I shrug.
“You have an opinion. You may as well express it.”
“Sometimes a little more consideration might go down better. Please – I’d like to apologise.”
“There’s nothing you can tell me that I haven’t told myself a thousand times.”
“Still, I’d rather not travel back with this between us.”
“Then apology accepted.” I stand up; I feel stiff and aching but I think it’s only with the cold. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
“That’d be nice.”
“A long day for you, by the time you get back home to Brighton.”
“It is, but this is a nice place to visit – a peaceful place.”
“The old family estate, eh?”
“Yes,” she says and smiles. “I was talking to Jack a moment ago and he’s going to suggest a target to you of the end of the month; for you to have decided what it is you want to do when you leave here. A target rather than a deadline – is that realistic?”
“It is, and very reasonable. It might not always seem like it, but I do appreciate what you’ve done for me here.”
“Well, goodbye.” She holds out her hand and I take it. She rests her other palm across my bruised knuckles. “Look after yourself, Brendan Loughlin. If you’re ever in Brighton again, I could do with somebody to walk Max during the day.”
It’s appealing, but I don’t think I’ll be returning to England in a hurry.
III
I hear Juliette leave for her morning walk with Max and that’s my signal to get up. I like to wait because I don’t want any awkwardness over using the bathroom; plus, I suspect, she appreciates some privacy first thing in the morning. This is her place, after all, and, however generous she’s been to offer me the spare room, it must take some getting used to having me around. It suits me too to wait; Juliette is up before seven, to allow plenty of time for Max’s walk, and by the time she’s showered and out the door, I’m about ready to get up. I enjoy my own time and space, though this is still very much Juliette’s bathroom. I’m trying not to leave my own clutter around – there’s already more than enough of that – and I tend to take my stuff back to my room after each time I shower. My toothbrush and paste in the glass on the windowsill is as much evidence as I leave.
My room is a tiny box room, with barely enough space for my single bed. There’s a shelf on which I can put my clothes. Juliette says the room will allow her to advertise the apartment as a two-bedroom should she ever choose to sell it – that’s how it had been sold to her, after all. Before I came, the room was full of unpacked clothes in bin-bags and shoes and shoes and more shoes. My arrival was a prompt for Juliette to sort out what she wanted to keep and what she should give away to the charity shop below us. She claims to have given away most of everything she didn’t need – perhaps she’s seen something of my own limited belongings – but I know she still has a cupboard full of shoes in her bedroom.
The apartment is spacious enough otherwise. Juliette’s room looks out over the street. We’re above a row of local shops that sell just about everything we need. Every now and again we go off in Juliette’s Mini to the supermarket in search of a cheaper, wider range of groceries, but there’s nothing very much that we can’t buy locally, and there’s something good still about being recognised when you walk into a store. I tended to shy away at first, but after a while it just seemed silly not to say hello, and yes, I’m living in the flat upstairs with Juliette – people are just being nice, that’s all. Juliette’s a great favourite in the neighbourhood, and it’s no surprise that there’s a level of interest in the guy who shares her apartment. They all seem to be very happy for Juliette and pleased to meet me; short of telling them we don’t sleep together, there’s not much I can do but to go along with their misconceptions. I don’t help matters by buying Juliette flowers on a regular basis. One evening I walked out the curry house with our takeaway, a bottle of wine and some flowers – all bought in the local shops – and there was a warm glow of approval from some neighbours whom I met on the street.
The main living room of the apartment includes a small kitchen and eating area, but the best thing about it is the large window that faces towards the sea. Not that we have such a clear view of the sea, but it’s great just to know that it’s there. A door leads to a balcony where Max now spends most of his days, and a set of steps lead down to what we call a garden but what is really just a piece of shared common land. There are probably deeds to all the properties that spell out just who own what – exactly which square foot of ground belongs to Juliette – but it’s barely used by anyone except Max when he needs the toilet. When he pads downstairs, he’s such a size that you can’t help but notice. I wait a few minutes for him to do his business before going to clean up after him. We sometimes cross on the steps to the garden, he on his way back up and me on my way down, and he avoids eye contact because he knows what it is I’ve to do down there. By the time I’ve finished clearing up his mess, he’s settled on his balcony, chin resting on his enormous front paws, staring into the middle distance – nothing to do with me, his look suggests.
I’ve recently started putting on a pot of espresso for Juliette when she returns with Max from her morning walk. I was always a cup of tea person first thing in the day, but living with Juliette has changed me – it must be the influence of her French mother. I noticed how much she enjoyed her coffee at the weekends when she had the time to enjoy it, and I could see that it frustrated her making do with instant during the week. So I’m in the habit now of putting on the coffee in time for her return. The smell is enough to persuade her to take two minutes at least; a quick shot is enough to hit the spot. She reckons she has a good breakfast for her mid-morning break, but I don’t know how she lasts that long – especially after having walked Max for close on an hour.
“You,” she says to me most days, “are a genius.” She means at making coffee; high praise indeed from anyone with a drop of French blood in them. She brushes her teeth for a second time because she lives in fear of having them stained by the coffee.
“Are they black at all?”
“They’re perfect. You’re perfect and I’m a genius – now go, or you’ll be late.”
It’s a short ten-minute stroll down St. James Street for Juliette to get to work. Not that she ever strolls; Juliette steps out whenever she walks anywhere. The apartment was originally bought with the intention of being able to get back to Max on her lunch break. She comes home during the day occasionally now, but more and more she’s content that Max is no longer shut up alone for hours on end. They enjoy a big reunion every evening.
I have a desk set up, facing out on to the balcony. If Max is outside and I shut the door, he wants to come in; if he’s in and I shut the door, he wants to go out. If I leave the door ajar, he settles down. This freezes the shit out of me, given that it’s almost Christmas, and I’m sure he does it to wind me up. I sometimes get up to have a fight with him, to get myself warm. I give him a knuckle butty and pretend to bite his throat; he could easily stick the whole of my head in his mouth but is happy just to growl down my ear. I can stick the length of my fingers in the fur of his coat before I touch his body. He’s a truly magnificent animal. I hug him and get back to my work. He watches me for a while and then flops back down.
Max doesn’t think so much of my writing as does his owner. Time spent writing is time spent not walking him, and this is what he believes is the purpose of my existence. It’s as good a purpose as any, but Juliette would rather I write. I told her the other day that she reminded me of Betty Blue – that she was in love with the idea of my being a writer.
“Yeah, you wish,” she said, and then I remembered the opening of the film and I blushed.
I had to check with Juliette that it was okay for me to go out on my own with Max before I attempted to do so, and we agreed at first that I’d keep him on the chain. After a while though, I was confident enough and Max was a lot happier if he
just walked by my side. He gets impatient with me because I’m not as agile or as fast on the pebbles as Juliette, but he tolerates me as best he can. If Max sees another dog or some kids playing down by the shore – which is rare enough in this weather – he stops while I put on his chain. Juliette doesn’t know what happened to him as a puppy; she found him at the animal sanctuary – he was about seven months – and took him in despite the warnings about his size. He’d been abandoned and badly hurt and Juliette half-expected him to have some behavioural problems, but these have never materialized. He’s the careful one, as though he’s aware that he could quite easily do what had once been done to him and he doesn’t want anyone to go through that again. If excitable dogs come up to him, he stands there while they jump all over him, until they get bored or their owners drag them away. If ever they become too much, one turn of his huge head is enough to warn any dog that enough is enough.
Juliette takes Max out again when she comes home in the evening. I could go out with them, but I think they like to have their time alone. It’s quite something to see the two of them together – a beautiful thing – and I know why I so easily picked them out on the shoreline that first morning in Brighton. I tend to get some food ready while they’re out on their walk. Not for the first time, I realise that this is pretty much all I want out of my life – to look after somebody I love.
Of course, I don’t express it in this way to Juliette – way too fast and way too soon. If I say anything at all, it’s to check that this set-up still suits her; we have an agreement that if it doesn’t work out, we’ll be honest and tell each other.
“What’s not to suit?” she asks. “And you – what about you?”
“I’m very happy here,” I say, and I am.
I made a couple of house calls in Dublin before I left Ireland to get back to Brighton. I revisited my two previous homes in an attempt to say a proper goodbye, though neither call was what you’d describe as particularly successful. Danny’s apartment in Smithfield no longer existed; it had been demolished and replaced by new, larger apartments, shops and offices. So I walked up Constitution Hill towards Glasnevin. Everything was still pretty much as I remembered it. There were children playing in the street where I’d lived with Siobhan and I thought for a second that one of them might be Ciara. But I could see clearly enough that a different family was living in our old home; Siobhan and Ciara were long gone. It’s a quiet neighbourhood, so I couldn’t hang around without drawing attention to myself. I walked away and took a stroll around the Botanic Gardens. I stopped for a sit down in the café and asked myself just why I’d come back. The rest of the world had moved on; it was time I did too.
I walked back to town in time for the appointment I’d arranged at the bank. I’d written and told them what it was I wanted to do, but I had to come in person for the actual transaction – and take plenty of identification along with me.
“Are you absolutely sure about this, Mr. Loughlin?” the manager asked, and I said I was. I withdrew the bulk of my remaining money in the form of a bank draft made out to the Institute in Leitrim. I asked for an envelope, addressed it to Jack Reilly and slipped the cheque inside with a note of thanks.
This was the deal I had made with Juliette: that I would find a good purpose for the money I took off Siobhan for Ciara. I’ve kept enough for myself to last until the end of the year – about the time I reckon I need to finish writing out what happened to me. This was my other deal with Juliette: that I would tell my own story rather than take a case against the British Government, a case I didn’t feel I could win. She agreed not to hassle me if that was what I chose to do. Come the New Year and the money running out, I’ll have to get a job or something.
Flying back into Britain was difficult, but again it was something I felt I had to do. I wanted to reclaim my right to come and go into my own country. I made it easier on myself because I booked a flight into Bournemouth rather than Gatwick. I knew all the security measures would be the same, but I felt there was less chance of getting lost in Bournemouth. By ‘getting lost’ I mean being taken somewhere and not being able to be found. I knew Juliette was waiting for me on the other side of Immigration and it was some comfort to know the fuss she’d create if I were kept for any length of time. I was in a bit of a state coming through and it was written clearly on my face. I thought I was going to be sick, or pass out, and the shaking began at exactly the wrong time. Of course I was stopped – anyone in their right mind would have stopped me – but they were polite as they asked me to wait for the other passengers to go through. I had to sit down on a chair; I guess I looked pretty ill. But they seemed to get whatever it was they wanted from running a check on the name in my passport.
“Okay Mr. Loughlin,” they said. “Thank you.”
I walked through to Juliette in the small Arrivals hall. I cried when I saw her – and I mean really cried, to the extent of making a spectacle of myself. Juliette took me to one side and I could see her staring back angrily at any passers-by who dared to look in our direction.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Juliette didn’t reply; didn’t say it was okay because it patently wasn’t okay, and didn’t say I had nothing to be sorry for, because I obviously had. She just sat and waited for me.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said eventually, and we walked to the car park. I saw Juliette’s brand new Mini Cooper for the first time and smiled. “Nice car.”
“This is my baby.”
“I thought Max was your baby.”
“Max is my big baby; this is my little baby.”
I wear my glasses all the time now and don’t think I shall ever return to using contact lenses. The days are cold but still bright and I like the anonymity of effectively having on sunglasses each time I leave the house. I live in a completely different area of Brighton than the Roberts family – the ‘People’s Republic of Kemptown’, as they like to call it around here – and I’m not ready yet for the possibility of running into Laura. I still haven’t figured out what happened between us but, whatever, it was ruined when they took me away. (I also haven’t figured out yet the right words for what happened to me – taken away, arrested, held without trial – but I guess it doesn’t really matter any more.) I’m sure they did a good number on me for Laura once I was gone.
I’ve also had my hair cut very short – shaven in fact – so I doubt if I can be recognized at all from a distance. Juliette loves my shaven head and can’t leave it alone.
“Can I touch it?” she asks, and comes up behind my typing chair to place both her palms on my head. I make out she’s a nuisance but it feels so good it gives me a hard on – not that I let her know about that.
“You’ve missed a bit on the back of your neck,” she says.
“I need a cut-throat razor – like they have at the barbers.”
“And would you trust yourself with one of those?”
“No, I don’t think so – certainly not down the back of my neck.”
“Did you ever have a shave with one?”
“I’ve had what they call a hot towel shave in the barbers, but I’ve never used one myself. I guess there’s a skill to it.”
“I guess there is,” she says, and takes her hands away. She’s a very tactile person, Juliette, in a way I’d never have anticipated. I think she just does what she feels like doing without thinking of the effect it might have on others; or that she’s true to herself without caring what anyone else might think. It’s either an admirable trait or a characteristic of wealth – I’m not sure which – but I always give it a few minutes before stepping away from my desk.
She returns from work in the evening with a gift of a cut-throat razor, beautifully presented in its own case.
“Jesus, Juliette – are you crazy?”
“Don’t you like it?”
“I love it, but you didn’t have to get me this.”
“I wanted to.”
“I don’t even know if I can use it.”
“It’ll be fun to see you try.”
“Where did you find it?”
“Well, first I looked in the antique shops on the way into town; you know – to get a fancy old-fashioned one. But then I thought you might not use a second-hand blade, so I called into the barbers downstairs and asked him where I could buy a new one.”
“But it’s still fancier than anything I’ve ever seen them use downstairs.”
“There’s a price to pay for the present: I want to be there the first time you use it.”
“You’re quite mad, aren’t you? I’ll cut myself if you watch – and I’m not interested in cutting myself with that.”
“That’s the deal,” Juliette says, and she leaves for her evening walk with Max.
I make a start on dinner because I know Juliette is out at some meeting this evening – as usual.
I asked her soon after I arrived back in Brighton how the protest she’d organised for the Labour Conference had gone and she admitted it had been eclipsed by the hunt lobby – that they were far more organized than the anti-war groups could ever hope to be. But still, whatever the setback, Juliette keeps on. I thought at first her politics were a reaction against her more conservative father, but there’s more to it than that. She’s determined to live her life independently of Lord Fitzgerald. When I asked her what he thought of my living with her, she said it was none of his business. I’m not even sure she’s told him.
She showers when she and Max return and then suggests opening a bottle of wine with dinner.
“Haven’t you a meeting to go to?”
“I’ve decided to give it a miss.”
I look at her.
“Well, it’s not my meeting and they won’t miss me if I’m not there for once. Besides, I want to stay in and watch you have a shave with your new razor.”
“Then I’m not sure I should be having any wine,” I say, but we open the bottle anyway. Max slumps into his corner, content to be inside now that he’s had his walk and Juliette is home.
Dancing to the End of Love Page 16
