last of Danny’s politeness washes away. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave my store.”
The fat man’s eyes bug. “What? You’re the one started this! You’re the one trying to take my money! Customer’s always right, you ever heard that? The customer is always right. You were being stupid and dumb and selfish, and what, I’m not allowed to call you on it? I’m not allowed to stand up for ordinary, decent values?”
“Leave or I’ll call the police.”
“Police?” the fat man screeches, his face going a deep red. “You’re the one in the wrong! I’m the victim here! Call the police! Go on, do it! We’ll let them decide who here is the aggrieved party! Oh, not so cocksure now, are you, now that I’ve called your bluff?”
“Are you going to leave, or not?”
The fat man’s lip curls unattractively. “What’s wrong – you don’t want me to make a scene in front of all these customers?”
“What are you talking about? The only other person in here is your friend.”
“Who, him?” says the fat man. “I’ve never seen that gentleman before in my life.”
On cue, the old man turns, smiling. His face is a fascinating map of lines and wrinkles clustered round the landmarks of his features. A large nose, small, bright eyes, a thin, wide mouth. His hair is white and trails from his mottled scalp in wisps. There is something of the vulture about him.
He marches forward, moving surprisingly smoothly for someone so elderly, his gnarled hands held at his sides. “Pardon me ever so,” he says, “but I couldn’t help but overhear this lively debate from where I stood, perusing the magazine stall. If I may interject, in the spirit of an impartial observer and a stranger to you both, I would offer the opinion that a simple misunderstanding is at the root of this current discord. May I enquire as to your names, kind sirs, so as to better sow the seeds of calmness and brotherhood?”
“My name is Jeremiah Wallow,” says the fat man, standing a little straighter. “I hail from Boston, in Massachusetts, which is in the region known as New England.”
“It is a singular pleasure to meet you, Jeremiah Wallow,” says the old man. “And may I say what an unusual last name you have. My last name, Gant, is somewhat of a rarity also. Originally I came from a small town in a small country in Europe, but as you can probably tell by my accent I have long since made my home in the Midwest, specifically in St Louis, and that is in Missouri. And you, young man? May I inquire as to your details?”
Danny looks at them both. “I’m Danny,” he says.
They wait, but he offers nothing more. The old man, Gant, widens his smile. “And where do you hail from, Danny? Are you a native of Meek Ridge?”
“I am.”
“That must have been marvellous, to have been raised in such beauteous surroundings. I myself cannot remember a town with such natural charm. Can you, Mr Wallow?”
“I cannot,” says Jeremiah.
“You have lived here all your life, then?” Gant asks Danny. “You have watched the comings and goings of your friends and neighbours? And this being, in fact, the General Store, situated as it is on the main thoroughfare, I doubt there is anything, or indeed anyone, that escapes your notice for very long, now is there?”
Danny waits for him to get to the point.
“I dare say you hear an awful lot of accents, do you not?” Gant says. “Accents and dialects and brogues and burrs. What’s your favourite? Do you have one? I personally have always been partial to the Scots accent. It’s the way they roll their r’s. Do you have a preference, Danny my boy?”
“Not really.”
“No? No favourite? What about you, Mr Wallow? Or may I call you Jeremiah?”
“I insist on it,” says Jeremiah. “And I would say, if asked, which you have, that out of all the accents in all the world, Irish is my favourite, what with me being a Boston boy.”
Gant claps his hands. “Irish! Yes! Oh, those beautiful lilts and those soft t’s, every word an event unto itself. I knew an Irishman once – he could charm the birds out of a bush, as the saying goes, and it was all down to that accent. What do you think of the Irish accent, Danny?”
Danny works very hard to keep his expression neutral. “Don’t have much of an opinion on it.”
“You don’t?” says Gant. “Well, my boy, in that case, you need to listen to an Irish person speak in order to form one. What are we without our opinions, after all? When was the last time you heard an Irish person speak?”
Gant looks at him, all smiles, while Jeremiah’s eyebrows are raised in a gently quizzical manner.
“Guess it was the last time I saw a Liam Neeson movie,” Danny says.
Gant waves his hand dismissively. “Movies hardly count. Real life, now that is the only experience worth having. When was the last time you heard an Irish person speak in real life?”
“Years ago,” Danny says. “Probably when I was in LA. Don’t really remember.”
Gant’s smile fades a little. “I see.”
“No Irish around here?” Jeremiah asks.
Danny shakes his head.
“No Irish girls?” Jeremiah says. “Irish women? You sure?”
“Meek Ridge doesn’t have a whole lot to offer,” says Danny. “We don’t get many people moving in. We usually get people moving out.”
“And you say,” presses Gant, “no Irish?”
“Nope.”
“Well … that is odd.”
“You were expecting some?” asks Danny.
“Expecting one,” says Gant. “Friend of mine. Niece, actually. Dark hair. Tall. Pretty. Kind of girl you’d remember.”
“What’s her name?”
Gant smiles again. “Thank you for your time, Danny, but I must be going. Jeremiah, might I offer you a lift?”
“That would be most kind,” says Jeremiah, trailing after the old man as he walks from the store.
They leave, and the bell tinkles, and silence rushes in.
“Should
