by Tara Heavey
Jack laughed raucously. ‘Don’t be daft, woman.’
‘I’m not being daft. I know that’s what she thinks.’
‘Trust me. She doesn’t. Please say you’ll come.’
‘Oh, all right. Anything to shut you up.’
He turned to me one more time before getting into the jeep.
‘And you never know – you might get lucky. My brother Timmy will be there, and he’s single.’
‘Do you really think I’d touch another Power man with a bargepole?’
He bellowed with laughter again. He was sounding more and more like the old Jack I used to love – still loved, really.
‘I’ll pick you up at nine.’
Chapter Twenty-seven
‘Wow! I can see I’m not the only one who’s changed. You look gorgeous. I love your hair; it really suits you down.’
‘Are you going to keep commenting on my appearance all the time, now that you’re a poof?’
‘Might do. I’ll even give you a makeover if you like.’
‘Not just now, thanks.’
I looked him up and down. Tight black T-shirt. Black PVC trousers. Diamond stud in his ear.
‘Jack, I hope you’re not going to act like a gigantic cliché now that you’ve come out. I mean, look what you’re wearing. I’m not saying that you don’t look well – because you do – but, seriously, aren’t things going to be hard enough for you tonight? Do you really want to walk into the pub dressed like that?’
‘I figured, why not? Give them something to really talk about. I’ve been hiding my light under a bushel for far too long.’
‘Fair enough,’ I said. I guessed that it was probably just a phase he was going through, that once he got used to his new identity he’d start dressing normally again. I hoped. I clambered into the passenger seat. ‘Just try not to drive like a maniac, please.’
‘Just try not to be the passenger from hell, please.’
‘Oh, shut up.’
‘You shut up.’ He grinned, leaned across and kissed me on the cheek. Then he drove off down the hill like a maniac.
I turned and looked at him from time to time, marvelling at how I’d been fooled for so long. It seemed so obvious now. Of course he was gay. He was virtually the perfect man in every way; how could he possibly be heterosexual?
It was like George Michael in the 80s. A generation of girls had fallen head over heels in love. And did any of us so much as suspect he was gay? Not one. We were too busy obsessing about that dazzling smile, that orange tan, those muscular calves, those nifty dance moves, the dashing white shorts, the highlights. There was a time when George’s mug shot graced the wall of every unisex hair salon in the country. And still we didn’t cop. Looking back, it seemed surreal.
I was the first to walk into the pub, as Jack was having difficulty finding a parking space. It was Thursday night – music night – and the place was already packed.
Shem was the first to see me. ‘Ah, here she comes. Lock up your sons.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I was in no mood.
‘Nothing,’ said Shem, alarmed and back-pedalling furiously. ‘I didn’t mean a thing by it. Just a turn of phrase, that’s all. Can I buy you a drink?’
I must have seriously rattled him. Shem never offered to buy anybody a drink.
‘I’ll have two bottles of Miller, please.’
‘Two!’
I nodded. ‘I’m very thirsty tonight.’
A woebegone expression on his face, Shem turned to Johnny. ‘Two bottles of Miller for the lady.’
Johnny nodded curtly at me and got the drinks with his trademark rapid-fire movements.
I made space for Tom Delaney, who was returning to his barstool from the jacks – at least, I assumed that was where he was coming from; it would explain why his fly was undone. Away from his barstool, he was revealed as a big, shambling wreck of a man. He climbed back onto his throne and regarded me curiously, the stem of his pipe rattling between his few remaining teeth.
The sudden draught on my back told me that somebody had just walked in behind me. The looks on Shem’s and Tom’s faces told me that person was Jack. He came up and stood beside me.
‘Shem! Long time no see. How are you going?’
Jack held out his massive hand for Shem to shake. Shem took it silently and moved his own hand feebly up and down before letting it drop.
‘Tom! Good to see you.’
Tom couldn’t or wouldn’t take Jack’s proffered hand. His mouth hung open, revealing the full magnificence of a lifetime lacking in oral hygiene. Jack patted him on the shoulder instead. Whether he actively meant it as an insult, or whether it was a reflex reaction, I couldn’t be sure; either way, Tom swiped at his shoulder as if he’d just been injected with a deadly virus. Johnny was watching all this like a hawk.
Furious with the men, I snatched up the two bottles of beer, handed one to Jack and steered him away from the two old farts. ‘Come on. Let’s find a seat.’
The hurt was evident in Jack’s features. He’d known Shem and Tom his whole life.
‘Don’t worry,’ I whispered into his ear, ‘he probably thinks you’re after his body.’ This raised the ghost of a smile.
Our next problem was to find somewhere to park ourselves. The music room itself was jammed. The strange looks we were getting from all and sundry made the prospect of asking anyone if we could join them at their table seem quite daunting.
‘Over here, Jack!’ came a familiar voice from the far recesses of the room.
Matt Power and a blonde girl were sitting in a dark corner booth.
Jack gave me a look. ‘Would you mind?’
‘It doesn’t look as if we have much choice.’
So we went over and sat down with Matt and this week’s totty.
‘How are you, Lainey?’ He actually winked at me. The nerve!
‘Couldn’t be better. You?’ I eyed him coldly. Okay, so I hadn’t been mortally wounded by his conduct, but that didn’t mean he should get off scot-free.
‘Great form. This is Anita.’
He clearly had a type, anyway – although this latest model was younger, skinnier and blonder than me. Every woman’s worst nightmare – I’d been replaced by a younger blonde! Anita gave me a suspicious look, which I decided to ignore.
Matt turned his attention to his brother. ‘Jesus, Jack. What the fuck are you wearing?’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘You’re asking for trouble, mate. Could you not tone it down a little, for your own sake?’
‘This is me, Matt. I’m not hiding it any more. I did that for far too long.’
‘All right. On your own head be it.’
Anita was clearly smitten with Matt. She was glued to his arm, gazing continually into his eyes and giggling at everything he said. She didn’t go unrewarded: he paid her plenty of attention. Matt had the knack of making a girl feel as if she were the only person in the room/field/tree. I should know. I admit I felt the odd pang of jealousy, but mostly I felt sorry for her. She was young and even more foolish than I was. I wondered if she had been the one in the surgery the week before. If I got drunk enough, I might ask her.
Jack put on a great show, being entertaining and expansive as usual, making sure Anita felt included. It couldn’t have been easy for him, but he made it look like it was.
A mass exodus from the music room, as the musicians took a break, was our cue to move in. We received a mixed reception from the remaining inhabitants. Some nodded; some gaped, wide-eyed, at Jack and then quickly looked away again; some of them greeted Matt warmly. None of them greeted Jack warmly. But we were in. When we were seated, I squeezed Jack’s knee in support.
‘Careful,’ he said. ‘Someone might start a rumour that I’m straight.’
The musicians returned, and the session recommenced. I was relieved; it made the fact that none of the locals were talking to Jack less obvious. They played a selection of tunes, the music transformi
ng the plain, box-shaped little room into an aural paradise. As usual, Johnny entered the room midway into the session, set down the glasses he was collecting and sat down at the piano, joining in seamlessly. Then the call was made for people to sing.
A woman called Jackie, who was home from England, murdered two Mary Black numbers in quick succession. She was a musical serial killer. She suffered further from comparison when Matt sang ‘Raglan Road’ directly after her. If Anita hadn’t been impressed enough beforehand, she now looked ready to lay down her body and soul for Matt – and she probably would, in a few hours’ time.
Next, Dixie, the most ancient of the accordion players, sang ‘Don’t Forget Your Shovel’. Never mind the shovel, he forgot most of the words. He got through by making up a lot of them and inserting a few well-placed ‘la-la-la’s. He was still better than Jackie.
‘Okay, who’s next to give us an oul’ tune?’ Johnny shouted enthusiastically, fingers poised above the piano keys, raring to go.
‘I’ll go.’
The room fell prey to the most deafening silence in the history of deafening silences. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole – and I wasn’t even the one who had offered to sing. What is Jack thinking? I thought. I looked across at Matt. His face had the same expression I could feel on my own.
There was an ominous scraping sound as Johnny pushed back his stool, got up from the piano, picked up the empties and walked back to the bar. Nobody said a word.
‘Will one of you accompany me?’ There was a desperate, fake cheeriness to Jack’s voice.
Silence. Then: ‘I will.’
This time it was me that had spoken, although I scarcely believed it myself.
‘Thanks, Lainey.’ Jack squeezed my arm as I stood up and walked shakily across to the piano.
‘Don’t thank me yet,’ I hissed back. ‘I’m a tad rusty.’
I sat down on the piano stool and looked down at the alien keys. What was I thinking? The musicians and locals alike looked alarmed as Jack rose from his seat and stood in the centre of the room, a giant, PVC-clad figure. This was not the custom in Power’s Select Lounge and Bar; people were meant to remain sedately in their seats whilst singing.
I held my breath as Jack began. His voice strong and clear, he sang the opening lines of Gloria Gaynor’s ‘I Will Survive’. The ultimate gay anthem. You go, girl!
He made it through the first verse unaccompanied. I played a few faltering notes; then a few more. By the time he got to the chorus, we were sucking diesel!
Jack started to clap his hands in time to the music, gesturing to his audience to do the same. Matt and Anita began to clap enthusiastically. I would have too, if my hands hadn’t been otherwise occupied. Behind me, I could discern a few half-hearted clapping noises.
When the song ended, Jack got just enough applause that he announced he was going to sing another song.
‘This one is especially for the mammy,’ he declared. He bent his head towards me and hissed, ‘“Dancing Queen”.’
‘Come on, Jack. Would you ever sit back down? How am I supposed to know how to play “Dancing Queen”? And you never liked Abba before. Don’t tell me your taste in music has gone the same way as your taste in clothes.’
‘Come on, Lainey. It’ll be a laugh. Give it your best shot.’
I gave it my best shot.
Someone must have gone to get Bridie, because she appeared at the door during the second verse, looking proud as punch. And well she might. Not only was her son a fine figure of a man, he was a damn good singer, too – not to mention a pretty decent performer. He confessed to me later on that he’d taken singing lessons in San Francisco.
My relief at the end of ‘Dancing Queen’ was short-lived: Jack announced his intention of singing ‘just one more’. By the time he finished ‘I Am What I Am’, you couldn’t get in the door of the music room. You couldn’t see out of it, either; it was too crowded with bodies. The round of applause that followed fairly lifted the roof.
Jack dragged me to my feet and forced me to take a bow with him. I stopped laughing long enough to tell him how proud I was of him.
‘I’m proud of you, too,’ he said. ‘You’re the best fag-hag I’ve ever had.’
‘Oh, shut up, you great big raving queen.’
Chapter Twenty-eight
It had been two weeks since that memorable night in the pub. It was mid-May, and the weather was still uncommonly good.
A lot had happened. My parents had returned from Beijing, bursting with the news that Tatiana, Chen and LuLing were coming home to live in Dublin at the end of the year. My mother was now an expert on all things Oriental (‘Imagine not knowing that the samurai were an ancient Japanese warrior caste’). Hazel had got that job she’d been telling me about. She’d already started and was loving every minute of it. Her working day began at quarter past nine, she had a twenty-minute coffee break at eleven, an hour and a quarter for lunch and more coffee at four, and she went home at half-five on the dot. And she did this only three days a week. No wonder she loved it. Where did I sign up?
Things had improved considerably for Jack at home, too. Bridie had summoned the whole family – including Johnny – and given them a stern lecture concerning their behaviour towards Jack. Jack said the grand finale of her speech had been when she told the assembled throng, ‘He’s here, he’s queer, get used to it.’
Apparently, she was a huge fan of The Ellen Show.
Jack and I laughed solidly for about ten minutes when he told me this. Then we spent the next ten minutes making up alternative slogans: ‘He’s here, he’s queer, so have another beer,’ ‘He’s here, he’s queer, he’s got a pierced ear’ and – Jack’s personal favourite – ‘He’s here, he’s queer, and what a great rear.’
But I knew that Jack’s laughter was partly a cover-up. It would take more than a good sound telling-off from Bridie, undisputed boss of the household though she was, to sway Johnny and a couple of Jack’s elder brothers. The harsh truth had to be faced: it might never happen.
I put these thoughts out of my head. It was far too nice a day. I had absconded from work early – one advantage of being your own boss. And that’s what I had become since I’d moved down to Ballyknock.
‘My own boss.’ I said the words out loud. They did have a lovely ring to them. As long as I got my work done, I could come and go as I pleased. I had settled into a nice little routine of 9.30 to 5.30 – a far cry from crazy Dublin working hours. There were a few disadvantages, sure. The facilities weren’t so hot and my office wasn’t exactly luxurious; but we got by. Then there was the drawback of being apprehended by clients in the local supermarket and pumped for free legal advice. At least I didn’t have to worry about clients approaching me after Mass; I avoided this by not going to Mass. But, all in all, I had few complaints.
I strolled along the now-familiar roads around Ardskeha. Terence scampered a few yards ahead. The only sign of his recent ordeal was a funny patch on his left side where the fur hadn’t fully grown back yet after his operation. He turned and looked back at me, as if telling me to step on it. He had a piece of wood in his mouth. It stuck straight out like a single, giant, rotten tooth.
I’d lately come to the realisation that Terence and I had a lot in common. We both needed a pat on the head every now and then, and someone to feed us biscuits.
The sun shone pleasantly on our respective heads, and the birds were in fine voice; it was like having our own private concert. The hedgerows were lush with bluebells, buttercups, cow parsley and clusters of small, white, as yet unidentified flowers, which I intended to look up in my new wildflower book when I got home. But the undisputed winner of Flower of the Day had to be the hawthorn – masses of white, sweetly scented blooms, hanging overhead like heavy clusters of precious gems. Who needed Aladdin’s Cave? Everything was so beautiful, so fertile, so alive. I was reminded of that passage from the Bible – I couldn’t recall the exact words: something about lilies in the field no
t having to toil, yet Solomon in all his glory was never clothed as beautifully. That day, I felt as if I fully understood those words for the first time. Maybe I’d resign and sit around in a hedgerow all day long. Nice work if you could get it.
I was so lost in the joys of nature that I didn’t realise I’d walked further down this road than I’d ever walked before. The views were familiar – the river valley still to my left, the fields still rolling uphill to my right – yet different. Terence seemed more excited than ever. He hadn’t been here before either. We crossed a small, ancient-looking stone bridge, the river beneath it reduced to a mere trickle by the unusually dry weather.
I rounded a bend, and my eye was caught by a flash of vivid blue. It was in a small raised area at the corner of a crossroads. As I drew closer, I saw that it was a tiny old graveyard carpeted with bluebells. I’d never seen such a stunning mass of wildflowers. It was as if the bluebells were on steroids. Well, I reasoned, they were well fertilised. I hoped that, when I died, I would get the opportunity to nourish such beautiful flowers.
The entrance to the graveyard consisted of a small wrought-iron gate set into a high, rough stone wall. I looked around, but there was nobody there. With some difficulty, I managed to draw back the rusty bolt and let myself in.
I called Terence, who bounded in behind me and cocked his leg against the nearest headstone before I could stop him. The stone – like many of the others – was clearly very old; any words that hadn’t been eroded over time were concealed by moss. They weren’t all like that, though. Some were newer. I carried out a swift survey and found that the most recent date was 1986.
I sat down companionably beside this flat tombstone. Looking back, it seems like a strange thing to have done; but, at the time, the place was so peaceful – magical, even – that I just wanted to stay and absorb the feeling for as long as possible. It was as if the emotional turmoil of the last few months had never existed – or, if it had, it simply didn’t matter any more.
I examined the tombstone beside me more carefully. It might have been the most recent, but it hadn’t escaped the ravages of time. Trailing ivy obscured most of the wording and the stone was dappled with moss. There appeared to be a verse on it. I tugged at the ivy to reveal the first words:
