Love

by Roddy Doyle

  —I didn’t have time to drink, I said.

  He laughed again.

  —Let’s go and get one now while we’re at it, he said.

  —A drink in a pub. Can we cope with the excitement?

  —If we’re careful, I said.

  We paid the bill, gave the waiter two credit cards, left him a real fiver each for the tip, and went outside. It was still hot, shockingly hot.

  —It’s like we’re stepping into a different country, said Joe.

  —Yeah.

  —I’m a bit sick of it.

  —Yeah – same here. A bit.

  —No more weather talk.

  —Grand, yeah. Where’ll we go?

  There were two pubs we could walk to, the Sheds and the Pebble Beach.

  —I was in the Sheds a while back, said Joe. —A funeral – the afters. It was fine.

  —Grand.

  We headed that way.

  —Or we could go in to George’s, said Joe.

  —No.

  —Come on.

  He’d turned around, and I looked back too. There was a taxi coming towards us, heading towards town.

  —We’ll have one in the Sheds, I said. —And then decide.

  He looked at his watch. It was more than three hours to closing time.

  —Okay, he said. —That’ll work.

  I’d have the one in the Sheds, then head back to my father. I’d tell that to Joe when we were there with the pints in front of us.

  —Go on, anyway, he said, as we walked through the heat, as we got used to it again. —What happened then?

  —I’m not sure if I can tell it that way, I said. —Chronologically – blow by blow. So to speak.

  —Did she?

  —What?

  —Blow you.

  —No. No – shut up.

  His Jessica was some sort of ghost of Saturdays past but Faye was to be the slut who crawled under the table at a wedding and opened my zip.

  It was my fault.

  —When she put her hand on my leg, I told him.

  —She was joking.

  —What?

  —She wasn’t really – I don’t know. She wasn’t trying to seduce me.

  —But, said Joe. —Her hand was still on your fuckin’ leg. Was it?

  —Yeah.

  There were times when I could still feel the fingers marching up my thigh.

  —But she wasn’t –. Like I said, trying to seduce me – or tease me. In the conventional sense. It wasn’t like that.

  —Then what –?

  —Shut up and listen, I said. —I shouldn’t have told you about her hand.

  —But you did.

  —I know – shut up. It was everything about her.

  I wanted to go home. I wanted to go now to the airport, get home and see Faye. Ask her to forgive me. For forgetting, being stupid, a coward. For being here. Away from her. For keeping her away.

  —More than anything else, I said. —It was her voice. No, not her voice. Her words.

  —Her words?

  —The way she spoke, I said. —Yeah. She commentated on everything.

  —Jesus, he said. —I’d hate that – no offence.

  —You weren’t there, I said. —It was incredible. The best thing ever. That sounds crumby, but it was. It was the sexiest fuckin’ thing.

  —Sexy?

  —Ah, man, I’m telling you –.

  I came from a silent house. My father and I passed each other and smiled. We spoke when we needed to, when we sat together at the kitchen table. My mother’s death destroyed him. I remember laughter – his, hers. I remember long trips in the car, a black Ford Anglia, the two of them chatting while I stood between their seats. I was twelve when she died, and the radiators went cold. The bedroom was cold, the hall and the landing were cold. I used a can opener for the first time. I taught myself to make tea properly. I filled the washing machine and got it right. He put money in a cup and told me to take it when I needed food. Or anything. I wasn’t unhappy. Once the shock of my mother’s death passed. Although I’m not sure now that it ever did. Her voice still wakes me sometimes – I think. I took money from the cup and bought a shirt, a record, ten Silk Cut, and a packet of coconut creams. I watched television till the programmes stopped. He discovered me when I was fifteen – that was what it felt like. He stopped in the hall and asked me how I was. He booked a holiday for us, in Italy, a week in Rimini. We both flew in a plane for the first time. He asked me about school, my favourite subjects, what I wanted to do. One day, we passed a church.

  —Do you go to mass? he asked me.

  —No.

  —Ever?

  —Not really.

  —Okay, he said. —Do you think about your mother?

  —Yes.

  —So do I, he said. —All the time. Literally all the time.

  Neither of us had eaten pizza before.

  —Do you like it? he asked me.

  —It’s brilliant, I said.

  —You’re right, he said. —I wonder can you get these things in Dublin.

  —Don’t know.

  —Worth investigating.

  He held his wine glass out to me.

  —Give this stuff a go, he said.

  He watched me, he smiled, as I took a sip. It was a big thing, his smile; it took over his face. It changed him.

  —D’you like it?

  —No, I said. —A bit.

  —Oh, the slippery slope, he said.

  He laughed, and so did I.

  —She’d have liked you, he said.

  I didn’t know what he meant.

  —She’d have liked the boy you are now, he said.

  —The man.

  His eyes watered.

  —Sorry.

  I often lie awake and think of that week. I never saw him cry again. He never saw me cry. But I came home knowing he loved me. I’ve never forgotten the solidity of that. It’s what kills me, sometimes.

  We never became talkative. He left me alone. He checked on me.

  —How are things?

  —Fine.

  —Alright for money?

  —Yeah.

  —How’s the study going?

  —Good.

  —Grand.

  * * *

  —

  Faye overwhelmed me. I’d never known a funny woman. Faye was funny and knew it, and she knew she was often hated for it. She was a smart alec, a bitch, too big for her boots. I saw that around the table at the wedding, before I really saw Faye. She spoke like a man, like she was entitled to speak. I saw eyes raised to heaven, elbows discreetly nudging ribs. I saw affection, envy, lust, hatred. I saw no one yawn.

  I heard Cathy.

  —For fuck sake. This one.

  It wasn’t cruel. It was an adult quietly assessing a precocious child, expressing an opinion she knew I’d share. But I wasn’t sharing anything.

  We were half the length of the banquet room away from the top table, our backs to the bride and groom. When the speeches started, we – myself, Cathy, Faye – turned our chairs to face the speakers and clap. It was the first wedding I’d been to.

  —Is it yours? I asked Faye.

  I was apprehensive asking her. I knew it wouldn’t be a simple Yes or No, and she was going to attract attention. But I wanted to hear her; it was all I wanted.

  —Jesus, no, she said. —I was at my parents’ wedding, so I was.

  This was 1986. Faye was nineteen.

  I laughed. No one else did.

  —How was it? I asked her.

  —Oh, romantic as fuck.

  —She was like Mícheál O’Hehir, I told Joe.

  We’d reached the Sheds. We stood outside.

  —You fell in love
with a woman who looked like a racing commentator?

  —You know what I mean.

  —Not really, he said. —No. Did she sound like Mícheál O’Hehir? I’m puzzled here a bit, Davy. I don’t think I remember what Faye looks like. Do you have a photo?

  —No.

  I wasn’t lying.

  —Let me be absolutely clear, I said. —Faye was nothing like – looked nothing like Mícheál O’Hehir. Or sounded like him.

  —Grand.

  —But she leaned against me and talked into my ear, non-stop, right through the speeches.

  —Christ.

  Joe pulled open the lounge door and I followed him in.

  —That would do my head in, he said back to me.

  We stood at the door.

  —So, go on, he said. —Mícheál O’Hehir was trying to get off with you.

  —Fuck off, I said. —And just listen.

  —I am.

  —Just fuckin’ listen, I said. —Say – Jennifer Lawrence, let’s say. Jennifer Lawrence sat beside you at a wedding. And she leaned right up against you, just as – like – it was dawning on you that it was her. And you’re much younger than you are now.

  —Why? he said. —Why does that matter?

  —It just makes it a bit less unfeasible, I suppose. Slightly less. And it’s more comfortable that way. And anyway, I was only twenty-seven when this happened, remember.

  —Okay.

  —So, she starts talking – Jennifer Lawrence. She starts talking – whispering into your ear, and you can feel each word. Like the tip of her tongue.

  I was surprising myself.

  —Right through all the speeches. And you’re surrounded by people. Including your girlfriend, by the way. Would you object?

  —Well –.

  —Would you object?

  —I was only going to ask – fuck off. Which one is Jennifer Lawrence? What’s she been in? D’you want a pint?

  I wasn’t sure if I did. I don’t drink Guinness, not since I moved to England. But there was something – a feeling, something behind my eyes. This might be the last time I’d spend with Joe. We both knew it.

  —Okay, I said.

  —Two pints, please, said Joe to a barman who stood behind his counter, waiting for us.

  We sat at the bar. The place wasn’t busy; we had a stretch of the counter to ourselves. The television above us was on – some sort of panel discussion on Sky Sports. But the sound was down – mute.

  I was trying to think of a Jennifer Lawrence film.

  —The Hunger Games, said Joe. —That’s her, isn’t it?

  —Yes – yeah.

  —I didn’t see it, he said. —Hang on, though. American Hustle. She was hilarious in that one.

  —There you go, I said. —A hilarious, gorgeous woman keeps talking into your ear. For what seemed like hours. And, actually, mightn’t have been much less than an hour. Because the fuckin’ speeches went on for ever.

  —I’m beginning to get you, he said. —I can see how that might distract you, alright.

  —Captivated me, I said.

  I’d found the word I wanted.

  —Good man, he said. —And was Faye gorgeous? Like Jennifer Lawrence?

  I wanted to go. I wanted to stand up off the stool, turn my back, stop looking at him. Go.

  —I thought so, I said.

  —Good.

  * * *

  —

  —He rides his housekeeper, so he does. And her sister.

  She was talking about the priest holding the microphone at the top table.

  —And he’s been in the bride’s mammy as well. Sure, there isn’t a lady up there at that table that he hasn’t serviced at some time or another. Usually in the morning, mind you. After mass and before confessions. A quick bang and the holy rosary, a drop of tea and a couple of Jaffa Cakes. He eats them off their arses, so he does.

  I knew my life had changed when I noticed that I was leaning into her; I was the one doing the leaning. I still had a girlfriend and we had plans, hinted at, half formed. I was holding her hand. And she was holding mine. Cathy. But she got there ahead of me, a few days later. She phoned my father’s house; she left a message. I’d a flat of my own but there was no phone there. I stayed with my father a few nights a week. I used the washing machine. I took food he left for me in the freezer. Cathy normally phoned me at work.

  —She won’t be around this weekend, my father told me. —She told me to tell you.

  —Okay.

  I liked Cathy. I liked being with her. I liked waiting to meet her, especially when she was coming off duty. She raced at me. I thought I’d loved her.

  —I don’t want to interfere, said my father.

  I’d forgotten he was there; I’d forgotten where I was. I was surrounded by Faye, swallowed by her.

  —What? I asked my father.

  —I’m not sure you’ll be seeing her any weekend, he said.

  —Who?

  —Cathy, son.

  —Okay.

  —The way she spoke.

  —Okay.

  —Is that for the best?

  —Probably.

  —She was brusque, he said. —On the phone.

  —Okay.

  He’d met Cathy. I’d brought her home to meet him. They’d chatted; they’d liked one another. But it seemed so far away. In another country, another life.

  —I liked her, he said.

  —Yeah, I said. —So did I. Do.

  —You’re not too heartbroken, anyway?

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t know how to. I was sad, relieved.

  I wondered if he could smell Faye. Because I could.

  * * *

  —

  I looked at Joe as he accepted the pints and handed a ten-euro note to the barman. He placed each glass on a beermat. He seemed to be measuring distance, making sure he got the calculation exactly right. I could tell: he’d forgotten what we’d been talking about, what I’d been telling him outside. What he’d said.

  —Where are you living? I asked him.

  He looked at me. He moved sideways on his stool so he could do it.

  —At home, he said.

  —Where’s that?

  And was Faye gorgeous?

  —Jessica’s, he said.

  —Is that home now? I asked him.

  —Yep.

  He nodded, like he was examining what he’d said for truth, and found it.

  —Yeah, he said. —I kind of think of it as home.

  —What about the other one?

  —Well, there you go, he said. —Fuckin’ hell.

  —What happened?

  —We’ll get there, Davy. Don’t worry.

  * * *

  —

  We made love, myself and Faye, the night before I went to see my father, the night he gave me Cathy’s message. Faye clung to me. We were in my flat, a room without pictures except for the record covers stacked along the wall, beneath the window. Faye grabbed me tight to her. Her mouth was at my ear.

  —Sanity, sanity, sanity, sanity.

  I didn’t know what she was saying. Whispering. Gasping. The word formed itself later, while I watched her sleeping. She was fast asleep, out for the count. I remember thinking that – out for the count. I’d fucked her to sleep. She’d fucked herself to sleep. Her face was deep in the pillow, under her hair. Her mouth was slightly open. Her breath lifted some strands of hair. They dropped, and shot up again. She was a cartoon, I thought, one of Disney’s perfect females. She was the girl at the end of The Jungle Book, but she had all of Baloo’s lines, and King Louie’s lines, and some of Shere Khan’s. I was afraid to sleep. I was afraid she’d stop being there. The light would come up and she’d be gone.

  —What’re you fuckin’ l
ooking at, David?

  She was awake. I could see her eyes shining. She hadn’t moved.

  —You.

  —Grand.

  That was what I loved. She wouldn’t let me fantasise, make more than was there. She was real. Everything – she did, she said, she didn’t – was real.

  * * *

  —

  They’d met.

  —Where?

  He looked annoyed. I’d interrupted him. It was like he’d been composing his story, alone, writing it. A minute ago, he’d been chatting to me. With her, with the idea of her, he didn’t want me there. It surprised me. I thought he’d been showing her off earlier, in the restaurant. And I’d expected a bit of triumph, the bit of crack. I don’t think I wanted it but it was what I’d been anticipating.

  They’d met in a café in town, Wigwam, on Middle Abbey Street.

  —Why there?

  I wanted to irritate him now. To wake him up.

  —Distance, he said. —And proximity.

  —To what? I asked. —Who?

  —Work, he said. —People in work. Wigwam’s near to, and a safe distance from. I wasn’t hiding anything, though.

  —You were, I said. —You lied to Trish.

  —Not really, he said. —I withheld information.

  —Withheld the truth.

  —Okay – fuck it, he said. —It was simpler that way. It wasn’t malicious, or dishonest – I don’t think. Although Trish might disagree. She’d tear my fuckin’ eyes out. But look, I didn’t want anybody seeing me. From work, I mean. Or anyone else. And as well, I didn’t want it to seem like I was hiding. Seem to myself, I mean. Because I wasn’t. I don’t know –. It was near enough to work but not too near. And I needed the car after – after I met her, like. I don’t know why I’m going into all of this.

  He met her in Wigwam. One of his sons – I can’t remember the name – had worked there before he’d moved to Cork, and that was why Joe had thought of it. No one he knew would be there and he’d never met any of his son’s more recent friends. He wasn’t worried about anything getting back to the son or to Trish.

  —It’s a hipster spot, he said. —The beardy lads.

  —Tattoos.

  —Tasteful ones, yeah, he said. —Middle-class tattoos. Art. Do any of your kids have tattoos?

  —Yeah, I said.