Midwinter Break

by Bernard Maclaverty

  At seven o’clock they put on scarves, hats and overcoats.

  ‘Have you got your plastic key?’ said Stella.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When you take the card out of the thing all the lights go out.’

  ‘Your electrical engineering degree has stood you in good stead.’

  They went down in the lift, kissed with pouted lips. Stella consulted the man at the desk about somewhere good to eat nearby. At a reasonable price.

  ‘Do you like Asian spice?’ the man asked. ‘Taiwan?’

  They both nodded. He produced a single sheet map from beneath the counter and X-ed the restaurant.

  ‘What’s it called?’ asked Stella. The concierge shrugged. The three-way translation was beyond him. English, Dutch, Taiwanese.

  ‘Is good,’ he said and smiled. They thanked him and turned away. Gerry half whispered to Stella, ‘A map is useless if you don’t know where you are on it.’ She turned back and said to the concierge, ‘Hotel?’ And he put another X on the page.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  * * *

  Outside it had stopped raining but it was bitterly cold. They walked by the night canals and she hooked onto his arm tightly for warmth. The water was alive with lights and ripples. Fairy lights fastened to the undersides of bridges made hoops with their reflections. There was an icy wind cuffing here and there, darkening the water. Gerry looked down.

  ‘Come away from the edge,’ she said. ‘It gives me the weirdest feeling.’

  ‘What does?’

  ‘The blackness of the water. How cold it would be.’ He extended his elbow so’s she could hook on again. ‘It’s the thought of suicide in there – when death is an improvement of your situation.’

  ‘Hey – lighten up. We’re on holiday,’ said Gerry. ‘We’re going out to eat a meal. Perhaps a drink or two. And we just passed an Irish pub.’

  There was the ring of a bell and a warning shout. Stella looked over her shoulder. A girl on a bicycle swept by.

  ‘Wow,’ said Gerry, ‘would you look at her go. She’s something else.’

  Stella looked down at the pavement markings then up to the figure cycling into the gloom.

  ‘This is a bicycle track. In the middle of the footpath?’

  The waiter who served them was extraordinarily handsome and Stella was very taken with him. He even shook out the red paper napkin and surrounded her with his arms as he allowed it to descend gently onto her lap. His English was excellent. Stella, in mock shyness, fanned her face as if to cool it while at the same time raising her eyebrows to Gerry.

  The food was fine and they shared a Rioja – Stella had a glass and Gerry manfully finished the bottle. She praised its temperature.

  ‘The tepid-er the better,’ she said. He had a couple of ice-cold Heinekens to accompany his starter.

  As he paid the bill Gerry saw Stella take the leftover biscuits from his cheeseboard, wrap them in her napkin and put them in her handbag.

  To get to the Irish pub they had to cross a main road. He always took her hand when crossing – she had little sense of the speed of approaching traffic. Also, to be looking the wrong way in Amsterdam was a positive danger. At home, on her own, she always used pedestrian crossings. But Gerry thought of the hand holding as an intimacy – different to ‘hooking on’. It was skin to skin. The snugness of the fit. The hands made for each other.

  In the pub they found an empty table. The barman’s accent was from Dublin and the place was filled with Irish junk from the 1950s. Opposite them, a wall of Guinness adverts. Calendars of Irish writers. Railway posters with Irish paintings. Pictures of overnight boat crossings from Belfast to Heysham and Liverpool.

  ‘There’s a company who supplies the whole paddywhackery kit,’ said Gerry.

  A group of musicians was setting up near the door. There were fiddles, a bodhrán, beards, a forest of microphones on upright stands.

  ‘Sometimes I find easy listening hard going,’ said Gerry. ‘These are diddley-dee specialists.’ They sat looking at one another. ‘Stella, you haven’t bought me a drink in years.’

  ‘I am always too slow,’ she said. ‘You’re like lightning up to the bar.’

  ‘I’ll have a whiskey – a Jameson – and I’ll leave the measure up to yourself. Kill them if they try to put ice in it. And some water on the side.’

  Stella took her purse and approached the counter. She returned carrying Gerry’s drink and a jug. Gerry lifted his glass and looked at the measure.

  ‘A well-built ant could piss more.’

  ‘I asked for a double.’

  ‘You’re learning.’

  ‘Killing you with kindness.’

  She went back to the bar for her fizzy water. When she sat down Gerry was diluting his whiskey.

  ‘Alcohol is the rubber tyres between me and the pier.’ He held up his glass to her. They chinked.

  ‘What gets you by,’ she said and took a sip.

  ‘You and me.’

  ‘Me and you,’ she said. ‘I suppose we’re lucky to have each other to ignore.’

  ‘You look preoccupied.’

  ‘Storyboarding my life.’

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes – fine.’

  ‘No, I don’t mean that way. I don’t mean . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘In yourself. You seem quiet. Very inner.’

  ‘I’m not aware of it.’ After a while she said, ‘Given the world today. Right now there’s probably a boat somewhere in the Mediterranean full to the gunwales with poor people. Ready to sink. And we’re here.’

  ‘I keep saying – we’re on our holidays.’

  Gerry looked past her at the posters. He pointed out a picture by Paul Henry – a scene of lake water and bundled-up creamy white clouds. ‘Lough Derg – Ireland for holidays.’ Stella had been on pilgrimage to Lough Derg several times – three days of praying and fasting. Bare feet in the rain, no sleep, black tea and burned toast. Gerry put on a voice: ‘I’ll report yis to the Tourist Board. How dare you call that a holiday.’

  But Stella defended it.

  ‘It’s a step back from your life to concentrate on what really matters. And in those days a lotta cigarette smoke.’

  ‘The Jug of Punch’ started up and there was a lot of toe tapping.

  ‘The arrogance of amplification in a space this size.’ Gerry had to shout to make himself heard. Then they were asked by the singer to join in the choruses. The guy’s accent was from Northern Ireland.

  ‘Isn’t it strange,’ Gerry said, ‘that Ireland’s biggest export is a lesson on how to enjoy yourself. That and the car bomb.’ The band launched into ‘Will ye Go, Lassie, Go’.

  ‘Oh, I love this one,’ said Stella. The music seemed to get louder. Most of what Gerry said got lost despite Stella leaning her ear towards him and him cupping his hand to shout into it like a loudhailer. But then the band began to play IRA rebel songs. ‘Sean South of Garryowen’, followed by ‘The Patriot Game’.

  ‘I hate this stuff.’ Stella pulled a face. ‘Let’s go.’ Gerry nodded.

  ‘They just assume we support violence. A wink and a nod. Ireland’s fight for fucking freedom.’ Gerry drained his whiskey.

  ‘I’m looking forward to my bed,’ Stella roared. ‘And my hot-water bottle.’

  * * *

  They walked a different route back to the hotel, shivering. The moon was racing through clouds, sometimes disappearing completely.

  ‘Is that a gibbous moon?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Gerry. ‘I’m a stranger here myself. Chic Murray.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It’s sandpapered off on the right-hand side a bit.’

  ‘It was full a couple of nights ago.’

  ‘So was I,’ said Gerry. ‘God, but it’s cold.’

  The sky was alive with seagulls underlit by the street lights – soaring and cackling¸ sometimes mewing like cats high in the night air – ghostly, their wings arched
in the dark. They cruised looking this way and that, as if from a cockpit, gazing down for any scrap, any morsel. One bird crossed the moon.

  ‘You forget Amsterdam is by the sea,’ said Stella. ‘Until you see the gulls.’

  They put their heads down and shouldered into the wind, getting to the hotel as quickly as they could.

  They were stopped by a strange object on the pavement in front of the hotel steps.

  ‘What in the name of God is that?’

  Stella was sure it had not been there earlier.

  ‘Search me.’ Gerry bent over and looked down. It was a solid block of white ice, about the size of a microwave oven. There were indentations here and there on it. He could see frozen streaks beneath its surface.

  ‘It’s waiting for its Titanic,’ said Stella.

  ‘It’s one of those Rachel Whiteread sculptures. Her that won the Turner Prize.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘She does inside-out houses. Like casts. Negative space rendered in concrete. Except this is ice.’

  Gerry put his foot on top of the block and gave it a push. It trundled forward heavily – downhill into the gully of the pavement.

  ‘Reminds me of a curling stone the way it moves,’ said Gerry.

  ‘That’s your heart, that is.’

  ‘That’s for your drink, that is.’

  Stella, in the hotel’s towelling dressing gown, tidied her hair into a plastic shower cap while water plummeted into the foam. Gradually her reflection in the mirror misted over. She rarely had a bath like this – but loved the Hollywood idea when she was on holiday. The air filled with the smell of lavender. She hung the dressing gown on the back of the door and slid beneath the foam. Good to be on her own for a bit. And now that the tap was off there was a wonderful silence. From outside she could dimly hear the television. She lifted her hands clear of the suds and examined them. Handling luggage, she found, invariably resulted in damage to the fingernails. On her left hand, her rings. Both wedding and engagement. A little foam clung to them, reminding her of cuckoo spit, with a tiny gleam of gold at its centre. There was a faint hiss as the suds began to disappear. Her knees and the outline of her body began to show. Her stomach, still bearing the track of her pants. Elastic and skin like tongue and groove. And the scar near her navel. Above the pale line of her C-section. To see the scar on her back she would have to corkscrew herself in front of the mirror. On beach holidays she always wore a black one-piece. And after all these years Gerry had ceased to comment. Ceased to do most things. Except drink.

  How could changes be made at her age? To even think of leaving seemed such an impossibility. There was too much to be done. But she was known as an organiser – that kind of woman. She accepted challenges – was chairperson of the residents’ association for their tenement, had accepted the position of Eucharistic minister in her parish, organised jumble sales and sales of work. Over the years she had bought and sold flats for their son, Michael. Gerry referred to her as his ‘transport captain’. Organising complex journeys, booking hotels, contacting people to meet them, seeing the whole journey in her mind’s eye before they ever left home. She had university degrees, for goodness’ sake. If she couldn’t stand up for herself then who could? She rehearsed inside her head what she would say to him. Different ways, different tones of voice.

  Tomorrow. How would things work out? It could be a place of sanctuary.

  Most people broke up because they’d met someone else – but this was not the case. It was becoming simpler now that both sets of parents had died. Their son Michael was the only one who’d have to be told and he was in Canada making a life and family of his own. He’d understand – knew what his old man was like. The drinking genes he’d inherited were Stella’s, not his father’s. If Gerry was going to continue to live in the same bibulous fashion she would prefer to be elsewhere. A Room of One’s Own. She unwrapped a bar of soap and began to wash her arms and shoulders. And just as she was beginning to enjoy the sensuousness of the soap it was away, slipping between her fingers. She had to sit up straight and search below the dwindling froth with both hands.

  ‘I would fain be prone,’ said Stella, coming out of the bathroom. She wanted to watch the BBC News.

  ‘You saw it earlier.’

  ‘Something new might’ve happened. That’s the definition of news.’ Gerry found the remote and began to press buttons. She boiled the kettle and filled her hot-water bottle.

  ‘Turn it down, Gerry. You don’t want anybody thumping the wall.’ She rummaged in the case for her book.

  ‘I thought you were never coming out of there,’ he said. He went to the bathroom but didn’t bother to close the door. The bathroom mirror reflected another mirror in the bedroom. He could see Stella now in her white nightdress on bended knees at her side of the bed. At first he thought she’d dropped an earring or something – then, when he looked at her hands, he realised she was praying. He was about to speak out, to say something comical to her, but stopped himself. This was a thing he didn’t often see. At home they went to bed at different times – allowing each other their own space, in current jargon. He didn’t know she was still doing this.

  Stella brought her joined hands up to her face. The hotel’s hand lotion was good, not sickly sweet. She had a mantra so she would not be distracted, a framework to keep her from drifting. It involved praying for the people she loved, a glide over the family, briefly touching them all with her mind. Her parents, her brothers and sisters at home and in different parts of the world. Like Master Ryan’s roll call at school. Prayers of thanks for her extraordinary life, for her remarkable survival. To be cradled in the hand of God. She was nine when her father died. His body was laid out in the front room and when she was brought in to see him she was told to say a prayer. Other people were there so the body would not be alone. He was so still. Lying at peace. His hands tied with a rosary. Later that evening there were people in the kitchen and a man sang, ‘Shall My Soul Pass Through Old Ireland’. She closed her eyes and rested her head on the hotel coverlet for a moment. Prayer was like a visitation, like checking her child, in the light from the landing, last thing at night. And nowadays she prayed for refugees everywhere, the put-upon, the full of fear, those fleeing from war. But prayers like these were just spiritual tidying. Something to be done morning and night. Before sleeping and after waking. Putting the world to rites. She smiled.

  Gerry flushed the toilet and stood looking at himself, waiting for her to get up. To give her more time, he washed his hands slowly. He looked again in the mirror and saw her finish her prayers, make the sign of the cross and stand.

  Back in the room he sat in front of the television. Stella stood watching the screen over his shoulder, then turned her attention to the bed. It had been made tight as a drum and she began to dismantle it. First peeling back the heavy cover and throwing it in the corner where no one would trip on it. Then unbuckling the white top sheet, tugging it and releasing it all the way round. She knew Gerry would create a fuss if he felt trapped. Then he would have to get up in the darkness and there would be moaning and cursing as he struggled to loosen the sheets. When all was slackened off she got beneath the bedclothes and leaned back against her stacked pillows. He heard the gurgle of the hot-water bottle as she pushed it down the bed with her feet.

  ‘Oh, this is so gorgeous,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll be in later.’

  Gerry poured himself a Jameson. The first dram created a loud liquid popping in the neck of the bottle – something he had to be careful about at home if he was pouring within earshot. He filled a coffee cup with water from the bathroom and diluted his drink. For a long time he didn’t touch it – he wanted Stella to think, like James Thurber’s character, that when it came to drink he could take it or leave it. After a while Stella stopped reading and turned away from the room.

  ‘Is the door locked?’ she said. ‘People staggering around drunk in hotels make mistakes.’

  ‘I’m not going out anyw
here,’ he said.

  ‘Very droll.’

  Soon her breathing, long and slow, indicated sleep. It had been a long day.

  The mention of locking doors and the rebel songs from the Irish pub brought Belfast back to him. He tried to flinch away from the images. Concentrate on the drink. The first mouthful. The Jameson deserved his attention. He had nothing but praise for it. A whiskey made in the south, a Catholic whiskey. Bushmills was Protestant, made in the North. Black Bush. It was well named. But he couldn’t care less. As far as alcohol was concerned he was totally non-sectarian. He finished what was left in the glass and poured another. However, the memory in question would not leave him alone. Indeed the more he drank the less he was able to resist. Something had happened to sensitise him. Like pollen preceding sneezing. He’d just been to lunch with two of the other architects. They all knew they had work to do in the afternoon so they drank only porter. Single X. A pint each. Helped them keep a clear head because it wasn’t strong. It wasn’t considered drinking – the way gin and tonic wasn’t considered drinking – just something to wash down their sandwiches. There were stories of the boys falling asleep after lunch. Propped upright by a clear perspex ruler between drawing board and forehead. But that was myth – a story told to strangers. Nobody at work believed it.

  There was somebody waiting for Gerry in the meeting room off the main office. The others went back to their work. There was an atmosphere – everybody looking at him expectantly. Gerry went into the meeting room. A bulky middle-aged man and a younger guy were standing by the boardroom mahogany table. The two men looked round when he came in, and nodded. They declared themselves to be from the RUC. This was bad news – enough to make his stomach swoon. They invited him to sit. It was his place to offer them a seat. This was his territory. Was somebody dead? But still he remained on his feet. His body did not want to move – his mind was racing. He tried to read the clues. The older man had heavy jowls and a dark moustache. His inability to meet Gerry’s eye was disconcerting. It either had to do with the news he was about to break or he had Gerry figured for a Catholic. He was wearing a maroon paisley-patterned scarf and holding the crown of his soft hat between finger and thumb. He was ill at ease – his fingers fidgeting. The younger one again motioned Gerry into one of the chrome and leather chairs surrounding the table. Why was it so important for him to sit down? Why were they insisting on it? There was a clang as the chair hit against the one next to it. Gerry sat down. Then they asked if his name was Gerald Gilmore. He nodded. And they checked his address. This was getting worse. His knees became jelly, ice invaded his stomach. The older man continued to touch the tassels of his scarf.