“Aidan?” she asked, turning around in surprise, the frying pan already in her hand. “Ah no, sure he’s away in London on the sites. You know that.”
“But you said two lads.”
“I meant Jonas,” she replied, and I left her in peace and focused my attention on the television set.
“Were you watching this earlier?” I called out. “Don’t they make a terrible fuss all the same, the Yanks?”
“They’d give you a pain in the head,” she said over the sound of the oil spitting in the pan as she laid three or four sausages out to fry. “But yes, I sat before it half the day. Do you think he’ll be any good at all?”
“He hasn’t even started yet and everyone hates him,” I said, for I had watched a little of the coverage myself earlier in the afternoon and been surprised by the crowds protesting on the streets of the capital. Everyone said that he hadn’t won at all, and maybe he hadn’t, but it was all so tight that I found it hard to believe that a Gore inauguration would have been any more legitimate.
“Do you know who I loved?” asked Hannah in a faraway voice, as if she were a girl again.
“Who?” I asked. “Who did you love?”
“Ronald Reagan,” she said. “Do you remember him in the films? They show them on a Saturday afternoon sometimes on BBC2. There was one on a few weeks ago, and there was Ronald Reagan working on a railroad and he had an accident and the next thing he knew he was waking up in bed with both his legs amputated. ‘Where’s the rest of me?’ he shouted. ‘Where’s the rest of me?’”
“Ah yes,” I said, even though I had never seen a Ronald Reagan picture in my life and was always surprised when people talked about how he used to be in films. They said his wife was an awful creature.
“He always looked like he was in charge,” said Hannah. “And I like that in a man. Kristian had that quality.”
“He did,” I agreed, for it was true, he did.
“Did you know that he was in love with Mrs. Thatcher?”
“Kristian?” I asked, frowning. I couldn’t imagine it.
“Not Kristian, no,” she said irritably. “Ronald Reagan. Well, that’s what they say anyway. That the two of them were in love with each other.”
“I don’t know,” I said with a shrug. “I doubt it. I’d say she’s a tough woman to love.”
“I’ll be glad to see the back of that Clinton fella,” she said. “He was a dirty so-and-so, wasn’t he?”
I nodded, noncommittally. I was sick of Bill Clinton myself. I liked his politics well enough, but he had become so hard to trust, so concerned with saving his own skin that he had lost me long ago. All those wagging fingers and stone-faced denials. And not a word of truth in any of it.
“Him and his oral sex,” continued Hannah, and I turned to stare at her in surprise. I’d never heard such words come out of her mouth and wasn’t entirely sure that I’d heard her correctly now either, but I wasn’t going to ask any questions. She was turning the sausages over in the pan and humming to herself. “Odran, are you a ketchup man or do you prefer the brown sauce?” she called out.
“Ketchup,” I said.
“I’m out of ketchup.”
“Then brown sauce will do me fine,” I said. “I can’t remember the last time I had a bit of brown sauce. Do you remember how Dad used to put it on everything? Even salmon?”
“Salmon?” she asked, handing me a plate with two fine-looking sausage sandwiches on it. “Sure when did we ever have salmon growing up?”
“Ah there was a bit of it from time to time.”
“Not that I can recall,” she said, sitting down in the armchair and staring at me. “How’s that sandwich?”
“Spot-on,” I said.
“I should have made you a dinner.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I don’t know where my head is at the moment.”
“Don’t be worrying, Hannah,” I said, wanting to move the conversation on. “What did you have for dinner yourselves, anyway?”
“A bit of chicken,” she said. “And mash rather than boiled. Kristian always prefers the mash.”
“Jonas,” I said.
“Jonas what?”
“You said Kristian.”
She looked a little confused and shook her head, as if uncertain what I was getting at. I was going to explain, but at that moment I heard a door open upstairs and the slow, heavy descent of feet coming down the staircase. A moment later Jonas himself came in and nodded at me, a shy smile, pleasant, though. His hair was longer than the last time I had seen him, and I wondered why he didn’t cut it short, for he had a pair of cheekbones on him, that boy, and had they belonged to me I would have had them on display in the front window.
“How are you, Uncle Odran?” he asked.
“I’m very well, Jonas,” I said. “Have you got taller since the last time I saw you?”
“He never stops growing, this one,” said Hannah.
“Maybe a bit,” said Jonas.
“And what’s with the hair?” I asked, trying to sound friendly. “Is that the latest fashion now?”
“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug.
“He needs a haircut is what he needs,” said Hannah. “Would you not get yourself a haircut, son?” she asked, twisting around to look at him.
“I will if you give me three-fifty,” he said. “I haven’t a spare penny at the moment.”
“Well don’t be looking at me,” said Hannah, turning away. “I’m in enough trouble as it is. Odran, wait till I tell you—Mrs. Byrne at work. She told me I had to buck my ideas up or else. I wouldn’t mind, but I’ve been in that job eight years longer than her.”
“Yes, you said,” I replied, finishing off one sandwich and starting in on the other. “Will you not sit down, Jonas?”
“I just wanted a drink,” he said, heading for the kitchen.
“How are your studies going?” I asked.
“Fine,” he replied as he opened the fridge door and looked inside, his face betraying both disappointment and resignation at what he found within.
“That boy always has his head in a book,” said Hannah. “But sure doesn’t he have brains to burn?”
“Do you know what you’d like to be yet, Jonas?” I asked.
He muttered something, but I couldn’t make out what he’d said. It was something smart-aleck, I thought.
“He could be anything he wants to be, that one,” said Hannah, her eyes fixed on George W. Bush’s face as he delivered his inaugural address.
“I’m not sure,” said Jonas, stepping back into the living room and staring at Bush for a moment. “An English degree doesn’t really prepare you for anything, but that’s what I’d like to do.”
“You won’t be following me into my line of business, will you?” I asked.
He laughed and shook his head, but not in a nasty way, his face coloring a little. “I don’t think so, Uncle Odran. Sorry.”
“You could do a lot worse, son,” said Hannah. “Sure hasn’t your uncle made a grand life for himself?”