The Living

by Léan Cullinan

  ‘OK, bye, Dad, thanks a million.’ I felt like a fifteen-year-old who’d missed the last bus. Mortified. Beholden.

  My accent, too, had slipped back into its old patterns: the Louth lilt bleeding easily through the Trinity College patina that I’d taken such care to build up. Cate from Ardee. Such a comedy hometown – you could never admit to it without some Dublin fucker exclaiming ‘Arrrrdeeee!’ in what he fondly imagined to be a Louth accent.

  But you couldn’t lie about it either. Someone would always know.

  Dad pulled up across the road and motioned for me to wind down my window. ‘Leave that car where it is – I’ll get the young fella from Lanigans to pick it up in the morning.’

  Back at the house, I followed Dad into the hall just as Mum came out of the kitchen, arms outstretched. ‘Caitlín! It’s lovely to see you, pet. Come on in – we’re all set.’

  ‘Hi, Mum.’ I gave her a brief hug and avoided eye contact. Why wasn’t she having a go at me?

  ‘Look who’s here!’ Mum exclaimed, unnecessarily, as we went into the dining room. Uncle Fintan, Auntie Rosemary and my brother Mícheál were seated at the table, under starter’s orders. Mum took two quick steps towards Uncle Fintan and said in a pantomime whisper, ‘Is she up to date with the rent? Is she?’

  I flinched. ‘Mum!’ This was a bit much, even in the circumstances.

  Uncle Fintan gave his soft laugh. ‘Oh, yes, Nora, she’s. Sure isn’t she a model tenant?’ His voice was gentle and slightly blurred, still carrying that distinct Castlebar accent that he shared with Mum. I’d always loved his trick of breaking off before he finished a sentence. He spoke with a slow expansiveness, his vowels like clear pools of water. He beamed at me, and suddenly I was included in the joke.

  Chair legs barked on the wooden floor as everyone settled themselves at the table; heads bowed in appropriate humility as Dad mumbled ‘Bless-us-oh-Lord’. I found myself mouthing ‘Amen’.

  I was sitting beside Auntie Rosemary, who sprang up as soon as grace was said to help Mum serve the soup.

  Uncle Fintan was his usual yielding, nervous self, his eyes tracking his wife as she moved around the room. She wore a double string of glass beads that oscillated and clicked as she stretched to put the bowls on the table. Her arms were nut-brown from her holiday.

  ‘Tha – thank you, that’s,’ said Uncle Fintan as Mum gave him his soup. Dad ate noisily, rumbled approval. Mícheál, gangly and shiny-faced, stared at his placemat and tapped the tabletop with his spoon while he waited to be served.

  Was he sulking?

  The soup was too salty, just as Dad liked it. Roast pork followed, with mounds of mashed potato, limp baby vegetables, and a shallow jug of viscous, cooling gravy.

  Conversation, at first, was confined to praise of the food.

  Mum tutted as she tucked into her mash. ‘This needs more pepper.’ She frowned at the table, where no pepper was in evidence, then turned to Mícheál. ‘Would you get the pepper for me, love?’

  Mícheál rolled his eyes, hauled himself to his feet, stumped over to the hatch, reached into the kitchen for the pepper-grinder, slouched back to the table, and set the pepper down beside Mum with a little thump, like a chess piece, before resuming his seat. I squirmed on his behalf – the whole performance had been so pathetically immature.

  Mum let out a tiny, outraged Ah! and bounced back in her chair as though she’d been hit. ‘Mícheál Houlihan, I’m surprised at you!’

  Mícheál studied his clasped hands.

  ‘What’s this, now?’ Dad wanted to know.

  Mum sighed and said, ‘Is this about the flag?’

  ‘What about the flag? What flag?’ Dad asked.

  Mum smirked in a way that would have made me feel murderous if I’d been in Mícheál’s place. ‘It’s his tricolour,’ she explained. ‘Apparently it got dirty after the match yesterday.’

  ‘PJ threw his boot at me!’ Mícheál burst out. ‘It hit me on the arm, and then my bag was open and it fell in. And now my tricolour’s got mud on it, and it’s dishonoured, and we have to burn it! We have to!’ His eyes were wide, and his cheeks had turned a deep plummy pink.

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous, Mícheál, we do not!’ Mum lifted her hands in conciliation. ‘We’ll handwash it – we’ll show it every care and respect – it’ll be as good as new.’

  ‘It won’t be, Mam, it’s dishonoured. We have to burn it. They told us at Irish college.’ Mícheál finished triumphant – he had played his best card.

  Ah, Irish college. Three weeks of cultural re-education in a rural idyll. Lustful teens chewing sausages and playing endless card games, all through the medium of the melodious Irish language – not a word of English allowed, or you were sent home.

  Mum drew herself up and said, ‘The rule, as I recall, is that the flag must not drag on the ground.’

  ‘It has a muddy bootmark on it!’

  ‘Well.’ Mum pursed her lips.

  ‘Mam!’ Mícheál appealed to Uncle Fintan. ‘I’m right, amn’t I?’

  I was aware of Auntie Rosemary taking a deep breath beside me. All eyes turned to Uncle Fintan.

  ‘Well, I.’ His voice wobbled.

  ‘We have to burn it!’

  Uncle Fintan’s glance flicked between Mícheál and Auntie Rosemary, then settled on his sister. ‘Well, Nora, we wouldn’t have, now. It wouldn’t have been considered fitting for the flag to be muddied, when I was.’ He breathed out, and looked for a moment as though he wanted to say more, but instead slumped back in his chair.

  Auntie Rosemary delivered a disgusted snort.

  ‘There’ll be no burning of any flag in my house.’ Dad pronounced his verdict. No appeal. ‘And, Mícheál, you’ll know another time not to leave it lying around. All right?’

  Mícheál glared briefly at him.

  Dad put one big hand on the table and leaned slightly towards Mícheál. ‘All right?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Mícheál nodded, dropped his eyes. The spotlight turned on me.

  ‘Well, now, and I hear you’re working for a publisher. Is that right?’ Auntie Rosemary’s elbow grazed my rib; her perfume colonized the space between us.

  ‘Oh!’ Mum put on her stricken face. Where did we go wrong, it said, that you tell us so little about your life? Out loud, she asked, with a hint of sourness, ‘What’s this, another temp thing?’

  I was used to her game. I wasn’t giving in. ‘Yeah, kind of.’ I took a drink. ‘But it might lead to something a bit more long-term.’

  ‘Who is it you’re working for?’ Dad avoided being cast in Mum’s drama when he could.

  ‘It’s a guy called—’ I began, then caught Uncle Fintan’s frightened eye. No trouble, please, I read. He didn’t want me to mention George Sweeney. When he’d put us in touch he’d asked me to keep his involvement under my hat. ‘It’s called Bell Books,’ I mumbled. I wanted to keep talking, to cover up the glitch and to avoid being asked how I’d heard about the job. ‘It’s a contact from a temp job I had last year,’ I said, not looking at Uncle Fintan, hoping I wouldn’t get caught in the lie. ‘I think my old boss’s cousin used to work for them, or something.’

  ‘Well, you’ll enjoy that, I’d say,’ Auntie Rosemary said, after a pause. ‘Publishing’s an exciting business.’

  ‘Seems interesting enough, all right,’ I said. I had to steer us into safer waters. I asked Dad how his back was, and Mum took the bait. She and Auntie Rosemary began dissecting the question of men who won’t go to the doctor, and I was finally able to relax.

  ‘I think I’d better go home, actually,’ I said as we stood up from the table. ‘I’m not feeling brilliant.’

  Mum pursed her lips. ‘Are you coming down with something?’ she asked – you don’t look after yourself properly clearly audible in her tone. ‘You’re very pale-looking.’

  ‘No, it’s just a headache.’ I remembered the broken-down car. ‘Have you a bus timetable handy?’

  ‘I’ll run you up,’ said Uncle Fi
ntan, sounding slightly breathless at his own audacity.

  ‘Don’t be daft, Fintan!’ Mum exclaimed. ‘It’s miles away!’

  ‘If she’s not feeling well, I think,’ Uncle Fintan said, standing up and sidling towards the door. ‘And I’ve one or two things to check in the. Stay where you are, Rosemary – I’ll be back before you know it.’

  I hurried to get my coat before the combined forces would change his mind.

  A Corelli concerto grosso sprang to life as Uncle Fintan started the car, and we conversed gently about styles of Baroque performance. I loved that he and I shared this interest – my musical tastes were so far from those of my parents and brother. I’d grown up with gravelly Dubliners and Wolfe Tones ringing in my ears.

  ‘Caitlín – or – it’s Cate I should be.’ Uncle Fintan looked straight ahead at the road. ‘I wanted to thank you, earlier, for.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ I said. ‘How did Auntie Rosemary hear about my job, then? Did you not tell her?’

  ‘No, I didn’t at all – I was as surprised as you when she.’

  ‘She has spies everywhere!’

  He laughed. ‘She sees your neighbour Sheila at the Simon Community soup runs – maybe she mentioned.’

  We fell silent. I shifted in my seat, steeling myself.

  ‘Listen, Uncle F, there’s something I need to ask you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Mum’s worrying about the rent. My rent. She thinks it’s too low. Are we … are we still …?’

  ‘Oh, lord bless us and save us, what’s she? I wouldn’t dream! Ah, sure, listen, love, don’t be worrying about it at all.’

  ‘Thanks – I really appreciate it.’

  We were silent again, then I heard him take in breath. ‘Come here to me, I was going to ask you a.’

  I waited. He said nothing. ‘Oh?’ I ventured.

  ‘There’s something I have, for. It’s a package for George Sweeney, I’ve had it in the car for a little while, looking for the chance to, and I wonder, could you?’

  ‘Give it to him? Sure, no problem.’

  ‘Oh, marvellous, that’ll save me.’

  The traffic was light, and we reached Terenure in a little over an hour. Uncle Fintan got out of the car and opened the boot. I couldn’t help staring as he pulled up the felt that covered the boot’s floor and extracted from under it a large white envelope swaddled in shiny brown tape.

  ‘This is what I was,’ he said, ‘for George.’ He replaced the felt carefully and closed the boot. He held the package out to me, but he didn’t meet my eye.

  I took the envelope. It was heavy, and it had ‘SEOIRSE MAC SUIBHNE’ handwritten on it in green ink. It took me a second or two to parse this as the Irish version of George’s name. There were no stamps. ‘Right you are, Uncle F,’ I said. ‘I’ll give it to him tomorrow.’

  ‘Give it straight into his hand, now, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  ‘And tell him … tell him I was asking for him.’ Uncle Fintan looked suddenly straight at me; a gleam of enthusiasm – almost of mischief – passed across his face.

  ‘I will, of course. Will you have a cup of tea before you go?’

  ‘Ah, no, I’d better get. Rosemary will be.’ He was already edging towards the driver’s door.

  As I carried the package up the stairs to my flat I tried to imagine George and Uncle Fintan’s friendship, how it might have worked. When I thought about it, actually, it made a strange kind of sense. George would be the star, of course, with Uncle Fintan as his soft-spoken sidekick.

  I GAVE GEORGE THE envelope first thing on Monday. He thanked me, then turned and brandished it at Paula. ‘Lookit here, now! Oh ye of little faith!’

  ‘I never said anything!’ she returned.

  ‘Here we go,’ said George as he ripped open the envelope. He took out a thick sheaf of paper and gripped it with one hand so he could flip through it. ‘One revised manuscript, all present and correct. Thank you very much, young Cate.’

  I moved to my desk.

  ‘Did you know it was coming today?’ Paula asked George.

  ‘I had my suspicions,’ said George.

  ‘I had a postcard last week, hinting it was on its way.’

  ‘Did he say Cate would be bringing it?’

  ‘He did not. Need to know basis, Paula, need to know.’

  ‘And did he give you any way of contacting him? Is it even worth asking?’

  ‘Ah, he has to be careful, still.’

  Paula pointed a finger at me. ‘And how did you get hold of it?’ Her curiosity seemed coloured with irritation.

  ‘Em … my uncle gave it to me.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ she said. ‘Of course. Fintan “The Gentleman” Sullivan. Well,’ – she turned back to George – ‘enjoy.’

  George emitted a satisfied chuckle and disappeared into his office with the manuscript.

  I was stung by Paula’s tone. ‘I didn’t know you knew Uncle Fintan.’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ she said, nodding slowly and catching the side of her lip between her teeth. ‘One time, I did know him. Quite well. Haven’t seen him in years.’ She’d been gazing at the air above my head, but now she looked straight at me. ‘Is he well, anyway, this weather?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s fine,’ I said, and dropped it.

  The atmosphere at work intensified by several notches after the arrival of that manuscript. On many days, I barely spoke a word. George and Paula were glued to their desks, and communal tea breaks became a rarity. I busied myself with the new database, which I’d almost finished populating.

  George called me into his office one day and asked, with a careless gesture that belied the fervour in his eyes, if I’d be interested in trying my hand at some copyediting. There were a couple of big jobs coming in, he said, and Paula could do with the help. I had a degree in English, didn’t I? Knew my spellings? Cared about grammar? I assented, and Paula gave me some basic training that afternoon, running cleanup macros on a set of conference proceedings. She was spiky and distracted – clearly up to her elbows in The Irish Horse – and my beginner’s errors did nothing to improve matters. After a few days I decided I’d had enough spoonfeeding and would work it out for myself.

  One afternoon the phone rang, and a woman’s bored voice said, ‘I have a reverse-charge call for George Sweeney from Ernie McDevil in Spain. Will you accept the charges?’

  Flustered, I put her on hold. ‘Paula? Can we accept reverse charges?’

  Paula looked up. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I think she said … Ernie McDevil? That’s obviously—’

  ‘Spain?’ Paula asked sharply. She sprang from her chair and made for George’s door. ‘Put it through,’ she said to me as she rapped twice on the door and opened it.

  I took the operator off hold. ‘Yes, we’ll accept the charges, thank you.’ I heard George whoop in the inner office.

  A man’s voice said, ‘Seoirse?’

  ‘Putting you through.’

  Paula came back to her desk and resumed her chair without looking at me.

  I said, ‘That was Eddie MacDevitt, wasn’t it? Bit cheeky to reverse the charges.’

  She hesitated visibly before saying, ‘Cate, do you know Eddie MacDevitt?’

  ‘What? No, of course I don’t know him. Why would you think that?’

  She shook her head and looked at the floor. ‘I dunno. I thought maybe … you might.’ After another pause, she said, ‘Lookit, trust me, Cate, you should count yourself lucky if you’re not involved with that mess. Stick to your fisheries conference, is my advice to you.’

  The afternoon slid by, unpunctuated by any further phone calls from the underworld.

  I CAME INTO TOWN after work to meet Denise in the Stag’s Head, but went first to get fish and chips from Burdock’s, the tiny chipper round the corner from Christ Church Cathedral. I joined the queue and studied the backlit wall menu, weighing the attractions of cod and sole.

  Someone else came in as I w
as paying. I picked up my food, opened the packet a little to let my cod cool, and turned to encounter the pleasing shape of Matthew Taylor.

  ‘Hello!’ he exclaimed, with that swooping English inflection that made him sound so much more surprised than he could possibly be.

  ‘Hi.’ I stood there, wreathed in fishy steam, letting the little flurry of pleasure subside. He was grinning at me, his teeth slightly uneven, crowding at the front of his mouth.

  He bought chips, and we made small talk as we walked together towards Dame Street. The moon was visible above the buildings, a pale sliver like a clipped fingernail in the airy sky.

  ‘Bell Books has quite an interesting backlist, hasn’t it?’ said Matthew.

  ‘Have you been looking at our website?’

  ‘I had a bit of a snoop around.’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  That shy dimple I’d seen before. ‘Well, it’s my period, you see – recent Irish history, the Republican movement and so forth. You actually published quite a few of the sources I used for my MPhil research.’

  I bit off the end of a chip. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘not me – I only started working there this summer.’

  ‘Is that right? What’s George Sweeney like to work for?’

  ‘He’s OK,’ I said. This was the first time we’d really spoken since the evening he’d arrived at choir. Why did I feel, again, as though I were messing it up? Fantasy-Matthew never asked me this kind of question. I was already anxious about how I’d extricate myself from our conversation in time to meet Denise. What on earth could I say about George? ‘He’s a bit of a workaholic, maybe?’

  ‘Arrives early and stays late, you mean?’

  ‘Well, not so much that, since he lives downstairs. But I don’t think he ever really stops, you know? The company is his life. He’s very driven. Which is kind of inspiring, and kind of annoying.’

  ‘Yes, I could see that.’

  We were past City Hall, and I couldn’t see Denise welcoming Matthew into our evening plans. ‘Which way are you … I’m … going to meet my friend.’ I took a large bite of cod and felt young and stupid.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Matthew. ‘My bus stop’s this way.’