I didn’t care, anyway. They deserved this. They had ignored us for years. My father had treated Stevie with contempt. Attempts at communication had been actively discouraged. What did they expect?
I lay down on my bed and closed my eyes. A noise startled me. My mother was standing at the foot of the bed. She had been crying. It struck me that I had never seen her in tears, even with my father at his worst and most aggressive.
“When will he be back?” she asked in a pleading voice. I squirmed.
“He plans to stay there and work, as far as I know,” I replied in a conversational tone.
“He shouldn’t have gone without telling me... I can understand him not telling your father, but me? I can’t believe he went without saying goodbye. That was cruel. God knows what’ll happen to him over there. You hear about Irish boys homeless, begging on the streets.”
I hadn’t heard this, and was surprised that she had.
“Oh, he’ll be fine, Mum. He has a good education. He’s from a good home.” I tried to keep the sarcastic tone out of my voice.
Her lower lip trembled. “You really don’t care, do you, Cathy?”
“Of course I care!” I said angrily. “But don’t you see? He had to do this. I mean, I understand why he did it.”
“Yes, you were always on his side.”
“Whose side do you expect me to be on, for Christ’s sake?”
There was a long pause. I expected her to say something else, something about how rude and horrible I was being, or a comment on my ingratitude, my deceit in helping to cover up Stevie’s plan, or something about my loyalty being misplaced, or even something to the effect that her heart was broken, that Stevie was her favorite child, that without him or news of him her life became that much harder to bear. But being who she was, she would not put any of these thoughts into words.
“You left home yourself— ” I began, still more or less on the offensive. I stopped. Her gaze, which had been abstracted, focused on me. Her eyes were hard, angry. I felt frightened.
“I just meant— ” I began.
“Shut up, Cathy,” she said, her voice harsh.
She left the room. I realized that I was shaking. She had scared me more than my father. There had been something predictable about Dad’s anger. I could tell he was secretly glad that Stevie was gone.
So I had angered both of them, he because he thought I had one up on him as regards Stevie’s departure, she because I was the one left behind to make sarcastic comments, my alienation a mirror of my brother’s. Did she read the lack of respect in my eyes and think, for the first time, “yes, my son despised me too? Not just his father, but me?”
I would have liked to reassure her, but I wouldn’t have known what to say. In the face of Stevie’s absence, my statement that he really had loved her would have rung completely hollow. Anyway, I was not sure that he did.
I was not sure that I did.
But her pain, which she for once was not concealing from me, did disturb me. And as I lay on my bed I felt remorseful. Instead of being obnoxiously cold and cutting I should have been protective. I saw that now. She had laid herself open, for once, and I had cut right to the heart of her grief, by suggesting an analogy between Stevie’s running away from home and her own, probably at around the same age. Perhaps she thought that he was feeling the same hateful feelings towards her and my father as she had maybe felt towards her parents... It was unclear, this picture in my mind, and no doubt she would never tell me now.
Sighing, I picked up The Outsider and began to read from where I had left off on the bus home.
Chapter 13
We had a room to ourselves, as sixth years. It was a long room on the top floor of the school overlooking the football field, where most of the boys spent their time. Sitting at tables in the sixth form center our talk was carried on to a background of whistles and cheers from the field, sometimes hoarse shouting. Few of us ever bothered to look out.
We were now in the six-month stretch coming up to the Leaving. The faces of my classmates were subdued. Some seemed desperate. Jeanette, with her inability to concentrate, was particularly frightened of the ordeal ahead. Her response was to stop studying and to hang out with Carlotta as much as she could. Carlotta was fairly calm; she knew her parents could afford to send her to the crammer for a year if she did badly in her Leaving. The term we used was “to repeat.” She was cheerfully resigned to repeating. Everybody else, however, was convinced that their parents would kill them if they had to repeat. It was drummed into us that we had better get it right the first time. Only irresponsible time-wasters, the teachers implied, repeated their Leaving.
Jeanette hung around with the time-wasters and the dossers at one end of the room. I sat at a table and studied at the other end. But oddly enough, I too found it hard to concentrate. My mind seemed clouded. I couldn’t care too much about the texts; in the scheme of things, I realized, they really did not matter. They were quite irrelevant. Whether memorizing the reproductive organs of the earthworm, or French irregular verbs or Maths theorems, in some part of my mind I was not focusing, not present. I was profoundly bored. For the first time in my life I began to understand the need some people had to drink themselves into a stupor or to shoot chemicals into their veins.
Ron, of course, sometimes entered my line of vision. We bumped into each other at the top of the stairs on the first day back in school after the Christmas holidays. Ron stepped back, and we stood aside for a moment, while people impatiently pushed around us, trying to get up or down the stairs. We looked at each other. Finally I said, in a low voice, “Has he written to you yet?”
Ron smiled faintly. “Oh, you mean you haven’t got a letter from him?”
There was a silence. “Let’s not play games,” I said. He shrugged. Then he said, “Yeah, he has. Do you need his address?”
“Yes, please,” I said politely, my heart beating.
“Follow me,” he murmured. In the sixth form center we sat down together. He pulled a letter from his bag, and copied down the address on a sheet of lined paper. I watched in silence. Then I allowed myself to say, “Is he well?”
Ron pushed the paper across to me. “I think so. Yes. It’s lonely in London and he hasn’t found work yet. But he’s confident that he will.”
It was hard to gauge from his expression whether he was glad to talk to me about Stevie, or simply putting up with me out of some sense of duty. There was such a tradition of silence between us. I wished that our mutual need for Stevie could change this, could bring us together in some fashion. Even if we just chatted occasionally, that would mean a lot to me, I realized. But he didn’t need me, that was clear. He never had.
Ron began putting his books out on the table in a slow, measured way. I felt that I was being dismissed, so I stood up, clutching the precious sheet of paper in my hand.
“Thanks, Ron.”
He looked up, smiled briefly and looked down again. I had not expected much more, and I was grateful for the little he had given, but as I moved away I wondered what I had done to merit such coolness and disinterest. Perhaps, I thought, it was anger, a repressed anger. He knew that I was going to stay with them in London, and he didn’t like it. Well, whether he liked it or not, I was going to go. And that was that.
* * *
I wrote Stevie a letter, or rather a short and pathetic note, begging him to write to me. I had nothing to say about my life; I was working, eating, sleeping, being cold-shouldered both by Jeanette and by my parents. The only way I could bear it was to tell myself that it would end, not soon, but after the Leaving. Then I would be released. I would never have to see Jeanette again. What’s more, I fantasized, I would never have to see my parents again, or Ireland. I could simply fly off the face of the earth.
* * *
Jeanette had a job now. She sold lottery tickets “for the Blind,” which meant that she got a 30 percent commission from something called the Irish Association for the Blind on every one or two-p
ound ticket she sold. This wasn’t bad, since she did well. She would report each Saturday to a drab little office on O’Connell Street, pick up the tickets, and then go from house to house in a particular neighborhood. Her charm and earnestness won people over. Sometimes she went “selling” after school, and I was allowed to accompany her. Standing beside her on the doorstep, I occasionally sabotaged her sale by grinning at the long, pleading speeches that she gave. She sounded so persuasive. What the concerned housewife or occasional middle-aged, unemployed male did not know was that their money often went directly into Jeanette’s own pocket. She had worked out some sort of a scheme in which she sold tickets that were left lying around the office or in drawers. She would pick them up when she came in to report her last sale. She never got caught. They liked her there; she was a good, steady, dependable worker.
I did not disapprove of what Jeanette was doing, since, I rationalized, she needed the money badly. That at least was clear. And also, as she was careful to point out, hardly any of this money went to the blind anyway—about 20 percent after the agency that employed her had taken their chunk out of it.
Also, my only moments of intimacy with Jeanette came during these days when we walked from house to house together. I think Jeanette liked someone to show off her technique to; she also liked the company when the job got lonely or when too many doors had been slammed in her face.
Sometimes we would find ourselves in a quiet, almost rural part of the city, where the houses were old, and there would be large gardens and shady trees and long distances from the front gate to the front door. We did not do so well at these grand residences, but it excited us, and especially Jeanette, I think, to be knocking at these doors.
Once we blundered into a wooded area like a strange little park. It was quiet and dim. I breathed the air deeply. For so many of these last months I’d felt suffocated. Jeanette stood uneasily, looking around, not quite able to get her bearings. Then we made eye contact.
I had wanted to speak to her about us for a long time, but had been afraid. She had nurtured that fear; it protected her from confrontations. There had never been a good moment to speak. And now, when the impulse was on me, I could only think of the simplest thing to say.
“Jeanette,” I said. “I need to talk to you.” She looked startled, a little embarrassed already.
“It’s about us, our friendship. I feel you don’t like me anymore. We’re hardly ever together at school. And you don’t really talk to me. You ignore me.”
My words had sounded hoarse, because my throat was clenched and raw all of a sudden. It was hard to speak. It made me feel vulnerable, a needy, unloved child begging for attention.
Birds rustled above. Jeanette looked down. Then she said, “I’m sorry you feel like that. I didn’t know.” Her face very serious and her eyes fixed on me, she continued, “I’m in a group of friends for the first time in my life, Cathy. They accept me and they like me. That’s so important. You don’t understand it because you like to be alone.”
“I don’t,” I said bitterly. My face was red. “But I don’t want to be around them, either. I mean, they don’t really like you that much. They’re just amusing themselves with you. You don’t see that, but I do.”
Jeanette shrugged. “Well,” she said quietly, “That’s still better than the way it used to be.”
I gazed at her. Had our magical, blissful friendship of last year counted for nothing? Had it always been a stepping-stone to something more socially acceptable? She hadn’t said the things I thought she might, she hadn’t been reassuring. She was being honest, and she was saying, Look, I can only give you this much. I’m not going to drop my friends for you. You’re the one who has to put up with it.
I turned away, feeling slightly nauseated. However much I tried, I couldn’t win her back. There had been a lingering fantasy that I might, a sort of dream really, that we would come together again as lovers. I still loved her body, her skin, her eyes, these had immeasurable power over me. But I hated what she had turned me into: a supplicant, a hanger-on. The good memories were slowly metamorphosing into darker images. I looked on them now through the cynical filter of experience and suffering.
“Anyway,” Jeanette added, looking uncomfortable, “You’re so aloof. I get the feeling you don’t really want to be around me. You’re always reading, or studying. A lot of the time I get the sense I’m bothering you.”
“You do bother me,” I said sharply. “Because you’ve totally changed.”
“I’m proud of how I’ve changed.”
She meant it, I saw. I would have loved to force her to see herself through my eyes. Then she would understand. But it came to me as we looked at each other, our expressions equally fixed and bleak, that I didn’t own her and that she had the right to go her own way. We would both go our separate ways, quite soon. That thought, which would have killed me a year before, now seemed like a blessing, a mixed one of course.
“Well, I’m leaving in June,” I said finally. “Until then, maybe you could treat me a little better. We’ve been through a lot, haven’t we?”
Jeanette nodded, her face downcast. “But we’ll always keep in touch...” Her dark, earnest eyes searched mine and quite suddenly I felt her power to hold me reasserting itself. But it wasn’t enough to keep me in the country, I thought. Thank God. Thank God I had the strength to get out. Stevie would save me.
“I suppose we will,” I answered. It seemed quite possible to me that I would never be able to entirely free myself from Jeanette’s spell, just as leaving Ireland did not automatically mean that my problems would disappear.
* * *
A letter from my brother arrived, it was passed to me by Ron at school, since Stevie didn’t want Mum and Dad to know his address, and was afraid they would open any post addressed to me.
Dear Cathy
Hope you’re well. OK, so this is my address and it’s actually mine, i.e. a flat. Flats are like gold dust in London, by the way. Had been staying in B&B’s and various dodgy hostels. Money isn’t exactly rolling in, but I think (fingers crossed) that I can support myself.
Prepare for a shock. I’m working in a bank in Kilburn! An Irish bank, no less. I went for an interview, lied about my qualifications. But the interviewer was a guy from Dublin who seemed taken with me, so I batted my eyelashes at him a bit and it worked. No, seriously, he’s on the level, and up to now I have been totally faithful to Ron. I miss him terribly. But don’t think that I’ve been writing to him and not you. I wanted to lie low until I had some good news to give you both. When I wrote to Ron, I instructed him to be nice to you, since I know that your life is rough at the moment.
Have made some friends. It took enough time. I didn’t realize how suspicious people were in London. It’s a whole different psychology. And being Irish is not an asset, let me tell you. I fled to the Irish pubs in desperation for a while, where I was treated coldly due to my dubious sexual orientation! A lot of people seem very isolated here.
On the subject of friends, I met a guy on a bench in Trafalgar Square (not the most auspicious meeting place, I suppose!) We started talking. I felt sorry for him and something about him appealed to me. Well, I had just moved into the flat and it seemed huge for one person. Even though I knew he probably couldn’t pay rent, I took him in. I’ll fill you in on the rest of the story later. Basically, I helped him get off smack (heroin), and I’m really proud of that. He’s cleaned up his act in all sorts of ways. Having someone I like around the house keeps things domestic, keeps me off the streets. Yes, I know how that sounds. This being England, a few guys have come on to me, and for the first time I’ve really had to restrain myself, say no. I feel strange about going out to clubs and things. But Paul (that’s my new friend) keeps it all in perspective for me, ’cos his life has been an utter hell. Anyway, you’ll meet him, I hope.
How are the parents? I still feel the occasional pang of guilt, and if they’re open to seeing me at some stage during the next couple of yea
rs I don’t mind coming back and doing the prodigal son bit.
I can breathe here. It’s lucky that I left when I did. Ireland can hold you, and if you stay for too long, you start thinking the rest of the world’s not that much better. I know there’s no danger of you believing that, Cathy! Maybe this place can be as good for you as it’s been for me. In Dublin I felt like a jaded sophisticate because I’d experienced more than most people I knew ever had. Over here, I really feel innocent in a way. Everybody’s had to struggle. There’s an openness to difference, different cultures especially. Some people look so exotic—you see Indian women in saris selling tourist knick-knacks and guys in dreads behind the counter of your local supermarket, and punks and goths and very square, middle-class English types sitting on the Tube together! I’m laughing as I write this. I’m getting carried away. Sorry, you didn’t expect a long rambling letter like this, did you?
Write soon, lots of love
Stevie
This letter stunned me, and I read it again and again. It seemed like a communication from another planet. For a few days I walked around with a kind of lightness, or buoyancy, but it soon faded.
Jeanette was trying to be nicer to me. At least, she was less insensitive. Occasionally I felt some warmth from her, and she would sometimes come out with nostalgic statements, like “Remember the time we smoked the herbal cigarettes?” or, even more mind-bogglingly, “Remember the time we got drunk on the poteen?” To the latter question I said, disbelievingly, “What?” I just could not imagine what could allow her to come out with that remark; how she could separate the exhilaration of gulping down the poteen at my uncle’s house with what came an hour or two later? But obviously she had. When I asked, in a challenging voice, “Remember the time when you licked the door?” it was her turn to stare at me as if I were mad. She had blocked that one out.
I often thought about the first evening that she’d come to my house. I wondered about the signals that she had been putting out and why I had not acted on them more strongly. Perhaps, if I could have caught her at that point, before she became involved with Carlotta and boys and makeup, maybe, I mused, if I had turned to her there as we stood together at the top of the stairs, and kissed her, it’s possible that she would have welcomed it.
The Leaving Page 18
