‘I know. Just wanted to get it in before you did.’
Rose drove into the Temple Bar car park at exactly seven o’clock. There were plenty of spaces still: the surrounding bars and restaurants didn’t really begin to fill up until about eight. She turned to face Lisa, hoping that her anxiety about the evening ahead wasn’t already obvious.
‘Well? Have you decided?’
Lisa made a face. ‘I still dunno whether it’s Thunder Road or the Elephant and Castle.’
Rose stayed silent. Please, she thought, please not Thunder Road. It was all too aptly named: within half an hour the loud, relentless music would give her a thumping headache. She’d never liked loud music, not even as a teenager. She liked it even less now. She pulled a coin from her jacket pocket.
‘Toss?’
‘Okay.’
‘Heads for Thunder Road, tails for Elephant and Castle – all right?’
Lisa nodded. Rose flipped the coin in the air, smacking it onto the back of her left hand, covering it with her right.
‘Ready?’ She took her hand away, revealing the map of Europe on the face of the one euro coin. She sighed inwardly. ‘Thunder Road it is.’
‘Nah – let’s go to the Elephant. We haven’t been in ages!’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah.’
Rose led the way quickly from the car park and crossed the cobbled street to the restaurant, praying that Lisa wouldn’t change her mind again. She wondered whether this ritualization of bad news was such a good idea after all; perhaps she should have told the child at once, at home, that her father had suddenly reappeared. Perhaps there would be tears, tantrums: and how would either of them cope with such obvious distress in a very public place?
It was more and more difficult to tell how Lisa would react to anything these days. Rose hoped that she hadn’t chosen the wrong option. Well, we’re here now, she told herself, and at least we’re away from phones and friends. Just make the most of it. And it was always possible, of course, that in Lisa’s teenage eyes, Ben’s sudden return might not be such a bad thing after all.
‘Two, please.’
The waiter darted away to clear a table and Rose turned to smile at her daughter. ‘Good choice, Lisa. There’s plenty of room and it’s not too hot.’
‘The music isn’t too loud either, is it?’ There was an arch innocence to her daughter’s tone that took Rose by surprise.
‘No – it’s not; it’s just the way I like it.’
Lisa grinned. ‘I know you hate Thunder Road – I was just winding you up.’
‘You monkey!’
Rose suddenly relaxed. This was going to be fine between them; she could feel it. There was such an extraordinary change in Lisa when she wasn’t fretting over things. Freed from the anxieties that frequently bedevilled her during the school day, her young face was now smooth, glowing, her eyes bright with anticipation and mischief. She looks wonderful, Rose thought, even allowing for the fact that a mother was allowed to be prejudiced. When Lisa smiled, as she had just now, her expression was impish, irresistible. Silently, Rose thanked the god of mothers that her youngest child was continuing in one of her sunny moods; she didn’t think she could have coped with a hormonal moment just now.
She watched, amused, as Lisa regarded herself in the restaurant mirror while they waited for their table. She tugged at her fair hair, tucking strands behind her ear, pulling her fringe down over her eyes. Her vanity was a completely unselfconscious one: absorbed by her own reflection, she was unaware of the scrutiny of the four young men sitting directly behind her.
But Rose wasn’t. She suddenly saw her daughter through their eyes, rather than her own. With a shock of recognition that almost took her breath away, Rose realized that her daughter looked older than her years, almost grown up and profoundly, innocently . . . sexy. How had that happened? How had Rose taken her eye off her youngest child long enough for such a transformation to have taken place?
I can’t think about that right now, she thought. Not with everything else that’s going on. But I’d better file it away for later, crisis or no crisis.
The waiter showed them to their table and Rose waited patiently, sipping at her glass of water, until Lisa had ordered their food. Then she began, obliquely, leading up to the issue that had already set her heart thumping.
‘So,’ she asked casually, ‘how do you feel now about your summer exams?’
Lisa shrugged. ‘Okay, I think. They’re still a month away. And they’re not all that important, so I’m not doing too much study.’
Rose checked the automatic response that came to her lips, ignoring the imaginary filial red rag that had just been waved at her maternal bull. All your exams are important, young lady, and need to be taken seriously. Instead, she said lightly: ‘Well, you’ve worked hard all year, so I’m sure you’ll do fine. And it’s good that you’re not too stressed about them.’
There’s no easy way to say this, Rose thought. Just go for it.
‘I had some surprising news . . . during the week,’ she said. ‘Last night’ or ‘Yesterday’ sounded too dramatic, she thought, too sudden. Lisa looked at her mother, mild curiosity puckering across her forehead.
‘Yeah?’
‘I had some news of your dad.’ That was enough. Rose didn’t need or want to share any of the emotion that had accompanied the personal delivery of such unwelcome news.
Mercury winged with malice.
‘Dad?’ said Lisa, in a tone of such incredulity that Rose’s heart was gladdened. No upset, no distress. Keep on going.
‘Yes. It seems he’s considering coming back to Dublin. Some sort of business opportunity has come up, so he got in touch.’
‘What does he want?’ Lisa’s tone was guarded now, almost suspicious.
A girl after my own heart, thought Rose, feeling relief like sunlight. A perfectly appropriate response. ‘Well, I don’t know yet that he wants anything in particular – except, of course, to see all of you guys.’
‘Why? He’s been gone since I was in first class in primary.’ Now her tone was edging towards indignation, her blue eyes suddenly huge, luminous.
The waiter arrived with their food and provided a welcome interruption. Rose waited until he’d gone before answering.
‘I know, it’s been a long time. Lots of water under the bridge, as we say.’ She smiled at her daughter. ‘I don’t know all the details yet – we haven’t really spoken at length, but I do know that he is particularly anxious to see you and Brian and Damien.’
‘Do I have to?’
Lisa was pushing the food around her plate, her expression suddenly troubled, older, somehow.
‘No,’ said Rose carefully. ‘You don’t have to do anything. But I wouldn’t dismiss something so important without having a good think about it first.’
‘Are you going to see him?’
I can’t tell her that I already have, thought Rose. Too much for her to take in, all at once. Too much. ‘Yes,’ she said firmly. ‘There are still some things we need to talk about, to sort out between us.’ She paused, waiting for Lisa to break the silence.
‘Are you two going to be getting back together again?’
For the instant it took to half-form a thought, Rose intended to say something soothing, childproof. Then she changed her mind.
‘Absolutely not,’ she said firmly. ‘There’s no chance of that; neither of us wants it. But he is still your dad, and I think you should give some serious thought to seeing him.’
‘He hasn’t given much serious thought to seeing me, though, has he? He’s been gone since I was six.’
‘I know. But things change, people change, circumstances . . . move on. I’m certainly not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to do, Lisa, and you can take your time thinking about it. But please don’t shut me out – we need to talk about this so that whatever decision you make, you’re happy that it’s the right one.’
Lisa stared at her plate. R
ose’s heart ached for her young, suddenly pale face. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Do you think I should?’
‘I’ll tell you that after we’ve talked some more about it. But, right now, if I’m honest, I think you should at least keep a very open mind about it. He’s never stopped being your dad, you know, never stopped loving you. Parents generally don’t.’ Rose smiled across the table, stroking her daughter’s hand.
‘He’d a funny way of showing it.’
Yes, thought Rose. Yes, he had.
‘Well, let’s just see what happens. Just don’t close off anything, okay, love?’
Lisa nodded, her blue eyes grave. Too much, thought Rose suddenly, too much adult stuff at such a young age. I could wring your bloody neck, Ben Holden, I really could – hard and tight and without female mercy.
‘Now, that’s all we need to say for tonight. Let’s park it until you’ve had time to think about it. We’ll talk again tomorrow, and you don’t need to make any decision until you’re ready. Deal?’
‘Deal.’
‘Except, of course, the decision about dessert. What’s it to be, mademoiselle? The health-giving benefits of fruit salad, or, just this once, a chocolate frenzy?’ Rose kept her tone light, teasing.
Lisa brightened immediately. ‘Yeah – Heart of Darkness!’ She grinned. ‘A zillion calories – and who cares?’
‘Who indeed?’ Rose was giddy with love, relief and optimism.
One daughter down, two sons to go.
Rose pulled a notebook out from under the microwave, rummaged in the drawer for a pen that still worked. She found one, finally. A pink Barbie pen, chewed and disfigured, a brave feathery boa still clinging grimily to its top. It was almost two o’clock in the morning and she had, for now, given up on sleep. Lisa had finally gone to bed, the kitchen was quiet, the house long settled into its night-time repose. Even the normal creaks and groans were suddenly, strangely silent.
I need to make a list, she thought. Of what I need for the kids, for myself, for everyone’s future. After Ben left her, Rose’s whole life had seemed reduced to an exercise in list-making: shopping lists, catering lists, childcare rotas, moneys owed and owing lists. Back then, such a careful, deliberate process had made her feel that she could put some sort of shape to her life; that, able to wield pen and paper, she wasn’t completely at the mercy of forces beyond her control.
But it wasn’t working tonight. She couldn’t concentrate. A list was too much of a paltry thing: a paper shield in the face of the unknown. She threw the pen onto the kitchen table, refilled her cup with lukewarm, tannin-tasting tea. No matter what she did, what she thought, in these quiet hours of the early morning, nothing could comfort her. Nothing could make her feel secure.
She stood up from the table, restless. For something to do, she filled the kettle again, noticing as she did so that the blind on the kitchen window was grubby, its ends sad and fraying. She could feel herself shrug. Years ago – even just one year ago – she would have regarded that as something important, something she would waste no time in fixing. Now it was just another sign, along with shabby furniture and fading paintwork, that the past belonged to another planet, one that simply orbited hers every few years, reminding her of how things used to be.
Right now, glimpses of that past kept merging with the new future of Ben’s return, and all Rose could see before her was Damien.
How was she going to tell him? Was there any point even in hoping to guide his response? Rose rubbed her hands across her forehead and closed her eyes for a moment. It was no use. Eyes closed or open, her eldest child was everywhere.
The eldest, the firstborn, the repository of all parental hopes . . .
Poor kid, she thought. No wonder he went off the rails.
She could still see him, as a two-year-old, walking along the sea wall in Clontarf. He used to love dipping the toes of his red wellies into the little pools where seaweed and greenish salty water gathered. She remembered how he’d pull hard against her, straining to run on ahead, his bright yellow oilskin creaking against her hand. His strength and determination had always surprised her.
Then, years later, the great toothless grin of triumph as he’d mastered his first bicycle. Later still, his young face filled with shy pride on his first day at secondary school. Rose tried to shake away the image. She had a sudden, violent longing for all the busy, uncomplicated years of her children’s childhoods. They had been hard work but no trouble: all the difficulties of mothering amply rewarded by just one sunlit smile.
How quickly things can change, she thought. What had once been the certainty of love and connection had somehow been transformed overnight into anguish, alienation, and just about every kind of trouble. Rose began to recall now that seismic evening when she’d discovered with brutal, bitter clarity that her carefully tended, lovingly nurtured family had finally begun to implode.
She’d been late back from the Bonne Bouche, laden with supermarket shopping, struggling to get her key into the lock. She remembered pushing open the front door with her foot. And the feeling of relief: home. At last.
She elbowed her way into the hall, struggling to manage the four plastic bags full of groceries. She could feel the handle on one of the bags begin to elongate, as it stretched itself to its limit, digging its way painfully into the soft flesh at the root of her fingers. She was hot and cross.
She hurtled down the hallway towards the kitchen, arriving just before the seam on the heaviest bag gave way and dozens of potatoes bounced gleefully out of their sweaty captivity, tumbling across the kitchen table and onto the tiled floor. Thus released, they then made it their business to seek out the most awkward, least accessible hiding places where, eventually, they came sullenly to rest. Small nodes of grit and clay launched themselves into orbit everywhere like tiny satellites. Rose swore loudly, and only then noticed the state of the kitchen. Every surface was crammed with plates and glasses, bowls, mugs – all the detritus of breakfasts and snacks and lunches strewn carelessly everywhere. How many young men had there been this time, eating her out of house and home?
She pulled open the door into the sitting room. The curtains had not been drawn back, the lights were still on. More glasses and plates had been catapulted everywhere and the room was stifling. There was no sign of Damien. Rose rushed upstairs. She found him lying on his bed, eyes closed, completely oblivious to all around him. She watched, paralysed for a moment, as music from his headphones poured itself into his body, filling the whole length of him, it seemed, as first his arms, then his hips, then his feet gyrated in time to its rhythm. The volume was so high that Rose could feel the drumbeat and hear the tinny, scratchy sounds of distant vocals. She’d told him not to have the setting so loud, that he’d damage his eardrums.
‘Damien!’ She’d stood in front of him, calling his name. She was reluctant to touch him, to startle him – it was obvious that he was in another world. There was no answer. Eventually she had to shake his shoulder before she got any response. He sat up immediately, pulling the headphones down so that they encircled his neck like some strange tribal necklace. Relief vied with anger, anger with impotent frustration.
‘What is going on?’ she asked him sharply.
He looked at her blankly. ‘Nothin’.’
‘It’s seven o’clock, Damien – where are Brian and Lisa?’
‘What do you call her – Margaret, Carly’s mother, called for Lisa. They’ve got some drop-dead gorgeous new DVD, or somethin’. She invited Lisa over to her house, said she’d feed her. Brian’s around in John’s. Said he’d be back around nine.’
‘And what about downstairs?’
Rose wanted not to feel the rage that was building up inside her. She’d had a long, loud, angry day and all she’d wanted was to come home, put her feet up for half an hour and have a cup of tea. Instead, a mess not of her making awaited her, colonizing her kitchen, cluttering up her living space. Damien was twenty-two, for Christ’s sake, well old enough
to clean up after himself.
That had been only the tip of the iceberg, though – the hard, cold, dishonest point of her anger, the bit that gave her the excuse to get mad. The real reason was well below the surface, had been floating along for the best part of two years now, frozen, impenetrable, slow-moving – and always, simply, there.
That evening was just another incident in a long line of conflicts. Rose stood in her son’s bedroom, rigid with anger, determined, this time, not to yield.
‘Relax, relax, will you? I’ll clean up and fill the dishwasher in a minute.’
‘Do it now, Damien, please. I’m worn out working and I’d like a breather before I start the dinner. I presume you haven’t made anything?’
Stop it, stop it, before this all becomes too much.
Even as she spoke, she had seen the situation spiralling out of her control: a red dust seemed to be gathering in the room between them, shaping itself into some sort of deadly vortex into which they’d both be sucked, each made blind and deaf to the other until spat out again spent, useless, impotent.
He’d looked at her coldly, fury gathering across his eyes. She noticed more and more as he grew older how much he physically resembled his father.
‘No,’ he said belligerently, ‘I haven’t. Why should I?’
That did it.
‘Because last time I looked, you were still living here, eating, drinking and generally enjoying all the comforts of home.’
They were out on the landing now, facing each other. His head was thrust forward, Rose’s fists were clenched.
‘What comforts?’ he shouted. ‘There’s nothing here but rules and petty restrictions and I’m sick of it. Don’t worry – you won’t have to provide for me much longer. I’ll be gone just as soon as I can!’
He pushed past her, taking the stairs two at a time.
Rose called angrily after him: ‘You’ll have to practise getting up off your arse before six o’clock in the evening, in that case!’
The front door slammed, making the bits and pieces of pottery on the hall table tremble a little. Motes of dust danced crazily around each other in the shafts of light that came through the window.
Something Like Love Page 5
