“So, I’ll see you,” I say, dipping my head to him in farewell.
He’s still leaning against the wall, trying to catch his breath. For a split second he seems taken aback by my abrupt departure, and then his cheeks redden like before.
“Yeah, see you, Bluebird,” he replies with a sombre smile.
Feeling him follow me out onto the street, I turn right at St. Steven’s Green in the direction of home. For a while it feels like he’s still behind me, but a minute or two later when I summon up the courage to look, he’s gone.
Perhaps it wasn’t that he dreamt me. Perhaps I was the one who dreamt him.
Two
I live in an area of inner-city Dublin known as “the Liberties.” There’s a historical reason for the name, but essentially it’s similar to what they call “the Projects” in America. The name is ironic, because there’s little that’s liberating about living here. In fact, it often feels like the opposite way around.
My house is on a street close to St. Patrick’s Cathedral, a short walk from where I had the encounter with my nameless stranger. I smell his cologne on me, something citrus and fresh. His spit and his sweat linger, too. It dawns on me that I never even asked him his name. When a soft breeze floats up my dress, I remember that he still has my knickers stuck in his suit pocket.
The street is empty, apart from a group of teenage boys hanging out at the end of the row of houses. I eye them as I pull the front door key from my pocket and notice a familiar red baseball cap. Oh, it better fucking not be. Taking a closer look, I see that it is him, my fifteen-year-old brother Pete. For the last year or so he’s been hanging out with a bad crowd. It’s been an absolute nightmare trying to keep him on the straight and narrow.
Opening the house door, I drop my box down in the hallway and then march my way toward the group. They all begin nudging each other as they see me approach, and then Pete turns around, a gigantic scowl on his face.
“Get home now,” I tell him firmly, allowing my gaze to touch on each individual present.
You can’t be eye-shy with these little shits. You have to show them that you mean business. It’s scary, because they’re all taller than I am and most likely carrying weapons, but when you strip that away, all you have left are scared little boys living in a world with no privileges. Some of them are a good deal older than Pete, too, maybe even eighteen or nineteen. And when eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds are befriending boys Pete’s age, you know there’s some variety of grooming going on.
“Piss off, Jade. I’ll go home when I’m ready,” Pete hisses.
Not bothering to retort, because I’m tired and want to go to bed, I simply step forward, twist his arm behind his back in a simple lock, and drag him away.
“Hey, let go, you fucking strong bitch,” he yells, clawing at my hand.
It’s true — I may not look it, but I am pretty strong, mainly because I practice Tai Chi twice a week at my local community centre. A lot of people don’t know that it isn’t all about waving your arms through the air and meditating. It’s actually a martial art as well. My teacher is a really cool hippy lady from France who only charges a small fee for the classes.
A lanky, well-built boy steps up and spits just short of my feet, a snakelike grin shaping one end of his mouth. He gives me a squint-eyed look that only the truly inbred can do justice, and calls, “Your sister’s a fucking freak, Pete. Why don’t you give her a slap and teach her a lesson?”
“I’ll give you a bloody slap,” I shout back. “And don’t be getting mouthy — I know your mother!”
I have no clue who his mother is, but it’s a tried and tested threat that always works to put wayward teenagers in their places.
He spits on the ground one more time for good measure just as I shove Pete into the house and slam shut the door.
When we’re inside he pulls away from me, cheeks red, clearly fuming. “Why’d you have to do that? You made a complete show of me, Jade!”
“Good! If it keeps you away from scum like that, I’ll be happy to make a show of you every day for the rest of your life.” I pause, hand on my hip, taking in his appearance. He’s got grey bags under his eyes and looks paler than usual. I’ve been suspicious that he’s started smoking and selling marijuana, but I don’t yet have any proof. “Is this what you want for yourself? Do you know how long most teenagers who deal drugs last before they get caught and sent to prison, Pete? Not very long, let me tell you, especially considering how idiotically dumb most of them are.”
“You’re the dumb one. You haven’t got a clue about anything. I hate you.”
“If I’m the dumb one, then what does that make your aesthetically challenged friend out there?”
Pete mouths the words “aesthetically” and “challenged” to himself like a question, shaking his head.
“Whatever, Jade. Damo knows his stuff. He’s headed for big things. He’s also going to set me up with some work. I’ll make a tonne of money.”
“The only big thing Damo’s headed for is slopping out in Mountjoy Prison. And if I see you anywhere near that tool again, you’ll regret it. Now get to bed.”
“Fuck you.”
I roll my eyes. “Ah, so sweet. Get to bed. Now.”
With that, he turns on his heel and stomps loudly up the stairs. I drop down onto the last step and breathe an exhausted sigh.
My mother died four years ago from lung cancer. She lived a hard life and smoked like a chimney, so it was only to be expected that the big “C” would take her. I miss her every day. Her death meant that at the ripe young age of twenty-two I had to step up and become the guardian of my three younger siblings. Alec is twenty-one now, so I don’t need to worry about him anymore, but I still have fifteen-year-old Pete and April, who’s seventeen, to look out for.
I know, lucky me.
I love them like crazy, but they aren’t little babies any longer, and sometimes it’s a lot to deal with. The two of them are going to send me into an early grave one of these days.
The situation with Pete is pretty much self-explanatory, given the fight we just had; he’s a confused, angry young man who lost his mother too soon. But April I worry about for another reason entirely. There’s been a couple of men way too old for her sniffing around. I feel like a guard dog half the time, barking at them to keep away.
Speaking of dogs, our family Jack Russell terrier, Specky, is trotting her way down the hall to me. We all named her Specky because she’s got two little patches of brown around her eyes that look like a pair of glasses. She nuzzles my hand and I pet her soft head, picking her up and carrying her with me to my room. I don’t normally sleep with her, but after what just transpired with Pete, I feel like I need her company.
“I was with a man tonight, Specky,” I confide, and she lets out a little yip upon hearing her name. “He just might be the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”
Inside my room, I plop Specky down on the bed and strip off my clothes. I use a makeup wipe to remove the rest of the paint from my face and hands, but it seems I’ve sweated most of it off already anyway.
Climbing under the cool sheets, I rest my head on the pillow, and Specky snuggles into me. Seconds after I close my eyes, I’m dead to the world.
At ten o’clock the next morning, my alarm clock chimes and I reach out, grumpily shutting it off. My shift at the concert hall doesn’t start until twelve, so I allow myself an extra half an hour’s sleep. When the scent of male cologne hits my nose, memories from last night come flooding back to me in vivid detail. His hand on my breast, his mouth on my neck, his eyes on my eyes. Smouldering.
It was unlike any casual sexual encounter I’ve ever had. I mean, the sex was actually good — really good. And considering it happened in a dirty alleyway, standing up, that’s saying something.
Once I’m thinking of these things, I can’t get back to sleep, so I get up, throw on a robe, and shuffle my way into the bathroom to take a shower. As usual at this time on a Sunday morn
ing, the house is blessedly silent.
I work through my morning routine: shower, dress, breakfast, and by eleven-thirty I’m out the door. The walk to work takes fifteen minutes, so I go slowly, perusing the news headlines in a corner shop and buying a packet of mints.
I’m on duty in the first-floor bar today. There’s a lunchtime concert on, attracting elderly and middle-aged couples mostly. Young people don’t really go in for classical music, which is a shame, because getting to listen to it on a weekly basis has become something of a love affair for me. Just the sound of it gives me hope for a better life for me and my siblings. A life where I don’t have to worry about my kid brother going to prison or my teenage sister falling pregnant.
It’s funny that I’ve become the parent figure in our house, because I’m actually the only member of my family with a different father from the others. That’s why there’s a slight gap in our ages. My dad was a plumber from Galway whom my mother met at the wedding of a mutual friend. Two months after I was born, he got knocked over by a car and killed while walking home from the shop.
My siblings’ father’s name is Patrick. Unfortunately, he’s still alive. I don’t mean to sound callous, but it would probably be better for all of us if he weren’t.
He’s a drinker and a gambler who lives with his girlfriend, Greta, on the other side of the city in East Wall. Every once in a while he’ll show up looking for money, or a place to stay if he and Greta have had a fight. I can’t stand the man.
Making my way inside the building, I slip in the back and put my bag away. Then I head out to the bar. The place is already filling up, and I serve the patrons their drinks. A whole lot of white wine (for the middle-aged couples) and orange/cranberry juices/tea (for the elderly.) Once the concert begins and everybody’s in the main hall, I go to take a break and have a chat with my friend Lara, who works in the box office out front most days.
We sit down in the staff room with a cup of tea and some sandwiches, Lara telling me about her three-year-old daughter’s latest attempt to escape her crèche. When Lara works during the day, she has to use child-minding services, and little Mia is constantly trying to run away from them.
“I don’t blame her,” I tell Lara, laughing. “I wouldn’t trust some of the women they employ in those places to mind my dog, let alone my child. I remember Mum tried putting April in a crèche when she was little, and she took her out of it after only a week, said the workers were way too pushy and shouty.”
“God, that’s the perfect way to describe them. But I haven’t got another choice at this point,” she says, rubbing at her temples. “It’s a nightmare.”
“Hey, maybe I could get April to babysit for you. You know she finished school a couple of months ago and still hasn’t managed to find a job. That way Mia could be kept at home where she’s comfortable. I bet it’s the strange environment and all the other kids that upset her.”
“That’s actually not a bad idea. Run it by April and see what she says.”
I smile and sip on my tea, feeling like I’ve just killed two birds with one stone. This babysitting thing will help out Lara, and will also keep April busy and away from all those older men.
“So, did you go out busking last night?” Lara asks, breaking my thoughts.
“Yep. Made eighty quid. Not too shabby. It was a godsend, actually. I’m screwed money-wise for at least the next month. The bills just keep piling up.”
“Ugh, I know the feeling.”
Soon it’s time for the intermission, so I make my way back out to the bar. A man in his fifties wearing a wedding band orders two glasses of pinot grigio and eyes the top of my shirt, where there’s a small hint of cleavage showing. He tells me I have nice hair and very pretty green eyes. I take all his compliments with a polite but reserved smile, wishing older men wouldn’t always pigeonhole me as the young blonde they can have a wild, midlife crisis–style affair with. I seem to put out certain vibes without being aware of it, because I get hit on by these types all the time.
Once the concert ends, the building slowly empties out, and I go about cleaning up and restocking the bar for the evening event. Lara and I take the same break again, and chat some more about this and that.
Hours later my shift is almost done when the floor manager, Ciaran, comes and asks if I’ll make up refreshments for the musicians, who will be spending some time at the bar once the building has finally been emptied of patrons. I give him a quick nod and begin preparing some water and juices, alongside a couple bottles of wine. I also set out some peanuts and crisps in case they’re feeling peckish.
Slowly, the men and women from the symphony start filling the seats by the bar. Noeleen, one of the trumpeters, slides into the stool in front of me and asks for a shot of vodka. She’s a talkative middle-aged woman with red hair, and one of the few musicians who I’m on first-name terms with. She’s one of those people who will chat with anyone; there could be a three-year-old sitting beside her, and she’d start telling the kid about her recent colonic. I like that about her.
I chat with her for a minute before I get swept up serving drinks. I’ve just handed two men their glasses of orange juice when I feel someone’s eyes on me. Glancing quickly up, I get the most unexpected surprise.
For a short while time seems to move in slow motion, because standing before me is my next customer, who also happens to be my handsome stranger from last night. I pray that he doesn’t recognise me without the face paint, but the look in his eyes tells me he knows exactly who I am. How long has he been watching me? More to the point, what on earth is he doing here?
Three
My voice comes out scratchy when I say, “Uh, hi, what can I get you?”
He tilts his head, eyes hot, perusing me from top to bottom before he allows his gaze to rest on my face. Suddenly, I feel flushed in my work blouse and skirt.
“Hey, Bluebird,” he says, voice low. “Isn’t this a surprise? I’ll have a gin and tonic, if you don’t mind.”
I nod and go about making up his drink. A surprise is right. One of the violinists takes a stool beside him. I recognise her because she sits in the lobby a lot, drinking fancy coffees and reading bridal magazines. I once asked Noeleen when her wedding is, but my trumpeter friend simply gave me a wry look and shook her head, telling me the woman’s name is Avery and that she’s not getting married, she’s just obsessed with weddings. It made me feel really sorry for her when I heard that.
She’s got straight brown hair and nice eyes, but a slightly long nose that makes her face less conventionally attractive than it would be otherwise.
“Hi, Shane,” she greets my stranger politely. “How did you find things? If you need any help getting settled, just say the word.”
Shane. Now I know his name and why he’s here. He’s in the orchestra. He must have taken the place of the violinist who left. It dawns on me that I had sex with a man who can create the beautiful music that bewitches me. Suddenly, I feel this urgent need to witness him play, to see him hold his instrument with those skilled hands of his. I shake myself out of the thought.
Shane turns to her with a pleasant smile. “I had a great first night, thanks, Avery,” he says, his eyes landing on me for a moment as he continues in a low voice, “And it just got better.”
Avery misinterprets his statement as being directed at her, blushing and letting out a delighted titter. Now I feel bad. Oh, well, I’ll let her enjoy it. I set Shane’s gin and tonic down on the bar and then look to her to see what she wants.
“Oh, could I have a sparkling water, please?”
“Sure, hon,” I reply, turning to the fridge to grab a bottle. I slide a slice of lemon onto the rim of a glass, pour in some ice, snap open the lid of the bottle, and put them down in front of her. All the while I can feel Shane’s attention on me like a warm caress.
Everybody seems to be set for the time being, so I wipe down the counter and turn to talk with Noeleen again. I think I see Shane perk his ears up to listen in
to our conversation.
“What was the symphony you played tonight?” I ask her while drying glasses. “I know I know it, but my brain is on a go-slow.”
“It was Beethoven’s Ninth,” she answers. “What did you think of the choir?”
“What I could hear from the bar sounded wonderful.”
“I agree,” she says, sipping on her wine. “My hand didn’t act up, either, so it was an enjoyable performance all ’round.”
I give her a sympathetic look. Noeleen has some wear and tear damage in her fingers from years playing the trumpet. Her doctor says that it’s most likely only going to get worse as time goes on; however, it doesn’t stop her from playing. She’s been in various orchestras for more than two decades now.
“Isn’t there anything the specialists can do about it?”
“There are some therapies, but mostly they just throw painkillers at me and hope for the best.”
Shaking my head, I turn to serve a man who’s asking for a red wine. Shane’s voice fills my ears then, requesting, “Oh, barkeep, could I get another gin and tonic?”
I give him a polite smile, wondering if he’s trying to be funny with the “barkeep” bit. “Sure.”
Avery chats away to him about brands of strings for the violin. As I’m about to slide the glass across the bar, he instead reaches forward and takes it from my hand, allowing his fingers to touch mine briefly. My face gets hot and flushed. It’s like we’ve switched places. Last night I was in the driving seat, and now he is. It’s just really thrown me for a loop to see him here.
I never thought I’d see him again, to be perfectly honest. I mean, it’s one thing to proposition a guy on the street in the middle of the night, but it’s another entirely to have him show up at your place of work. Not only that, but he works here as well.
Still Life with Strings Page 2
