‘Well, thank you, Bertie. That was very interesting. I’m sure the group will have their comments for you too.’ Bertie sat down, looking a little miffed.
‘Prick,’ I muttered under my breath.
Diane heard me and leaned over. ‘Don’t call him that, dear. A prick is useful.’
‘OK, that leaves us with Frank and Jack. Who would like to go next?’
I nodded at Frank to put him out of his misery; he had been rocking backwards and forwards quicker than my granny and was obviously agitated.
‘Well, Frank, I see you have had some difficulty deciding. Perhaps you’d like to talk about it a little?’
‘I… think… think… I’m… I’m… all of them.’
Bertie the blabbermouth started to laugh hysterically. Everybody glared at him and he stopped abruptly.
‘That’s a very interesting perspective, Frank. It is possible that at some stage in our lives, we have indeed been them all. I can identify very strongly with that. Anybody else feel the same?’
Brian looked around the room. Before I knew it, my hand raised itself and my mouth opened without permission.
‘I do,’ I whispered.
‘That’s perfectly OK, Jack.’ Brian smiled at me. I liked him. He was very gentle and very encouraging.
‘I think I’ve been all of them,’ I continued in a stronger voice. ‘At the moment, though, I don’t play much of a part in the family any more. The one that stands out the most is the Scapegoat. I was always in trouble as a teenager. I’m a bit of a Lost Child now, even though I’m a grown woman. I don’t know if that makes sense to anybody else.’ I looked around and saw to my surprise all heads nodding in agreement. I heaved a sigh of relief.
Matt winked at me. I was proud of myself for speaking up.
We broke for coffee and I went outside for a cigarette. I wondered why Matt wanted to talk to me. I had been studying his hands again. It was so long since I had had sex with a man. Even ‘Woody Allen’ was beginning to look attractive. I wondered what Matt’s game was. Maybe there was no game at all. I couldn’t bear to think about that.
Back inside, the group had begun a debate about their written work from last week. I was quiet and opted to listen. Brian decided to take everyone’s work and read passages. I hoped he would leave mine out.
I found all of it very interesting, especially Bertie’s, which surprised me greatly. His father and mother had died in a car crash when he was seven years of age. He was left in the care of an orphanage with his two younger sisters. He had spent his life looking out for them, even paying their way for third-level education.
Poor Bertie had had a rotten life, after all. I felt sorry for him. Brian read extracts from Connor’s childhood, most of which was vague and choppy; he seemed to find it difficult to recall any details. By far the best was Frank, who for once could relax, as someone else read out his history. His memoirs were wonderfully colourful and full of descriptive detail. Brian commented on what a wonderful writer he was.
Then it was my turn.
Brian read out portions of my essay. Everybody listened intently. It felt good to be noticed. Everything was fine until he opened the floor to questions. Bertie was up like a shot.
‘I was very interested in Jack’s writing,’ he started, gesturing with his hands like he was the Pope addressing his flock. ‘I couldn’t help feeling it was a little too sweet, though. Now I know in my case, and I only know this from my own experience, that I tended to go into denial about certain aspects of my past. That went hand-in-hand with being the family clown. Sometimes, we do escape our pain through denial and I believe this,’ he finished and sat down.
I was furious. Who did he think he was?
‘Jack, would you like to respond to that?’ Brian asked gently.
Respond? Yeah. How about I respond with my fist? ‘Yes. Thank you. I do realise now, having heard all the other accounts, that I misunderstood the question a little.’ It was a half-truth.
‘There’s no need to worry about that,’ Brian reassured me. ‘We will be going further into things as we move along. There will be plenty of opportunities for you all to dig deeper, even if you think you have gone as far as you can.’ He smiled directly at Bertie.
I was relieved to hear this. I had written what I had written. I wasn’t sure what else I was supposed to say. Besides, Bertie was the only one with a negative reaction. Everybody else commented on my attention to detail. I was pleased with my efforts.
Diane put her hand up.
‘Yes?’ Brian asked.
‘I was very touched by Jack’s account of the twins. It made me very sad. That couldn’t have been easy. In fact, I think it may have made Jack feel the odd one out, just like me.’
It was nice to have someone acknowledge my past. The rest of the group commented too on the sadness of this episode. It felt good to hear the feedback. It had been the family secret for so long and carrying it had taken its toll on me. It was good to have fresh input. It was good to have permission to say what I felt. I thought about my family. They had only got my vote, not my voice.
‘Before we finish up for this week, are there any other questions?’ Brian asked.
Frank raised his hand.
‘I… I… need… to go… to… the toilet.’
‘We’re finished now anyway, Frank. Thank you all for coming and I hope to see you all again next week.’
Brian handed out a fresh questionnaire. I put it in my bag and got ready to go. Diane stopped me at the door.
‘I hope that idiot didn’t put you off?’ She looked over at Bertie.
‘Not a bit,’ I told her. It was true. Wild horses couldn’t have kept me away now. What had started out as an act had turned into genuine interest. The course was fascinating. It broke the week, and took me away from the boredom of menial everyday tasks. Now I had the added pleasure of being able to talk to Matt alone.
We sat at a quiet table in the coffee-shop. It was perfect for our little romantic get-together. We ordered some coffee and scones. To my surprise I wasn’t hungry; I was too excited to eat. Besides, I had a phobia about eating in front of other people.
Matt was looking particularly beautiful that day. He wore a big woolly jumper and pair of tatty jeans. Just the way I loved him. Rough and tumbled. Yet he was always spotlessly clean. I could smell a hint of Polo aftershave — my favourite. I hate nothing more than a man drowned in smelly perfume. The scent was making me ache with want. I tried hard to avoid looking at his hands.
‘There’s something I’ve been wanting to say to you,’ he started. ‘Something I’ve been wanting to say to you for a long time.’
I could hardly breathe with anticipation. He looked up at me sheepishly. I smiled. The moment had arrived. The perfect moment. He was going to tell me he was completely and utterly in love with me. That he dreamed of me night and day. That he was beside himself with desire every time he saw me. That he had concocted this whole ‘course’ thing as an excuse to get next to me. I leaned dreamily across the table and batted my eyelashes.
‘I have a confession to make,’ he said bluntly.
‘Yes?’ My voice was barely a whisper.
‘That night, down the causeway, when we were kids?’
‘Yeah?’
‘When I told you I’d slept with someone else?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I hadn’t.’
Was that it? He had just performed open-heart surgery on me, then left the cut wide open for all to see.
‘Oh.’ I looked at him. He was blushing. ‘Well, in that case I have a confession to make as well.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Neither had I.’
‘Oh,’ he said.
Then we both burst out laughing.
‘It’s no wonder it was a disaster,’ he said, nodding his head sideways.
‘I can’t say the earth moved for me either,’ I admitted.
We laughed hearti
ly. It was a warm moment.
‘I thought you were going to say something else,’ I blurted out.
He looked up at me and held my gaze for a minute. I could read something in his eyes. He twirled his cigarette around and around in the ashtray, making little patterns with the tip. He had gathered the ash into a pile in the corner. I realised he was nervous. He wanted me to continue for him.
‘You really hurt me, you know,’ I said suddenly. It was out. It had taken thirteen years. Now it was out. It seemed like the right moment. What had I got to lose? It was almost as if he was inviting me to help him. The great psychologist was asking me for help!
‘I’m really sorry,’ he said, breathing out and leaning back in his chair. Then he shrugged as if he couldn’t think of anything else to add to that. ‘It doesn’t sound very good, does it? The word sorry, I mean. Love means never having to say you’re sorry. Bollox to that!’
Love? Was he trying to tell me he loved me? What did he mean? I had an overwhelming urge to reach out and touch his face. Feel the curve of his chin, rub the back of my hand against his cheek. His green eyes were urging me on. I crushed my cigarette out in the ashtray. My finger brushed against his.
‘There is one other thing, Jack. Something else.’
Just then, a woman appeared at the side of our table.
‘We don’t want any more coffee, thank you,’ I said, without looking up.
Then Matt said. ‘Margaret! Hi.’
Oh my God. Margaret Smargaret, the perfect cow, was standing over me.
‘Jack!’ she squealed, as if we were longlost friends. ‘I’d hardly recognise you, only Matt told me you were doing the course. I would never have known it was you.’ She gave me the whole works, starting at my toes then going all the way up to my red infuriated cheeks.
‘Margaret!’ I tried to look surprised and stood up. ‘God, it’s great to see you again — you look amazing!’
She did, the fucking bitch. Still exactly the same. Big breasts. Minuscule waist. Long blonde hair. The years had been good to her. She still looked sixteen.
Matt didn’t seem perturbed by her presence.
‘I’m sorry I’m late.’ She bent down and kissed him on the cheek.
You’ll never make a good ‘Cartier’, I thought. Your timing is shit.
Had he known she was coming? ‘Look, I’ve got to be going anyway.’ I gathered my things hurriedly. ‘Matt, thanks for the advice.’ I winked at him behind her back.
Back home, I couldn’t get Matt out of my mind. I was confused. He was giving me mixed messages. Maybe I was just mixing them up myself?
It was all very confusing. That night I spent an age watching David while he slept. Alice had taken him out for the whole day. When he returned, it was way past his bedtime. He climbed up on to my lap, and fell asleep watching TV. I couldn’t bring myself to move him. I studied his face, all stretched and distorted from the position he lay in. His mouth was wide open, and every now and then he groaned. He was so, so beautiful. I wiped the strands of hair from his mouth and put them behind his ears.
I loved his smell. It was David’s own special smell, distinct and unique. My son’s smell. It was a long time since I had felt such overwhelming love. I didn’t understand why. I just always seemed to be lost in the daily living of things. My love for him had grown through the years. I wanted to be with him in his dream world. A world of fun, no rules, no responsibilities, no decisions, choices, or deep thinking.
I had just covered him up and tucked him in when I heard the telephone ring. I grabbed a can of beer and got to it just in time. It was Joe.
‘Hello, stranger. To what honour do I owe this phone call?’ I said breezily, feeling OK with Joe for the first time in ages.
‘I’ve been trying to phone you all day.’ He sounded a bit strained.
‘You hardly ever ring me. Am I supposed to be sitting here just waiting for your call?’ I said a bit harshly. It was said out of relief. Like when your child dashes across the street, almost gets killed and when you get to him you give him a wallop instead of a kiss. ‘I’m not here on a Tuesday evening,’ I told Joe, more calmly. ‘You’ll be glad to hear I have taken up my bed and started to walk. I have joined the living world again. I am doing a course in family history.’
‘That’s hardly joining the living, more like hanging out with the dead. What the hell’s wrong with you? Can’t you just have some fun?’ he quipped.
‘It is fun, I swear! Hey, you sound funny,’ I said, a little softer now.
‘I’m in a coin box. I hate these fucking things.’
‘What’s wrong with your phone? Forgot to pay the bill again?’
‘No, actually I haven’t been at home for the last while.’
‘I see.’ I felt the beer warm my stomach and I started to relax.
‘What’s this family history shit?’ he asked.
‘I bumped into Matt Howard at Christmas — you know he’s studying to be a psychologist. Who would have believed it? Anyway, he got me on this course. It’s the best thing I’ve done since… having David.’
‘Jack, he’s a clapped-out hippie, a junkie. It’s more than psychology he needs to study,’ Joe said abruptly.
‘Ah come on, you wouldn’t believe how much he has changed. He doesn’t drink or do drugs any more. Christ, do you remember him doing handstands on the bull wall? What a crazy bastard. I admire what he’s done,’ I said.
‘Jack, be careful,’ he said solemnly.
‘Be careful of what?’ I asked, my voice rising.
‘Just don’t get carried away,’ he said angrily. The line crackled and his voice came in and out.
‘I’m not getting carried away. Aren’t you happy that I’m doing something with myself?’ I was annoyed at his lack of encouragement.
‘Sure I am,’ he said, without a hint of enthusiasm.
‘Look, Joe, when are you coming home again? I’m dying to see you. I’ve so much to tell you, and I feel we haven’t had a really good chinwag in ages.’
‘Well, that’s one of the reasons I’m phoning you. I’ll be home Tuesday week.’
‘Great! I can’t wait to see you and Juliet and the kids. David’s always asking when they’re coming home again. How long will you be staying?’
‘For good,’ he said flatly.
‘What?’ I’d obviously misheard.
‘For good, Jack. Juliet and I have split up.’
Ah Christ.
I sat with my cans, staring at the wall, opening one after the other, thinking, thinking. I was thrilled Joe was coming home. I was also ashamed at the little voice that went Yippee! every time I thought about them splitting up. What on earth had happened? Why hadn’t he phoned me to say that things weren’t going well? Much to my disgust, I found myself feeling ambivalent over his arrival. I was becoming close to Matt and I wanted it to come to its natural conclusion. I wanted to sleep with him. I wanted to have an affair. Joe’s return would make this difficult. I would have to be careful with my words when I was around him. I couldn’t understand his warnings about Matt. It wasn’t any of his business. I hadn’t interfered in his relationship with Juliet.
I tried to convince myself that this was the same, although I knew deep down it wasn’t. Matt was married. Joe was looking out for me. I was pissed off that he was penetrating my conscience. I didn’t want a conscience. I wanted my own way.
I fell asleep with the television still blaring and a mountain of cans beside me.
Chapter 13
The next morning, I woke up sober and started to think over what Joe had told me. I was totally shocked by his news. I had expected him to tell me that they were getting married, and that my invitation to the wedding was in the post. I had expected to hear that they were planning for a child, or that they had bought a house. The last thing I had anticipated was to hear that they had broken up. It was the one relationship I had watched, admired and even envied. Now it, too, had falte
red. Did no one stay together any more?
In one way, I looked forward to seeing Joe. In another, I didn’t. His timing was all wrong. I wanted to be free to pursue Matt. I was almost certain now that my interest was not unrequited. Now, more than ever, I was prepared to risk the consequences. I had gone past the ‘good conscience’ stage and was willing to pay the price. What kind of a relationship did he and Margaret have anyway? They never seemed to be together. When she had kissed him in the coffee shop it was a very sedate kiss. There was certainly no passion or spark between them. He hadn’t batted an eyelid when she walked in. It was almost like they didn’t really care. The only thing I could surmise from that was that the marriage was effectively dead. I convinced myself of this argument in order to follow through with my own selfish plan. I was out to get Matt, at any cost, monetary or emotional.
As I waited at the airport arrival hall, I racked my brains to come up with supportive and compassionate words for Joe. I still half-expected to see Juliet and the kids following behind him. I couldn’t accept or find any reasonable explanation for this bizarre turn of events. Already I had learned one very important thing after attending only two weeks of the course. I hadn’t been much of a real friend to Joe. I had been too engrossed in my own problems, almost to the point of ignoring everybody else’s. I remembered now all the crises in my life when Joe had been there, even when he hadn’t been asked. That was true friendship. I was determined to be there for him this time.
I spotted the quiff of blonde hair bouncing behind the surge of passengers and waved frantically. He saw me and waved back. He looked tired and drained. It was not the Joe I had known. In fact, when I thought about it, I realised I had never ever seen him in a bad mood before. Now I was looking at a man who had obviously been through the mill.
I didn’t waste any time giving him a pep talk on the fine art of surviving a broken relationship. I didn’t bother pretending to be happy. I wasn’t going to deny reality by trying to cheer him up. I returned the fifteen years of friendship he had honoured me with, in one brief moment. I reached out and put my arms around him. He took my head and cradled it and kissed my ear. I could feel his body shuddering. My God, he was crying. He was truly heartbroken.
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