I couldn’t go after my old friends. There’d been deaths, and I’d heard about a son’s suicide, from my mother – I hadn’t gone with her to the funeral. There’d been depression, alcoholism. There’d been bailiffs. There’d been successes too – there was a daughter lecturing in Harvard or Princeton. There’d been a Lotto win. There’d been divorces, a car crash, cancer, Parkinson’s, strokes. The stories had dried up after my mother died. My old friends were more interesting than my new ones, I suspected. I was proud of them but I couldn’t walk back in there. I spoke in the church at my mother’s funeral. I didn’t invite them back to the house or on to a hotel lounge or the local for soup and a pint. I went straight home after the graveyard. I kissed my sister goodbye and left. Rachel said nothing all the way home, back across to our side. My son wasn’t there.
This was the fresh start. I thought. I hoped. Although Fitzpatrick was lurking somewhere. He’d know – he knew – more than I’d want known. He’d know facts and lies. But he wasn’t there now. I suspected Fitzpatrick disappeared for spells.
I was starting my third pint. The place had filled up after ten o’clock. There were more people now trying to get to the bar. We were in the way, but the little upheavals were good-natured. I’d made room for a man, and I found myself looking over Pat’s shoulder at the women while we talked about Rory McIlroy, Fifty Shades of Grey, and Brian O’Driscoll’s retirement.
—D’you know him?
Pat had caught me on the hop. I was still looking over his head.
—Sorry – me?
—Who else? We don’t know him.
—I met his father once, said Harry.—Nice man. Sold him a policy.
—D’you know him? Pat asked me again.
—Who?
—Too busy gawking at the women, said Pat.— BOD.
I thought he was talking about one of the women.
—O’Driscoll, he said.
—Oh, I said, and laughed.—No, I don’t know him.
Then I added a bit.
—Not really.
—You’ve met him.
—Yeah, I lied.—Shook his hand once or twice. Said Hello and Up the Northside.
They grinned.
—What about his wife? said Liam.—Amy.
—She was with him, I said.—It was a do – a charity thing.
My mother had loved that word, ‘do’. Any event that involved putting on the good clothes had been a do. Rachel loved the word too. She’d be telling me where she was going – I’d be watching her at the dressing-table mirror. She never sat at it, although there was a stool. She leaned forward and down, into it. In our last years, she’d let her reading glasses slip from her head to her nose, and examine her work. It might be a twenty-first or a launch or, later on, when she really took off, supper with people from London. Whether the Queen was going to be there or a bunch of blonde kids making themselves vomit the birthday cake in the toilets, she’d hesitate, smile, and call it a do. She’d got the word from my mother. She’d loved my mother.
—Is she as good-looking in the flesh?
—Amy?
—Yeah.
—I didn’t see that much of the flesh, I said.— Unfortunately.
I was one of them.
—Her shoulders were impressive, I told them.—Although not as impressive as his.
They laughed, and then I gave them what we needed.
—She’s gorgeous, I said.
—Is she a friend of your wife’s – or – ?
—No, I said.—I don’t think they’d know one another that well. There’s the age difference.
—’Course. I thought maybe – there aren’t all that many celebrities in this country. Real ones, anyway, the genuine article. So I thought they’d bump into each other.
—There’s a thought, said Harry.
—Rachel – , I said.—She actually lives very quietly.
—Especially since she threw you out.
That was the door opening wide. They were going to love slagging me. I was going to love being slagged.
One of the women came over.
—How’re all the lads?
—How’s it going, Brenda? said Pat.
—Ah, sure – fabulously.
—Any news of China?
—Well, there you go. She’s in fuckin’ China!
China was Brenda’s daughter and she was in Beijing.
—Brilliant, said Liam.
She showed us a photo on her phone. The daughter on the Great Wall, holding up a banner – The Great Wall of Me! The mother was having a ball. She leaned on Pat’s knees – he was up on a stool – while she searched for another photo. Pat opened his legs, so she’d slip between them.
—Stop that, you messer.
She slapped his thigh. They laughed. Pat and Liam looked like men who couldn’t wait to see more photographs. Harry stood back a bit – a small bit. He was smiling but he wasn’t looking as Brenda flicked through the snaps. I joined him.
—D’you have kids, yourself, Victor? he asked.
—I’ve a son, I said.
—What’s he up to?
—He’s away, I said.
That seemed to be enough. You reached an age when everyone’s kids were away, or back. It wasn’t just the economy. It had always been like that. In my world. In the world I thought I’d probably left.
—And you? I asked.
—I’ve four, he said.—One’s away.
—The eldest?
—Yeah.
I knew enough. It was honest. I’d never have to remember their ages, genders, the points they’d got in the Leaving Cert, the college options, the little disasters. He’d never have to know that I hadn’t seen my son in three years. That I had no photographs of him. That I didn’t want to ask Rachel for one, because then she’d know I didn’t have any. She already knew. But I didn’t want to hear or see her knowing.
—I used to have a place, I told Harry – just Harry.
The other two were still glued to Brenda. She’d stay another minute, then she’d smile at Harry and look at me before she went back to her friends.
We’d had a pied-à-terre in Paris. Rachel still had it. I’d never see it again. In fact, I’d only been in it once. I’d loved that term, pied-à-terre, and the silliness of it. Millionaires paying – borrowing – fortunes for their little foot on the ground. It always came with ‘It’s only’. It’s only a pied-à-terre. I’d loved listening to Rachel apologising for owning an apartment in the world’s best city. We’d had a place in Barcelona for a while before that. Five years. We stayed in it twice. It had been in both our names, although Rachel had paid for it. I’d hinted that I might go there to work, to get away from the distractions. Once upon a time, ten, even five years earlier, she’d have said it was a great idea. She’d have smiled her delight. She’d have said that she’d come down to me at the weekends. We’d have embraced, she’d have felt my erection, and looked straight back at me. This time, though, she sold it.
—We had a place in Paris, I told Harry.
—Nice.
—Yeah, I said.—Beautiful. Great part of the city. Near Saint Germain des Prés.
—Ah, yeah, he said.—It’s lovely there.
—Isn’t it? I said.—It’s not mine now. Unfortunately.
—Does she – ?
—Ah, yeah. Yeah, she still has it. I didn’t fight.
—Can’t be easy.
—It’s hell, I said.—Was hell.
I shrugged. Enough said. I wouldn’t bore him and I wouldn’t make him squirm. Brenda was going. She shoved her iPhone down into the back pocket of her skinny jeans. She smiled at Harry. And she looked at me, and smiled. I smiled back. She’d know soon who my wife was. She might have known already. That was probably good. I didn’t know.
?
??D’you remember her when she was in school? said Liam.
I could tell it wasn’t a new question; this was a routine. I might have seen Brenda, myself, when she was in school. The house I’d grown up in was only three miles away.
—She’d have put the horn on a corpse. Back in the day.
—The daughter’s a ringer, isn’t she?
—Unbelievable – so fuckin’ alike. It’s funny.
—It is.
The chat rolled on, away from Brenda, back to holidays and work and decking and a funeral that would be coming up – someone’s mother was on the way out. We talked about the fashion for bringing the dead back to their houses for the last night before the burial.
—It’s the old way.
—Yeah, but it stopped being the way years ago. And now it’s suddenly the way again. Except someone in the house always fuckin’ explains that it’s the old way. If it was really the old way, you wouldn’t need someone to explain it every time. Would you – am I right?
—Yeah.
—And no. You’re not right.
—I have to be, said Liam.—It never happened until a few years ago. There was the removal to the church. So you got the whole thing out of the way on your way home from work. Drop in to the church, say I’m sorry for your troubles. Make sure you’re seen. Do the decent thing. Then go home. That was the way it was for all of our lives.
—Because we grew up here. In Dublin, said Pat.
—What’s that got to do with it?
—That’s how it was done in Dublin.
—Yeah – and? Your fuckin’ point, please.
—It was always different in the country, said Pat.
—Yeah, said Harry.—I’ve been to a lot of wakes. In houses. Down where my dad comes from.
—So what? Why has this culchie practice suddenly come to Dublin? Why do we need to pretend that we live in fuckin’ farmhouses in the 1920s?
—My wife, I said.
That grabbed them.
—She had a catering business, I said.—For years.
—Meals on Tits.
—Heels.
—That’s right.
They laughed, stunned. Like kids who’d expected to be battered by the teacher but had got away with it.
—Anyway, I said.—She started catering for funerals. For wakes.
—Southside wakes.
—Yeah. Coddle and griddle cake, and bacon and cabbage.
—That’s gas.
—So it’s true, I said.—The wake came back into fashion.
—You can’t beat a good coddle, by the way.
—Has to be good, though. There’s nothing worse than a bad one.
—Like eating your dinner straight out of a brown wheelie.
—And tell us, said Pat.—Did they dress up in their bunny outfits?
—Who?
—The girls. Serving the food.
—They didn’t wear bunny outfits, I told him.
—Did they not?
—No. Never.
—I thought I remembered photographs. Back in the day.
—No.
—Grand.
—Your parents still with us, Victor? Harry asked.
—No.
—It’s your favourite fuckin’ word, that, said Pat.
He was a fucker but I was starting to really like him.
—Well, they’re dead, I said.—In fairness.
—And you’d never lie, of course.
—No – of course not. Never.
We left together. They seemed to know when it was time to go. We’d had four pints. Maybe that was it – they all bought a round, then went. Four was enough. You could feel a bit pissed. You’d had a bit of a night but you’d feel okay in the morning. Carl and the younger barman – the men called him One Direction – were still serving but no one suggested that we have another. Like the geese migrating, they just knew – it was time to go home.
We walked past the line of taxis, past the line of houses that looked like they’d never been lived in. Five of them in a tight row, bang up against the pub car park; there were identical rusting padlocks on four of the gates. The identical front hedges hadn’t been cut in a long time, if ever. We went straight past them; I didn’t ask for a history. I’d pick it up – who had owned the land, who he’d sold it to, the good timing, the bad timing, the killing, the fall. The next corner was mine but they were crossing the street, on to the next corner or the next. I’d find out. I’d get to know where they lived and where they used to live – addresses, names, neighbours, fights. I’d absorb all the details and contribute some of my own.
They knew I’d be turning.
—What are they like inside?
They knew I was in one of the apartments.
—Fine, I said.—Grand.
—It’s a nondescript oul’ building.
—Yeah, but it’s okay, I said.—It’ll do. I like it.
I’d expected – I’d hoped for another slagging. I hoped they’d see that I was walking home into something wild. I was their man on the dark side. I’d tell them about fat men on the stairs and the sound of smashing glasses. I’d give it to them, dish it out once or twice a week. I’d share the banging and the moving beds. I’d make it up. I’d have to. I’d sat there, I’d lain there, waiting for the creaks and groans, heels and whimpering, the gunfire. But very little – nothing. I’d forgotten I’d thought I was renting a flat in a brothel, until now. I’d tell them about the feral cats. And the foxes I’d seen gliding across the car park.
—See you, lads, I said.
—Yeah – see yeh.
—’Night.
—Good luck.
I didn’t say I’d see them again. I didn’t ask when they’d be there again. I knew they’d be talking quietly about Rachel and bunny outfits and wondering what she’d ever seen in me.
I went across the car park, went a bit quicker. I charged up the stairs; I was dying for a piss. The phrase, ‘dying for a piss’, was there – dying, dying. I got the key in the lock, got to the toilet and had a piss that seemed to go on for minutes – I might have fallen asleep for a while, standing up. I sat at the table and thought about writing, and forgot. But I would. I knew I’d write. I was in a new life – my head was in the hedge and I was battling through it. Nearly there – I could see it. I thought about toast. Making some. Eating it. I didn’t have any bread. I got up and checked. I’d no bread. I’d write about that. Checking the bread for mould while the woman above me told the fat man from the Midlands to fuck her, in Czech. Or something. Your farm has very many hectares? He’d have been to a wake that night. That was what had brought him up to Dublin. Something like that. I went back to the table. I didn’t want to write on the pages already on the table. They were for something else – the novel. I wanted to keep them clean for that. My bag was leaning against one of the table legs. I found the Moleskine notebook Rachel had given me years before – years before she’d copped on that I wouldn’t be putting anything in the notebooks she kept giving me. 31/7/14. Girl – fat farmer – Czech. Or Polish. Wake. Sadness. Brother/old girlfriend? I’d take it from there. It would become something. A short story. I could feel it in me, written. Just waiting. I was ready for another piss, then bed. I’d text Rachel. Using the notebook – writing a short story and a novel. X. No, I wouldn’t do that. I left the phone on the table, to make sure I didn’t do something stupid. I went into the toilet. I came out. I emptied my pockets. I’d lost my phone. I remembered – it was on the table. I remembered why. I sat on the bed. Derby County. I needed to remember about that too. Getting myself up to date. Would he know how many acres made a hectare? Would they get into that – the metric system? It would become the rhythm of their riding – her backing into him, trying to get him done and out, then becoming involved – she’d be a country girl hersel
f. A peasant. She’d know exactly how many acres there were in a hectare, or the other way round. I needed the notebook. I got up. I fell back. I laughed – I think. I got up. I took the notebook from the table, and the pen, and the phone.
12
—How’s the lovely Rachel? Síle Ní Bhuachalla asked me.
We were on air. The country knew who she was referring to.
—She’s well, thanks.
—Great. Still planning the family?
—Spectacularly, I answered.
Rachel had said in some Sunday interview that we – we – were planning on having children. At some point in the future – loads of them, actually. But not just now. That meant one thing. Contraception. Rachel visited the Irish Family Planning Association clinic on Cathal Brugha Street. She walked past the prayer groups reciting the rosary outside. And she was recognised. Hoor. Slut. Prostitute. She was followed. She felt the drops of holy water hit the back of her head. She saw the spit on the back of her jacket when she got home to the loft. And she gagged. But she let the jacket drop to the floor and decided to deal with it later.
I went with her to Cathal Brugha Street. I spoke about it and I wrote about it. For months. Rachel was being honest. She wanted sex but she didn’t want a baby. She wanted the babies but not until she wanted them. She’d said it out loud. And she was reviled and loved – adored, admired. People liked her and were wary, frightened of her. She was sent razor blades in envelopes, and holy medals. And recipes and job requests. And proposals and shit and threats and invitations. And orders. Business boomed.
She came home one night from a visit to her parents and sat on the side of the bed and cried. I went towards her but she stiffened.
—Don’t – please –
I sat at the end of the bed and watched her.
—Tea?
She shook her head three or four seconds after I’d asked the question. I felt it in me – I was the boy at the end of the bed. Sitting, waiting, for hours, for my mother to sit up and stop whimpering. It was the way I’d found her day after day when I came home from school in the months after my father died. I stood up now and went across to the table. I sat down and I wrote. I really did write that night, about the rot that was at the heart of Ireland. Until I felt Rachel standing behind me. I remembered my mother’s face when she sat up, trying to make herself the way she should have been – not the woman who’d been lying in the bed. There were minutes sometimes when there was a fight between the two women. Eventually – always – my mother won. She was grieving, but I didn’t understand that. I didn’t grieve. I never expected my father to come back. I just didn’t feel that he was gone. He was my father, there or not there. It didn’t matter. My mother would smile after she sat up.