Nostalgia for the good old days of reverend Bishop Abel Muzorewa
‘LET’S go for a walk, darling, and build up an appetite…’ ‘It must be nearly six o’clock – time for some weeding, dear…’ ‘I think I heard a cuckoo, sweetest. I’ll just sit out for an hour or two and listen...’ It was at this point that Hermione became cast-iron convinced something unusual must be happening to husband. Never before in umpteen years of marriage had he suggested leaving the house at lunch-time for a casual stroll. Also unprecedented was the suggestion that he would potter off into the Side Garden, hoe in hand, just as the Angelus was poised to ring.
But the clincher, confirming the presence of some profound psychological disturbance, was the cuckoo vigil. The chances of there being such a rare bird in the neighbourhood was practically on a par with the likelihood of a (flightless and extinct) dodo winging overhead and dropping a dollop of fresh guano in her spouse’s eye.
Fearing that professional help might have to be summoned, Hermione reviewed what was happening to see if she could diagnose any pattern, any clues, any pointers which might help her understand. Now that she came to consider the matter, there had been other instances of eccentricity.
For instance, Medders had disinterred the old record player lately and he had taken to playing his collection of Kinks singles very loudly and singing along. ‘Yah really got me! Yah really got me!’ Totally tuneless, with ghastly jerking dance moves.
Since the book shops closed, he was sometimes seen scouring the house for fresh reading material, although he had a stack of serious tomes unopened beside the bed. She had even found him with his nose in one of her Mills & Boon novels. He swore when challenged that he was only dusting ‘Love in Lavender’ and that he had no interest in the contents. However, the notion of him dusting anything without a gun put to his head was clearly preposterous.
His peculiar attitude persisted during a visit to the supermarket on a mission to pick up a few essentials. The tinned goods and chilled cabinet sections of the store were negotiated without difficulty but he began to hang back on the approach to the checkout. |He resembled a highly strung horse about rack up three faults for a refusal during a round of showjumping.
She thought to put him at ease by offering to purchase a copy of his favourite ‘Irish Independent’, only for him to flee from the premises as though haunted. As she pushed the trolley away from the till on her own, Hermione realised she had no clue as to what had propelled her husband into such a state.
She caught up with him leaning against the Jalopy as he stared unfocused over the familiar roofs of Our Town into the far distance.
‘What was that all about?’ Hermione demanded. Then, in more gentle tone: ‘Are you alright?’
‘Am I alright?’ Her husband appeared to give the question due consideration, his brow furrowing as he continued gazing at the horizon. ‘Do you remember, dearest, when I used to be a news junkie When I knew who Bishop Abel Muzorewa was. When I knew which political party was in power in Bangladesh. When I knew which TD’s represented each constituency in Dáil Eireann. Current affairs, national and international, were my thing.’
‘I thought you were still a news junkie. You were all over Brexit like a dog at a bone. Every bulletin a must-listen, every hour, on the hour. And Donald Trump’s presidency has been to you what the soaps are to me.’
‘But it’s not the same any more, sugar plum. Just a few months ago, the news was a smorgasbord – speculation about an interest rate rise, a military coup in Central America, a cat up a tree in Castlecomer, all on the one page of the paper. Then along comes this virus and suddenly there is only one story – one dreadful, one unending, one relentless story. I have had enough. This junkie is in withdrawal. I’d rather go bird watching than listen to ‘Drivetime’’
As Hermione ushered her man into the car, she thought she heard an unfamiliar sound in the distance – could it have been a cuckoo?