And she drained her glass, followed by Maggie. I said ‘no’ to another one just then – although there was a pleasant lightness dancing between my ears. Something was nagging at me, though: was Georgie just being careful, waiting for Maggie’s seal of approval before telling me that her father was the landlord? Or was this how people at the centre of the universe behaved, by keeping secrets?
I didn’t care. Possibilities were everywhere. I had a surge of anticipation about the future, one I had never even dared to imagine. The distance between the me right then, and the me of my other life was growing as we spoke. And it blossomed with only a little guilt to season it. I remember asking myself: is this all it takes? Are you really that shallow, Claire from Clare?
It seemed that Maggie was talking to me. More glasses littered the table-top, the ashtray was full and the bar was suddenly crowded with people. The evening had been slipping away from me and I hadn’t noticed.
‘Claire?’
‘Sorry – Maggie, miles away’
‘Fag?’
I hesitated. The lightness inside my head was changing to something fuzzy and dark. It was unpleasant, like the dizziness you get just before you faint. ‘No, thanks. Not now.’ I needed to keep my hands very still.
‘You okay?’ She was looking at me closely. Georgie was trying to catch the lounge boy’s eye.
‘I’m fine. Just a bit wrecked.’
‘You don’t need to stick it out till the bitter end, you know.’ She grinned. ‘We won’t talk about you when you’re gone.’
‘Really?’ I asked.
‘Well, no,’ she admitted. ‘But you have nothing to fear. I’ve never known Georgie to take so kindly to anyone before. And,’ she said, lighting her cigarette and leaning towards me while Georgie was busy ordering another round, ‘I should know. We’ve been best friends since our first day at primary school. Nobody knows her better than I do.’
I nodded. ‘That’s a long time to be friends,’ was all I could manage. Maggie’s face was friendly, but her tone had an edge to it. Territory was being staked here. She was warning me what the boundaries were. Or perhaps it was the Guinness. I’ve never been any good at drinking. It makes me paranoid. ‘And you?’ I asked. ‘Are you happy enough that I’m moving in?’
‘’Course! It’ll be fun. I’m looking forward to it.’ But she turned away from me as Georgie handed her her pint. I didn’t know what to think.
Maggie and Georgie walked me to the bus stop, three pints of Guinness sloshing around inside me. They shared a bag of chips. I couldn’t even look at them and the vinegar fumes didn’t help my restless stomach, either. But I felt as though I’d completed a rite of passage. It seemed that Claire the Responsible had left herself behind, somewhere between the Buttery, the English Department and O’Neill’s pub. The Bermuda Triangle where family baggage came to sink and die.
Even then, I thought about how strange life is, how random the coincidences are that shape our lives. I watched the welcome approach of the Rathfarnham bus.
‘You sure you’re okay?’ Georgie’s face loomed in front of mine.
‘Fine.’
‘We’ll see you Monday, then, right?’ Maggie said. ‘Unless we can get in to see the flat at the weekend. Here’s a phone number in case you want to ring us.’ She pushed a bit of paper into the pocket of my jacket. I didn’t bother trying to explain about the babysitting. I stepped up on to the platform of the bus.
‘Take care, Claire – okay?’ Georgie called.
I waved. Maggie waved back.
I sat on the long seat at the side, one hand clutching the cold, stainless steel pole. I remember hoping that I’d make it home in one piece. I was afraid of making a show of myself by getting sick on the number sixteen bus.
Half an hour later, I straightened up. The bushes on either side of me snagged on the material of my jacket. I had no tissue, so I used the back of my hand. My mouth felt sour and hot but I felt a whole lot better. I was grateful for suburban roads and quiet cul-de-sacs. No one wants to puke in public. As it was, the only witnesses were abandoned tricycles, the occasional scooter and a couple of legless dolls in an overgrown front garden.
I felt free and happy and empty. The unruly grass had just accepted, without complaint, almost six years’ worth of loss, sadness, and the hot, bitter bile of guilt.
I stepped it out then, all the way back to my digs, feeling that with each foot forward, the best of my life was just beginning.
December the eighth. The Feast of the Immaculate Conception. And my birthday. I was on my way to our housewarming. I say ‘our’, although I hadn’t yet moved into the flat at number 12, Rathmines Road. That would happen after the weekend. Carol, my landlady, was less than pleased. But my Aunty Kate had told me she’d get over it.
‘Never apologize, never explain,’ she’d said to me when I rang her. ‘You’re only eighteen once. And Carol might be an old friend, but she’s had enough free babysitting. Do whatever it is you want. It’s your life.’
I always listened to my Aunty Kate. She said the things I most wanted to hear. And I figured that she knew what she was talking about. That year, the year that I turned eighteen, Kate was already forty-six. She was the only unmarried daughter on my father’s side, the one who’d looked after an endless succession of elderly relatives, the sort of burdens every family seems to have, and no siblings want to share.
First Kate took care of her own parents – my grandparents – then a sad and terminally ill brother, and finally the ailing and distantly related Uncle Mick, who’d arrived out of the blue years back. His own son, ‘young Michael’, who had to have been about sixty at the time, literally dumped him on Kate’s doorstep. ‘For the weekend, just. Me an’ the missus need a break,’ and then never came back to collect him. Fucked off to England, was Kate’s verdict, and without his missus, too, she said, grimly, but unfortunately with someone else’s. By the time Uncle Mick had ‘shuffled off his mortal coil’, according to Kate, the years and the wrinkles had both caught up with her and she ended up forty and lonely. She was the only one in the family – in fact, the only one in the whole town and county, I used to think – who consistently refused to blacken my mother’s name after she abandoned us. Even when her own brother, Don, my father, threatened never to speak to her again.
When Kate said, ‘It’s your life,’ she meant it. Mostly because she had never had one of her own. I had already decided that mine was going to be different. All it had taken was less than three months in the company of Georgie and Maggie to teach me what I no longer wanted. No turf fires for me, no elderly men sitting in corners smelling of stale tobacco, no suffocating neighbourly concern. On that December night, I could feel my mother’s startling presence at one shoulder and my Aunty Kate’s at the other. The twin goddesses of rural disappointments. The one who got away and the one who didn’t. The smallness of their lives pushed me forward that night, across the Rathmines Road, up the garden path of number 12, up the steps to a door that led on to light and space and rooms rocking to the beat of sound and freedom.
My new boots might have pinched a little, but my black maxi skirt was thrilling. My cream silk gypsy top was clingy and rib-bony and frothy. I was showing a lot of cleavage, too, for me. I could hardly wait to plunge headlong into that party.
Maggie hugged me as she opened the door. Her eyes were huge, glinting; her face looked even livelier than ever. ‘Claire,’ she said, reaching for my hand, pulling me towards her. ‘We’ve missed you. Come on in. Things are just getting going!’
I followed her down the hallway. I had to step carefully among the bikes and bags of coal and the long blue-jeaned legs of what seemed like dozens of boys sitting on the floor. They were all deep in conversation. I remember how intense the atmosphere felt and how badly lit the hallway was. Maggie had said they were going to keep the lights turned low as the downstairs hadn’t been painted in years. I heard words like ‘Marxist-Leninist’, ‘proletariat’, ‘capitalism’. It wasn’t
easy to look as if I belonged, but I did my best. Claire from Clare: just-born, confident, woman of-the-world. My first real party. One that didn’t involve twelve pots of tea, second cousins and home-made cakes and buns. I felt that the whole house had a pulse-beat that night. My mouth had dried up and my heart had begun to pound, keeping time with Sting whining not to stand so close to him. Just as Maggie was about to go into the front room she paused, her hand on the jamb of the door. I stopped abruptly, almost running into her. Her bare shoulder was about level with my elbow.
She looked up at me. ‘If you don’t wanna smoke, just say it makes you sick, right?’
I nodded, having no idea why she was so concerned, why she was whispering like that. I still didn’t feel at ease with Maggie, although on nights like tonight, I could feel the atmosphere thawing. And as for smoking or not smoking: it never bothered me, one way or the other. Besides, I was saving hard and cigarettes were still easy to give up.
‘Okay’ I said, wanting to humour her. I followed her inside. ‘I’ll just leave this beer in the kitchen. Give me a sec’
The kitchen table was crammed with bottles of Pedrotti and Hirondelle, Blue Nun and Black Tower. Cans of Tuborg and flagons of cider crowded across every other surface: the counter, the draining-board, and even the floor. Someone had filled the stained stainless-steel sink with cold water, and emptied the contents of the ice-tray on top of bobbing cans of Carlsberg Special. There was also the occasional naggin of vodka, flanked by bottles of soda water and Rose’s lime cordial. I realized that I was starving – but there was no food to be seen anywhere. I felt a pang of regret that I’d refused Carol’s spag bol in my hurry to be gone. I followed Maggie into the living room, which was heaving. There were bodies everywhere: standing, lying and hunkered down. The air was silver and thick and sweet-smelling.
Maggie shrugged her shoulders at me. ‘Oh, yeah,’ she said, ‘and emmm . . . just ignore the Midnight Cowboy, right?’
I can still see him if I close my eyes, and to this day, I have no idea what his name was. A big guy, wearing a cowboy hat – and precious little else. That is all I saw when I looked at him first, and it’s what I remember best now. The dark, brim-curling cowboy hat that hid all his features, and seemed to cast a shadow over half the room. His chest was bare-white, wisped here and there with ginger hair. Then I saw the underpants. And the tooled-leather boots. He looked up briefly as the door opened. Almost immediately, his chin drifted down towards his chest again. His grip on the can of Tuborg never loosened, though, never faltered. He was splayed in one of the chairs in Georgie’s and Maggie’s – and soon to be my – flat. His skin was pale, almost translucent, and it stood out luridly against the greenish-mustard velour of the sagging armchair. Party guests drifted in and out, moving around the bizarre cowboy-hatted spectacle as though they’d seen it all before. And maybe they had. Gradually, the traffic between the rooms became more purposeful. Then it dawned on me that there were maybe a dozen people there, passing around the thin cigarettes that I quickly learned were dope.
I do remember that I’d felt a bit shy at first as I settled myself on to the floor, until I realized that there was no need to be. I was as ignored as the silent, ginger-haired Midnight Cowboy.
‘Try some.’
I heard Georgie’s voice, sounding somewhat strangled as she passed me a soggy joint. I hesitated, but she nodded. ‘Test the Cinderella Syndrome,’ she encouraged. Her boyfriend, Danny, waved at me, then put his arm around Georgie’s waist. He was taller than she was, his dark hair long and thick, dragged back into an untidy pony-tail. He wore a black T-shirt with ‘The Clash’ stretched tight across his broad chest. For a moment, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. His physical presence was intense. I remembered feeling the same way, too, the first time I’d met him, sitting in O’Neill’s with Georgie. He’d burst through the door that afternoon, and I was immediately reminded of Maggie making one of her entrances. All heads had turned in his direction. As he approached, it was clear he had eyes only for Georgie. Then he turned and saw me and seemed to quieten a little. But I couldn’t help feeling that there was something edgy about him, some restless undercurrent I had never come across before, but was still able to recognize. Tribal memory, perhaps. Some sort of genetic warning to women, telling us to steer clear of dangerous men. I think I probably stared at him on that afternoon. I couldn’t help it.
‘Danny, meet Claire,’ Georgie said. ‘Claire, meet Danny’ Her voice had been almost expressionless. It took me a second to recover. And I knew that Georgie had seen me looking. I turned towards her and she returned my gaze, one eyebrow lifting. See? Her expression seemed to say. Told you I only went for the best specimens. On that night, the night of the party, Danny looked away from me almost at once. He pulled Georgie towards him, his mouth softly and insistently at her ear. That gesture spoke to me of ownership, reassurance, the sort of intimacy I had never had. Watching them both, I felt a knife-edge of exclusion, a reminder that I was still single, still the naive and inexperienced girl from Clare.
‘I’m afraid it’s too late.’ I laughed, waving away Georgie’s hand. I was trying desperately to hide my self-consciousness. ‘It’s already well after ten o’clock.’ But Georgie didn’t move. She kept holding out the joint, looking at me. ‘Oh, what the hell?’ I said finally, and took it from her.
‘Remember – it’s not like a fag,’ she warned me. ‘Hold the smoke in your lungs for as long as you’re able. Then, let it out slowly, as slowly as you can. And then you can pass it along. I’m finished. You look fab, by the way’
I smiled my thanks and took a long drag – longer than I intended. My throat began to burn, my eyes watered almost at once. I had the most tremendous desire to cough, but I did as Georgie had told me. I held the smoke in my lungs, feeling as though something inside me was about to burst, hot and gritty and lava-like. Then I let go, not very slowly, it has to be said, but more by way of a hoarse bark. I took a minute to recover, coughing and rasping. But nobody seemed to notice, except Georgie. She was watching me and I shrugged. ‘Nothing’s happening,’ I said, as I passed the joint along to eager fingers on my right. I felt strangely disappointed. In my new frame of mind, I expected every experience to be explosive, life-enhancing, spectacular. I did not want to deal with the bland or the pedestrian. Give me wonder or give me tragedy.
Georgie grinned, her eyes now as wide as Maggie’s. ‘Wait a minute, Claire,’ she said, her head nodding sagely. ‘Be patient. Just wait a wee minute and you’ll see.’
I did wait. I can’t say that I was patient, though. I had toke after toke, probably more than my share, but nobody commented. By that stage, most people had begun to inhabit a private universe of one. And then, without warning, all was revealed. My head seemed to part company from the rest of my body and it became light and free and insubstantial. I heard somebody laugh and realized that it was me. I looked around. I wanted to see how things had changed in the longest time it had taken for me to inhale, exhale and sit back, resting my loose and exhausted shoulders against the wall behind me. Then I closed my eyes. I had to. The last thing I saw was Georgie’s face smiling over at me, her expression full of meaning and her blue eyes brimming with significance.
I heard slivers of conversation and the shrapnel of argument. Almost at once, I was consumed by the notion that those around me, the whole room, even Georgie and Maggie, were talking about me and pointing the finger in a way I hadn’t experienced since I was twelve. At the same time, the world – my own, physical world – started to lurch alarmingly. I snapped my eyes open, except that the snapping seemed to take a very long time indeed. I hadn’t eaten since lunch at twelve, so my stomach couldn’t be churning, but it was. I tried to stand up, but my legs wanted to crumple and I needed to laugh in that tearful, hysterical way that made my chest tighten in panic and my palms begin to sweat.
Anyhow, after what seemed like hours, maybe even days, I felt Georgie on one side of me and Maggie on the other. They hauled me to
my feet, staggered me out into the kitchen, over to the back door. I took in great gulps of air, but the smoke and soot suspended in the calm and frosty night made me want to retch. I felt the awful dizziness that meant I was going to pass out. Black spots darted across my eyes and a buzzing began in my ears. Above its noise I could hear myself moaning softly. Someone called Paul unfolded himself from a kitchen chair and I was put sitting on it. Someone else, and here I think I sensed Maggie’s gentle palm, pressed on the back of my neck and my head descended towards my knees. I found myself admiring the black swirls on my new skirt. A glass of water found its way into my hands and by then I was able to sit up and sip. Little by little, I began to feel better. Georgie was smoking a cigarette, her eyes a startling navy in a wide, pale face.
Maggie shook her head at me. I noticed that her lips were beautifully defined, the scarlet lipstick glossy and sensual. ‘I told you it would make you sick,’ she said. Which was not quite what she had said, but never mind. I was grateful to her anyhow. And now, someone else again, Georgie, I think, was rubbing their hands up and down my back. Inside my head quietened and my stomach began to settle, retreating from my ribcage. Paul – he of the kitchen chair – handed me a rather dirty white cup with a teabag floating in scummy water. Once Maggie poured the milk in, though, it began to look better. She fished out the teabag by one protruding corner. ‘Ouch,’ she said, ‘it’s hot. Here, drink this.’
And I did. Hot, sweet tea. I felt comforted, happy even in the middle of my sickness. I felt as though I’d come home, that these people would look after me and wouldn’t abandon me. It was as though a great expansiveness had just wound its arms around me. I had fallen in love with the whole world, and the whole world had fallen in love with me.
‘You’re looking much better now,’ Georgie said, and smoothed my hair back from my forehead with one cool, competent hand. ‘Think you’d better stick to the Guinness, though,’ she whispered, bending low towards my ear so that I was the only one who could possibly hear her. Her grin was wicked, and I knew that she was remembering the night of our first meeting.
At a Time Like This Page 3
