by Roddy Doyle
I was at it now, playing the prosecutor.
—Yes, but parent–teacher meetings aren’t convened for the parents and guardians of every child in the school, are they? This one, when you saw her, it would have been just a form – a year group. Am I right? What class is Holly in?
—It was a year ago, he said. —She was in Transition Year.
—What’s that again? I asked.
He looked at me.
—I don’t live in this country, I reminded him.
—She was sixteen, he said.
—Four years’ worth of meetings and sports and cake sales and sponsored walks.
—And I never saw her.
—How come?
—Maybe I wasn’t looking, he said.
Now I stared at him. Was he making this up?
He shrugged.
—There’s no answer, he said. —I don’t know. It’s a big school. It’s possible.
—But improbable.
—Okay.
—Was it the first time she saw you? I asked.
—It’s not really –.
He stopped. And started again.
—It’s not really the point, he said. —The fact is, she saw me and it was like she’d seen me the day before. The way she behaved, the way she spoke to me. Like it was 1981, or whenever.
—Okay, I said. —But had she ever kissed you before? In 1981?
—Back off a bit, Davy, he said. —Just listen. She came up to me and kissed me.
—How?
—The cheek.
—One cheek?
—You didn’t hear me, he said.
—I did, I said. —What do you mean?
—She kissed me, he said. —She didn’t – whatever – offer her cheek for me to kiss. She kissed mine.
He was right; I hadn’t been listening.
—Lips, he said. —Her lips kissed me – made actual contact with my skin. Not the air near my skin. Do you remember her well?
—Yes, I said. —I do.
—Do you remember her smile?
—Yeah, I said. —I think I do.
—Well, she smiled – while she was kissing me.
—Did she not smile when she saw you?
—She was smiling when she got there, like we’d arranged to meet – like she’d expected me to be there when she arrived, leaning there against the wall.
—Did that not worry you – a tad?
—No, he said. —Why would it have?
—Well, it was so – like – out of nowhere.
—I felt the exact same way, he said. —It made complete sense.
—Well, I said. —No offence. But it makes no fuckin’ sense at all.
We were in a newish restaurant on the Clontarf Road, close to the Wooden Bridge. It was six months since the last time we’d met. We emailed each other occasionally, or texted, usually about music or football or dead friends and neighbours. We didn’t crawl the pubs in town, the old places, like we used to when I came home. I’d always added an extra day’s recovery before I went back – home – to England. I didn’t drink now. I’d stopped. A glass of wine, the occasional bottle of craft beer at home – that was me. I stayed out of pubs. I don’t think he drank much either. It was Monday night, this time. The restaurant was half empty. We weren’t loud men. There was no one sitting too near us. The waiter was young but old-school. He stayed away between courses and didn’t keep passing, to ask us how we were getting on or if everything was perfect.
—Well, that was how it felt, he said. —Like we’d never been apart.
—But –.
—I know, he said. —I know. We’d never been much together. But I’m talking about feelings here, not facts. Feelings. The feel of the thing.
It sounded like something he’d said before. More than once.
He looked different, I decided. He looked bad – torn. In crisis. He was picking at his food. There wasn’t much left on the plate – he must have been eating. But he looked too thin. The skin under his neck had become loose, wattled. I’d told him he was looking well, when we’d met an hour before, and I’d meant it. But now I was actually looking at him. He was scratching the palm of one of his hands. He’d been doing it since we sat down. He kept putting his fork down to do it. He’d been scratching his neck too. There were pink tracks under his ear. I’d almost been enjoying the car crash – man meets old flame and ruins his life. He’d been helping me. It was almost like he’d been sitting back, relating his misadventures, an arm resting on the back of the chair. But I saw it now, he wasn’t like that. He was leaning forward, looking down at the table – examining what had happened.
He was sweating. But so was I. It was late May, and hot. The grass outside was brown. I’d cut my father’s grass and the bucket behind the mower had filled with dust. The sweat on Joe was like a mask a footballer might have worn to protect a facial injury. He ran an arm, a sleeve, across his face and became Joe again, just Joe; the mask was gone.
I copied him. I rubbed my forehead with my napkin.
—The heat.
—It’s not too bad in here, he said. —But we’re not built for this, are we?
—No, I said. —There are forest fires – I saw it – inside the Arctic Circle. In Sweden.
—There you go, he said. —The end of the world.
—Bring it on.
—Yeah – fuck it.
He scooped some rice onto his fork.
—Look, he said. —Davy. I know it sounds a bit mad. What I’m telling you.
—Well –
—No, I know. It’s okay. But it wasn’t – it isn’t. Mad. It felt normal. Perfectly – yeah. Normal. Not the event itself, I mean. The way it felt. At the time. It felt normal. Do you understand?
—Kind of.
—Is it boring?
—No.
—Trish said it was.
—You told Trish? What you’ve been telling me?
—I didn’t get the chance, he said. —I didn’t get far with Trish, I’m afraid.
—That’s understandable, I suppose. Is it?
—Absolutely, he said. —No – I understand. Her position, like. I’m guessing I’d feel the same.
It was what I wanted to hear, Joe explaining what had happened with Trish. How he’d met this timeless beauty while Trish was on the next corridor, in the queue outside home economics.
He put the fork to his mouth. I watched him chew, then swallow. He picked up his glass.
—The food’s good.
—Yeah.
—We’ll come here again.
—Yeah.
—Anyway –.
They stood beside each other in the queue outside the maths room. He didn’t ask her if it was a daughter or a son she had in Transition Year. It didn’t feel like they had to catch up, rattle off the list of kids, and he didn’t want to waste the time they had until he was called in to meet the teacher.
—So you did feel it was a bit unique, I said.
—No, he said. —No. But the queue was getting shorter. I was there to hear what the teacher had to say. That was why I was there – I hadn’t forgotten that. And I’d have to go in.
—Okay.
They talked about the school, about the weather. The everyday stuff. It was raining out there and the shoulders of her jumper – a big, baggy thing – were wet. Her hair was wet too, a bit. The hair was long, unusually long for a woman of her age. It was the length it had been when we’d first seen her, he told me, maybe just an inch or two shorter. It was the same colour – he thought. She was the same woman. He asked her nothing and she asked him nothing. They just talked. Two parents ahead of him, a couple with matching runners, went in. He was next. The time was running out. She took her phone from her jeans pocket.
—I’m 087 –, she started.
—What?
—Something was happening, I said.
—Of course something was happening, he said. —Have I been denying anything?
—Well, look, I said.
I felt like I was leaning forward, inviting him to thump me, pushing my face at him. But I wasn’t. I was sitting back and I knew I was making him angry. Goading him – because I wanted to.
—A woman takes her phone out, I said. —And starts reciting her number to the man beside her. She’s not married to him, he’s not married to her.
—Come here, he said. —Do you have to watch the end of a film before you decide if you’ll watch the rest of it? Is that how it works in your house?
—No.
—Do you get my point?
—Do you get mine? I said. —She took out her phone. She wanted your number. She wanted to give you hers. She wanted to see you again. You knew that – you must have. And you’re saying it was all perfectly normal?
—What’s abnormal about falling in love? he said.
—At a parent–teacher meeting?
He smiled. He was looking at it, looking at himself in it, what had happened a year before, and it suddenly made him happy.
—For the first time in the history of mankind, he said. —In the history of the Irish education system. What do you think, Davy? A man and a woman in a queue and they end up falling for each other. Has it happened before?
—I’d say so, yeah.
—I agree with you, he said. —One broken marriage for every parent–teacher meeting is my estimate. I don’t have the statistics to back that up, mind you. Will I go on?
—Yeah.
—It is different, he said. —I promise you that.
—Okay.
—So anyway, I took my phone out.
He went to Contacts and tapped as she recited the rest of her number. Then he gave her his. He put the phone back into his pocket. There was no deal; neither of them said they’d be in touch.
—Then I couldn’t remember her name, he said.
—Ah, Jesus.
—Blank, he said. —Fuckin’ blank. Nothing.
—For fuck sake.
—Do you remember it? he asked me. —Now?
—No, I said. —What is it?
—Wait, he said.
He wasn’t even sure if he’d ever known her name – when he was outside the classroom.
—I could’ve asked her, I suppose.
—That might have been a bit strange, I said.
—True, he said. —But, anyway.
—Did she know yours?
—She did.
—Are you sure?
—I think she did.
—Was the maths teacher happy with Holly? I asked.
—Very, he said. —Holly’s great.
He had her number but not her name. He decided she’d have to phone or text him first. If it was going to happen, it was up to her. What it was, he didn’t know.
—Some sort of hole to be filled, he said. —No – that sounds wrong. I don’t mean it crudely.
—Okay.
—An emptiness or something, he said. —Four wasted decades.
—You’re joking.
He shook his head. The grin – the fun in his eyes as he looked over his lenses – was gone.
—Just because you saw her?
I watched his face as he pushed back words that wouldn’t do.
—No, he said, finally. —Not just that.
He was trying to put the words together, the right words in good order; I could see him doing it. He wanted to hear himself say exactly what had happened, what he’d thought – how he’d felt.
—If –, he started. —If I’d seen her – just seen her. It would have been nothing. Just nice – or –. Nice to have seen that she was still around and looking so well, you know. But that’s all. I think. I’d have texted you – for example. That kind of reaction. If I’d seen her from the car, say. Or if she was in here and we saw her leaving. A bit of a buzz – but nothing. I wouldn’t have dashed after her. Or, even if she saw us and came over to say hello, that would have been it. But.
He picked up his knife and fork and cut at a piece of his peri peri chicken.
—That wasn’t how it was, he said.
I expected him to fill his mouth and keep me waiting while he chewed. But he didn’t. He wasn’t entertaining himself now, or me. He was trying to understand. He was trying to be me, on the other side of the table, listening to his story, his version of events – the only version – for the first time. I’d been over for a few days between Christmas and New Year’s, six months before – but he hadn’t mentioned anything then. When I’d asked him how things were – and I’m sure I did ask him – he’d answered, ‘Grand.’ And nothing more. It was the response I always had ready too when I came over to Dublin. I’m grand. We’re grand. Everything’s grand. He must have left Trish by then; he must have walked out of the house.
He was listening, examining his own words.
—She expected me to be there, he said. —And I was expecting her.
—Is that true? I asked.
I believed what he was telling me. I could see that he was pushing aside other possibilities, resisting the urge to add or amuse.
—Which? he asked back.
This time he put the chicken into his mouth.
—That you expected her, I said. —Is that actually true? Is that how you felt?
He swallowed.
—Yeah.
—Then, I said. —There? In the school.
—Yes, he said. —Definitely.
—Your long lost love suddenly appeared in front of you, I said.
—No, he said.
I was there to listen, not to cross-examine him. I was there so he could see me listening. He hadn’t noticed my sarcasm, or he hadn’t cared. And, immediately, I was glad. I didn’t want to hear it either.
—That wasn’t it, he said. —It wasn’t like that. I’d imagine that would be huge. A heart thing, you know. Thump, thump. Like terror. When you think there’s someone following you. To mug you. Did that ever happen you?
I nodded.
—You were mugged?
—No, I said. —I thought you meant the feeling, when you know you’ve a heart in your chest. Pumping away. It happened to us, remember?
—I do, yeah, he said. —Near Fairview.
—Yep.
—I’ll never forget it.
—No.
—The fuckers.
—Yep.
—But, anyway, he said. —This wasn’t that – when I met her. It wasn’t like that at all.
There is a reason why men don’t talk about their feelings. It’s not just that it’s difficult, or embarrassing. It’s almost impossible. The words aren’t really there.
—That – you know – that ‘Oh Jaysis’ feeling, he said.
—It wasn’t like that. It was calm.
—Calm?
—Yeah, he said. —I think. It’s a year ago. But, yeah – I think that’s how it was.
—Well, it hasn’t been that calm since, I said. —Judging by what you’ve been telling me.
—No, he agreed. —That’s true.
He cut more chicken.
—It’s not a mid-life thing either, he said. —So don’t even mention it. I’m fuckin’ sick of it.
—I don’t go in for that shite, I told him.
‘Shite’, ‘grand’, ‘Jaysis’ – I packed the words with my clothes and toothbrush when I was coming to Dublin for a few days.
—I didn’t fall for some young one, he said.
—I know that, I said. —I was there when she was a young one, remember.
—Yeah, sorry.
I think –. I don’t know.
—Don’t know what?
—I think it might have been easier if she had been a young one. If I’d made an eejit of myself running after someone half my age.
—With your dick in your hand.
—That’s exactly –, he started.
He was whispering now, leaning over his plate.
—You’ve no idea how many times I’ve had to listen to that phrase in the last twelve fuckin’ months.
He gave me four different voices.
—With your dick in your hand, with your dick in your hand, with your dick in your hand, with your fucking dick in your hands.
—Was Trish the last one? I asked.
—No, he said. —No. That was my son. Gareth. Trish was the first. And the second.
He laughed first, and I followed.
—Hang on, he said.
He put the chicken into his mouth. He looked at me, raised his eyebrows as he chewed. He was pale – a mid-winter face in very hot weather. He looked like he was starving. My own plate was empty. I remember looking down at it and being surprised. I’d eaten the salmon, the broccoli – I must have; I remember ordering them – but I’d tasted nothing.
He rested his fork on the side of his plate.
—I think they’d have understood, he said. —It would have made sense. If I’d been caught with a younger woman. Or even a neighbour, you know. The mad one next door.
I nodded.
—A bit of stupidity through the garden hedge, he said. —They’d have got that.
He sighed, smiled.
—But –, he said.
—But what?
—I’m – I don’t know. Here we are and I’m still trying to explain it. I looked at her and it was like nothing much had happened since the last time I’d seen her.
—And again, I said. —I’m going to ask you. Is that actually true?
He looked down at his plate. He looked up.
—I don’t know.
* * *
—
She was the girl with the cello. But we didn’t know that until later, in a different place. We sat at the bar that first day and felt accepted. One of my children is the age I was then – he’s older – and I look at him when he lets me and I see a child, a kid trying to be an adult. He has a beard and a boyfriend; he lives in London, in Peckham. He’s up and running, as they say. But he looks so young. The beard is a disguise.
