by Alex Coleman
“Was he religious?” “Sorry?”
“The millennium. Lots of religious people thought Jesus was coming back.”
“Oh. Right. Not my dad. He just liked fireworks. He really wanted to see the big display in town. His last words were ‘Fireworks’. Last word, really, I suppose.”
I searched his face for clues that he was joking. There were none. Not only was he not joking, he didn’t seem to realise that there was anything funny about what he’d said.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “I lost my parents too. Both at once. A car crash.”
“That’s awful,” Eddie said. “Still – nice and quick.” I shot him a look, but he didn’t seem to notice. “That can’t have been any fun for you,” he said then.
“No. It wasn’t. I don’t want to talk about it. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“Sometimes it helps to t–” “No. I don’t want to, all right?”
I’d lost my temper. That happened a lot when the subject of my parents came up. I was about to apologise but Eddie didn’t give me a chance.
“Mine took forever to go,” he said. “You don’t want that, believe me. It’s exhausting. And, don’t get me wrong, very hard, emotionally and all. But mostly it’s exhausting.”
He’d taken off his jacket when we arrived. I had found myself looking at the T-shirt he was wearing underneath and suddenly realised why: it was the first time I’d seen him without his navy-blue woollen tie.
For the want of something better say, I mentioned it. “No tie today, Eddie?”
He looked down at his T-shirt, which had presumably been black at one point and was now mid-grey, at best. “No tie?” he said, puzzled. “Sure it’s Saturday.”
“I know. But you don’t have to wear a tie Monday to Friday. You still do. Every day.”
“You don’t like my tie,” he said. It was a statement, not a question.
“It’s not that,” I said, afraid that I’d hurt his feelings. “I’m just saying. Most men don’t like wearing a tie unless they absolutely have to.”
Eddie rolled one of his shoulders. “It’s an office. I think you should make a bit of an effort when you work in an office.” He paused, but not for long. “Why don’t you like my tie?”
“I do like it,” I insisted. “I just wondered …” “What?”
“How come you wear the same one all the time?” He frowned. “You’ve really got it in for my tie …” “No, honestly. I’m sorry, forget I said anything.”
For the next thirty seconds, he stirred his tea in silence, gazing down at it along the length of his nose. I got the impression he was preparing to say something significant and for one terrible moment was sure it was going to be something about a childhood sweetheart after all. In the end, he stopped stirring and said, “I like it, that’s all. It goes with everything.”
“Of course it does,” I said, relieved. “It’s a lovely tie. I really wasn’t trying to –”
“Ah, I know you weren’t, Jackie. I’m a bit sensitive sometimes. Don’t mind me. Anyway – the main thing is, you’ve stopped crying.”
“Yeah. Thanks for … you know. Looking after me.”
“No problem. I still can’t believe it. What he did. Your husband.”
“Me neither.”
“He must want his head examined. Fooling around on you.” I raised my cup to my face and hid behind it for as long as I thought plausible. When I dared to look out, I saw that Eddie was gritting his teeth, his eyes half-closed. He was clearly regretting that last contribution. The best way forward, I decided, was to change the subject as quickly as possible.
“What about you?” I said. “You never married?” “Me? No.”
That apparently, was the end of that. But his previous comment was still hanging over us. I tried a second change of subject. “So – are you going to tell me what you were doing in the office on a Saturday?”
His eyes flitted down towards his bag. He seemed to realise his mistake and immediately snapped his head around in the direction of the till.
“What’s in the bag, Eddie?” I asked. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.”
“Come on. I told you my thing.” This seemed to carry a lot of weight with him. While he wrestled with his dilemma, I pressed home my advantage. “Whatever it is, it can’t be as big a deal as mine, can it?”
His tongue emerged to moisten his lips. “It’s nothing,” he said again.
“I’m intrigued now,” I told him. It was the truth. “Nothing,” Eddie repeated a third time.
“Okay. If you don’t want to tell me …”
He made a gentle smacking noise with his lips, as if he was beckoning a kitten. I stayed silent, guessing that he was now considering telling me his terrible secret but wouldn’t appreciate being pushed into it. Nothing was said for a minute or more. If I’d been with anyone else, I would have found the silence highly embarrassing. But with Eddie, somehow, it didn’t seem so bad. By the time he spoke again, I’d drifted back to my own business. His sudden reanimation made me jump.
“If I show you and you laugh, you and I won’t be friends any more.”
Up until that point, I hadn’t thought we were friends. But then again, for all I knew, neither had he.
“I won’t laugh, Eddie. I promise I won’t.” I really meant that, but as soon as I said it, I was seized with fear. What if I couldn’t help myself? Who knew what he had in that bag? It might have been his collection of Action Men.
“The monitor on my home computer is broken,” he muttered. It sounded like something a cold war spy might have said to establish contact on a bench in Prague.
I had no idea how to respond – Modern appliances are often unreliable?
“Right.”
“So I had to come in to work to get on the Internet.” “I see.”
He frowned, sat back, sat forward again. “You promise you won’t laugh?”
I drew an X on my chest with my finger. “Cross my heart, hope to die.”
Even that didn’t seem to convince him. He bit his lip and gave it yet more thought. Then, just when I was about to tell him to forget it, he suddenly dived under the table and started rummaging through his bag. He reappeared with a sheaf of paper, which he deposited carefully on the table.
“All right,” he said miserably. “Take a look before I change my mind.”
As I picked up the papers, Eddie began to hum. He didn’t seem to be aware that he was doing it.
“Are you sure?” I said. “Look, look. Go on.”
I turned the pages towards me and read the headline How to Talk to Women.
“It’s advice,” Eddie said quickly. “Nothing sleazy or anything.”
I nodded that I understood and cast my eyes down the page. The first line I read was It’s important to remember that women aren’t just men with different bodies – they’re practically a whole other species!
“I got stuff from a few different sites,” Eddie said. “Just to get a good overview.”
I nodded again and flipped forward a few pages. Women love talking about clothes – why not pick up a copy of Elle or Vogue and get hip to the latest fashion trends?
“It’s pathetic, isn’t it?” Eddie said and dropped his head into his hands. “You think it’s pathetic. You think I’m pathetic.”
I did another flip forward. Compliments are vital. If you can’t think of anything she deserves to be complimented on, imagine you’re sitting with your favourite movie star and proceed accordingly. That was enough for me. I dropped the printouts and looked at Eddie. “Of course I don’t think you’re pathetic,” I said. “Everyone needs a few pointers once in a while. I’m just not sure that these particular pointers are all that great.”
He blanched. “Why not? They made sense to me, the few I saw.”
“I just don’t think it’s a good idea to have a strategy in mind for this kind of thing. It’s more confusing than helpful. Um … are we talking about women in general or is there som
eone specific?”
“It’s someone specific.”
I wasn’t sure if it was the way he said it or the way he looked at me, but I was suddenly convinced that this conversation was about to take a very awkward turn.
I was already preparing my defences when he added, “She’s called Margaret. I met her in my cooking class.”
“Oh! Right. I didn’t know you were into cooking.” It was a silly thing to say – I didn’t know anything about him, really. “Me too. I’m never out of the kitchen.”
“Yeah. You made a cake for Veronica’s birthday that time. Chocolate. It was unbelievable.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m not bad at it either, if I say so myself. But I didn’t really join up for the lessons. I joined up to … you know …”
“Meet someone”
He squirmed. “Yes. To meet someone.” “And now you have. That’s great, isn’t it?” “No. It isn’t. It’s terrifying.”
“What’s she like? Tell me about her.” “She’s short. A bit fat.”
“Eddie!”
“What? She is. But she’s got nice eyes. Very kind face. And she’s funny, she’s always cracking me up in the class. Brutal cook.”
“So. You’re planning to ask her out, is that right?” “I already did.”
“Really? And?”
“She said yes. We’re going out for dinner tonight.” “But that’s fantastic! She obviously likes you back.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll soon fix that. We’ve only ever spoken in the class, and there’s always something obvious to say there. ‘How did your curry turn out last week?’, you know, that kind of thing. When it’s just me on my own, I’ll make a balls of it, I know I will.”
“Nonsense. Just be yourself.” When I heard myself saying that, I recoiled a little. I got in there again before Eddie could protest. “I know, I know. Everyone always says that. But it’s true. Look, she wouldn’t have agreed to this date –”
He moaned. “Oh God. It’s a date, I’m going on a date.”
I ignored him. “She wouldn’t have agreed to this date if she wasn’t interested. You’ve got this far without the Internet. Please – put your printouts in the bin and just be your– … just be natural.”
“I don’t know, Jackie. I’ve got a bad history with being natural.”
“You’ll be fine. Has it been a while?” He looked up, aghast.
“Since your last date,” I clarified. “You could say that.”
“When was it?” “1993.”
“I see.”
“Her name was Alice. She was a district nurse, looked after my dad for a while when he had his bowel thing.”
“Where did you take her?”
“Just for a drink. I thought it might help, being a bit tipsy. Not her! I didn’t mean –”
“I know.”
“I meant me. Loosen the tongue sort of thing.” “And?”
“Oh, it loosened it all right. I told her … Jesus …” “Go on.”
“I told her that it wasn’t just me who fancied her – Dad thought she was ‘a real little ride’.”
“Oh. I see.”
“Bad enough to tell her – but to give her the exact quote! ‘A real little ride.’ I did an impression of him and everything.” He screwed his face up into what I presumed was an approximation of toothlessness and said it again in a thick Dublin accent: “‘A real little ride.’ I could tell she was disgusted, but I couldn’t stop saying it. ‘A real little –’”
“All right, Eddie, I get it.” “See? I can’t stop now even.”
“So your date went downhill from there?”
“You can say that again. Once I got on to the subject of my father, I couldn’t get off it. He was all we had in common. I wound up … Oh God …” He buried his face in his hands and didn’t emerge for some time. “I wound up asking her about other impacted colons of her experience. Was Dad’s very bad or had she seen worse?”
“What did she say?”
“She said it was about average.”
“No, I mean, did she say anything, like … Did she complain?”
“Not as such. But then again, she didn’t stick around long enough. She had two drinks – one and a half, actually – and legged it.”
“Still, you learned a lesson. When you see Margaret tonight, you’re not going to mention colons, are you, impacted or otherwise?”
I meant it as a small joke. Eddie didn’t seem to take it that way. “Christ, I hope not. But I can’t promise.”
“Do you know anything else about her? Outside of cooking?”
“Not much. She’s never been married either, I know that. She told me so on the first night of the course. Tell you the truth, I think she had the same idea as meself. Meeting someone, I mean.”
“Is she a Dub?”
“Yeah. From Drumcondra, I think, but I don’t know how I know that. She must have mentioned it at some stage.”
“And you’re a northsider, aren’t you?” “Finglas.”
“There you go. If all else fails, you can do a bit of reminiscing. Dublin in the rare oul’ times, that sort of thing.”
“Are you saying I’m old?” “No, I –”
“I’m only forty-five. And Margaret’s younger than you are.” I did my best not to look astonished, but I could tell by Eddie’s sudden frown that I had failed. “What?” he said.
“Nothing, nothing. Good for you.”
“She’s not a teenager, you know. About thirty, thirty-two, I’d say.”
This changed everything. I’d had a very clear image of Margaret in my head; sensible cardigan, bag of Murray Mints, subscription to Ireland’s Own. Now I didn’t know what to think.
“Anyway, her age doesn’t matter. The principle’s still the same. Show a bit interest in her, Eddie. Ask questions. And not yes or no-type questions – something that will get a bit of a spark going. Find out about her history, where she’s been, what she’s done with her life. You might find that you’ve got lots in common. Throw in a few details about yourself, but don’t bang on and on. It’s not rocket science. I mean, you’re talking to me just fine, aren’t you? Forget about these bloody websites.”
“You’re right,” he said. “I know you’re right. I’m over- thinking it.”
“Exactly.”
“What about jokes? I’ve been practising a few. There’s a good one about a leper who enters a talent –”
“I don’t know, Eddie. I think funny anecdotes are a better bet.”
“I haven’t got any.”
“The one about the district nurse was pretty good.” He gave me a mock dirty look.
“But you probably shouldn’t tell her that one,” I added, just to make sure.
“I know.”
I looked at my watch. It was time to make tracks. “Listen, Eddie, I really have to run. Thanks again for your … support. And for not calling the cops on me.”
“Don’t mention it. Thank you for the advice. I hope you feel better soon. Well, obviously, I know you’re not going to feel great, are you, after that kind of thing, but I hope –”
“I know what you mean, Eddie. Thanks.” I got up from the table, wrestling with a sudden whim. What the hell, I thought, and went into my bag for a pen. “Here’s my mobile number,” I said, scribbling on his printout. “Give me a bell and let me know how you get on with Margaret.”
He looked up at me with real gratitude. “I will. I definitely will.”
“Good luck,” I said and left him.
On the way back to my car, I texted Gerry and told him where he could find the jeep.
CHAPTER 11
The front door opened within two seconds of my ringing the bell. Either Melissa had been waiting behind it the entire time or she’d done some serious sprinting.
“Where were you?” she said, and then in a much softer voice, “You were ages, I was worried.”
“I’ll tell you if you let me inside.”
She stepped out of the w
ay. “Sorry, sorry. Go on into the kitchen, I’ll put the kettle on.”
I glanced behind me as I went down the hall. She had a curious expression on her face. I didn’t recognise it at first – and then it dawned on me: she was eagerly anticipating having a conversation with me. I’d forgotten what that looked like.
Melissa shook her head almost continually throughout my story and even managed a guttural “Nooo!” at one stage – the crashing the car into the pillar stage, obviously. She was clearly shocked by my actions but excited too. Every so often, she would realise that she wearing a smile and abruptly wipe it off.
“How do you feel now?” she asked when I was finished. “Better?”
That was the answer she wanted to hear, so I gave it to her in a thick mumble. “A wee bit, I suppose.”
“Don’t tell me you feel bad about it. Jesus Christ. You were bound to lash out after what you’ve been through.”
“Maybe.”
“And he probably expected you to do something. Chances are he won’t even be all that shocked.”
“You reckon?”
“And even if he is! So what? You’re not thinking straight. How could you be?”
“I’m not. I’m not thinking straight.”
“Of course not. Look at you, you’re a bag of nerves.”
I’d been fiddling with my cup, rather than drinking from it. In truth, I was full of tea and didn’t want any more. But, once again, I let Melissa think what she liked.
“And you finally had a good cry, that’s progress,” she said. “Even if it was in front of some stranger weirdo.”
“Eddie’s not a weirdo,” I said, regretting my earlier description of him. “He’s just a bit shy and …” I couldn’t think of another word that did the job.
“Whatever,” Melissa said. “Listen, maybe you should have a lie-down. Just twenty winks.”
I looked up, stunned. “Just twenty winks” was a phrase from our childhood. My mother used to say it to us all the time when we’d done too much running around and were getting cranky: I think it’s time for twenty winks. Later, Melissa and I adopted it for our own ends. We’d mumble it to each other over the phone when we’d been out and were a little worse for wear: “Can’t wait to get home and have twenty winks.” She hadn’t said it to me in years.
