Walking the Dog

by Bernard Maclaverty

  ‘They’re after our toast crumbs,’ he said. They seemed to be forming a line to and from the table, clustering round a crumb or an almond flake from a biscuit. There were too many now to start killing them.

  ‘Just let them be,’ said Maureen. ‘It’s not as if they bite.’

  Jimmy was following the line to its source. Down the table leg and across the kitchen floor to the jamb of the bathroom door. There was a millimetre gap between the wood and the tiles and ants were disappearing into it. Others were coming out.

  ‘There must be a nest somewhere.’

  ‘Or a hill,’ said Maureen.

  ‘Maybe they’ve been on this route for ten million years,’ he said. ‘Somebody just built this place in their way fifty years ago. This is their track – why should they change just because some bastard of a developer puts a house in their way.’

  She poured two coffees and set one on the table for him. She side-stepped the shifting black line of ants and said,

  ‘They do no harm to anybody.’

  He decided to watch one – it seemed sure of itself heading away from the table with news of food. It came face to face with others and seemed to kiss, swerve, carry on. Away from the main line there were outriders exploring – wandering aimlessly while in the main line the ants moved like blood cells in a vein.

  ‘There’s no point in killing one or two. The whole thing is the organism. It would be like trying to murder somebody cell by cell.’

  ‘Just let them be.’

  ‘The almond crumbs are yours,’ he said but still he flicked ants from his bare feet whenever he felt them there.

  The next day they went to the beach and sat in the same place. Jimmy looked around and saw that Jilly Cooper, Catherine Cookson and Elizabeth Jane Howard were just behind him.

  ‘We’re all creatures of habit,’ he said. ‘It’s as bad as the fucking staff room.’ The mid-day sun made the sand hot to the touch. Maureen had moved from Factor Fifteen and was putting on Factor Six. He did her back for her and she lay down.

  ‘We agreed not to talk about things like that.’

  ‘Okay – okay.’

  ‘Until we get back.’

  They lay there roasting for about thirty minutes, Maureen flat out, Jimmy resting on his elbows taking in the view. He had bought a white floppy hat with little or no brim and a pair of sun-glasses in the Supermercado. The glasses gave him greater freedom to look around without noticeably moving his head.

  ‘The Germans are absent,’ he said, ‘and no note.’

  ‘Which Germans?’

  ‘The Velcro Germans.’

  ‘I didn’t realise they were Germans. What is the Assistant Head’s particular interest there?’

  ‘Nothing. They just haven’t turned up.’

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘The girl is a class act – a bit magnificent.’

  Maureen laughed and rubbed a little cream onto her nose with her little finger.

  ‘Do you fancy a walk?’ she said.

  ‘Yeah sure.’ He put on his shirt and let it hang out over his shorts and they walked to the rocky cliff at the far end of the beach. People here were brown and mostly Spanish-speaking. There was a lot of laughing and shouting.

  ‘It seems to be compulsory not to listen. People all speak at the same time.’

  ‘That’s because you don’t have the faintest idea what they’re saying. Two people from Derry would sound just the same – if you didn’t know – if your English . . .’

  ‘They just seem to interrupt each other all the time.’

  They swam off the rocks and the water seemed warmer than the previous day. As they walked back across the beach Jimmy took Maureen’s hand. They nudged up against each other and fleetingly she put her head against his shoulder.

  ‘This is so good,’ she said. ‘I like Public Displays of Affection – no matter what you say.’

  ‘Why does it matter when nobody knows us?’

  ‘I know us,’ she said. ‘Sometimes you can be so bloody parochial.’

  In the middle of the afternoon the German couple arrived and sat down about three feet to the left of the spot where they had been the day before. From behind his sunglasses Jimmy watched the girl undress. Today she wore the bottom half of a white bikini. He heard the boy use her name. Heidrun, he called her. Jimmy tried to nod hello to her but she didn’t notice. She shook out, then spread a large towel, adjusting and flattening the corners. All her attention was taken up with her friend.

  ‘They might as well be on a deserted beach in Donegal,’ said Jimmy, nodding at the couple. Heidrun knelt down on the spread towel and her boyfriend leaned over and nuzzled into her neck. They both lay down face to face, their feet pointing in Jimmy’s direction.

  ‘They’d be covered in goose-pimples,’ said Maureen. Jimmy stared at the gusset of the white bikini facing him. It was as if the closeness of the German couple had some influence on them and Jimmy and Maureen moved closer together. He whispered in her ear.

  ‘Why is it that the only woman on the beach who seems to have any pubic hair is you?’

  ‘You mean you go around looking?’

  ‘A man cannot help but notice these things.’

  ‘You mean a Catholic repressed man. A lecher. A man with a problem.’

  ‘You lie there like some kind of a farmer’s wife from the backabeyond or . . . or somebody from Moscow.’

  ‘I meant to do it before I came away – but with the rush and all . . . It’s not that obvious – is it?’ She looked down at herself.

  ‘Not really but . . .’

  ‘Anyway, who’s looking at me in that tone of voice – at my age. Catch yourself on, Jimmy. Go and buy me an ice cream.’

  He got to his feet and put on his shirt. ‘What flavour?’

  ‘The green one with the bits of chocolate in it.’

  ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘Jesus, you can point, can’t you?’

  He fiddled in her purse for pesetas, then went off towards the bar.

  At the bar he noticed again the three suspected Irishmen from the first day. They sat beside the counter. Jimmy listened as he pointed out and bought the ice-cream. Maureen was right again. They were definitely from the North of Ireland. They were talking about football. Something about Manchester United and the English league. Two of them wore tartan shirts, the third a T-shirt with Guinness advertising on it.

  When he got back to Maureen he gave her the ice-cream.

  ‘I saw your friends up there. I think they’re RUC men.’

  She licked the peppermint green and crunched a bit of the chocolate.

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘I dunno. They look like Chief Constables or Inspectors. I feel sorry for them. If you were a policeman in the North where would you go for your holidays?’

  She didn’t answer. She nodded towards the German couple.

  ‘There’s been plenty of PDA since you left.’ She smiled and winked at Jimmy. The couple were lying with their faces an inch apart staring into each other’s eyes. Occasionally the boy would trail the back of his knuckles down her naked side. Maureen beckoned Jimmy’s ear to her mouth.

  ‘Meine Liebe,’ she whispered.

  That evening on the patio of Nino’s they decided to have the seafood paella for two. They had been given complimentary glasses of a local sherry and Jimmy asked to have the order repeated. He would pay for them. As he suspected, when the waitress brought the drinks she said, ‘On the house.’

  Jimmy drank Maureen’s second drink as well as his own two.

  When the waiter brought the double paella he showed it to them. They both nodded in appreciation at its presentation. It was served from a much-used, blackened pan and the waiter made sure to divide everything equally. Three open navy blue mussel shells to one plate, three to the other. One red langoustine to you and one to you.

  Maureen hated it – wet sloppy rice with too much salt and the most inaccessible parts of shellfish. Things
that had to be broken open and scraped, recognisable creatures which had to have them backs snapped and their contents sucked. At one point Maureen raised her eyes and gave a warning to Jimmy. The three Northern Ireland men were sitting down at the next but one table from them. She scrutinised them.

  ‘I’m sure they’re not policemen.’ They were directly behind Jimmy and he had to twist in his chair to see them. One of them caught his eye and recognised him from the beach. They nodded politely to each other.

  ‘They’re like people out of a uniform of some kind,’ said Jimmy. ‘Maybe they’re screws – from Long Kesh.’

  ‘Or security men.’

  Maureen gave up on the paella.

  ‘How do you tell a lie in Spanish – it was lovely but there was too much of it?’ There was a lull in the noise of conversation and dish-rattling and Maureen heard a name float across from the next but one table. Jimmy said,

  ‘If you are not willing to talk about your early sexual experiences – I am.’

  ‘Not again.’

  ‘In those days I was a vicious bastard – every time I went out with a woman I went straight for the conjugular.’

  She laughed and said, ‘You think I didn’t notice.’ She paused and looked at him. ‘You made that up.’

  ‘Of course I did. I just said it, didn’t I?’

  ‘No I mean you thought it up one day and then waited for a time when you could use it. Tonight’s the night.’

  He nodded vigorously, pouring himself another glass of wine. Maureen put her hand over the top of her own glass.

  Another, different name came floating across from the Northern Ireland table. Maureen made a face as if something was just dawning on her.

  ‘I know,’ she said when she had swallowed the food in her mouth. ‘They’re priests. The first name I heard was Conor and now there’s Malachy.’

  ‘Catholic names don’t make them priests.’

  ‘But black socks do.’

  ‘Keep your voice down. If we can hear them they can hear us.’

  ‘Two of them’s wearing black socks,’ whispered Maureen. ‘It all fits now. Why would three aging men go away on holiday together?’

  ‘A homosexual ring?’

  ‘They never go on the beach. They never take their clothes off. They are keeping an eye on each other. Since the Bishop of Galway nobody trusts anybody else.’

  ‘One of them has a moustache.’

  Maureen looked over his shoulder and checked.

  ‘So?’

  ‘I’ve never seen a priest with a moustache.’

  ‘Maybe there’s two of them priests and the one with the moustache is the priest’s brother. You’re right – the one with the moustache is wearing white towelling socks.’ Jimmy checked under the table. Maureen smiled and said, ‘There’s nothing worse than a priest’s brother. All the hang-ups and none of the courage.’

  ‘Are they drinking?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They probably are priests then.’ They laughed at each other. Jimmy reached out and covered her hand with his. ‘Would you like coffee or will we get another bottle?’

  ‘Coffee is fine for me.’

  ‘I’m sorry to go on about this – but there must have been no shortage of men trying it on before me.’

  Maureen stared at him. ‘What is this – where did all this shite suddenly come from, Jimmy?’

  ‘I’ve just been thinking. Seeing things that remind me. You were a very attractive woman when we first met . . .’

  ‘Gee thanks . . .’

  ‘No I don’t mean that. You still are. I’m saying – in comparison to others in the field.’

  ‘In the field – you’re making it sound like a cattle fair – have a good look at her teeth.’

  ‘That’s a horse fair you’re thinking of.’

  ‘Jimmy.’ She stared hard at him. ‘Teach me how to be right all the time?’

  ‘It wouldn’t work – two in the one family.’

  ‘Then one of us would have to leave,’ said Maureen. ‘It’s that time of life. Everybody is leaving everybody else. They stayed together for the kids. Now that’s over.’

  ‘You don’t feel like that, do you?’

  Maureen looked at him and smiled. She shook her head.

  ‘Not yet.’

  They walked back to the apartment across the dark beach. They both took off their shoes and walked ankle deep at the water’s edge. It was warmer than during the day. There was a white moon reflected on the water. They held hands again until Jimmy stopped for a piss in the sea. Maureen walked on.

  *

  In the apartment Jimmy fell down onto the sofa.

  ‘I’m going to have a drink of that duty-free whiskey before it’s all drunk.’

  ‘And who’s liable to drink it?’

  ‘Me.’ He grinned and rose to pour himself one. She laughed at him.

  ‘Have you drunk all that since we came here?’

  ‘Lay off. I’m on my holidays too.’

  ‘But we drink a bottle of wine – minus one glass for me – every night as well.’

  ‘Over dinner.’

  ‘That makes no difference.’

  ‘Plus a few beers. Maureen, will you stop counting. And some of that Spanish fucking gin.’

  ‘With no ice.’

  ‘Ice is where the bugs get in.’ He diluted his whiskey with bottled water sin gas he had bought for the purpose. ‘Speaking of which . . .’ He moved to the bathroom and looked down at the tiled floor.

  ‘Holy shit! Maureen will you take a look at this.’ He hunkered down and sipped his whiskey.

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Maureen. What had been a trickle of ants was now a torrent – a stream that was moving both ways. From the chink in the bathroom tile they moved across the floor in a bristling stream to the table leg, up the table leg onto the table – into the cereal packets. The stream divided and part of it went to the rubbish bin where they had thrown their leftovers – melon rinds, tea-bags, stale bread.

  ‘It’s fizzin with them,’ said Maureen, lifting a bread wrapper from the bin between her finger and thumb. ‘Are they just a fact of life. Will we have to put up with them all the time we’re here?’

  ‘As long as they’re not in the bed,’ said Jimmy. As he stood up some of his whiskey slopped over. The ants panicked, began moving faster. The stream parted and moved around the droplets of whiskey, ignoring it. ‘Why don’t they get pissed?’

  ‘Maybe they will do – after work,’ said Maureen.

  ‘They’re really prehistoric, aren’t they. And so silent. In the movies there would be a soundtrack.’

  Maureen made tea with a tea-bag in a mug and they went out onto the small balcony. There was a candle in a bottle left by a previous tenant and Maureen lit it and set it on the white plastic table. Jimmy sipped his whiskey and put his feet up on the balcony rail.

  ‘I just love being in my shirt-sleeves at this time of night. Can you imagine what it’s like at home?’ Maureen sighed a kind of agreement. The moon was low in the sky and criss-crossed by the struts of two cranes. Had the moon not been there the cranes would have been invisible. Jimmy nodded towards the candle.

  ‘Somebody from the north. Remember that holiday in Norway?’ Maureen nodded. ‘Candles everywhere. The kids loved it. Flames burning outside restaurants. Never pulling their curtains – you could follow people moving from room to room.’

  ‘You certainly did.’

  ‘The bills – light shining out of everywhere. Here it’s the opposite. Shutters – keep the light out. It’s impossible to get the slightest glimpse inside a Spanish or an Italian house.’ Jimmy sipped his whiskey and held it in his mouth for a while, savouring it. It was a thing he knew annoyed her. They didn’t speak again for some time.

  ‘You really don’t like to talk about this stuff, do you?’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘I just want to know what happened to you before I met you.’

  ‘I’ve told you everyt
hing there is to know – chapter and verse. Everything about my home and school . . .’

  ‘But not sexually. You never mention anything about that.’ She sipped her mug of tea holding it with both hands – the way she would sip tea in the winter. ‘I’m jealous of not knowing you then. Your school uniform. Your First Communion. I am jealous of all the time I was not with you.’

  ‘That’s a kind of adolescent – James Dean – kind of thing to say.’

  ‘I am jealous of every single sexual act in which I was not involved.’

  She looked at his face in the candle light and realised he was serious.

  ‘Jimmy, why are you torturing yourself about this? Leave it alone. Why should all this come up now – after twenty-five years? Maybe you feel threatened. Now that you’re out of shape and balding you feel threatened.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘I’m going to bed.’ She got up and went the long way round the table so he wouldn’t have to take his feet down off the balcony rail.

  He heard her shut the latch on the bedroom door and the creak of the bed as she got into it. He poured himself another whiskey larger than the last because she was not there to see the size of it. He drank several more glasses equally large and listened to the crickets and the English voices that were continually passing in the street below.

  When Maureen woke at 4 am he still had not come to bed. She found him in the chair, his head tilted back, his mouth open and slanting in his face.

  ‘Are you okay, Jimmy?’ She put her arm beneath his and got him to his feet. He was mumbling something about ‘those fucking priests’ as she eased him down onto the bed and started to take his shoes off.

  He was sick the next day and, although he tried to hide the fact by going out of the room, Maureen could hear the crinkling of him in the bathroom pressing indigestion tablets out of their tinfoil pack. When she accused him of drinking foolishly he blamed the paella.

  ‘You’ve never done that in your life before, Jimmy. Not to my knowledge.’