Rules of the Road

by Ciara Geraghty

  We arrange ourselves around the dining-room table.

  ‘You look lovely, Iris,’ I say. She is wearing a pale-pink dress, sleeveless and knee length. It has never seen the benefit of an iron, but gets away with it because of the fabric. And she’s caught some sun on her face, making her green eyes greener and her long lashes darker. But more than that, there’s something about her face that is different. It seems … unhindered somehow. At ease. Iris will seldom tell you if she feels pain or discomfort, but I can usually spot it on her face. A tightening of the skin across her bones. Tonight, her face is as clear as the French evening sky.

  ‘I had a snooze, a shit and a shave,’ she tells me.

  ‘You could have just said, thank you,’ I say, grateful that the Lalouettes don’t speak English.

  ‘I’m a details person,’ she says.

  She hasn’t asked about Lucas. If he rang. What he said about the car. She appears to have accepted our … situation.

  The first course passes without event. Onion soup. ‘Oignons,’ Monsieur Lalouette proclaims, pointing at the vegetable patch in the garden.

  ‘Délicieux,’ Iris says, inhaling the steam curling from her bowl and ladling a spoon of soup into her mouth.

  I wait until Monsieur Lalouette returns to the kitchen before I fish the rings of onion out of Dad’s soup, drop them into mine. He won’t eat it otherwise. Now my starter is more onion than soup, but I manage it down, with the help of the bread, which is warm and crusty.

  As Iris is spooning the last of the broth into her mouth, Monsieur Lalouette emerges from the kitchen, balancing three dinner plates expertly, one in his hand and two along the soft width of his arm. On two of the plates, arranged in neat triangles, a portion of rice, colourful chunks of roasted vegetables, a green salad and meat. Some kind of bird, it looks like. A chicken perhaps? But no, it’s too small. And the meat is darker than chicken.

  The rice, vegetables, and salad on the third plate are arranged in the same way, with a glaring space where the meat is not. It is this plate that he sets, with great ceremony, in front of me.

  ‘Merci,’ I say, and he nods curtly. From a decanter on the sideboard, he pours an inch of wine into a glass, swirls it, and offers it to Dad. ‘À goûter,’ he says when Dad looks at him. Dad lifts the glass to his mouth, drains it, sets it back down on the table, nods at Monsieur Lalouette while pointing at his empty glass, which must be the universal sign for encore, because our host, while not delighted with Dad’s eschewing of ritual, goes ahead and pours more wine into the glass, filling it this time.

  It’s too much wine, given the medication Dad takes every day. And Dad will not forget to drink all of it. I put it down to muscle memory.

  When Monsieur Lalouette places the decanter on the sideboard, I pick up Dad’s glass and take a huge slug out of it, but I am not quick enough – I’d be the last person you’d need on your team in a drinking competition – because I am still at it when Monsieur Lalouette turns and witnesses my faux pas.

  He stares at me, as still as the statue of Joan of Arc in his front garden. I lower the glass, wipe at the semicircle of lipstick I have left on the rim, and return the wine to my father, who lifts it and drains it while Iris tries not to laugh.

  To distract him, I say ‘Are those vegetables from your garden?’ in my halting French, pointing at my plate.

  ‘Oui,’ he says, and disappears into the kitchen, returning with two more plates. Madame Lalouette follows him. It appears they are joining us for the main course.

  They sit at opposite ends of the table, tuck matching napkins into their collars, and pick up their cutlery. We follow suit.

  I mix the vegetables into the rice. Artichokes and beetroot and carrots and asparagus. I butter more of the bread, drink wine, from my own glass.

  I eat with gusto, and no, I don’t think I’ve ever had cause to use that word before.

  I didn’t realise I was so hungry.

  ‘This is très tasty,’ Iris says. ‘What is it?’ she asks in a French accent pointing to the meat with a quizzical expression.

  ‘Pigeon,’ says Monsieur Lalouette, using a corner of his linen napkin to pat at the edges of his mouth.

  ‘Oh,’ says Iris. ‘I’ve only ever shouted at pigeons before. Or maybe that’s seagulls? Which are the ones that like chips?’

  ‘I like chips,’ says Dad.

  Monsieur Lalouette points towards the back garden. We follow the line of his finger. In a cage at the end of the garden, there is a group – a flock? – of pigeons, roosting on a perch.

  ‘They seem much bigger when they’re … alive,’ says Iris.

  ‘Qu-est-ce qu’elle a dit?’ Monsieur Lalouette rounds on me, and I translate in a panic, which actually has a positive impact on my delivery.

  ‘We only eat the babies,’ he says, by way of explanation. The line is delivered in a monotone, devoid of any emotion.

  I drop my fork onto the ceramic floor, and the clatter makes me jump and I bang my knee against the underside of the table.

  ‘Are you alright, Terry?’ says Iris. She puts her big, warm hand over mine, which is her way of saying sorry about eating most of a baby pigeon.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I say, picking up my fork.

  Iris hides the remains of the little pigeon under some lettuce leaves.

  Dad continues eating.

  Dessert is raspberries from the garden and chocolate ice cream. ‘Do your children live nearby?’ Iris asks.

  Madame Lalouette glares at me and I translate. She shakes her head. ‘Non,’ she says. She stands and gathers the empty plates, carries them to the kitchen.

  On the wall behind the sideboard, I spot a photograph of the couple on their wedding day, standing outside a church. It is a formal photograph. Posed. They do not hold hands. Their smiles are small. There is a suggestion of touch along the stiff line of their arms. That is the height of the intimacy. It looks accidental, the touching of their arms, but I don’t think it is. In that touch, there is some unspoken pact. There are plans. And hope.

  I try to remember when was the last time Brendan and I touched each other. On purpose.

  Even accidentally.

  My phone rings and I pick up my handbag, rummage inside. Monsieur Lalouette looks disapproving. I look at the screen. It is Anna.

  ‘I need to take this call,’ I explain in French. ‘It’s my daughter.’

  ‘Does she not know that it is dinnertime?’ Monsieur Lalouette asks, stunned.

  ‘Well, it’s not dinnertime in Ireland,’ is all I can come up with, and he nods, a curt nod, not quite mollified but willing to allow it.

  I rush into the garden. ‘Anna? Hello love. How are you? How’s the studying going?’

  ‘When are you coming home, Mum?’ Her voice sounds plaintive. I clench with worry.

  ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘Well, I’m pretty sure I’m going to fail philosophy and I’ve had a big fight with Philip and the dress rehearsal for Kate’s play was a disaster apparently so she’s—’

  ‘Isn’t that good, though?’ I ask.

  ‘Which bit?’

  ‘About the dress rehearsal. I’ve heard that. If the dress rehearsal is bad, then the opening night will be fantastic.’

  ‘You sound weird. What’s that noise?’

  ‘Birdsong.’

  ‘Birdsong?’

  ‘Yes. Isn’t it soothing?’

  ‘What about me failing my exam?’

  ‘You’re not going to fail your exam, love.’

  ‘You sound so certain.’

  ‘That’s because I am.’ And I really am. I’m positive. It’s nice actually. It’s a very filling feeling.

  ‘And,’ I add, since I seem to be on a roll, ‘I know you and Philip will make up because you always do.’

  ‘He called me self-absorbed,’ she says, indignant.

  ‘Do you want me to deal with him?’ I ask her, and she laughs down the line. This was always a bugbear of the girls when they we
re children. My refusal to deal with their friends when there was a falling-out. They’d come into the house with their tales of woe and I’d wipe away their tears and tell them that I’d be out shortly to deal with whoever wasn’t playing nice.

  And they’d go back out, fortified by the knowledge that their mother would be out shortly to deal with whoever needed to be dealt with.

  And I’d carry on cleaning or cooking or ironing or whatever it was they’d interrupted me doing, and they’d forget about the argument and their need for me to deal with people.

  And one day, when Anna was about ten and the four of us were eating around the dinner table, she suddenly fixes me with a look as realisation cracks like an egg inside her head. ‘You never deal with people, Mum,’ she said.

  ‘You sound in great form,’ says Anna, surprised.

  ‘I am,’ I say, also surprised. ‘I’m having a lovely time.’

  Isn’t that strange?

  ‘Are you at home?’ I ask then.

  ‘Yeah. I thought you might be back. I was hoping for pancakes.’

  Pancakes are Anna’s go-to for comfort.

  ‘You could make them yourself. They’re easy.’

  ‘They wouldn’t taste the same,’ Anna says, with a pout in her tone.

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ I ask, pressing the phone against my ear a little harder, holding it a little tighter. I should have phoned him.

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Anna. ‘He’s not here.’

  I look at my watch. ‘He should be home by now. He’s always home by this time.’

  ‘Maybe he’s done a runner like you,’ says Anna.

  ‘I haven’t done a runner,’ I say. Although I have. Sort of.

  ‘When are you coming home?’

  ‘Soon,’ I say, which is better than ‘I’m not sure’.

  ‘Soon?’ Anna repeats. ‘If you want the house put back together by the time you get home, you’d better be more specific.’

  ‘Why? What’s wrong with the house?’

  ‘It’s a shambles.’

  ‘So long as it’s still standing, that’s the main thing,’ I say, although my pulse quickens at the mention of the word shambles.

  ‘You’re being very zen.’

  ‘It’s just a house,’ I say.

  ‘In a shambles,’ Anna says with emphasis on the shambles.

  ‘Maybe you could tidy up a bit?’

  ‘Mum! I’m studying for my finals! And I can’t find that library book that’s overdue.’

  ‘Is it Kant’s Theory of Form: An Essay on the “Critique of Pure Reason”?’

  ‘Yes, how did you kn—’

  ‘It’s on the third shelf of the bookcase in your bedroom. About three books in from the left-hand side.’

  ‘That’s pretty impressive,’ she says.

  ‘I have my uses,’ I say.

  ‘I miss you.’

  Silence from me. I don’t know what to say.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry. I’m here,’ I say. ‘And there’s no need to miss me, I’ll be home. Soon.’

  ‘But what are you doing?’ Anna says.

  ‘Didn’t Kate tell you? I spoke to her on the phone.’

  ‘She doesn’t have a clue either. It’s all very … strange. It’s like you’ve gone a bit mad.’

  ‘Well,’ I say, ‘madness is rare in individuals, but in groups, parties, nations, and ages it is the rule.’

  ‘Are you quoting Nietzsche now?’

  ‘Sometimes I flick through your books when I’m dusting the bookshelf.’

  ‘He went mad too, you know,’ Anna says.

  ‘I’m in good company, so,’ I tell her.

  25

  AVOID USING PERSONAL ENTERTAINMENT SYSTEMS WHICH CAN DISTRACT YOU, AND MAY PROVE DANGEROUS.

  ‘Let’s go downtown,’ Iris declares after dinner.

  ‘I’m not sure there is a downtown,’ I say.

  ‘Well, it would be a shame to deprive the locals when I’m all dressed up like a dog’s dinner,’ she says, standing up and assuming a pose.

  ‘You’re a very pretty lady,’ Dad tells her.

  ‘And you, sir, are a very charming man,’ Iris says, offering Dad her elbow through which he threads his hand.

  Iris bears Dad away and he glances behind to see if I am following, which I am, for what else is to be done when Iris is at full tilt?

  Madame Lalouette is in the kitchen, doing the dishes.

  ‘Can I help?’ I asked her earlier.

  ‘Non,’ she said. Then added, ‘Merci,’ as an afterthought. I could tell she was taken aback by the idea. I could also tell she wanted me to leave the kitchen, which I understand, the kitchen being my territory at home.

  Monsieur Lalouette is in the garden, sitting beside Joan of Arc and smoking a cigar.

  ‘We’re going downtown,’ Iris tells him, and, after I translate, he nods, as if this is not a ridiculous notion in a village of this size.

  ‘We may be late back,’ adds Iris, which is news to me.

  ‘I will leave the back door open,’ Monsieur Lalouette tells us, batting smoke away from Joan with one of his hands.

  The village is quiet.

  Dead might be another word for it.

  There isn’t a sinner, as Dad used to say.

  On the road, no cars.

  On the pavement, no pedestrians.

  We seem to be the only ones here.

  It is so quiet you can hear the tick and tock of the clock suspended above the door of the church.

  We pass the garage, deserted. The workshop doors are locked.

  ‘I wonder if Lucas has sticky-taped the car back together again?’ says Iris, grinning.

  ‘Or poached an egg on the radiator,’ I add. Even Dad laughs.

  ‘There they are,’ calls Lucas, from behind us. My face flushes at the thought that he might have heard our flip comments about his mechanical skills. He’s been so kind.

  We turn to see him with his massive arm draped across the shoulders of what must be the Wise Woman, whose hand doesn’t quite reach all the way around Lucas’s waist. The woman is not small, but appears diminutive beside Lucas. She oozes vitality from her shiny black hair, her bright, brown eyes, her sallow skin, unmarred by freckles, her long brown be-sandalled feet tipped with naturally pink toenails. She is a sturdy woman. You would trust her to bring your baby. She is wearing a long, loose dress covered in beads and sequins, and she jingles when she moves.

  Lucas looks different beside this woman. Younger. Not ferocious. And not quite as massive, although you could still land a plane on his shoulders. He wears navy trousers and a bright-white shirt that looks brand new or else rarely worn. He seems sort of incarcerated in it. I imagine the Wise Woman handing it to him, not saying a word and not taking no for an answer.

  ‘We were just talking about you,’ Iris tells him. ‘Wondering how the car is getting on.’

  Lucas nods. ‘It should be ready by mid-morning tomorrow.’

  ‘Right,’ is all she says.

  Lucas introduces us to his wife – Isabelle – with no small degree of pride. She smiles and shakes our hands before extending her arm around Lucas’s waist again.

  ‘Where are you guys going, all fancy?’ Iris asks them.

  ‘The Moon Dance,’ Isabelle says, which sounds even funnier with her slow, serious voice. She points to the moon – full and low – as if it’s a venue.

  ‘Where’s this Moon Dance?’ says Iris, like that’s a normal thing to say. Especially in this village, where, apart from the tick and tock of the church clock, time seems to stand still.

  Lucas and Isabelle exchange a smile. ‘Follow us,’ Lucas says. And we do.

  They walk up the street towards the church at the end, but then they turn into a side street, narrow and cobbled, mostly residential, past three houses, then down a set of brick steps that end outside a sturdy wooden door with a brass knocker, which Lucas raps curiously – three slow knocks followed by two short ones, a pause, then one
more knock.

  ‘I already love this place,’ Iris whispers.

  We wait in a line behind Lucas, still as statues. Even Dad, when he speaks, whispers.

  ‘Where’s my taxi?’ he says.

  ‘It’s in the garage,’ I tell him, pointing at Lucas. ‘Getting fixed.’

  Dad looks at Lucas and nods with satisfaction. ‘He looks like he knows what he’s doing.’

  The door is flung open by a man in a top hat and tails with a miniature poodle asleep in the crook of his arm. He gestures us inside and we are engulfed by the sound of music.

  Jazz I think. I hear piano. Double bass too.

  The place – it seems to be a wine cellar – is packed with people, and they are all dancing.

  ‘So this is where everybody got to,’ says Iris with great approval.

  The room – lit entirely by candles – could most certainly be classified as a fire hazard. I glance around, but see no emergency exits. Instead, I see the source of the music. Four women – a drummer, pianist, double bass player, and saxophonist – in matching black dresses with matching black nail polish and matching black high heels, the pointed toes of which tap in time to the irresistible rhythm. None of them look up at the interruption that is our arrival. They concentrate on their instruments with their eyes closed. They look like they’re lost in the music. No, that’s not right. It’s the exact opposite. They are found.

  ‘Are you sure it’s okay for us to be here?’ I ask Lucas.

  ‘You shouldn’t worry so much,’ he says, touching my arm, squeezing gently, the way I do with Dad when he’s anxious.

  Lucas turns to Isabelle, offers her his hand, which she accepts and the pair move towards the dancers.

  Iris whips off her silver wrap and throws it across the back of a nearby chair.

  ‘May I have the pleasure of this dance, Mr Keogh?’ she says, hanging her sticks on a coat hook and taking Dad’s hand.

  ‘Indubitably,’ he says. I’ve only ever heard my dad use that word. And not for years. I never asked him what it meant when I was a kid. I just liked the way it sounded when he said it. Like a tongue twister.

  Indubitably.

  Iris laughs and draws Dad into the throng. I worry that she will stumble without the aid of her sticks. She will fall.