They entered the gloom under the bridge and it seemed as if their breathing had suddenly become very loud. Martin reached for Ellen’s hand and their walking slowed till they were standing still. There was quite a strong smell that reminded her of the gents’ toilets in the pub. Ellen did her best to try and ignore it and concentrated instead on the romantic possibilities of this hidden pause on their walk. Martin turned to face her and then they were kissing. Ellen put her arms around him and squeezed tightly. She couldn’t believe that this was happening to her. He pulled his face slightly apart from hers.
‘Merry Christmas,’ he whispered.
Giggling with a heady mix of nerves and excitement, Ellen whispered it back at him. He kissed her again and this time she felt the damp presence of his tongue. Why hadn’t she talked to Trinny? She opened her mouth and tried to mimic the movements of his tongue with her own. It wasn’t that difficult, but maybe she wasn’t doing it right. Martin slipped his hands under her coat and moved them around her back. She liked it. She liked it all. Martin gave a low moan. Ellen hoped he wouldn’t ask her if she wanted to go all the way because she had a horrible feeling that she would say yes.
Without warning Martin pulled away and said, ‘We should be heading home.’
1988
I.
The new year began with whispered reports that Declan and Caroline O’Connell were back. They had spent a strange Christmas in a Dublin hotel near to the hospital. Linda was out of her coma, but the doctors and physiotherapists were still trying to establish what movement, if any, she might recover.
Caroline was glad not to be in their house in Mullinmore, but she almost felt as if she was hallucinating as she sat in the hotel dining room on Christmas Day. Declan was wearing the suit he’d worn to Carmel’s funeral and she was wearing a maroon twinset, with her gold stud earrings. She didn’t know why she had bothered. She’d even had her hair done in some trendy salon on Grafton Street. ‘Up visiting family,’ she had told the young hairdresser with a smile. Why should Caroline rain on some young one’s Christmas parade by describing Linda lying paralysed in a hospital bed with tubes coming out of her?
Now she sat in the hotel with well-dressed families braying at bad Christmas cracker jokes, when all she wanted to do was stand up and scream at them that one of her babies was dead and that there was no real life left for the other one and that her family would never know another happy Christmas as long as they lived. Instead she placed her knife and fork together and leaned across the table.
‘I can’t eat this.’
‘Sprouts are tough all right,’ was Declan’s response but she could see the water pooling in his eyes about to spill onto his plate.
After Christmas, Linda returned to Mullinmore in an ambulance. Caroline sat with her in the back. Declan had driven home the day before to set up a bed in the sitting room because it had the double doors. They hoped the front door was wide enough for the wheelchair. The medics were wonderful. They got Linda into the chair and wheeled her up the drive. The front door was wide enough, thank God, and then they helped Declan lift her into the bed.
‘This is just temporary,’ Caroline heard herself saying to the ambulance crew as if they cared, but it seemed as if they did. The red-haired female paramedic gave Caroline a tight hug before she drove off, leaving the three O’Connells alone.
‘People can be wonderful,’ Declan announced to no one in particular.
‘They can,’ agreed his wife.
Above the pub the Hayes family was dealing with its own loss. After three days Dan abandoned his optimistic mantra of ‘You never know. He might still show up.’ Finally, they all accepted that Connor wasn’t just going to arrive at the door one day, his backpack piled high, his hair a tangled nest, freckles strewn across his face. The focus turned to the phone. Every time it rang, Chrissie would freeze and stare at Dan and he would walk slowly towards it saying a silent prayer. It was never the call Chrissie longed for, but she comforted herself with the thought that nor was it the call she dreaded.
There were days when she couldn’t get out of bed. She saw the morning light creeping around the bedroom curtains, but she just couldn’t face it. Dan brought her plates of toast that went uneaten. He began to worry for her but by the end of the week she was downstairs mopping the bar, polishing the taps, wiping out ashtrays. This was the woman he married, thought Dan, fragile but unbreakable. Chrissie insisted that they go to the guards. They were sympathetic but didn’t hold out much hope. They would let the police in Liverpool know but young lads went missing all the time.
Chrissie understood that she could expect no sympathy from the town. Connor had robbed families of their children, but this waiting and not knowing still didn’t seem fair. She didn’t dare say it to anyone, even Dan, but she sometimes wondered if it might not be better to know your child was gone, really gone, rather than living in this purgatory. She tried to stay strong; they had a business to run and she had another child. She just wished that Ellen could be a little more sympathetic. It was lovely to see her happy, but it was as if she didn’t care at all that her own brother was all alone somewhere. What made it worse was seeing her all doe-eyed over Martin Coulter. If it hadn’t been for his car and his trip to Trabinn none of this would have happened.
Ellen did her best to be sensitive around her parents, especially her mother. It was impossible to ignore their sadness and constant worry, but she struggled to share their concern. Surely anyone could see that this was all Connor’s own fault? He had no one but himself to blame. Why shouldn’t she be happy? She had done nothing wrong.
‘Has he tried to finger you?’ Trinny asked matter-of-factly as she picked some limp slices of cucumber off her sandwich.
‘No!’ Ellen squealed. ‘He has done no such thing. He’s lovely.’
‘It doesn’t matter how lovely they are, all men are after the same thing in the end.’
Ellen wondered how her friend had gained such worldly wisdom, but she had heard it from others as well.
‘We’re waiting,’ she said primly, even though she and Martin had never discussed such matters. When he came home from uni for weekends they normally went somewhere in the car and then kissed each other for a while before starting the engine and heading back to Mullinmore. The last couple of times he had managed to snake his hand up her top to squeeze her breasts and she had cautiously grazed her hand over the back of his jeans, but that was the full extent of their activities.
After about a month of what neither of them had referred to as dating, Martin suggested that he meet her in the pub. She agreed, quite enjoying the thought of her father watching her having a drink with her grown-up boyfriend. Saturday was the chosen evening and he suggested nine o’clock, so that he could have dinner with his parents first.
On the night, Ellen perched on a bar stool and waited. It was unusually quiet for a Saturday. The clock ticking over the bar could clearly be heard. She was wearing a new top and was very self-conscious that her bra straps were visible. Her father had served her a gin and lemonade, and she could tell he was proud of her and how well she looked with her hair tied back and some make-up on her face. She crossed her legs and admired the way her ankle bone jutted out below her jeans.
When the door opened she saw Martin and smiled but then behind him, she spotted Dr Coulter and his wife. Instinctively she slipped down off her stool to greet them. The trio entered the bar, with Martin being the only one to smile. Ellen wondered what this was about but then she realised that they were being followed into the pub by Maureen and Frank Bradley. This could only be something bad.
‘Dad!’ she called to her father who was in the little office space behind the bar. Dan emerged, wiping his hands on a beer towel. ‘What is …’ He stopped speaking when he saw the group now standing in front of the bar.
The silence was broken by Dr Coulter.
‘Now, Maureen, Frank, what will you have?’
Dan stepped forward. ‘Whatever it is, it’s on t
he house. Ellen, go and get your mother.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ the doctor was saying as Ellen headed up the stairs.
Chrissie had insisted on brushing her hair and putting on a smear of lipstick – ‘Who? What in God’s name do they want?’ – and when they came down a few minutes later, the group was gathered around one of the long tables against the banquette near the toilets. They all had drinks in their hands and Dan was standing by Frank Bradley. He waved his wife over.
Encouraged by Maureen, Chrissie squeezed onto the banquette beside her. Frank cleared his throat and spoke.
‘I was just telling Dan, that we’ – he indicated the people around the table – ‘have been talking, and well, we just wanted you to know that we, well there’s no problem, we have no problem.’
Maureen interjected. ‘We bear you no ill will. We’ve all been through so much.’
‘Agreed,’ added the doctor.
Chrissie looked at Maureen. ‘That’s very good of you. That means a lot, doesn’t it, Dan?’
‘It does. It does.’
Maureen reached forward and pulled Chrissie into an unlikely hug. A ripple of relieved laughter went around the table.
Back at the door to the stairs Ellen was watching the scene unfold. She only had thoughts for one person. Martin Coulter. He had single-handedly saved the Hayes family. Martin Coulter. She felt as if she might burst with the love and gratitude she felt for the floppy-haired boy raising a toast with the adults at the table. Martin Coulter. In that moment she knew she would one day lift back her veil and with a slight crack in her voice, say, ‘I do,’ as she stared into his eyes.
And thirteen months later that is exactly what she did.
1995
I.
Melissa designed hats. She didn’t make them. She had tried, but concluded that actual millinery was a quite different, somewhat challenging discipline, so now she limited herself to drawing sketches of her creations. She spread her newest batch over the large table like campaign plans. Connor sat beside her, proud that this long-necked beauty, with her severe wedge haircut and heavy eye make-up was his friend. He pointed out various details and cooed appreciatively. ‘I love the height.’ ‘Is that metal?’
Melissa had asked to meet Connor in the Neal’s Yard Tea Rooms around the corner from ‘Radish’, where they had both just finished a long lunch shift. Melissa had news.
‘I’m having an exhibition!’
‘You’re kidding!’
‘It’s true. A gallery in Clapham. You know John’s friend Peg who manages the pub?’ Connor nodded encouragingly. ‘Well, there.’
‘Isn’t that in Balham?’
‘Claphammy, Balhammy,’ Melissa said breezily as she gathered her drawings into a neat pile.
‘And where’s the gallery?’
‘That room upstairs, where they had the Christmas drinks?’
‘Oh yeah, I know it.’
‘It’s an amazing space. I’m so happy!’
‘Congratulations! I’m thrilled for you.’ And he was, even though he knew there was a big difference between a gallery in Clapham and a room above a pub in Balham.
Sometimes he envied people their ambitions and vocations. Practically everyone he knew had big plans for the future; photographers, actors, models, singers – nobody seemed to see their future working in restaurants. What was he going to do? This was already a world he never thought he would inhabit. It seemed greedy to dream of more. Besides, he was only twenty-seven. He suspected Melissa must be at least thirty. When he considered where he had come from, he didn’t think he was doing so badly.
He rarely thought about the old Connor. If some random sight or thought or bad dream triggered a memory of the crash on Barry’s roundabout, he immediately tried to shut it down. He refused to live that day over and over again. He didn’t dare allow himself to go back to that moment and consider that his new life was built on regret. Sometimes he was reminded of the Connor that had left Liverpool all those years before and he almost felt like laughing. It was like looking at baby photographs. He had been so pathetic. That terrified boy lying in the street, while weird Robbo slammed the door. In his mind’s eye it reminded him of the Little Match Girl. Sometimes in his memory the boy had trudged down Huskisson Street leaving a single set of footprints in the snow. That wasn’t what had happened, of course. In reality, he had set off into the damp cold night and headed for the bus station, deciding that it would be cheaper than the train. The lights had been on, but the doors were locked. He had sat and waited, wrapped in his new coat. Eventually more lights flickered on and he boarded the first bus to London.
Stepping off the coach in Victoria station that day marked, for Connor, the beginning of his new life. He had walked the streets of Pimlico, his backpack weighing him down, but he had felt free, released from the past and his shame. Nobody knew him here. Of course, that was also a problem. Where was he to go? What was he going to do? By late afternoon it was dark and the weight of his backpack had become unbearable. He found a post office so he could use a phone book to look up youth hostels in London. A helpful woman on the phone explained her hostel was full but he could try the one in Earl’s Court.
‘Where’s that?’ Connor asked.
‘Well, where are you now pet?’
‘I don’t really know.’ He could feel the pressure of tears pressing behind his nose.
‘Do you have an A–Z?’
‘No.’ His voice sounded like a child being brave. He longed for this kind woman to come and rescue him.
‘You’ll need one of those and then you can always find where you’re going, all right?’
Connor squeaked his agreement.
‘Do you need the number for Earl’s Court or do you have a phone book?
‘There’s a book here.’
‘All right then pet. Best of luck to you!’ and the only friendly voice he had heard all day was gone.
The next morning, Connor felt desperate. He had only bought three sandwiches, a couple of coffees and paid for his night in the hostel, but already his funds were diminishing much faster than he’d hoped,. Connor found himself back in a phone box clutching a folded-up beer mat.
A voice he didn’t recognise answered the phone. Connor cleared his throat.
‘Could I speak to Matt please?’
‘Hang on.’ Then shouted away from the receiver, ‘Matt, it’s for you!’
There was a shout in the distance, then approaching footsteps echoed down the line.
‘Hello?’
‘Matt?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Connor.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Connor from the other night.’ Already in his mind it might have been weeks before rather than barely forty-eight hours earlier.
‘Irish? There’s a surprise! What happened to you?’ Connor felt pathetically grateful that this man, who was essentially little more than a stranger, hadn’t just hung up.
‘I’m sorry. It’s a long story. It wasn’t about you …’ His voice trailed off.
‘Good to know,’ Matt said with a smile in his voice. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m in London.’
‘Oh, oh I see.’ Matt sounded flustered.
Connor bowed his head and pressed his hair against the glass of the phone box. It looked as if it was causing him physical pain to articulate the truth. ‘I have nowhere to go.’
‘Right.’ There was silence on the line. ‘I know I said to come and visit but now isn’t … I mean, tomorrow is Christmas Eve.’
‘I know, I know,’ Connor replied. He realised how ridiculous his request for help must seem. ‘I didn’t mean you. I just … What should I do? I stayed in a hostel last night, but I can only afford one more night.’
‘All right, Mary and Joseph, don’t panic just yet. Let me ask around. I can see you this afternoon for a drink in Brixton. The Prince of Wales pub – it’s not far from the tube station. Do you think you can find that?’
<
br /> ‘Yes,’ Connor replied with more conviction than he actually felt.
‘Around four.’
‘Great.’
‘You’ll be all right, Irish!’
And so, after navigating the Underground with short-tempered last-minute Christmas shoppers less than thrilled to encounter his backpack, he climbed the steps up to Brixton Road.
It was a sensory overload. Not only were the pavements even more crowded than the train from which he had just escaped, but the racial diversity of the people swarming past was something he had never experienced before. Connor had never thought of himself as racist. On the contrary, he could list any number of black musicians and singers he liked, he had told his father off for making rude comments about certain athletes when they’d been watching the Los Angeles Olympic Games, he had even made a point of speaking to the African bishop who had come to give a talk at his school. But this was entirely different. He had to admit he felt intimated, even fearful. Connor tried to find an expression for his face that suggested nonchalance and then started walking. He had studied his A–Z earlier so he knew it was left out of the station and then the pub should be on the corner of Coldharbour Lane. Without any confusion he found The Prince of Wales, which felt like a minor victory on his path to becoming a person who really lived here.
Matt was waiting in the gloomy interior. The pub seemed to be in denial about Christmas. Connor was struck once more by Matt’s glossy sheen of perfection. His hair fell in a blond swoop over one eye and his white T-shirt practically glowed. He was sitting at a small table alongside a tall thin man with a shaved head. Matt smiled and stood up.
‘You found us!’ He attempted to give Connor a hug but faced with the obstacle of the towering backpack, opted for an arm slap instead.
‘Connor, this is Chris.’ The bald man flashed his teeth and held out his hand.
The seeds of Connor’s new family tree were planted that afternoon in The Prince of Wales. The roots grew in the squat that Chris ran with three other gay men in a small terraced house beside a railway bridge in Camberwell. The arrangement was meant to be temporary, but Connor stayed on after Christmas. In fact, he lived there for almost two years, before the squat finally came to an end. From that house he met friends, found lovers and got various jobs working behind bars and waiting tables. This was the clean slate he had longed for. No one cared about his past because they were also trying to redefine themselves as artists and activists, not just boys who had attended grammar schools in Wiltshire or gone to church every Sunday in Oban. They wore clothes they would never wear in the towns of their birth, ate food their mothers would never cook, had lovers who would never be taken home at Christmas. Family had been replaced by a tribe, and Connor flourished. When he stopped failing at trying to be the man he couldn’t be, he found he was able to succeed in all sorts of other ways. People liked him, he was funny, he could earn good money.
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