“It’s a bag, woman,” Clive would moan. “You’re only going to be putting a ton of crap in it anyway, so what does it matter what it looks like, for Christ’s sake? I can get you a plastic carrier bag for a few cents if you just want to cart a load of crap around in it.”
Clive, naturally, didn’t understand the importance of things like shoes and handbags. He was a man. These days, he refused point-blank to go shopping with his wife. He said he wouldn’t go shopping with her again even if Dublin City Council installed a row of ‘husband chairs, complete with built-in Sky Sports,’ up and down Grafton Street, and he meant it too. That suited Jean just fine. He only slowed her down anyway. Now she was in her element, loading her arms with items to take into the Brown Thomas changing rooms. She was like a child. Every two minutes she’d be calling Liz over, saying: “Liz, Lizzie, come here, will you look at this!” Liz would ‘oooh’ and ‘aaaah’ over the blouse or dress or pair of trousers or sandals, while knowing that she couldn’t herself afford Brown Thomas’s prices.
Jean had her own credit cards which Clive had given her. Clive, who used to have a high-up position in a bank (actually, he’d been a manager for the last twenty years of his working life) was retired now, like Gerry. Liz used to have only the money Gerry gave her for the ‘housekeeping’ to buy things for herself, until the time she’d rebelled a few years earlier and threatened to leave him unless he gave her a VISA card and put a couple of hundred euro on it for her each month. He’d done it, albeit with a shockingly bad grace, and only because she’d threatened him with a divorce, which she warned him would have been costlier still. Although she never knew from where she’d found the courage, to her surprise Gerry had seen her point. She’d saved every penny of the money for her monthly shopping trips and lunches with Jean, who’d been her best friend in the world since they’d been at teacher training college together. That was one thing Liz would say to the modern girls of today, girls like that young Tara Robinson one, the young woman from the newspaper, one piece of solid gold advice she’d give them. Always have your own money. Don’t let some man be doling out a few measly euro to you once a month like a tight-fisted Victorian Papa. Mind you, she reflected now as she waited for Jean to get her items bagged up at one of the Brown Thomas checkouts, that Tara girl from the paper probably wouldn’t need any such advice. She had her own money, all one point two million of it, to be precise. Liz sincerely hoped that she wouldn’t let the fiancé, the Ritchie fella or whatever his name was, tell her what to do with it. Separate bank accounts from your spouse, that was the way to do it nowadays.
Back out on Grafton Street, Liz caught her breath at the sight of Leah walking ahead of her up the street. But, of course, it wasn’t Leah at all, just a young woman with the same long pale-brown hair and the same look of Leah from the back, the same grace and quick light footsteps. That happened to Liz a lot. Since Leah’s death, she’d seen her beautiful daughter on nearly every street in Dublin. Sometimes it would be Leah as she’d be now, in her mid-thirties; other times it would be Leah as a schoolgirl, laughing and chatting away happily with her friends from secondary school, with a big heavy bag of books on her back. Then the fog would clear from Liz’s eyes and she would see that she’d been mistaken after all, that it wasn’t her precious daughter, only someone who resembled her slightly from a distance.
For lunch, the ladies chose a little Italian restaurant off Grafton Street that they often went to on their days out. Jean was a terrible flirt and she’d eye up the handsome young waiters and even make suggestive remarks about them to Liz, who’d laugh and say: “Stop it, Jean, you’re an awful woman altogether. He’ll hear you!” But Jean never took any notice – she’d just go on laughing and eyeing up the waiters as much as she pleased. You couldn’t stop Jean from having a good time and enjoying herself. She was like that. She expected it and, if she didn’t get it, she’d complain about it loudly, but not in a mean, spiteful way, not like Gerry might.
Now, as she expertly twirled her spaghetti round her fork, she said to Liz: “How’s old Gerry, anyway? Still the same as ever, is he?”
This was usually Liz’s cue to launch into a long tirade of complaints about Gerry, and there was normally plenty of material to run with. Today, though, she just fingered the rim of her wineglass idly and said: “I really don’t know.”
Jean swallowed a mouthful of her food and took some wine. “He’s not sick, is he?”
“Well, he kind of is in a way.”
“Well, is he or isn’t he?” Jean was now looking curiously at her friend.
“I’m not sure. I’m really not sure.”
“Lizzie love, you’re talking in riddles,” said Jean, a tad impatiently. “What’s wrong with your Gerry?”
Liz shrugged. “Nothing really. Except . . . except I think . . . I think he might be dead.”
Jean stared, a forkful of spaghetti halfway to her lips. “Whatever do you mean, Lizzie? What do you mean, he might be dead?”
“Well,” said Liz slowly, as if considering the matter carefully, “I think I might have killed him.”
Jean put down her glass and fork and gave her friend her undivided attention. “Lizzie dear, I think you’d better tell me what’s happened.”
“Well,” said Liz, still speaking slowly as if she was thinking over what she was saying, “he was shouting at me again about his glasses case. He made me late by making me search the whole house from top to bottom for the bloody thing. Then, when he reached down the back of his crossword armchair, he said “Ah, here they are!” and he’d made me waste so much time looking for them when the whole time all he’d had to do was just stick his stupid hand down the back of the armchair.”
“What happened next, Lizzie?” Jean had grown a little pale.
“I was so angry, Jean. He’d made me so late with his bitching and whining and losing things. I just couldn’t take it any more. I . . . We were in the sitting-room. While he was still leaning down the back of the armchair with his hand on the case, I . . . I grabbed up the poker from the fireplace and I hit him on the back of the head with it.”
“And then what happened?” Jean whispered.
“Well, nothing really.” Liz took a sip of her wine. “He just fell down without a word and lay on the rug perfectly still, just with all this blood coming out of his head. That’ll never come out, you know,” she added chattily. “It’s a lovely cream rug. It’ll never come clean again.”
“So, are you saying that you didn’t stop to check if he was dead or not? You didn’t call anyone, you didn’t ring for an ambulance, you just came straight in here to meet me?” Jean’s voice was trembling now.
Liz shrugged again. “What else could I do? He’d made me so late. Do you think I could get this to go?” she added, poking at her spaghetti bolognaise which was starting to congeal. “It’s gone all cold. D’you think I could get a doggy-bag or something?”
Jean stared at her. “I think we should call someone now. To go out to your house and check on Gerry. He could still be alive.”
Liz shuddered. “I hope not.”
Jean took out her phone. She was in the process of dialling ‘999’ when Liz reached across the table and put her hand over Jean’s.
“Don’t do that, Jeannie dear, please. What if he’s not dead? You’ll only get me into trouble.”
“But . . . but even if he’s not dead, surely he still needs medical attention? I mean, it’s been a good three hours now since we met up at the Green. The whole time we’ve been together he could have been lying there bleeding to death.”
“Not Gerry,” Liz said sagely. “His head’s too hard.” She giggled, then the giggle turned into a fit of laughter, drawing curious looks from the other diners.
“You’re in shock, Lizzie,” Jean said. “That’s it. I’m calling someone. You and Gerry both need help.”
The laughter stopped abruptly.
“Please don’t, Jean. Can’t you just come back with me on the Luas to the house? I�
�m afraid to go back on my own. I swear to you that you can call anyone you want once we get to the house. For all we know, Gerry could be perfectly all right. He could be sitting up drinking a cup of tea and waiting to give out to me when I get in, over all the stuff I bought in town today and all the money I spent.”
Jean seriously doubted it based on what she’d heard but, after a slight hesitation, she said: “All right. I’ll go back with you. But the minute we find out what the situation is, I’m going to phone for help, okay, Lizzie? Do you understand?”
Liz nodded and smiled like a child who’s been promised an ice cream. Jean paid their bill while Liz arranged for the remainder of her food to be put into a doggy-bag.
“It’s a shame to waste good food.” She was nodding to Jean, who just looked at her oddly.
They gathered up their carrier bags and left the restaurant. Liz seemed much more relaxed now and she chatted away about silly, random things, even mentioning a row that she and Gerry had had during the week over the price of firelighters and where was best to buy them, of all things. When they reached the Stephen’s Green Luas stop, Jean bought a return ticket for herself as Liz already had hers from earlier in the day. Liz continued chatting away once they reached their seats and settled themselves in with their bags and baggage.
“We must have you and Clive over for dinner again soon.” Liz said it suddenly, as if the idea had just occurred to her. “I know that Gerry’s a real bore when it comes to get-togethers. He has no manners, God bless him, and he hates people coming over, invading his space as he calls it, but the bang on the head might have made him more amenable, so we’ll see. How about this coming Thursday? Would that suit, do you think?”
Jean was looking at her oddly again but then she nodded. “That’s grand, Lizzie. This coming Thursday will be just fine. Should I . . . should I bring anything?”
“Nothing at all, just yourselves,” trilled Liz gaily. “Unless you want to bake up a batch of your world-famous peanut-butter cookies for after the meal.”
“Yes, of course, I’d be delighted to bake some. That’s no problem, Liz.”
There was silence for a while, and then Liz said: “There’s an awful lot of doughnut shops opening up in Dublin, have you noticed?”
Jean couldn’t say she had.
“Oh yes,” said Liz knowingly. “So many American companies are setting up doughnut shops over here. I’ve seen them and some of them do look terribly artistic, the doughnuts I mean, not the shops, but you’d be walking around like a heart attack waiting to happen if you were to eat them on a regular basis. It’s a wonder the government isn’t trying to ban them, the way they’re always putting up the price of booze and fags.”
Jean said nothing, only nodded.
It didn’t take the tram long to reach Cowper. They disembarked, Liz calling out a cheery goodbye to the friendly ticket collector as they left. The sun was still shining and it was a lovely day, even though it was late enough in the year.
“You’re as white as a sheet, Jeannie dear,” said Liz as they walked up the road to the house. “Do you suffer from travel sickness at all? Because that’s what this looks like. You’ve gone quite green around the gills. I tell you what we’ll do. I’ll make you a grand hot sweet cup of tea when we get in, with a plain biscuit or a water-cracker. They’re great for settling the stomach after you’ve had the motion sickness. I never get it myself on the Luas. It’s so much smoother and less bumpy than the buses. They go up and down like a flippin’ roller coaster, making people sick as dogs.”
There were no police cars or ambulances in the driveway anyway. The sun was setting for the evening over the top of the house and it looked a picture in the dazzling sunlight.
Liz and Jean walked up the path to the front door with their bulging carrier bags.
“Do you think we need the grass cut?” Liz turned to her friend as if the condition of the front garden was suddenly of vital importance.
Jean looked at it and shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. It looks fine to me.”
“I think we can leave it for another week or two. It’s just that Gerry always likes to get it sorted before the winter sets in.”
Liz unlocked the front door with her key. Inside the hall, she put her carrier bags down and began to take off her coat to hang it on a hook just inside the door.
“Yoo-hoo, Gerry, I’m home,” she sing-songed. “Gerry, are you there? Gerry . . . ?”
STOP 9: BEECHWOOD
Jamie and Callum
Queer. Faggot. Pervert. Deviant. Fairy. Nancy Boy. Homo. Arse-bandit. Uphill gardener. Shirt-lifter. Pillow-biter. Hershey highwayman. Pansy. Batty-boy. Limp Wrist. Gaylord. Gay-boy. Sissy. Poofter. Had he forgotten any? Probably, and anyway, new ones were still being dreamed up all the time by people who clearly had nothing better to do with themselves. Jamie continued to repeat the words in his mind while he waited for the Luas to chug away from the Parnell Street stop in town and take him back out to Beechwood. They were like the opposite of a positivity mantra, words he repeated in his mind while he waited to get to sleep, waited for an appointment, waited for the kettle to boil, waited for a bus or the Luas to come. He still did it out of habit, even now when life was good, and had been good for quite some time. Maybe he should replace the derogatory words with some more heartening ones. Love. Lover. Loving. Boyfriend. Commitment. Relationship. Sex. Fun. Laughter. Cooking. Home. House. Engagement. Marriage. Gay Marriage. Civil Partnership. Rings. For ever. Eternity. Happiness. Truth. Openness. Out in the open. No More Hiding, No More Shame, No More Fear. He was still reciting these to himself experimentally when the tram moved off.
He could see what was clearly another gay couple, a few seats down and across from him. He had a radar for that kind of thing (a ‘gaydar,’ even), as he assumed most other gay people did. The couple were two lads on their phones, scrolling away like two separate entities, but every now and then, they’d catch each other’s eye and grin in that special way that couples of all persuasions have with each other. It gladdened Jamie’s heart to see it.
He took out his own phone and immediately began scrolling, checking first to see if Callum had left him a tweet or a Facebook or Instagram message. No, there was nothing, although there was sufficient evidence to show that Callum had been on Instagram less than an hour before. Ah well, shure, thought Jamie, trying to be mature about it, they weren’t joined at the hip, after all. After reading some of his Facebook messages from other people, he couldn’t resist leaving Callum a cutesy message that read: Hey, babes, on the Luas now, be home soon. He left a smiley face and a row of kisses after his message, then began scrolling idly down through his newsfeed, checking back every few seconds to see if his message had been marked as ‘seen’. Everyone on Facebook was posting those ‘Thank God It’s Friday’ posts. Jamie knew exactly how they all felt. He’d been counting down the days and even the hours himself this week, but only because this Friday was a special one and he’d asked to have the Saturday and Sunday off work. There wasn’t much point in his getting excited about Fridays most other weeks, because he worked in a men’s clothing shop in town which was open seven days a week, but this week was special.
“Mind if I sit here?” said a large middle-aged man carrying several plastic bags, breaking in on Jamie’s scrolling reverie.
“Not at all. Work away,” Jamie said politely, going back to his phone.
“I don’t want to squash your flowers.”
The bouquet was draped artistically across Jamie’s lap. “You’re grand. Not a bother.” Jamie moved the flowers a bit more to his left towards the window.
“Forgot her birthday, did you?” the man remarked congenially, in the easy, familiar way some Irish people have with one other.
“No, it’s just a little . . . private celebration, actually.”
Jamie went back to his scrolling, hoping the man would take the hint and pipe down. But the man was settled now, all nice and comfortable with his carrier bags arranged around
his feet, and unfortunately disposed to chat. The attractive young couple who’d won the Lotto recently (a cool two point four million between them, if you please) were finally out of the news, and the free local newspaper on the man’s lap was open at the page about that old man from Cowper who’d recently died when his wife had bashed him over the head with the poker. There was some talk of the wife possibly being out of her mind, so she’d most likely be sent to a mental hospital, rather than to prison, for her crime. It was shocking what people got up to behind closed doors, Jamie thought, idly scanning the headlines on the other man’s paper. He wondered how far the woman, the wife in the story, had been pushed by her husband before she’d felt she had to do what she did. He doubted if she’d done it for fun, or if she’d just woken up with a sudden urge to brain her hubby with the poker. There was usually more to a story than just what you read in the newspaper.
Anyway, the man with the carrier bags and the free local newspaper could obviously tell that the two people across from himself and Jamie, a man and a woman, were closed for business. They were looking at their phones with glazed eyes and headphones in their ears, like most of the other passengers. Terrified to make any kind of contact, whether eye contact or verbal contact, with their fellow travellers. That’s the way it was on the Luas nowadays. The protection of being on your phone or listening to music on your earbuds prevented others from trying to interact with you. There was safety, not in numbers, but in whatever bit of technology you happened to be carrying. You saw someone with a book the odd time. There were still people in the world who read books, though they might be becoming an endangered species.
Thirteen Stops Page 18