Home Stretch

by Graham Norton

  ‘The big man baby from the garden centre? Jesus, Mammy!’ Ellen got the feeling that if Aisling bumped into her in the street with Shane, she would pretend not to know her. At least her own mother was happy for her. Chrissie still carried guilt for not fully appreciating how bad Ellen’s marriage had been, so she had perhaps overcompensated on hearing the news that her daughter had met someone else. ‘That’s fantastic news, pet! Dan! Isn’t that wonderful?’ Dan lowered his paper to agree. ‘It is. Shane Dunphy is a sound young fella. He’s made a great job of Lawlor’s, in fairness.’ It sounded to Ellen as if her father thought running a garden centre was a similar task to dating his daughter. She didn’t care. Shane was mad about her and she felt exactly the same about him.

  The initial burst of frenzied passion settled down into something comfortable and steady. They saw each other a couple of times a week and most weekends. Ellen cooked or they might have a meal in the hotel. He took her to the cinema. They went for drives on Sundays and sang along to songs on the radio. It was a part of life she had skipped the first time around and so this happiness seemed even sweeter, more important to savour.

  Now two years later they had reached the point where Shane was going to move in. It made sense. Of course it did. He had been renting a damp little one-bedroomed flat above the bank that she had only set foot in twice. Now he would pay her rent and they could spend all the time they wanted together. They had never had a row, not yet, but Ellen still worried that this move could change everything. What if he stopped making an effort? What if he started to take her for granted? She kept thinking back to her days with Martin and how even the tiniest gesture or single word had made her loathe him more. What if that happened with Shane?

  The light had begun to fade. She was on her hands and knees shoving old clothes into bin bags in the back bedroom when she heard somebody at the door. Odd. Too early for Shane and besides, he had his own key. Ellen stood and walked to the door, patting down her hair, smoothing her skirt.

  ‘Hello.’

  It was a deeply tanned, middle-aged man, with a handsome face slightly fading away into recently acquired jowls. He had an accent. French? Italian? Ellen wasn’t sure. She assumed he was lost.

  ‘Yes. Can I help you?’ She was aware of using a slightly more refined tone, to help him understand, in case his English wasn’t that good.

  ‘Ah, I hope so. I’m looking for Martin Coulter?’

  Ellen was slightly taken aback.

  ‘Martin doesn’t live here. May I ask what it’s regarding?’ She felt uneasy. Did he owe money? Had he done something underhand with the deeds of the house?

  ‘I’m an old friend. We lost touch when I moved away.’

  ‘I see.’ She wondered if she should give this man Martin’s email address.

  ‘The lady in the post office, she proposed that I try this house.’

  ‘I see,’ Ellen repeated.

  ‘And you must be his …’ He appeared to be searching for the correct word. ‘… sister?’

  ‘No.’ She was unsure how much she should explain, so simply stated, ‘I’m Mrs Coulter.’

  The foreign gentleman on the doorstep grew visibly pale.

  III.

  Connor heard the impatient ping of his phone but chose to ignore it. He loved afternoons like this and wanted to enjoy it uninterrupted for as long as possible. Leaning back into the creaks from the old wooden Adirondack chair on the porch, cool beer in hand, the forlorn honk of a train from the far bank of the Hudson, this was what life in America had looked like in his imagination.

  A slight chill had crept into the late-afternoon breeze and hints of russet and amber were creeping through the leaves. Connor thought back to what winter had been like the previous year. The clanking of the ancient heating system keeping them all awake but never warm, watching TV wrapped in a duvet, taking showers at the gym because the thought of stripping naked in the bathroom made your flesh hug your bones with dread. He took another sip of his beer. He could worry about the future later.

  Tim had offered him the chance to continue living in Hell’s Kitchen at a reduced rent, but at nearly forty-eight years of age Connor finally felt he might be ready to try a little independence. His boss George had started giving him some office shifts as well as the outdoor work, so he was actually earning enough to live on if he was careful. One afternoon in the back of the truck the subject of apartments had come up and Connor had mentioned that he was going to be looking. One of the guys explained that a room in his house would be coming up in a couple of weeks. Connor asked how much the rent would be and immediately became very keen when he heard how cheap it was. The house, it transpired, was not in the city. It was in Nyack, a small town on the river about forty minutes north of the city. Connor became, just as quickly, less keen. However, when his co-worker Chad showed him some pictures of the house on his phone, Connor changed his mind again. It was irresistible. A shabby old Victorian house painted long ago in ice-cream pastels, it sat high above the road. With its mini turrets and abacus mouldings on the wraparound porch, the building seemed overdressed for the broken-down fence and potholed road that fronted the sloping lot. Immediately Connor imagined himself spending afternoons just like the one he was enjoying now, sipping his drink and watching the world amble by.

  He could hear the laughter of children playing somewhere in the distance, the clank of a tool being dropped on the ground by Warren working on his car next door.

  The neighbourhood was run-down and unloved, but he liked it. He recalled the look on Tim’s face when they had pulled up outside on the day that Connor had moved in. ‘Is this even safe?’ Tim had helped carry boxes inside, peering into the antique kitchen and water-stained bathrooms with undisguised horror. ‘Are you sure about this?’ At the time Connor hadn’t felt very certain, but he found that life in Nyack suited him. Coming back from Mullinmore, Manhattan had seemed overwhelming at times. He needed to take stock and that was easier in a small town. He could walk down the hill along Main Street, past the beer and pizza joints and turn onto South Broadway with its trendy coffee shops, nodding to familiar faces. It already felt more like home than Manhattan ever had. He found he turned down invitations to drinks or parties in the city, happy to head back to his peeling paint and weed-strewn drive. He had also discovered that opera was never really his first choice when he was listening to music and he was not as keen a chef as he had always believed. It seemed they’d just been affectations designed to help him fit into a life that was entirely Tim’s.

  He still enjoyed having Tim as a friend. He was as kind and generous as he had always been, but comparing their lives wasn’t helpful. Connor lived and worked with people who were nearly twenty years younger than he was, but he earned what they did. Their lives measured up. Sitting on this porch looking out at the scruffy street, he didn’t care about any of it, but when he was with Tim, he couldn’t help feeling like a failure.

  He remembered that there was a message waiting on his phone. Finbarr. He sighed. It was lovely to have family back in his life, but he was still adjusting to the pressures of having to stay in touch. It turned out that his mother Chrissie was a very enthusiastic texter, but since she had learned how to do it from her grandchildren, Connor often found it hard to understand her abbreviations and obscure acronyms. His responses tended to be upbeat but vague. The shorthand nature of texts didn’t really suit people who hadn’t communicated for so many years. When his sister had sent him a picture of the ‘Yes’ poster hanging in their parents’ pub, she had added the laughing face emoji. He knew she just meant him to think it was sweet that Dan and Chrissie were supporting their son and grandson, but part of him felt that the emoji was laughing at him. Look, it said, nobody ever cared about you being gay! Progress was great, he was happy for Finbarr, but it didn’t erase the past. His parents now weren’t his parents then, but that didn’t mean his memories weren’t real.

  He turned back to his phone and opened the message.

  Is this
who I think it is?

  He clicked on the image. Weird. Why would Finbarr send him this? He quickly texted back.

  What do you mean?

  The response was almost instantaneous, as if Finbarr had been sitting staring at his phone, waiting for a reply.

  Is it Dad???

  Not seen him in thirty years! Looks like him I guess. Why?

  Can you talk?

  Sure.

  His phone rang.

  ‘Hello. What is this about?’

  ‘I just found the photo and wanted to double check that it was definitely Daddy.’

  ‘Where did you find it?’

  Finbarr explained about the exhibition and trawling through the boxes at Wilde Times. Connor listened carefully as his nephew described the scene outside the George. He wasn’t sure what to say.

  ‘So, like, do you think that Daddy would be in a gay bar?’

  Connor hesitated.

  ‘Well do you?’ his nephew pressed him.

  ‘He might just have been passing. You don’t know he was inside the George and even if he was, you can’t jump to any conclusions.’ He hoped he sounded measured and mature. He reminded himself that Ellen was trying to protect these children, however misguided he thought that was. Why shouldn’t they know the sort of man their father was and the life their mother had endured? This, though, this was different.

  ‘He was in that bar. He’s in the middle of the crowd; there’s no way he was just passing. What do you think I should do? Should I tell Mammy?’

  ‘No.’ Of that he was certain.

  ‘Do you think I should say anything to my father?’

  Connor gazed across the tops of the trees on the hill below. The sky stretched blue and endless before him. He had no answers for this boy.

  ‘Only you can decide that, Finbarr.’

  1987

  XII.

  This was the worst. Cleaning the toilets was gross enough, but standing on the street with a yard brush and a bucket of disinfectant-laden water trying to sweep away last night’s vomit from the pavement was so public. Most of the time, having a paying job made him feel more grown up than his pals who had headed off to college, but this was humiliating. In the winter, at least the smell wasn’t so bad, but on a warm summer’s morning like today, Connor was afraid he might heave himself and add to the mess on the footpath.

  He had finished and was pouring the bucket’s contents into a drain when a car pulled up. Connor assumed it was someone parking so kept his head down to avoid any further embarrassment.

  ‘Working hard.’

  Connor’s head jerked up and he fumbled with the handle of the bucket. It was the doctor’s son Martin Coulter. There was something about him that always made Connor nervous. It wasn’t just that he fancied him; he fancied lots of lads he saw around the town. There was an air about Martin that made him seem cooler than everyone else. Connor always felt judged and found lacking when Martin was around. Whenever they were both in the same place, Connor knew that he stared more than he wanted to, and Martin invariably caught him. The hint of a smirk always said that he knew exactly what Connor was thinking and pitied him for it.

  ‘Not really. Just the morning clean-up.’ Connor shrugged. The sun was in his eyes, but he was making an effort not to squint.

  Martin had stepped out of the car and was resting against it. The top few buttons of his shirt were undone. Connor tried and failed not to look at the patch of dark chest hair and the elegant bones that slipped away beneath Martin’s throat.

  ‘You working all day?’

  ‘No. I’m done now until tonight.’ Connor was aware of the lingering smell of vomit tangled with disinfectant.

  ‘Right.’ Martin raised one arm and brushed a hand through his hair which flopped down over his brow. He glanced down the street and then back to Connor.

  ‘Few of us are heading out to the beach later if you fancy a swim?’

  Connor wasn’t sure what to say. He wanted to ask questions. Why are you inviting me? Who are the others? But he felt he couldn’t, so he found himself nodding his head slowly.

  ‘Sounds good.’

  Linda was lying on her bed while her sister rested against the door frame.

  ‘Come. It’ll be good fun.’

  ‘It’s a wedding thing. I’m not involved.’ She was trying to sound uninterested rather than hurt.

  ‘Ah, Linda, stop. It’s not a wedding thing, thank God. Bernie might stop talking about it for five seconds. Martin is driving and he’s not a best man or anything.’

  ‘Martin Coulter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought he’d gone back to uni.’

  ‘Not yet, no.’ Carmel tilted her head. ‘What do you say?’

  Linda pushed herself up to sitting. A trip to the beach did sound like good fun, but she wasn’t willing to let the snub of not being a bridesmaid go so easily.

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘Well, look, I can’t make you.’ Carmel stood away from the door frame. Clearly she wasn’t going to beg. ‘Martin said he’d pick us up after lunch.’

  Linda threw her legs over the side of her bed. A physical declaration that she was coming.

  ‘Do you like that Martin Coulter?’

  ‘Like him, like him?’ Carmel responded.

  ‘I mean, he’s good-looking and that, but do you not think there’s something about him?’

  ‘I suppose. What, like a bit pleased with himself like?’

  ‘Yeah. That. A bit creepy or something?’

  ‘I dunno. All I know is he’s got a car and it’s a great day for a swim.’ Carmel stepped onto the landing to return to her own room.

  Linda called after her. ‘I’m not getting my hair wet.’

  Carmel laughed. ‘And like I am! Salon Yvonne would kill me!’

  The two sisters laughed.

  Bernie was playing with David’s hair. He was willing her to stop but knew that if he actually asked her to, a row of some sort would ensue. He blamed the wedding. Christ, he hoped it was the wedding and that the Bernie of the last few weeks wasn’t going to be the woman he ended up married to. That was why he had been so keen when he had bumped into Martin and they had come up with the idea of a trip to Trabinn.

  ‘It’s the day before the wedding. We must have things to do,’ Bernie fretted.

  ‘It’s all done,’ David reassured her. ‘It’ll be good for us to just have some fun. Take our minds off it.’

  ‘Do you not like thinking about our wedding?’ Her face darkened.

  David took a deep breath to avoid snapping at his bride-to-be. This was a minefield. ‘Of course I do. But I just want to enjoy tomorrow. You know. Come to it fresh.’

  Bernie looked semi-convinced. He pushed on.

  ‘A sea breeze. A bit of a laugh.’ He looked into her face and she smiled back. They did love each other.

  ‘You might even risk an ice cream,’ David giggled, hoping Bernie might still be able to take a joke.

  ‘David Hegarty!’ she shrieked and punched his shoulder, but she was laughing too and then his face was touching hers and they were kissing.

  There are moments in any life that are to be treasured, but only sometimes are they recognised as they happen. That was how the five people in the blue estate car felt that day. The windows down, an optimistic glow about the town, two of their number about to embark on a whole new life together. It felt special. This was not a day to be forgotten or confused with all the others.

  The song of the summer, ‘La Bamba’, was bursting out of the radio and all the shoulders were swaying in unison. As they drove down the back quay, some kids playing down by the river stopped and looked up at the car and Carmel, Linda, Bernie, David and Martin fully understood that they were to be envied.

  Turning into the square, Martin said over the music, ‘We just need to pick up Connor Hayes.’

  Carmel leaned over the front seat from the back. ‘Who?’

  ‘Connor Hayes from the pub. I bumped into hi
m earlier. Felt a bit sorry for him. You guys don’t mind, do you?’

  Truthfully, they didn’t but nor did they understand why this boy they didn’t really know was joining the party. Martin pulled up outside the pub and Connor emerged from the side door.

  ‘Jump in the back there with les filles,’ Martin called through his window, with a heavy accent on the French. Linda tried to catch Carmel’s eye to exchange a look, but her sister was busy opening her door. Connor squeezed onto the back seat and they drove away.

  The atmosphere in the car changed. The radio was playing Pet Shop Boys and the lack of chat amongst the passengers now seemed awkward. Linda tried to ask Bernie some questions about the following day.

  ‘Don’t. I just want a day where my head isn’t destroyed from thinking about the wedding.’

  A tight-lipped Linda studied the passing hedgerows. She’d only asked to be nice and demonstrate that there were no hard feelings about the whole bridesmaid drama. Linda was more than happy not to mention the stupid wedding. Then Carmel’s voice.

  ‘Mammy is having to head up to Cork. I must have forgotten to mention the red and white and didn’t she only go and buy a red and white dress. She was fuming!’

  Bernie laughed. ‘You should see the size of Mammy’s hat. It’s mental! Isn’t it, David?’

  Her fiancé turned around from the passenger seat. ‘It’s a fair size all right. I’d say if you wire her up she could contact outer space.’

  Everyone laughed, apart from Linda who maintained her keen interest in roadside maintenance. Apparently, she was the only one who couldn’t mention the wedding. Fine. She’d say nothing at all.

  Connor was squeezing his backpack between his knees. He had borrowed one of the good towels from the hot press. The hope was he could return it without his mother noticing. When he’d tried on the togs he had from school, they seemed a bit tight and skimpy, so he’d brought an old pair of football shorts. He wondered what sort of swimwear Martin would be wearing. He looked at the back of the driver’s head, where his hair touched the collar and the thin slice of pink from an ear that edged through. It looked intimate, almost raw, and Connor imagined running his finger along the ridge of flesh, tracing the skin with his tongue. He could feel himself become aroused and looked down to hide his blushing cheeks. Carmel was asking about ice cream.