Love

by Roddy Doyle

  —Same here, he said. —It’s shocking. Head like a fuckin’ sieve. But yeah – she said, Hi, it’s Jessica.

  —And you knew it was her.

  —Yeah, he said. —I’d put George into the address book. Temporarily. Till I found out her name. If she phoned.

  —And she did.

  —She did.

  —Where were you?

  —At home, he said.

  —What time?

  —Nine? he said. —A bit later – half-nine. We were watching – actually.

  He sat up straight. He smiled – he grinned. He became himself.

  —D’you know what we were watching? he said.

  —What?

  —The Affair.

  —Really?

  —Can you fuckin’ believe it? You’ve seen it, yeah?

  —No.

  —Watch it, he said. —It’s brilliant. Filthy. The first series, anyway. We were watching the second series.

  —What episode?

  He laughed.

  —Four.

  He shrugged.

  —I don’t know, he said. —But it might have been four.

  —And she was Jessica.

  —Yeah.

  —Did the name ring a bell?

  —Yeah, he said. —It did.

  —You remembered she was called Jessica?

  —Are we in a police station again, Davy? he said.

  —Sorry, I said. —It’s just, I’ve no recollection of her name at all.

  —But you remember it now, he said.

  —Yes, I said. —Yeah, I do. At least –.

  —What?

  —I don’t know. I think I do. Yeah, yeah – I do remember it.

  But I didn’t. Not then.

  * * *

  —

  George smiled as if he’d been expecting us. William came out of the room in the back and gave us the half time scores. The man with the ponytail looked up from his copy of the New Statesman and stared at us.

  She wasn’t there – and that was when I remembered her. I hadn’t thought of her all week but now I missed her so much I wanted to go home. There were two women and a man, three violin cases. I didn’t know if they were the same women and the same violins, but they were at the same table and under the same window. Three violins, two women, no cello.

  We parked ourselves on our stools and watched George put the glasses under the Guinness taps. He put the pints on the towel to settle.

  —Gentlemen, he said.

  —Thanks, George.

  The door swung open and he went down to meet the men who’d just walked in.

  —No cello today, I said.

  —No, said Joe.

  I knew then that he’d noticed her too and that, like me, he was happily suffering.

  —She might be in later, I said.

  —Yeah.

  We were sober. We hadn’t seen each other during the week. We’d met at the bus stop down from Joe’s house. We hadn’t bothered with the Dandelion Market; we’d gone straight to George’s. We hadn’t said much. We were afraid to talk, I think, afraid that we’d find the place altered, or ordinary. Not once, though, did I think of her. It was the stool, the counter, the pint in front of me, my friend beside me, the night ahead of us. But then she was there, or her absence was there, and I was devastated and so was Joe. The other women didn’t interest us. There could be no compensation. We watched them leave with their instruments. We watched the arrival of the shoppers, and the departure of the shoppers and the man with the ponytail. We got the final scores from William. We watched George at work. Joe went out to the phone box at the foot of the stairs to the Ladies, to tell his mother that he wouldn’t be home for his tea.

  —Why d’you do tha’? I asked him when he got back.

  —Wha’?

  —Phone home.

  —Just to tell her.

  —Tha’ you won’t be home?

  —Yeah.

  —You’re never home.

  This was for George. He was at the taps, filling glasses. Listening – not listening – smiling, taking orders.

  —Yes, I am.

  —On Saturdays, I said. —When was the last time you went home for your tea?

  —A while ago.

  —Months ago.

  —Okay. She just likes me to phone. She likes answerin’ the phone. We’ve only had it a couple o’ years.

  We were waiting. Holding our breath. Waiting for her. Praying for her. The woman I now know was called Jessica. Is called Jessica.

  —Wha’ d’you think? he asked me.

  I knew exactly what – who – he meant. The place was filling again. The day was over; we were sitting in the night. We were looking at women. There was always the ideal woman but there were all the other women too. We were recovering. Starting to feel the buzz of the previous week. These would be our people now and this was still our future, with or without the woman. We were laughing again, chatting. Soaking it in, soaking in it. I could feel myself melting – it was good – flowing slowly into the noise, the accents, the jokes, the stories, the geography. Listening. Hoping someone would say something to me. Male, female – a way in. The start. It was why we’d been coming into town. To make the break. To live up, somehow, to the music we loved, the books we read. To walk streets instead of roads, cross a real river, sit in the pubs that Behan and Flann O’Brien had sat in, find the women who’d see, who’d understand, who’d hold us, who’d do things to us. Who’d come up to us and start it. Let us in. Let us soar.

  She was there.

  I think I knew it before I saw her. But I’ve no idea why I think that. It’s a long time ago; I’m a different man. I’d forgotten she existed. Her sudden resurrection – Joe pushing back the stone – was unsettling.

  She was there.

  Over at the door, behind a group of men and women at the other end of the bar. She’d asked for a pint of Harp and I watched George carry it from the tap to that group and I saw her hand, her arm, her shoulder, her face, as the bodies made way and she leaned in and paid for the pint, took it and smiled at George. Then the curtain closed and she was back behind the gang. But I knew she was there before I saw that. I knew the pint that George was pouring was for her. I might have heard her voice through the other voices – although I hadn’t heard her speak the week before. But I knew the hand was hers, the arm, the shoulder. I saw the curtain open, I saw the curtain close.

  We were at the wrong end of the bar.

  That was what we were, it was what we did. We anticipated rejection, we guaranteed it. Outsiders – and we made sure it stayed that way. Honest, vital, yearning, pure. One woman – that woman – would see it. She’d come and take my hand.

  My hand.

  Our hand.

  * * *

  —

  —What did you tell Trish?

  —What?

  —When she phoned – when Jessica phoned you. When you were watching The Affair. What did you say to Trish?

  I wanted it to fall apart. I wanted to delay it – their second meeting.

  —Nothing, he said.

  —Nothing?

  He shrugged.

  —Work, he said. —Something like that.

  —Were you sitting beside each other? I asked him.

  —I think so.

  —Hang on, I said. —Joe.

  —What?

  —So far, like – so far. You’ve been really precise. Seeing her in the school. Watching The Affair.

  —I don’t remember which episode.

  —Don’t start, I said. —You know what I mean. You know exactly where you were sitting. You know exactly what happened. You might regret starting to tell me, okay. But it’s too late for that.

  I think he’d heard himself and he
didn’t like it. He was belittling Trish – inevitably. He was being cruel. His kids were in the house, somewhere near. He was about to destroy his family and, in the telling, he’d laughed.

  He looked at me.

  —I don’t –, he said. —I actually don’t know why I’m telling you.

  I didn’t respond. He was talking to himself. He knew exactly why he was telling me.

  —I was sitting beside her, he said.

  I said nothing but he heard the next question, anyway.

  —Close, he said. —We watch – watched, fuck it – a lot of box sets. Sky Atlantic and Netflix, you know. Some great stuff. We –.

  He stopped. He put down his fork. He picked it up.

  —We always went to bed early after The Affair.

  He sighed.

  —It’s a bit shit, isn’t it?

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t nod or shake my head.

  —So, yeah, he said. —The phone went. It was in my pocket.

  He smiled, slightly.

  —I had it on vibrate, you know. Trish felt it before I did. She nudged me – that’s your phone. And –

  —It was Jessica.

  —Yeah. So. I – well – I put the phone to my ear.

  —You knew who it was.

  —Yeah. I told you. I’d put George in the address book. I don’t know any other Georges, except George from the pub. So – and yeah, I looked at the screen before I accepted the call. And, anyway – yeah. It was short.

  —Did you go out into the hall or anything?

  —What? No – no. Trish put the telly on pause. And it was very short, you know – the call. She asked me how I was. I said fine or grand. She said she’d like to meet up.

  —Did you ask her how she was?

  —No. I just said I’d phone her in the morning.

  —You made it sound like work.

  —Well – yeah. Yeah. But I didn’t plan it, like. It’s – what? – it’s sneaky or something. I know – I knew. But I didn’t have lines prepared in case she phoned me when I was with Trish – or at work. Or anywhere. It just seemed the easiest thing to do. But really, I could’ve just told Trish that it was someone I used to know and we’d met at the parent–teacher meeting, and we’d swapped numbers.

  —As it had happened.

  —Yeah – exactly. As it happened.

  —Why didn’t you tell Trish then?

  —Honestly? he said. —I’m not sure. And honestly – I didn’t want to.

  —You could have told her that day – the day you met. On your way home together.

  —That’s true, he said. —And I didn’t. I never even thought about telling her. That’s not true, though. I didn’t want to tell her. So, there you go. It’s all out, Davy. I told Trish it was a woman from an ad agency. A pain in the arse, I said. I showed her the screen – George – the name, you know. And we laughed. Trish thought it was a bit hilarious, a woman called George. Like Enid Blyton.

  —What?

  —There was a girl called George in the Enid Blyton books. The Famous Five, or the something Seven. D’you remember?

  —Think so.

  —So, he said. —She was supposed to be a lesbian.

  —What?

  —George in the Enid Blyton books. I heard that, or read it somewhere. I think it was Trish told me. Yeah, she was gay, apparently. Or maybe it was the actor who played her on the telly – doesn’t matter.

  He looked at me. He wanted me to take over, to ask him. But I didn’t.

  —We watched the rest of the episode, he said. —And went up to bed.

  He looked out a window, at the road and the bay and Bull Island. He had to turn to do this. I was the one facing the windows. He spoke as I looked at the side of his head. I half expected to see Trish’s face on the other side of the glass, staring in at us.

  —Same as always, he said.

  He turned back to face me, although he looked down at his plate.

  —Yeah, he said, as if answering a question. —Same as always.

  —Really?

  —Yeah, he said. —Yeah – no. I knew –. At least I think I knew. I felt –. I felt it was the last time we’d have sex. I felt – it’s hard to – I don’t know. Be honest, I suppose. Candid – is that the word? I imagined it was going to be the last time.

  —Was it?

  —No, he said. —Like I said – the same as always. There was nothing sudden or anything.

  He looked at me.

  —Okay.

  —Life went on, he said.

  —And that was –. Was that a good thing?

  —What?

  —Life, I said. —The sex. You weren’t suffering, pretending? Feeling violated.

  —No, he said. —Not at all. God, no.

  He’d missed my sarcasm and I was glad now that he had. We rarely spoke about sex in any kind of detail, especially since we’d got married. We wouldn’t be starting now. I didn’t want the details. I didn’t want to hear myself making up moments to match his.

  —But, he said. —I definitely felt something was happening. And I don’t just mean I’d be phoning Jessica in the morning and whatever might have come from that. The possibility of cheating – the idea. I don’t mean that. It was like I’d remembered something.

  —What?

  —Something, he said. —Something important that I’d forgotten I’d needed.

  —Your keys.

  —Don’t start, he said, and smiled. —I’ve thought about this. To try and explain it to the kids some time. If they ever want to hear it. And to myself, to be honest.

  —Do they talk to you?

  —The kids? he said. —No. No, they don’t. It’s shite.

  —Must be.

  —Yeah.

  —Sorry, I said. —Go on.

  —I think, he said. —The easiest way – the clearest way. Say you suffer from amnesia.

  —A blow to the head.

  —That’ll work, he said.

  I checked my phone. I took it from my pocket, had a quick look. The screen was blank – no missed calls or messages.

  —You forget everything, said Joe. —Absolutely everything. But bit by bit things come back. Colours, say. The names of the colours of things that you can see from your bed in the hospital. It’s a gradual thing, day by day. The names of things come back to you at random. You realise you’re lying on a bed, you’re looking out a window.

  —You’ve thought about this.

  He ignored that.

  —There’s a seagull out there, he said. —And a plane. You’re slowly filling up with words. And the images that come with them. But there’s still a huge hole. You don’t know why, but you know there’s something missing. And it – the hole, I mean – the knowledge, the lack of it. It becomes more important than the other discoveries. Your son comes in and you know him – you know him. He’s not just the moody kid who comes in to see you. You know his name because you’ve always known it, not just because you were told it. You gave him his name – you know that. And you know what a son is – really is. And what a father is. And what it feels like. It’s like your life, all your living, your experiences, are filling you, pouring through you again. Your wife, your other kids, your mother. Your job. Everything’s becoming sharper. Feelings are making sense. You wake up with an erection and you know why. The word erection is there for you. And it’s great – although maybe not in a hospital bed. But it’s great. You hold the thing in your hand and you know what it’s there for and you know you remember what women are like and why they excite you. And skin. And breasts and all the other things you’ve loved – skirts, hair, laughter. And babies and birth, and you’re beginning to feel complete. But not. You’re certain there’s something important missing. Something’s still lost and you haven’t a clue what it is. You just know it’s t
here – and it’s not. And say you get out of the hospital and things stop being fresh and new and life is normal again, and it’s as if you never had the accident or whatever it was in the first place. It’s as if you never lost your memory. Day to day, everything seems back in place. Like footballers’ names, say, when you see them on the telly. And knowing exactly where to put your hand, how far you have to lean across, so that it lands exactly on your wife’s hip when you’re both in bed and falling asleep. Your day to day life smothers the ache, the sense that there’s something missing. You’re back in your life. And then bang.

  —Jessica.

  He blinked.

  —You understand, he said.

  —I think so, I said. —Yeah, I think so.

  I’d forgotten he spoke like that, that he’d once been capable of speaking like that. That I’d sit back while he rolled out the story. I’d forgotten, completely. I’d often wondered – I’d just been wondering – why I kept in touch with this man. I’d forgotten who he was. I understood exactly what he meant.

  —What about Trish? I said.

  —What?

  He looked annoyed, and a bit stupid. For a second.

  —Sorry, he said. —What about Trish?

  —Jessica filled the gap, so to speak. Like you just said. And I’m not trivialising what you said, by the way. I do know what you mean. I think I do. But what about Trish? Did she – I don’t know – did she just stop being there? Jessica arrives and –

  —Are you serious? he said. —Davy – are you fuckin’ serious? Trish?

  He was alive again, glad to be speaking.

  —Did she stop being there? he said. —Did, she, stop? You don’t know Trish.

  —No, I agreed. —I don’t know her.

  —You do.

  —Not really, no, I said. —I don’t. And you don’t know Faye.

  —Okay, he said. —You don’t know her well, we’ll say. But Trish is a force of nature. That sounds like shite but it’s true. She’s amazing, Davy. Believe me. Like, to be clear here. Davy? To be clear. I love Trish.