by Roddy Doyle
—I love her when she’s asleep, said Faye.
Róisín was the baby in the cot, beside our bed.
I thought Faye was joking. And she was. But she wasn’t. That was Faye.
—It’s when they’re awake, she said. —Fuckin’ Jesus.
—They’re work, I said.
We had two children – a toddler and this baby.
—Do you have a photocopier in work, Dave, do you?
—We do, I said.
—Do you love it?
I laughed quietly.
She nodded at the sleeping baby.
—Then why should I love these yokes?
We lay back on the bed, still dressed.
—No squeaking now, David, she said. —She’ll wake up on us.
* * *
—
I looked at Joe. I’m his father, he’d said. I might be. I was a character in his box set but I’d slept through a couple of episodes. I’d missed something – I hadn’t heard something, when I’d been concentrating on grabbing the barman’s attention.
He’d had sex with her, long ago. Or, he thought he had. He’d had a son he’d known nothing about. Or hadn’t told me about. ‘I might be’. The way he spoke, the way I’d heard him – it sounded like a decision he was thinking about making. I wanted to rush in. I wanted to pulverise the possibility. The betrayal. I wanted to leave, to get away from anything else I might hear.
And I didn’t.
—Have you met him? I asked.
—No.
—How come?
—He lives in Perth, he said.
—Australia.
—Yeah.
That was handy, I thought. Borneo might have been better. Or way up the Limpopo. Away from Skype and Qantas. He wasn’t confessing anything. I’m his father – I might be. It wasn’t a statement. He was listening, testing the words – not on me, on himself.
I don’t drink any more. I’ve given up, more or less. There was one night, I was having a fight, wanting a fight, with Faye and the phrase – that’s the drink talking – introduced itself, nudged me, and I believed it.
—I’m sorry, I said.
—Are you?
—Yeah. I am. I – Christ – I don’t even know how we started. It’s me – I’m sorry.
—So, she said. —Just to be clear. In future, if there’s going to be a row between us – unlikely as that might seem now – I’ll be the sole instigator. Is that right?
—If you want.
—I do.
—Okay.
—Grand, she said. —And what do you want back, David? Let’s play treaty negotiations. What are your proposals, tell us? What would you like?
—Nothing, I said.
—Ah, go on, spoilsport, she said. —Would you not like to ride Alison up the road? I’ve seen you looking at her.
—I didn’t realise that was something you could organise, I said.
—I’m the queen of the madams in this town, so I am. And that one’s a right hoor. Isn’t she?
—Yes.
—A hoor. So, is that what you want, Kofi Annan, is it?
—No, Faye, it isn’t.
—What, so?
—Nothing.
—Ah, go on, she said. —Not even me?
—I always want you.
—My eye, you do.
—I do.
—That’s definitely the fuckin’ drink talking.
—I want you now.
—I’m fuckin’ here, look.
I didn’t make a declaration. I didn’t tell Faye or anyone else that I wouldn’t drink again. I didn’t go to AA; I’m not an alcoholic. I just stopped drinking once the fridge and the wine rack were empty. Faye buys a bottle of wine whenever she wants one. She’s always said it: wine looks stupid lying on its side. I don’t go to the pub; I don’t have a local in Wantage. I drink very occasionally. I feel it – I feel it in my head, almost immediately. I can go months without a pint, yet feel drunk after a couple of gulps, like I’m topping it up, carrying on where I’d left off the night before.
I don’t drink. But I was drinking with Joe. And the drink was going to talk. It already had; there’d been a nastiness in some of the things I’d said. I saw it – I’d heard it. I was being a prick. A prickless prick, Faye once called me, after I’d had a go at her, fooled myself into thinking that I could be as quick as she was.
I was never violent. Just stupid.
There was something I knew, or felt: this was the last time I was going to speak to Joe. He wasn’t going to contact me again, and I wouldn’t be contacting him. There wouldn’t be a fight; nothing would come to a head. The pub would shut, and we’d leave – we’d go. I’d have one more pint and I’d leave. I wouldn’t go into town with him, to George’s. I wasn’t going to let that happen. We’d go outside and talk for a few more minutes. We’d shake hands, probably hug, and go. Our separate ways. My father would die and I wouldn’t come back to Dublin. Staying away wouldn’t be too difficult.
I’d be careful now.
—How does that feel?
—What? he asked.
—Having a son you didn’t know you had, I said. —A man. He must be – what? – mid-thirties.
—Yeah, he said. —Mad, isn’t it?
—He’s not far off middle age, I said. —When you work it out. You’ll get to know him when his life is half over.
I wasn’t being careful enough.
I wanted to kill Joe. I wanted to obliterate Joe. I just wanted to fuckin’ kill him.
But I didn’t. The fog opened – it wasn’t me talking. I could hear Faye. That’ll be the drink, will it?
I knew how he was going to answer.
—I wasn’t –. I don’t know, Davy – I wasn’t that surprised. When she told me.
I was right.
—Does nothing surprise you, Joe?
—Good question, he said. —But no. No, I don’t think so.
* * *
—
—I have a free house, she told me.
—Is that right? I said.
—It is.
She’d phoned me in work four days after the wedding.
—How did you know I worked here?
I needed to speak softly but I wanted to shout. I wanted the lads and girls around me to know that I was being chased by a woman – by this nineteen-year-old woman.
—I phoned every office in Dublin, she said. —And I told them, I need to talk to the ride with the hair.
She’d phoned Cathy’s brother, on his honeymoon, and she’d asked him where I worked. She told me about it months later. Cathy never told me.
My boss was standing at his door, looking my way. I was chuffed. All eyes were on me.
—And the house, I said. —Could you tell me where it is, please?
—Gorey.
—Really? That’s fine, yes.
—Not all the girls give a flying fuck about living in Dublin, she said. —Some of us can function perfectly well away from the bright lights.
—I’m sure you’re right, I said. —Could I get your number, please, and I could phone you back later?
—No.
—No?
—I’m in a fuckin’ phone box, she said. —Did you think I was lying back in bed or something, in my negligee? Are you holding your pen?
—Eh – yes, I am.
—I’m going to give you the address. I’ll be expecting you on Friday night. What time do you finish work?
—Five – that’s right.
—See you at eight and don’t dare be fuckin’ late.
—Thank you –.
She was gone.
—I’ll get back to you when I have the details – bye bye.
I put the phone down and to
ok the applause and the slagging.
—We’re telling Cah-tee! We’re telling Cah-tee!
I borrowed my father’s car.
He looked at me. It was the day after Cathy had left the message; she wouldn’t be meeting me at the weekend. We’d just been talking about her. He took the key off his keyring.
—I liked Cathy, he said.
I’d asked him for the car and told him I’d have it back on Sunday – or Saturday if he needed it. I hadn’t told him I was meeting someone else.
He held out the key. Like he didn’t want to do it, like it was going against his better judgement.
I was tempted not to take it.
He rarely spoke about my mother. He was younger than I am now. I don’t think he saw other women; I never met any. There’d been none in the house. I used to dream of that – awake, and sometimes when I slept. I’d find a woman in the kitchen. She’d be lovely, when I was in charge of the dream. A bit too old to be gorgeous – she’d be handsome. One of the great-looking mothers. I’d sit in school thinking of her. When I slept she was warm; she was warmth – that was all.
I made it to Gorey with thirteen minutes to spare. The drive through Arklow nearly killed me. I didn’t have a driving licence. I’d driven with my father on Dollymount Strand and, once, to Howth and back. Alone, I’d driven to Northside Shopping Centre, and home to my flat with a gas canister. The crawl through Arklow – my legs ached, the car cut out twice, I was afraid I’d go into the bumper in front of me. I was starving. I missed Cathy. I could feel the pint in my hand; I could feel her beside me as we found a bit of free wall and leaned back together in the full, Friday-night pub.
I couldn’t remember what Faye looked like.
That’s still the case. Her eyes are brown but I might be wrong. I’d be surprised if they aren’t, but not that surprised. I could go downstairs now and check. But she’d see me looking and she’d want to know why. Or, much more likely, she’d know why.
—You’re sticking me into your book.
I haven’t told her I’m writing. I don’t need to.
She wasn’t exactly beautiful. There was nothing striking about her; I think that’s accurate – except her eyes. Her eyes came from a silent movie – maybe that’s why I can never be sure of their colour. They were huge and they moved so precisely, when she told them to. Always, to make me laugh. And she moved, she walked, like she was going to come straight at me. She touched everything, rubbed her fingers along walls as she went, tapped fragile things, pressed buttons, picked up phones, tried on coats and hats – women’s, men’s, children’s. Stared at me, not smiling – but smiling. Not just her eyes – all of Faye was in a silent movie. But then there was her voice, her Wexford accent – the words, the stream of brilliantly managed madness. I don’t think I ever fell in love with Faye. I don’t think I had time to. I knew, when I sat with her at the wedding, she was dangerous. She’d have said anything – she didn’t care, and she gave all of herself so you’d know that. Nothing she said or did was predictable. I don’t think I ever successfully anticipated what Faye was going to say – I think that’s true. There were two types of men. There were the men who encountered Faye, and backed away. Then there were the men who met Faye, and fell over. The latter outnumbered the former. Faye became the only woman in the room, on the train, at the table.
Her house was at the top of the town. I was in a town that had a bottom and a top. It stood alone – the doctor or the priest’s house. It had its own wide gate and high stone wall. And a tree that leaned out over the street. I didn’t know if I should drive right up to the front door; I didn’t know if I was allowed to, if it was done.
I chanced it.
There were no lights on in the front of the house. The front door was deep inside a porch. There was no bell – I couldn’t see one – just a brass knocker, a fox’s head.
I gave it a tap.
And another.
The door opened. The hall light hadn’t come on.
Her top teeth had trapped her bottom lip, like she was trying not to laugh – I could see that.
—Well, it’s David, she said. —You’re a bit early, aren’t you?
—Will I wait?
I was pleased with myself; I’d managed to talk.
—You will in your hole, she said. —In you get. What’s that yoke you have there?
I looked down at the thing she was looking at.
—My bag, I said.
—Oh, she said. —How’s Cathy, tell us? She’s not in the fuckin’ bag, is she?
I was still outside the house.
—Hope not, I said.
—I like Cathy, she said.
—So does my father.
—Grand, so. They have each other.
She walked away from the door. I stepped into the dark of the hall and followed her.
—Shut the door, for fuck sake. I hope you love cats.
—I don’t mind them.
—Grand.
I was there a night and most of a day before it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen a cat. There was a dog sitting on my lap, licking my chin. I laughed.
—What?
She was sitting beside me.
—You don’t have any cats, I said.
She sat up and turned, so she was looking straight at me.
—I will never be a cat lady, she said. —I swear to fuckin’ God.
—Was your mother a cat lady?
—Are you fuckin’ suggesting I got rid of the cats when my poor mammy died, are you? I threw them in after her, into the cold, cold grave – they bounced off the fuckin’ coffin. Is that what you’re suggesting?
She was naked under her father’s dressing gown. He’d been wearing it when he died, she told me.
—Look, she said.
She took twenty Sweet Afton from a pocket.
—His fags, she said. —Exactly where he left them.
She put them back.
—There was a cat, actually, she said.
—Yeah?
—It disappeared after she died.
—Seriously?
—Just fucked off, so it did.
She leaned over me, and the dog; she was on her knees now. She was inspecting the arm of the sofa.
—Aha.
She picked up something.
—Exhibit A.
—What is it?
I couldn’t see anything. She was pretending to hold something right in front of my eyes.
—Moggy hair, she said.
I could see something now.
—Could be a dog hair, I said.
There were three dogs in the room. There were more, out behind the house.
—I’m allergic to cats, she said. —If I put this anywhere near my face, my eyes will explode.
Her face was right up to mine. She’d shoved the dog off my lap. There was a fight going on now, down on the floor, with the other two. But I didn’t look. I couldn’t, and I didn’t want to. I could see the hair now, clearly; it stood up between her fingernails like a pin. She held it right under her left eye.
—Cat or dog?
Her left eye was all I could see.
—Go on, she said.
I gave her the answer I thought she’d want.
—Cat.
The white hair divided the eye in half. Then I saw it move, slide, down the eye. She didn’t blink.
The hair was gone.
—Anything happening?
—No.
She sighed.
—Ah, well – must only be a dog’s.
She sat back.
—Next time maybe.
She pulled the dressing gown around her.
—I like being an orphan, she said. —It’s kind of cool, isn’t it?
—Yeah, I said.
/>
I thought about it.
—It is.
—Men like riding orphans, she said. —Did anyone ever tell you that now?
—No.
—An orphan with a house and a shop and a vagina, she said. —Do you know what that makes me in the town?
—What?
—The catch with the snatch.
Neither of us laughed. The words sounded vicious – like she was hurting herself.
Faye didn’t often laugh.
—Do you own a shop? I asked.
—I do, she said. —The name over the door and all. You have no idea how many mammies have called in to me since my own mammy went to her maker. Women, now, whose husbands slept with my mammy – or stayed awake while they gave her a seeing to. But the wives – they’re more than willing to let bygones be bygones. Because they want me for their sons.
—Do they bring the sons?
—They’ve more sense, said Faye. —They bring cakes. Flans. And shepherd’s pie and flowers. And they ask me how I’m holding up and how I’m managing, rattling around in this old place all on my own, and who do I have to look after the shop for me till I sell it, which would be a crying shame because – now – the town needs that shop, that shop, they tell me, was the making of the town.
—What’s in the shop?
—Garments for the peasantry, she said.
—Clothes.
—Well done. Clothes. My mother was mad.
—What did she die of?
—Ah, sure. Well –. She kind of killed herself – accidentally, of course. But that’s for another day. Cathy.
I couldn’t keep up. (I still can’t.) She seemed to be telling me that Cathy had been involved in her mother’s suicide. I’d never heard of a woman killing herself before. It had always been men and boys – and not many of them.
—What about Cathy? I asked.
—Did you ever meet her dad?
—Well, yeah, I said. —He was at the wedding last Saturday, remember?
—But, I mean, you’ve met him. You’ve had a chat with him, have you?
—Yeah – a short one. When he was up in Dublin for a match. What about it?
