He stares at me for a moment and puts a sausage in his mouth in response.
‘We’ll get a taxi into town and catch one of those tour buses, what do you think? MAGGIE!’ I shout out at the top of my voice and it makes Dad jump. ‘MAGGIE, DAD IS COMING INTO TOWN WITH ME TO HAVE A LOOK AROUND. IS THAT OK?’
I cock my ear and wait for a response. Happy I’ve received one, I nod and stand up. ‘Right, Dad, it’s been decided. Maggie says it’s fine if you go into town. I’ll have a shower and we’ll leave in an hour. Ha! That rhymes.’ I limp out of the kitchen, leaving my bewildered father behind with egg on his chin.
‘I doubt Maggie said yes to me walkin’ at this speed, Gracie,’ Dad says, trying to keep up with me as we dodge pedestrians on Grafton Street.
‘Sorry, Dad.’ I slow down and link his arm. Despite his corrective footwear he still sways and I sway with him. Even if he was operated on to equal the length of his legs, I’d imagine he’d still sway, it’s so much a part of who he is.
‘Dad, are you ever going to call me Joyce?’
‘What are you talkin’ about? Sure, isn’t that your name?’
I look at him with surprise. ‘Do you not notice you always call me Gracie?’
He seems taken aback but makes no comment and keeps walking. Up and down, down and up.
‘I’ll give you a fiver, every time you call me Joyce today,’ I smile.
‘That’s a deal, Joyce, Joyce, Joyce. Oh, how I love you, Joyce,’ he chuckles. ‘That’s twenty quid already!’ He nudges me and says seriously, ‘I didn’t notice I called you that, love. I’ll do my best.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You remind me so much of her, you know.’
‘Ah, Dad, really?’ I’m touched; I feel my eyes prick with tears. He never says that. ‘In what way?’
‘You both have little piggy noses.’
I roll my eyes.
‘I don’t know why we’re walking further away from Trinity College. Wasn’t it there that you wanted to go to?’
‘Yes, but the tour buses leave from Stephen’s Green. We’ll see it as we’re passing. I don’t really want to go in there now anyway.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s lunchtime.’
‘And the Book of Kells goes off for an hour’s break, does it?’ Dad rolls his eyes. ‘A ham sambo and a flask of tea and then it props itself back up on display, right as rain for the afternoon. Is that what you think happens? Because, not going just because it’s lunchtime doesn’t make any sense to me.’
‘Well, it does to me.’ And I don’t know why it does but it just feels like the right direction to go in. Internal compass says so.
Justin darts through the front arch of Trinity College and bounds up the road to Grafton Street. Lunchtime with Sarah. He beats away the nagging voice within him telling him to cancel her. Give her a chance. Give yourself a chance. He needs to try, he needs to find his feet again, he needs to remember that not every meeting with a woman is going to be the same as the first time he laid eyes on Jennifer. The thump-thump, thump-thump feeling that made his entire body vibrate, the butterflies that did acrobatics in his stomach, the tingle when he brushed off her skin. He thought about how he’d felt on his date with Sarah. Nothing. Nothing but flattery that she was attracted to him and excitement that he was back out in the dating world again. Plenty of feelings about her and the situation but nothing for her. He had more of a reaction to the woman in the hair salon a few weeks ago and that was saying something. Give her a chance. Give yourself a chance.
Grafton Street is crowded at lunchtime, as though the gates to Dublin zoo have been opened and all the animals have flooded out, happy to escape confinement for an hour. He has finished work for the day, his seminar on his specialist subject, Copper as Canvas: 1575–1775, being a success with the third-year students who had elected to hear him speak.
Conscious that he’ll be late for Sarah, he attempts to break into a run, but the aches and pains in his over-exercised body almost cripple him. Hating that Al’s warnings were correct, instead he limps along, trailing behind what seem to be the two slowest people on Grafton Street. His plan to overtake them on either side is botched as people-traffic prevent him from leaving his lane. With impatience he slows, surrendering to the speed of the two before him, one of whom is singing happily to himself and swaying.
Drunk at this hour, honestly.
Dad takes his time, meandering up Grafton Street as though he has all the time in the world. I suppose he does, compared to everybody else, though a younger person would think differently. Sometimes he stops and points at things, joins circles of spectators to watch a street act and when we continue on, he steps out of line to really confuse the situation. Like a rock in a stream, he sends people flowing around him; he’s a small diversion yet he’s completely oblivious. He sings as we move up and down, down and up.
‘Grafton Street’s a wonderland,
There’s magic in the air,
There’s diamonds in the ladies’ eyes and gold-dust in their hair.
And if you don’t believe me,
Come and see me there,
In Dublin on a sunny summer morning.’
He looks at me and smiles and sings it all over again, forgetting some words and humming them instead.
During my busiest days at work, twenty-four hours just don’t seem enough. I almost want to hold my hands out in the air and try to grasp the seconds and minutes as if I could stop them from moving on, like a little girl trying to catch bubbles. You can’t hold on to time but somehow Dad appears to. I always wondered how on earth he filled his moments, as though my opening doors and talking about sunny angles, central heating and wardrobe space was worth so much more than his pottering. In truth, we’re all just pottering, filling the time that we have here, only we like to make ourselves feel bigger by compiling lists of importance.
So this is what you do when it all slows down and the minutes that tick by feel a little longer than before. You take your time. You breathe slowly. You open your eyes a little wider and look at everything. Take it all in. Rehash stories of old, remember people, times and occasions gone by. Allow everything you see to remind you of something. Talk about those things. Stop and take your time to notice things and make those things you notice matter. Find out the answers you didn’t know to yesterday’s crosswords. Slow down. Stop trying to do everything now, now, now. Hold up the people behind you for all you care, feel them kicking at your heels but maintain your pace. Don’t let anybody dictate your speed.
Though if the person behind me kicks my heels one more time …
The sun is so bright it’s difficult to look straight ahead. It’s as though it’s sitting on the top of Grafton Street, another bowling ball ready to knock us all down. Finally we near the top of the street and escape of the human current is in sight. Dad suddenly stops walking, enthralled by the sight of a mime artist nearby. As I’m linking his arm, I’m forced to a sudden stop too, causing the person behind to run straight into me. One grand final kick of my heels. That is it.
‘Hey!’ I spin around. ‘Watch it!’
He grunts at me in frustration and power-walks off. ‘Hey yourself,’ an American accent calls back.
I’m about to shout again but his voice silences me.
‘Look at that,’ Dad marvels, watching the mime trapped in an invisible box. ‘Should I give him an invisible key to get out of that box?’ He laughs again. ‘Wouldn’t that be funny, love?’
‘No, Dad.’ I examine the back of my road-rage nemesis, trying to recall the voice.
‘You know de Valera escaped prison by using a key that was smuggled in to him in a birthday cake. Someone should tell this fella that story. Now where do we go from here?’ He spins round beside me, looking about. He walks off in another direction, straight through a group of parading Hare Krishnas, without taking the slightest bit of notice.
The sandy duffel coat turns round again, throws me one last dirty look bef
ore he hurries on in a huff.
Still, I stare. If I was to reverse the frown. That smile. Familiar.
‘Gracie, this is where you get the tickets. I’ve found it,’ he shouts from afar.
‘Hold on, Dad.’ I watch after the duffel coat. Turn round one more time and show me your face, I plead.
‘I’ll just go get the tickets, so.’
‘OK, Dad.’ I continue to watch the duffel coat moving further away. I don’t – correction, can’t – move my eyes away from him. I mentally throw a cowboy’s rope around his body and begin to pull him back towards me. His strides become smaller, his speed gradually slows.
He suddenly stops dead in his tracks. Yee-ha.
Please turn. I pull on the rope.
He spins round, searches the crowd. For me?
‘Who are you?’ I whisper.
‘It’s me!’ Dad is beside me again. ‘You’re just standing in the middle of the street.’
‘I know what I’m doing,’ I snap. ‘Here, go get the tickets.’ I hold out some money.
I step away from the Hare Krishnas, keeping my eye on the duffel coat, hoping he’ll see me. The crisp pale wool of his coat almost glows among the dark and gloomy colours of others around him. Around his sleeves, down his front like an autumn St Nicholas. I clear my throat and smooth down my shortened hair.
His eyes continue to search the street and then they ever so slowly fall upon mine. I remember him in the second it takes them to register me. ‘Him’ from the hair salon.
What now? Perhaps he won’t recognise me at all. Perhaps he’s just still angry that I shouted at him. I’m not sure what to do. Should I smile? Wave? Neither of us moves.
He holds up a hand. Waves. I look behind me first, to ensure it’s me that his attention is on. Though I was so sure anyway, I would have bet my father on it. Suddenly Grafton Street is empty. And silent. Just me and him. Funny how that happened. How thoughtful of everyone. I wave back. He mouths something to me.
Hungry? Horny? No.
Sorry. He’s sorry. I try to figure out what to mouth back but I’m smiling. Nothing can be mouthed when smiling, it’s as impossible as whistling through a smile.
‘I got the tickets!’ Dad shouts. ‘Twenty euro each – it’s a crime, that is. Seeing is for free, I don’t know how they can charge us to use our eyes. I’m planning to write a strongly worded letter to somebody about that. Next time you ask me why I stay in and watch my programmes I’ll have it in mind to remind you that it’s free. Two euro for my TV guide, one hundred and fifty for a yearly licence fee is better value than a day out with you,’ he huffs. ‘Expensive taxis into the town, lookin’ at things in a city I’ve lived in and have looked at for free for sixty years.’
Suddenly I hear the traffic again, see the people crowding around, feel the sun and breeze on my face, feel my heart beating wildly in my chest as my blood rushes around in frenzied excitement. I feel Dad tugging on my arm.
‘It’s leaving now. Come on, Gracie, it’s leaving. It’s a bit of a walk up the road, we have to go. Near the Shelbourne Hotel. Are you OK? You look like you’ve seen a ghost and don’t tell me you have because I’ve dealt with enough today already. Forty euro,’ he mutters to himself.
A steady flow of pedestrians gather at the top of Grafton Street to cross the road, blocking my view of him. I feel Dad pulling me back and so I begin to move with him down Merrion Row, walking backwards, trying to keep him in sight.
‘Damn it!’
‘What’s wrong, love? It’s not far up the road at all. What on earth are you doing, walking backwards?’
‘I can’t see him.’
‘Who, love?’
‘A guy I think I know.’ I stop walking backwards and stand in line with Dad, continuing to look down the street and scouring the crowds.
‘Well, unless you know that you know him for sure, I wouldn’t be stopping to chat in the city,’ Dad says protect ively. ‘What kind of a bus is this at all, Gracie? It looks a bit odd, I’m not sure about this. I don’t come to the city for a few years and look what the CIE do.’
I ignore him and let him lead the way onto the bus, while I’m busy looking the other way, searching furiously through the, curiously, plastic windows. The crowd finally move on from in front of where he stood to reveal nothing.
‘He’s gone.’
‘Is that so? Can’t have known him too well then, if he just ran off.’
I turn my attention to my father. ‘Dad, that was the weirdest thing.’
‘I don’t care what you say, there’s nothing weirder than this.’ Dad looks around us in bewilderment.
Finally I too look around the bus and take in my surroundings. Everyone else is wearing a Viking helmet, with life jackets on their laps.
‘OK, everybody,’ the tour guide speaks into the microphone, ‘we finally have everyone on board. Let’s show our new arrivals what to do. When I say the word I want you all to roooooar just like the Vikings did! Let me hear it!’
Dad and I jump in our seats, and I feel him cling to me, as the entire bus roars.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘Good afternoon, everybody, I’m Olaf the White, and welcome aboard the Viking Splash bus! Historically known as DUKWS, or Ducks, as they’re more affectionately known. We are sitting in the amphibious version of the General Motors vehicle built during World War Two. Designed to withstand being driven onto beaches in fifteen-foot seas to deliver cargo or troops from ship to shore, they are now more commonly used as rescue and underwater recovery vehicles in the US, UK and other parts of the world.’
‘Can we get off?’ I whisper in Dad’s ear.
He swats me away, enthralled.
‘This particular vehicle weighs seven tonnes, is thirty-one feet long and eight feet wide. It has six wheels and can be driven in rear-wheel or all-wheel drive. As you can see, it has been mechanically rebuilt and outfitted with comfortable seats, a roof, roll down sides to protect you from the elements, because as you all know, after we see the sites around the city, we have a “splashdown” into the water with a fantastic trip around the Grand Canal Docklands!’
Everyone cheers and Dad looks at me, eyes wide like a little boy.
‘Sure, no wonder it was twenty euro. A bus that goes into the water. A bus? That goes into the water? I’ve never seen the likes of it. Wait till I tell the lads at the Monday Club about this. Big mouth Donal won’t be able to beat this story for once.’ He turns his attention back to the tour operator, who, like everyone else on the bus, is wearing a Viking helmet with horns. Dad collects two, props one on his head and hands the other, which has blonde side plaits attached, to me.
‘Olaf, meet Heidi.’ I pop it on my head and turn to Dad.
He roars quietly in my face.
‘Sights along the way include our famous city cathedrals, St Patrick’s and Christchurch, Trinity College, Government buildings, Georgian Dublin …’
‘Ooh, you’ll like this one,’ Dad elbows me.
‘… and of course Viking Dublin!’
Everyone roars again, including Dad, and I can’t help but laugh.
‘I don’t understand why we’re celebrating a bunch of oafs who raped and pillaged their way around our country.’
‘Oh, would you ever lighten up, at all, and have the craic?’
‘And what do we do when we see a rival DUKW on the road?’ the tour guide asks.
There’s a mixture of boos and roars.
‘OK, let’s go!’ Olaf says enthusiastically.
Justin frantically searches over the shaven heads of a group of Hare Krishnas who have begun to parade by him and obstruct his view of his woman in the red coat. A sea of orange togas, they smile at him merrily through their bell-ringing and drum-beating. He hops up and down on the spot, trying to get a view down Merrion Row.
Before him, a mime artist, dressed in a black leotard, with a painted white face, red lips and a striped hat, appears suddenly. They stand opposite one another, each waiting for the o
ther to do something, Justin praying for the mime to grow bored and leave. He doesn’t. Instead, the mime squares his shoulders, looks mean, parts his legs and lets his fingers quiver around his holster area.
Keeping his voice down, Justin speaks politely, ‘Hey, I’m really not in the mood for this. Would you mind playing with someone else, please?’
Looking forlorn, the mime begins to play an invisible violin.
Justin hears laughter and realises he has an audience. Great.
‘Yeah, that’s funny. OK, enough now.’
Ignoring the antics, Justin distances himself from the growing crowd and continues to search down Merrion Row for the red coat.
The mime appears beside him again, holds his hand to his forehead and searches the distance as though at sea. His herd of spectators follow, bleating and snap-happy. An elderly Japanese couple take a photograph.
Justin grits his teeth and speaks quietly, hoping nobody but the mime can hear. ‘Hey, asshole, do I look like I’m having fun?’
With lips of a ventriloquist, a gruff Dublin accent responds, ‘Hey, asshole, do I look like I give a shit?’
‘You wanna play like this? Fine. I’m not sure whether you’re trying to be Marcel Marceau or Coco the clown but your little pantomime street performance is insulting to both of them. This crowd might find your stolen routines from Marceau’s repertoire amusing but I don’t. Unlike me, they’re not aware that you’ve failed to notice the fact that Marceau used these routines to tell a story or sketch a theme or character. He did not just randomly stand on a street trying to get out of a box nobody could see. Your lack of creativity and technique gives a bad name to mimes all over the world.’
The mime blinks once and proceeds to walk against an invisible strong wind.
‘Here I am!’ a voice calls beyond the crowd.
There she is! She recognised me!
Justin shuffles from foot to foot, trying to catch sight of her red coat.
The crowd turns and parts, to reveal Sarah, looking excited by the scene.
Cecelia Ahern 2-book Bundle Page 34
