Mr Sing My Heart's Delight (2)
'Anything, good lady. Anything.'
'A good big meal it'll be, then, and Sunday be damned!'
She took out knives and forks from a drawer. 'Tell me, Packman, what do they call you, what?'
'Singh,' he said.
'What?'
'Singh,' he repeated.
'Christ, but that's a strange name. Sing. Sing,' she said, feeling the sound on her tongue. 'I'll tell you what I'll call you, Packman. I'll call you Mr Sing My Heart's Delight! A good big mouthful. Mr Sing My Heart's Delight!'
'Yes,' he said, quietly accepting her name for him.
'Now, Mr Sing My Heart's Delight, go to sleep for an hour, and when I call you, there'll be a good meal before your eyes. Close your eyes and sleep, you poor exhausted man, you.'
He closed his eyes obediently and in five minutes, his head had fallen on his chest.
We ate by the light of an oil lamp. It must have been a month since the packman had last eaten, because he ate fast, like a wild animal, and did not lift his eyes until his plate was cleared. Then he sat back in his seat and smiled at us for the first time. 'Thank you, good lady,' he said. 'A beau-ti-ful meal.'
'You're welcome,' she said. 'Where do you come from, Mr Sing My Heart's Delight?'
'The Punjab,' he said.
'And where might that be?'
'India, good lady.'
'India,' she repeated. 'Tell me, is India a hot country, is it?'
'Very warm. Very warm and very poor.'
'Very poor,' she said quietly, adding the detail to the picture she was making in her mind. And oranges and bananas grow there on trees, and the fruit and flowers have all the colours of the rainbow in them?'
'Yes,' he said simply, remembering his own picture. 'It is very beau-ti-ful, good lady. Very beau-ti-ful.'
'And the women,' Granny went on, 'do they wear long silk dresses to the ground? And the men, are the men dressed in purple trousers, and black shoes with silver buckles?'
He spread his hands in front of him and smiled.
And the women walk under the orange-trees with the sunlight in their hair, and the men raise their hats to them as they pass... in the sun... in the Punjab... in the Garden of Eden...'
She was away from us as she spoke, leaving us in the bare kitchen, listening to the wind beating on the roof and the ocean crashing below us. The packman's eyes were closed.
'The Garden of Eden,' said Granny again. 'Where the land isn't bare and so rocky that nothing will grow in it. And you have God's sun in that Punjab place and there is singing and the playing of music and the children... yes, the children...' The first drops of rain came down the chimney and made the fire spit.
'Christ!' she said, jumping to her feet. 'Up you get, you fools, you, and let me wash the dishes.'
The packman woke with a start, and bent to pick up his case. 'And where are you going?' she shouted to him. 'Christ, man, a wild animal wouldn't be out on a night like this! You'll sleep here tonight. There - in front of the fire. Like a cat,' she added, with a shout of laughter. The packman laughed too.
By the time we had washed the dishes, it was bedtime. Granny and I undressed quickly in the shadowy end of the room, and jumped into the big bed which we always shared.
'Blow out the lamp, Mr Sing My Heart's Delight,' said Granny, 'and then place yourself on the floor there. You'll find a bit of carpet near the door if you want to lie on that.'
'Good night, good lady,' he said. 'Very good lady.'
'Good night, Mr Sing My Heart's Delight,' she replied.
He put the old piece of carpet in front of the fire and stretched himself out on it. Outside, the rain beat against the roof, and inside, the three of us were comfortable and warm.
It was a fine morning the next day. The packman looked young and bright, and his case seemed lighter too. He stood outside the door, smiling happily, as Granny directed him towards the villages where he would have the best chance of selling his things. Then she wished him goodbye, in the old Irish way.
'God's speed,' she said, 'and may the road rise with you.'
'To pay you I have no money, good lady,' he said, 'and my worthless things I would not offer you, because 'Go, man, go. There'll be rain before dinnertime.'
The packman still hesitated. He kept smiling like a shy girl.
'Christ, Mr Sing My Heart's Delight, if you don't go soon, you'll be here for dinner and you ate it last night!'
He put his case on the ground and looked at his left hand. Then, taking off the ring with his long, delicate fingers, he held it out to her. 'For you,' he said very politely. 'Please accept from me... I am grateful.'
Even as it lay on his hand, the stone changed colour several times. It had been so long since Granny had been offered a present that she did not know how to accept it. She bent her head and whispered, 'No. No. No.'
'But please, good lady. Please,' the packman insisted. 'From a Punjab gentleman to a Donegal lady. A present. Please.'
When she did not come forward to accept it, he moved towards her and took her left hand in his. He chose her third finger and put the ring on it. 'Thank you, good lady,' he said.
Then he lifted his case, and turned towards the main road. The wind was behind him and carried him quickly away.
Neither of us moved until we could no longer see him. I turned to go round to the side of the house; it was time to feed the chickens and milk the cow. But Granny did not move. She stood looking towards the road with her arm and hand still held as the packman had left them.
'Come on, Granny,' I said crossly. 'The cow will think we're dead.'
She looked strangely at me, and then away from me and across the road and up towards the mountains in the distance.
'Come on, Granny,' I said again, pulling at her dress.
As she let me lead her away, I heard her saying to herself, 'I'm thinking the rain will get him this side of Crolly bridge, and then his purple trousers and silver-buckled shoes will be destroyed. Please God, it will be a fine day. Please God it will.'
- THE END -
