by Roddy Doyle
The kettle was starting to hiss.
—And it’s not that, he said. —If you want to bring a girl upstairs – even though you don’t actually live here, let me remind you. But I have no problem with that. I bloody envy you. One-night stands – whatever you call them. They’re none of my business and good luck to you. She’s a lovely-looking lassie. But I can see, you’re serious.
He looked at the kettle, and the steam that was taking over the room.
—Aren’t you? he said.
He grabbed a tea towel and lifted the kettle off the hob.
—Is she pregnant? he said.
He’d always been a gentle man. Too gentle, I often thought – gentleness as a type of absence. But he’d never been brutal, or crude.
Faye was pregnant.
—No, I said. —She isn’t.
If I could relive that evening, I’d do several things differently and I’d say different things.
I’d tell him she was pregnant.
I’d say nothing and walk out of the house.
I’d go home to the flat I’d started sharing with Faye but I wouldn’t tell her what my father had said.
I’d go home and tell Faye all that he’d said.
I’d stay with my father and ask him why he’d asked if Faye was pregnant, instead of saying Good man or I’m delighted. I’d try to know him. I’d ask him why, so long after my mother had died, he’d finally lashed out. I’d ask him why he was pushing me away.
Faye laughed when I told her.
—Why did you tell him at all? she said.
—I don’t know. I just wanted to.
—Without me there?
—I thought he’d be happy.
—That fella? she said. —He doesn’t want to be happy. And come here.
She put her arms around me. Faye’s a tall woman, as tall as I am, and she looked straight into my eyes. Faye did that: she was able to hold a gaze – she always won the staring matches.
—Your daddy’s misery is none of your business, she said. —And you’ll be getting plenty of misery from me. Does it give you the horn?
—Yes, it does.
My father looked at me.
—I wouldn’t mind if she was, he said. —Pregnant.
—She isn’t, I said.
—Grand, he said. —It must be love, so, is it?
He turned, and took two mugs from the shelf beside the cooker.
—Your mother would be very happy, he said.
—Would she?
—She’d have loved Faye.
I don’t know why I didn’t tell Faye that my mother would have loved her. I didn’t feel it, I didn’t know it. But he’d said it to be kind and I never told Faye. I left it out, deleted it, told her half of what had happened. She’d have loved Faye. Maybe that was why he didn’t – couldn’t – love her. She was too like my mother. But I don’t know that either.
We make up our own stories.
—We’ll have the baby in England, said Faye that night. —Will we?
—Yeah.
We’d been going, anyway. Faye talked about distance – from Gorey, from family, from expectations and inspections. I’d never thought about leaving. Until Faye said she wanted to wake up some day in air that wasn’t Irish. Then I’d wanted to pack.
—Sure, fuck him, she said. —He’ll have to come over to see his grandson or his granddaughter, so he will.
She was holding me.
—He’ll have to spend a few shillings and vomit on the boat, she said.
—He’s never been mean, I said.
—Not with the money, maybe, she said. —But he’s tight with the kindness.
She kissed my shoulder.
—So, he can fuck off with himself, she said. —We both deserve better.
I’ve often wondered if we’d have gone, if I’d told Faye the full story. We’d have left but perhaps not as quickly. We had Faye’s money, from the sales of the shop and the house; we didn’t have to charge. And she’d made it clear.
—I don’t want to be settling in Dublin.
—Okay.
—I don’t like Dublin. Does that shock you, David?
—No.
—You’re a liar.
—I’m not.
—D’you know what Dublin’s problem is?
—What?
—It’s only the capital of Ireland, she said. —And that’s fuckin’ nothing to be stuck up about.
We were going. The real question is, why I never told Faye all that my father had said, why I’d lied to her, why I’d worked myself up to believing what I’d told and hadn’t told her. I wanted to be like her, I sometimes think. I wanted to feel isolated, and homeless; I wanted to match her.
We were riding for children, from the start. That feeling was there: we were changing our lives, making something new. We were always going to leave. But I still don’t know why I hurt my father, hurt Faye, hurt my children. None of the answers answer the question. There’ll never be an answer.
Five years ago – about five years ago – we were sitting beside each other, half watching something on the television. The ads came on and there was one in particular, warning the viewer of the perils of unprotected sex. Immediately, I felt it – I was in our flat in Dublin, with Faye, in bed. Doing something dangerous and wonderful, together. Making up our lives – our life.
I turned to look at Faye, and she’d already turned to me. We said nothing and we kissed, and adjusted our older selves on the couch to face each other.
—Unprotected sex, Faye.
I held her face.
—It was the making of us, so it was.
She held mine.
* * *
—
—So, yeah, said Joe. —Somethin’ happened.
—Okay, I said. —Wha’?
—Well, he said. —I still don’t know how to say it.
—Did she cast a spell on you or somethin’?
He pushed himself back from the counter. He exhaled loudly – he almost whistled.
—No.
—You hesitated.
—No, he said. —No, she didn’t. That’d be fuckin’ daft.
—But you hesitated.
—Fuck off, he said. —Look –. There’s a film, a kids’ thing Holly used to love. I can’t remember the name of it. But there’s a wall an’ when the characters go over it, they’re enterin’ into a different world – different rules, different everythin’. Stardust – that’s wha’ it was called. D’you know it?
—No, I said. —Don’t think so. I mean, I might’ve seen it – I don’t know.
—It’s not the film, he said. —It’s good, by the way. Holly loved it. But it’s not the plot that I mean. The main chap has to cross the wall, into the realm o’ the fairies or somethin’, I think it’s called – I can’t remember. Carrie from Homeland’s in it, now that I think of it. She’s a kid in it – it’s goin’ back a good bit. D’you watch Homeland?
—It’s brilliant.
—Yeah, he said. —Although I haven’t seen the last couple o’ series.
—The new one’s great, I said. —Bang up to date. The Russians interferin’ with the elections and everythin’. Claire Danes.
—Yeah, he said. —But look, there was no wall or anythin’ dramatic like tha’. But I did feel like I’d stepped into another world. Just a bit. I don’t want to exaggerate it.
—Sorry, I said. —Is this magic we’re talkin’ about, or wha’? Hypnosis?
—No, he said. —No. It’s psychological, maybe. I don’t know. But somethin’, anyway. Somethin’ definitely happened. In my head – so to speak. D’you know anything abou’ tha’ stuff?
—Psychology?
—Yeah, he said. —How the brain works an’ tha’.
—No, I said.
I didn’t want to let us stray. I didn’t wa
nt to talk about myself.
—I had to have a brain scan, he said.
—Did you?
—Yeah, yeah. An MRI.
—Because o’ this?
—Wha’?
—Because you met your woman?
—No. No – fuck off. Two years ago, or so. Before me an’ Jessica. Yeah, two years ago.
—Why?
—Did I never tell you?
—No, I said. —You didn’t.
—Did I not? You sure?
—Yeah, I said.
But I wasn’t. I wasn’t sure at all. I’d had an MRI of my own, a year before. Mine was more recent than his. I hadn’t told Joe. And I didn’t want to hear him telling me about his. I could already feel him leaking into me.
* * *
—
—What’s wrong? said Faye. —David?
Her voice was different, distant. I was standing at the kitchen door. I was looking out at the sky. I’d decided to stand up. I’d felt like I was waking, suddenly conscious, when I’d moved, stood. And I’d felt that way – waking up, waking repeatedly – as I’d moved to the back door.
Faye must have seen me. She must have been watching me.
—What’s wrong? Dave?
I turned to her – I woke.
—Hi.
—Are you okay?
—I’ve been asleep – have I?
—No.
—No?
I walked past her to the chair I’d been sitting in. The chair I always sat in. My chair – when there was no one else in it. I sat – the chair was under me.
—What’s wrong with your back?
—Nothing.
I looked at her. She sat beside me – she pulled a chair from under the table. She was staring at me.
—What’s going on?
—I keep waking up, I said.
I was looking around me, up, around.
—Are you stoned or something? she asked.
—No.
It wasn’t a ridiculous question. Nothing was ridiculous.
I looked at her, straight at her – woke up. She looked worried.
—What did you eat?
It was Saturday, early afternoon.
—Breakfast, I said. —I think.
—What?
—Toast.
—Did you go anywhere?
—No.
I stood – woke up. There was a rush – I had to sit down. I held the arms of the chair. I sat, woke up.
—I keep waking, I told her.
—You look stoned, she said. —You look doped.
—It’s really slow, I said.
—What is?
—It. Every –.
I stood.
I’d forgotten words.
—Jesus, David –.
—Air, I said. —Fresh air.
—D’you want to go for a walk?
I woke up.
—Yeah.
We brought the dog. I bent to put the lead on him – I woke. Faye’s hand was there, on mine. I was on my hands and knees. She took the lead from me. She grabbed the dog’s collar.
—Dave?
I stood, straightened – woke.
—For fuck sake, David, stop messing.
I smiled. I turned. I smiled at her.
—I’m fine.
—You’re not, she said. —Are you having a stroke or something? David?
I walked down the hall. I found my jacket at the end of the stairs. I put it on. Woke. The dog was under me, at my feet. I opened the front door. Faye was beside me. We were out – I closed the door. Woke. I walked between the cars. Faye’s car. And mine. The trees were there. And other cars. I looked at Faye. I looked at my feet. At the path. Woke.
—David?
I stopped. I turned – turned – turned.
—Yes, Faye?
—We need a bag. Harry’s shit. Did you bring some?
My hand was already in my pocket. I took out my hand. It was holding three or four orange nappy bags.
—Yes.
I opened a bag. Licked a finger, to separate the plastic sides. Put my hand into the bag. Woke. Opened my fingers. Looked at the ground. Saw the shit. Bent down – got down. Woke. I picked up the shit. Three half hard, dark brown lumps. I closed my hand around them. Heat through the orange plastic. Stood up. Woke up. Looked at the bag. I turned it inside-out. Shit in. Fingers out. I tied the bag.
I saw Faye.
We walked. Under the trees. I heard – I could hear something. Wind. In a tight space. Wind screaming. In the distance – and near. Faye held the dog’s lead. That was the noise – the wind noise. The retractable lead. Nylon screamed, in – out, in – rubbing against the plastic handle. A car passed. I heard no noise, no engine.
I stopped. I woke.
—This is taking for ever, I said.
—What is?
I woke up.
—We’ve been walking for hours.
—Come on, she said. —Come on. I’m getting you to the hospital.
I looked. At the next-door neighbour’s gate. I looked at Faye.
—Okay.
—You’re worried too, she said.
I wasn’t.
I walked.
—Stay here, said Faye.
—Where?
—Here, she said.
She took one of my hands. She put it on the roof of her car.
—Here, she said. —I’ll just get the key and bring Harry in. I wish the fuckin’ kids were still here.
—Do you?
—For once, I do. Stay there.
I stood beside her car. My hand was on the roof when she got back. I watched her double-lock the front door. I woke. I watched her looking into her bag. I watched her shake it. I watched her take out her phone and drop it back into the bag. The car door – my door, the passenger door – was open. I felt Faye’s hand on top of my head.
—In.
She pushed slightly – she made me bend. I watched as I lifted my feet into the car. I looked at them. She closed the door. She didn’t slam it. Her door was open. I could see her waist. She leaned in. She held out her bag.
—Hold this for me.
I looked at the bag.
—Jesus Christ, David.
She leaned in further. She dropped the bag on my lap. I held it. She was beside me.
—Can you see properly?
—Yes.
—The tree there – the branches. They’re clear, are they?
—Yes.
She started the car.
—Is there any point asking you to phone ahead?
I looked at the bag.
—No, she said. —I didn’t think so.
The car moved.
—Put your belt on, she said.
I looked – I felt the belt. I’d already done it.
—Are we going to the hospital?
—That’s right, we’re going to the hospital.
I woke.
My phone was in my hand. I looked at it. I was supposed to do something.
—You’re scaring me, Dave.
—Sorry.
—Are you, though?
* * *
—
—Head injury, said Joe.
—What happened?
—I stood up in the attic.
—You’re jokin’.
—I fuckin’ amn’t, he said. —I nearly broke a crossbeam with me head. I was lucky, though, as well because I landed righ’ beside the hatch, you know. If I’d fallen through that –. Cos I was unconscious, ou’ for the fuckin’ count.
He loved this story.
—I was only startin’ to stand up, he said. —An’ a mouse ran across me hand. I thought it was a rat. I just shot up – bang. Ou’ – gone. Nothin’. Trish heard the thump an’ she was ou’ t
he back, sunnin’ herself. She was callin’ me for ages. But I hadn’t a clue. I was knocked ou’. Were you ever unconscious, Davy?
—Not like tha’, no, I said. —Literally knocked out. No.
—It’s amazin’, really, how it can happen.
—Must be.
—When you think about it, he said. —We’re so fuckin’ frail. I only woke up properly in the Mater. But, apparently, I was conscious when they got me down from the attic.
—Who did that?
—The ambulance lads. I don’t remember them – nothin’ ever came back. One o’ them was a woman. So Holly said. She found me – Holly. That’s the legend. She came out of her room when she heard Trish shoutin’. She saw the ladder on the landing an’ she climbed up an’ saw me. Saved me life.
—Was it tha’ bad?
—I’d a fractured skull, Davy – for fuck sake.
—Lads –.
It was the barman. He was looking at us – staring at us.
—Sorry, I said.
—Were we loud? Joe asked me.
—You were, I said. —You must’ve been.
—Fuck’m, he said, quietly. —There’s no way we were tha’ loud. It’s a fuckin’ pub, for fuck sake.
—Did you need a plate or anythin’? I asked him.
—No, he said. —No. Luckily. So, but –. Good ol’ Holly.
—It must’ve been a bit shatterin’ for her as well, I said.
I was thinking of Róisín. I was missing her. We skyped, but neither of us liked it. It’s like we’re in a shit film, she’d said once, months before. You don’t look like you. You look, like, stupid.
—She clung to me for months after it, said Joe. —It was –. I don’t know, Davy. I do know. It was great.
—I can imagine.
—She was terrified I’d die, he said. —Afraid I was goin’ to drop dead. I was out o’ work for a month, you know.
—Jesus.
—Yeah. An’ I never told you?
—No.
—Weird, he said. —Cos I’ll tell you now, I told everyone else. But, there – anyway. I had my daughter back, my little girl. You know what I mean, I’d say.
—I know exactly what you mean.
—She stopped bein’ a teenager an’ became human again. Yeah. So. Tha’ was it for a while. An’ then I went an’ fuckin’ blew it.
He sighed again, almost whistled.
—Did I? he said.
