The Breezes

by Joseph O'Neill

  The Volvo lurched forward, then stalled as he mistimed the clutch. We caught the red again.

  ‘I tell you, John, this car is in need of a service,’ Pa said. He was sweating as the sunlight poured directly through the sunroof, and he wiped away a moustache of droplets with his sleeve.

  He looked away, into his wing mirror. He said, ‘John, I want to ask you a question, and I want you to answer me truthfully.’ He coughed. ‘You were there just now, you saw what happened to Merv.’ He coughed again. ‘Well, I’ve been trying to figure a lot of things out recently.’

  ‘What is it, Pa?’ I said.

  ‘What I’m going to say may sound stupid, John. But I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do.’

  He adjusted his glasses in his embarrassment, then drove forward as the lights changed colour. ‘Do you think – do you think that Merv, do you think, well, do you think that Merv will, I don’t know … I mean, what’s going to happen to Merv?’

  He gave me a quick, anxious glance to see how I would respond. My poor father was deadly serious.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, looking straight ahead. ‘I think …’ I stopped. ‘I don’t know,’ I said.

  ‘You don’t think that, well, that it’s impossible that, you know, Merv is alive elsewhere?’

  I didn’t answer immediately. I was thinking of heaven, the habitation of God and his angels and the beatified spirits, of a cloudland with a pearl-studded gate supervised by St Peter, of harp-playing, winged souls at immortal play, of cherubs and of the ninefold celestial hierarchy. What a limitless machine of fantasies was the human mind.

  I said, ‘Of course it’s not impossible, Pa. Look up there,’ I said, gesturing at the sun in the sky. ‘Now that’s impossible – a gigantic spinning ball of fire which gives life to a lump of rock millions of miles away. And yet there it is. What it’s doing up there, I don’t know, but it’s there.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ Pa said.

  I spoke with conviction. ‘That’s right. Everything is impossible, Pa, and yet everything is right here. Who’s to say, if that sun is up there, that Merv isn’t too?’

  ‘That’s true,’ Pa said. ‘You can never rule it out, can you?’

  ‘I don’t think you can,’ I said, looking ahead.

  We arrived back at the flat. He took his glasses off. His eyes were as red and dark as ever. ‘Well, thanks for coming along, son. You’ve been a comfort to your old man.’

  ‘No problem,’ I said, stepping out. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow morning to get the car. You really don’t mind?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘You do what you have to do.’

  That night, Angela rang up.

  ‘Hello there,’ she said.

  I was calm with tiredness. ‘Hello,’ I said.

  ‘I – I just wanted to make sure you were coming,’ she said.

  ‘I’m coming,’ I said.

  She said nothing for a moment. ‘Are you driving over?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  She said, ‘What time do you think you’ll be here? I don’t want to rush you or anything,’ she added quickly. ‘I mean, get here when you can. Any time is fine for me.’

  ‘Lunchtime, I suppose. Maybe a bit later.’

  ‘That’s fine. That’s great.’

  There was a noise as she moved. She would be sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, her feet neatly tucked together in front of her. She never made use of chairs.

  She said, ‘How is your father?’

  ‘He’s OK,’ I said. ‘All things considered.’

  ‘That’s good,’ she said. There was another pause. ‘I’ve always admired him, you know,’ she said with feeling. ‘I’ve always thought he has a wonderful outlook on things.’

  ‘Right,’ I said.

  Angela said, ‘We need to talk, you know, my darling. About us, I mean.’

  ‘I know,’ I said.

  ‘This is horrible, John. I’m so sorry about everything.’

  I didn’t reply. Then I said, ‘Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, then.’

  ‘Bye, Johnny. Bye, my darling.’

  Steve turned in at about midnight and I stayed on alone in the sitting-room, watching television. I was too exhausted to go to bed and too exhausted to think.

  I watched a sitcom, I watched a late-night chat show and then, as I was on the point of dropping off, a cartoon appeared on the screen. It was my old pal – old Wile E. Coyote.

  It was the same old story, with Wile E. compulsively embarking on a succession of ruses which resulted in a succession of devastating own goals. But then something remarkable occurred. Disgruntled with his failed attempts at interception and entrapment, Wile E. Coyote decided to meet head-on the roadrunner’s great advantage, speed, and to this end he procured a rocket, which he lined up in the direction of his prey. He then straddled the missile, ignited its fuse and, perched like bronco-buster, screamed successfully towards the roadrunner at great velocity; too successfully, in fact. The bird ducked and, overpowerful and unstoppable, the rocket propelled the coyote beyond the horizon and through the stratosphere and so deeply into outer space that our faint planet dwindled behind him to darkness. Then abruptly the rocket exploded like a firework, sending a shower of sparks into the black heavens, and the jinxed dog vanished into the nothingness. I contemplated the impossible: Wile E. Coyote, a goner?

  Not so. The scintillations from the explosion settled into a grid of stars; a fresh constellation appeared in the night in the shape of a wolf with a bow.

  I sat there in thrilled wonderment. He had done it. He had got out.

  I went to bed uplifted.

  I actually dreamed of Merv. I dreamed of him as a bunch of stars: the Hunchback with a Racquet.

  The train is moving more smoothly now, sliding through the stony purple uplands that lie to the east of Waterville. We’ll be there in less than twenty minutes. I’m glad, now that I’m here, that I allowed Pa to talk me out of coming by car.

  I went to pick up the Volvo at about ten o’clock this morning. Trusty was dozing contentedly on the sofa, but he wasn’t about. I went upstairs to his darkened room to find him: Pa?

  No reply from the form in the bed.

  There was a rough dawn as I pulled open the curtains. ‘Right, come on, let’s go.’ I shook his dangling white leg, with its vandal’s spray of burst veins. ‘Come on, up we get. Come on, Pa.’

  ‘No!’ he said, erecting a brief tent as he kicked out under the duvet. ‘Leave me alone!’

  ‘You’re going to get up,’ I said, ‘and you’re going to get on with your life.’

  ‘And do what?’ he said, suddenly sitting up on his elbows and facing me, tassels of white hair shaking against his pink scalp. ‘What do you suggest I do once I’ve got up?’

  I had to invent something. ‘I tell you what you’re going to do,’ I said, improvizing – and then it came to me. I went over to the heap of dirty linen and pulled out his referee’s black shirt and shorts. ‘You’re going to put this on and you’re going to get out there and take charge of a game. Look, it’s a beautiful day out there.’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ he said.

  I disregarded him. I unfolded the ironing board and began to pass the steaming iron over the cloth, the wrinkles dissolving in its warm wake. ‘Here we are,’ I said when I finished.

  ‘I don’t feel like it,’ he mumbled, his mouth against his mattress.

  ‘That’s not the point,’ I said. ‘Never say die, Pa, remember?’

  ‘It’s not that simple, Johnny.’

  He was right, of course. ‘Of course it is,’ I said. ‘Now get shaved and meet me downstairs in five minutes.’

  He did not move.

  I lit a cigarette and sat on the bed. ‘What are you going to do, lie there for the next thirty years?’

  ‘Why not?’ Pa said. ‘And it won’t be thirty years either.’

  ‘Come on, Pa,’ I said. ‘Be serious.’

  ‘I am serious,’ he
said. ‘Get this into your head: I’ve quit reffing. I’ve packed it in, like you said I should.’

  I said, ‘I’m not leaving until you’re dressed. I’m being serious, too. I’ll force you if I have to.’

  Pa did not respond, so with one movement of the hand I whipped the bedspread away, exposing him there in his white underclothes. Kneeling on the bed, he furiously tried to wrench the duvet from my grip. He failed, and when I suddenly tugged hard I pulled him over the bed’s two-foot drop to the ground. He fell on the sharp red tips of his elbows, then landed with a thump on his ribcage.

  Breathing heavily, I said, ‘Are you all right?’

  He lay there groaning theatrically for a few moments, like an injured footballer; then, letting go of the duvet, he slowly raised himself.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I said.

  He nodded his head, which he held tiredly in his hands as he sat on the bed. A small patch of damp showed on his Y-fronts by the tip of his penis. ‘I’m not prepared. I can’t go reffing just like that.’

  ‘Sure you can.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Of course. You’ll run out on to that field and you’ll be right into the swing of it.’

  ‘But there isn’t the time.’

  ‘There is, if we get going now.’

  He continued sitting there, rubbing his face.

  ‘There’s your kit,’ I said, laying it out on the bed. ‘And here are your boots.’

  He looked expressionlessly at his shirt, at the nylon FIFA crest he had sewn on to the breast pocket. Slowly he took the shirt and pulled it over himself, head emerging first, then thin freckled arms. He leaned over and retrieved his special black water-resistant watch from the drawer by his bed and spent a full thirty seconds trying to tie it fast to his left wrist. After that he lifted his feet an inch or two from the floor and dragged his shorts up his legs, fractionally raising his behind to allow the shorts to arrive at the waist. Then he pulled on his socks.

  I handed him his training shoes.

  He laced them up automatically.

  ‘Your boots,’ I said, and he accepted the sports bag which contained them.

  I led him into the car and drove him to the heath. I’d drop him off, then go on to Waterville. He’d get back on his own.

  Out of the blue, on the way there, he began to chuckle.

  ‘What is it?’ I said.

  ‘Man of the Month,’ Pa said.

  We both laughed.

  ‘I always said he had it in him,’ Pa said, and we laughed again, only this time our mirth was bellowing and unstoppable, every glance we exchanged bringing on still more laughter. I could barely drive I was laughing so hard.

  ‘Watch it, Johnny,’ Pa said, as we swerved narrowly past a parked car.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. We drove on more slowly, still chortling.

  ‘Is Rosie OK?’ Pa said presently. ‘I never know with that girl.’

  ‘She’s fine,’ I said. ‘She’s just Rosie, that’s all.’

  He looked at me quizzically.

  I said, ‘She’s fine, I said. I mean it.’

  He reluctantly accepted my assurance. ‘What about the flat?’ he said. ‘What’s going to happen about the security?’

  ‘Whelan came round this morning,’ I said.

  ‘He came round? Whelan came round?’

  I smiled at his astonishment and relief. ‘Yes, he did. I’ve got an estimate back at the flat.’

  ‘New locks? Floodlights?’

  ‘The lot,’ I said. ‘It’ll be like Fort Knox once he’s finished with it.’

  Pa moved comfortably in his seat. ‘I knew he’d come good. What did I tell you? Haven’t I always said that Whelan is a man you can rely on?’

  I looked to see if he was being humorous; he wasn’t. ‘I’ve never doubted it, Pa,’ I said.

  A moment later, formality in his voice, he said, ‘There’s something I’ve meant to say to you, son. Well done on the exhibition,’ he said.

  I smiled dismissively.

  ‘No, you shouldn’t be like that about it. It’s no mean feat, what you’ve achieved.’

  I did not respond. The odd thing was, I was actually beginning to feel the same way myself. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed that there was something meaningful about those chairs.

  We drove up to the heath in the nick of time, the players erecting goalposts and crossbars and guying down orange goalnets into the grass for the last Saturday of the season.

  I began to have misgivings. ‘Are you sure you’re going to be all right?’ I said.

  Pa unclipped his seatbelt and the ball of one bruised eye rolled towards the scene outside. Then he eased himself out of the car and put on his football boots. Sports bag in hand, he trod two or three times on the asphalt, studs clacking, before reaching the turf. Running slowly on the spot, he paused uncertainly as he surveyed the bright-shirted players suddenly springing up all over the sunny heath like miraculous desert flowers.

  He looked back.

  I gestured him onwards. Go on, I mouthed through the windscreen. Go on.

  He came running back. ‘Johnny, can you do me a favour?’

  ‘What is it?’ I said.

  ‘I don’t like you going all that way in the Volvo. There’s something wrong with the engine, I know there is.’

  ‘I’ll be OK,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ he said. ‘You should take a look at yourself. You look washed out. It’s a long drive, and I don’t want what happened to Merv happening to you, that’s all.’

  I saw myself in the mirror: smears of dark blue under the eyes.

  ‘Will you take the train? As a favour to me? Park the car at the station and leave the keys with Bill Dooley, the station manager.’

  I sighed. ‘OK, Pa. OK.’

  ‘Thanks, son,’ my father said.

  He straightened and patted his shirt for his cards and notebook. He fished his whistle from his shorts pocket and hung it around his neck, then checked his watch and put his glasses away. ‘Well, here we go, then, Johnny,’ he muttered, shaking his legs and eyeing the teams splashing more and more colour over the heath as they assembled, trying to pick out a fixture which might require his services.

  Like an alarmed creature of the prairie, he froze. He stood stockstill for three or four seconds, immobilized by some distant spectacle.

  He walked forward for a few steps, making sure he was not mistaken. Then, without turning, he ran away like a boy towards the playing fields. He had found himself a game.

  ‘We’re almost there, madam.’

  It is the man sitting across from me, and he wears an expression of happiness.

  ‘Really?’ the woman asks. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘This is Waterville now,’ the man says. ‘We’ll be there in a few moments.’

  He’s right. I recognize those rooftops slewing by, the leafless overgrowth of the antennae.

  A pang like a punch hits me in the stomach. She will have received the message I left on her answering machine and she will be at the station waiting for me. She will meet me as she always does, with a newspaper under one arm which she will toss into a bin as she walks up the platform, smiling at the ground, shapely in that blue-flowered dress she loves to wear on hot days, her ears decked out with marigold earrings, her ankles titillatingly unsteady in those shoes, those high ones – what do those high shoes look like again, exactly?

  Wild ideas occur to me: pulling the emergency cord, hiding in the train until the coast is clear.

  It won’t work.

  The train dips into the tunnel down to the station and darkens.

  Holding fast to the luggage rack, I stand up in anticipation of arrival – and it is there again, the dizzying weightlessness I felt that night at her flat, hovering in her rooms like a man of air. Hitting some swerve in the rails, the train sways violently, and I’m hanging on to the rack as I’m swung around by the machine’s huge straying energy. There is another swerve, but this tim
e I’m ready for it, I’m riding with the shock; the tremor passes through me easily, as though I were not here.

  The train gathers speed as the tunnel tilts still deeper into the earth. I still feel hollow and, all of a sudden, elated. I’m ready for her, for her and for all the circumstances that’ll pass through in the way that they do, without care, without looking where they’re going. Bring them on, too, what the hell, let’s get it over with. Maybe it’s a Breeze thing, to be vessels for the careless transit of events. Maybe we’re built for it. Look at Pa, the hapless, steadfast bastard, look at how he’s come through it all. Why shouldn’t I be a chip off the same block?

  My ears pop as the train begins to surface.

  But anyway, you never know, things may turn out all right. You just never know.

  That’s right, isn’t it?

  The windows flash like spooks with daylight. Here we are, then. Here we go.

  About the Author

  JOSEPH O’NEILL was born in Cork in 1964. He is the author of three novels – Netherland, which was longlisted for the Man Booker Prize and won the PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction, The Breezes, and This Is the Life – and a family history, Blood-Dark Track. A barrister in London for many years, he now lives in New York.

  Praise

  From the reviews of The Breezes:

  ‘What is the correct response to random tragedy? This dilemma is at the heart of Joseph O’Neill’s fine second novel. O’Neill’s considerable achievement is to render all these disasters at once deeply affecting and extremely funny. This is a novel about losers forced to become winners, and it works’

  Guardian

  ‘A hilarious chronicle of life’s crappiness. O’Neill captures our peculiar mannerisms and shifting moods with style and precision, and his depictions of the moments when hilarity drifts into hysteria are always brilliant’

  TLS

  By the same Author

  Netherland

  Blood-Dark Track: A Family History

  This is the Life

  Copyright

  Fourth Estate