “I remember her from secondary school. It was far from electric jeeps she was reared. She seems to have undergone a transformation.”
“He keeps offering me a spin in his car or a swing of his Calloway driver. I feel like screaming in his face.”
It wasn’t often Fionnuala took a pick and I was enthralled: we were now like ugly sisters; prim and wicked. And jealous.
So, when Fionnuala announced we were going to the local pub one Saturday for a fundraiser, I was okay with it. “It’s to send a sick child over for an operation in Birmingham.”
“Who’s organising it?”
“I don’t know. My sister made me buy the tickets. There’s a band.”
No doubt terrible, I thought, as we walked into the bar. But they were actually playing pretty decent songs and the crowd was buzzing and dancing along – and there on lead guitar was Graham. I had to double-take but no, like Ferris Bueller, he was the centre of attention yet again. All sparkling grin and OTT chord-playing and adoring women faux-head-banging in front of him.
“That guy gets really on my nerves.” I said to one of the men I kinda knew, who was bopping along.
“Who?” he said.
“Jimmy Hendrix.”
“Oh aye, he’s a bit of a clift alright. But I suppose he’s rolling the sleeves up, since it’s his cub they’re sending over to England.”
“God, yes.” I coughed. “That’s what I was saying. That guy really is superb.”