Love

by Roddy Doyle

  —Does it?

  —No, he said.

  He rolled down one of his shirt sleeves.

  —If I’m being honest, he said. —No.

  —Drink talkin’.

  —No.

  He buttoned the sleeve.

  —It’s what I’d wish for, he said. —I think. Between ourselves – I wish I could feel tha’, that it kills me, not feelin’ tha’ the house – Trish an’ tha’ – is home. But it doesn’t kill me. So –.

  He pulled down the other sleeve.

  —So, there yeh go.

  —Okay.

  —It’s not, though. Okay. Is it?

  —No.

  —No, it’s not. Somehow. I don’t know, Davy. Tha’ part of it.

  —Wha’ d’you mean?

  —The family, he said. —They just –. Look –. They don’t seem there now.

  —Joe.

  —Wha’?

  —Have you any idea how many men I know who’ve left their wives for other women? Men our age. An’ you know them too – men who’ve done wha’ you’ve done. We could spend the night countin’ them.

  He hadn’t buttoned the second sleeve. It almost slapped him as he lifted his pint. He put the glass down and buttoned the sleeve.

  —Younger women, he said. —For younger women.

  —No, I said. —Not always.

  —Jessica’s older than Trish.

  —So wha’?

  —You’re not listenin’ to me, Davy. You haven’t been listenin’.

  —An’ you’re bein’ a pain in the arse, Joe.

  —You’re soundin’ like Trish now.

  —Fuck off, I said. —I’ve been listenin’ to every fuckin’ word. You walked out on your wife an’ kids an’ you’re calling it a philosophy.

  The barman was looking at us. He stayed where he was but he stared at us. I didn’t stare back.

  —Are we bein’ loud? Joe asked.

  —Don’t know, I said. —I didn’t think we were.

  —Fuckin’ prick, said Joe. —The head on him. Wha’ time is it?

  —Half-eight, I said.

  It was good, saying that – ‘half-eight’. It always made more sense than ‘eight-thirty’.

  —What’re we doin’? he said.

  —Don’t know.

  —I don’t know why I’m doin’ up my fuckin’ sleeves, he said. —Habit. Are we havin’ another one?

  —I suppose so.

  —Or a short, maybe – instead.

  —No.

  —No, you’re right. Madness. Whose round is it?

  —Don’t know. I don’t –. Actually, I don’t want a drink. I’ve had enough.

  —One more, he said. —It’s my twist. An’ I need to finish this.

  —Finish wha’?

  —You were there at the beginnin’, he said.

  —I wasn’t, I said.

  —You were, he said. —In George’s. Back then.

  —No, I said. —I wasn’t. You’re makin’ this up. You’re on your own.

  —What d’you mean I’m makin’ it up?

  —Just that, I said. —You are.

  —What d’you mean, though? he said.

  —Well, look, I said. —Wha’ you say you remember an’ what I know I remember don’t tally.

  I felt like I’d slammed a door on my own hand.

  —You know you remember?

  —Yep.

  —You fuckin’ know you remember? Are we havin’ tha’ pint?

  —Go on – yeah.

  —I’ll pour the fuckin’ thing over you, he said.

  —Excuse me?

  I was in his way. He lifted himself off the stool and leaned over the counter, so the barman would get a clear view of him.

  —Two pints, please.

  I watched the barman nod.

  —Thank you.

  Joe sat back down.

  —Fuckin’ Noddy, he said. —Did you see him?

  I knew what he was doing. He’d become Joe again – the man I used to know – so he could have another go at me. The new version was lurking there behind him.

  —Right, he said. —What d’you remember?

  —It’s what I don’t remember, I said.

  —What’s tha’?

  —I don’t remember you gettin’ off with her.

  He closed his eyes, and opened them.

  —Okay, he said. —I did.

  —Okay.

  He looked at me. My eyes slid.

  —Okay, he said. —Look. Let’s agree on somethin’. I’ve a suggestion. Davy?

  —Yeah, I said. —Go on.

  —Okay. I’ll accept you don’t remember an’ you can accept you don’t remember, an’ tha’ way we’ll both accept that it happened –

  —What happened?

  —For fuck sake, he said. —I remember her better than you do. That’s reasonable, isn’t it?

  —Okay.

  —It’s human, isn’t it? he said. —We remember things differently. I’ve siblings –.

  —Yeah.

  —An’ we never agree on anythin’ tha’ happened more than thirty years ago – or even last month. An’ we grew up in the same house. It’s only a matter o’ time, we’ll be arguing about who our parents were. We won’t be able to agree on even tha’. So –.

  The barman delivered the pints.

  —Two good ones, he said.

  —Good man, I said.

  I took money from my pocket and found him a tenner.

  —Thanks very much.

  He went and left us alone. I saw him put the change into a poor box at the taps.

  —So, said Joe.

  —Was it even my round? I asked.

  —I’m not sure, said Joe. —It might be.

  —I don’t even want it.

  —Same here, he said. —But it has to be done. Are we not men?

  —We are Devo.

  —Fuckin’ sure, he said. —So, anyway. I remember what I remember an’ you don’t remember what I remember. Because you weren’t fuckin’ there. On tha’ particular occasion. But wha’ I’m suggestin’ is, we bypass that an’ continue.

  —Okay, I said. —Right.

  I’d listen and leave. I knew the man I was listening to and in a minute I wouldn’t. It didn’t matter. I’d have to be going.

  —I’ll keep on track, he said. —No distractions. She spoke to me –

  —When’re we talkin’ about?

  —Wha’?

  —When did she speak to you? I said. —Recently or –?

  —Recently, he said. —Yeah, no – I mean last year. When I started meetin’ her again.

  —Okay, I said. —Sorry – go on.

  —I felt it immediately. Like I said. That I’d known her all the time.

  —Okay.

  —That the first time was actually the five hundredth or whatever the number would be. Before tha’ – this is true, I’ll admit this. It was the gap in the years an’ the fact that I hadn’t thought about her – although that’s not strictly true either. I often thought about her. But it was the sudden arrival of – I don’t know – the possibility. The novelty. I’m not sure if it was sex, Davy. The reality o’ tha’. I don’t know if I’d have gone tha’ far. It was more the fantasy. The thinkin’ about it, the anticipation. An’ there must be a scent. A fuckin’ vibe – energy or somethin’. Because Trish an’ meself –. We won’t go there again.

  —No.

  —Grand. So. I go an’ I meet her. You know already. An’ I feel it. We’re already together.

  Again, I wanted to hit him. Again, I wanted to go. But I wanted the story; I wanted to hear much more.

  —Was it deflatin’? I asked him.

  —How d’you mean? he said.

  —Well, I said. —You were half hopin’ for some sort o’ sexual
liaison. Sorry – that’s crap. But you know what I mean. You said novelty there. An’ you said well-preserved earlier.

  —Was tha’ not you?

  —No. You.

  —Okay.

  —Maybe both of us.

  —Right – go on.

  —Tha’ was wha’ was on your mind, I said. —A fling with a woman tha’ used to be the girl of your dreams. But then you sit down with her an’ it’s like the two o’ you are in your slippers an’ dressin’ gowns an’ there’s nothin’ goin’ on at all.

  —It wasn’t like tha’.

  —Was it deflatin’?

  —No.

  —No?

  —It was different.

  —Okay. And unexpected?

  —Very.

  —An’ deflatin’.

  —Fuck off.

  —It must’ve been, I said. —For fuck sake. Or maybe it was a relief, was it?

  —Well, there you go, he said. —Tha’ might be nearer the truth.

  —Is it?

  —Jesus, Davy, when did you join the fuckin’ FBI?

  —Was it a relief? Go on.

  —It might’ve been.

  —You could still go home an’ ride Trish.

  —What’s your fuckin’ problem? he said. —Hang on, but, I know what it is. I forgot there for a bit. You fancied her as well.

  —Trish?

  —Stop bein’ such a spa, Davy, he said. —Jessica.

  —Whose name I didn’t know until a few hours ago. It’s a long time since anyone called me a spa.

  —Well, you are a fuckin’ spa.

  —You can’t say that any more.

  —I know.

  —It was a relief – you said.

  —You did.

  —You agreed with me.

  —Okay, he said. —It was. A bit. I’m not sure. Because it stopped bein’ abou’ tha’. Abou’ me meetin’ up with a woman I hardly knew. The effort involved.

  He surprised me now.

  —Did anythin’ like this ever happen to you?

  —No.

  —Really?

  —No. You asked already.

  —Did I?

  —I think so, yeah.

  —Okay, he said. —Seriously, though, Davy – there was never another woman?

  —Not really, no.

  —Not even a deflatin’ one?

  I didn’t answer. It wasn’t really a question. Joe lifted his pint. He knocked back a good bit, two swallows, three. He put the glass back down on the beermat.

  —But anyway, he said. —Somethin’ happened to me.

  * * *

  —

  There was a Saturday, one of the last Saturdays, maybe the last. She was there, with her friends and the cello case. She was sitting under the window when we came in. I walked straight into Joe’s back. He’d seen her first. But I’d recovered in time to see her look our way and smile.

  And smile.

  —Hi, guys, she said.

  Guy wasn’t the word it is now. Every waitress and lounge girl will address a group of two or more men as guys, no matter their age, the lounge girl and the men. But not back then. We weren’t guys; there were no guys. We were young lads, boys, men. But only men in American films were guys.

  But we were guys now too, apparently. Although speechless guys – we were in a silent film.

  I eventually managed a word.

  —Hi.

  It was me who said it, not Joe. I was the first guy to speak to her. I know that. I knew it then, and I thought I knew its significance. I was the first to respond, so she must have been talking to me.

  We kept on going. I followed Joe, down to our end of the bar.

  I was the one who had spoken. Mine was the only voice. I knew it then, at that exact time, and it thrilled me.

  It seems pathetic. But it’s not – not as I understand the word. We were children when we were together. I was a functioning adult most of the time – all week. But something happened when we were together; joy rushed in and drowned us. Before I met Faye, I experienced happiness only when I was with Joe. I think that’s true. Happiness that could be trusted. Happiness that, somehow, I could measure, feel; it was a thing in my chest. When I was with Joe.

  I liked being a boy. I loved being a boy. The rush of it, the rib-breaking ache of it. I’m not sure that I’d ever been one before. I couldn’t be happy at home. I can’t feel it now; I can’t construct it. Because it wasn’t there. I remember once, when I was twelve or thirteen, watching Coronation Street and one of the characters – I can’t remember which; a woman – she said to another woman, ‘You’ll have to fend for yourself.’ I knew exactly what she meant.

  I said Hi to the girl I know was called Jessica. And I knew: it might be the end of happiness. And it might be the start of something new. A different kind of happiness. An adventure. A night. A life.

  And I ran.

  I took a look at her. She wasn’t looking our way. She was listening to one of her friends. She was devoting herself to whatever her friend – another woman; I’ve no other memory of her – was saying. I could hear words but I couldn’t catch meaning; I didn’t try to. She wasn’t waiting for us. I was disappointed, and relieved. I was safe.

  I was shy but I wasn’t crippled. I’d stepped up to women and slept with them hours later. I’d met looks and I’d managed to hold them when I’d wanted to, when I’d thought I had to. When I’d trusted my judgement, when I knew – when I thought I knew – I was reading the look correctly. I was surprised if a woman smiled at me, but never shocked. I was shy, but not of women.

  I don’t know about Joe. I don’t know why he didn’t say anything to Jessica that time, why I was allowed to be our spokesman. We’d had a few pints on our journey across town to George’s. We’d been running, pretending to rush, to get out of the rain. He’d hit the door first. I’d had to negotiate a puddle, hop over the thing – I don’t remember. He got there first and was inside before me. He saw her first. But I spoke.

  Why devote the space to this? It was the only time I spoke to her. And I was the one who spoke.

  * * *

  —

  —So tell us, said Faye once, after we were married.

  —What do you find desirable in a woman?

  —Words, I said.

  I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t think. I felt I’d had the answer ready, just waiting for the question.

  Faye pretended to unblock an ear with one of her little fingers.

  —Excuse me? she said. —What?

  —Words, I said.

  She was pregnant, six or seven months. We were sitting in our new house. I was just in, from my new job. There was no food. The smell of fresh paint would always be the smell of our happiness.

  Faye thumped my arm.

  —You’d prefer to ride a dictionary than a woman, she said. —Is that what you’re telling me now, David?

  —I’d prefer to ride a woman who could say I’d prefer to ride a dictionary, I said.

  —A big mouth?

  —A clever dick.

  —She’d have to be a dickess, so she would.

  —A clever dickess, then.

  —Am I one?

  —Yeah.

  —Well, I’m lost for fuckin’ words, she said.

  We were in England. Away from Gorey and her house. Away from Dublin. Away from the ghost of her dead mother and from the ghost of my living father. We were fresh paint. There’d been nothing here – no one here – before us.

  * * *

  —

  —I’m not sure that I approve, said my father.

  He’d never said anything like that to me before. It was a few weeks after he’d met Faye. I’d just told him we were getting married.

  I was ready for the fight. I knew – I know it now: I’d been expecting it. It was just the two of us in the kitc
hen – his kitchen. It wasn’t my home. It wasn’t my country. I wanted to be pushed out. And so did Faye. We both wanted the shove.

  —Approve of what? I said.

  He hadn’t been looking at me.

  He looked now.

  —I’m sure she’s a nice girl, he said.

  —She is, I said.

  —I don’t doubt you, he said.

  —You do doubt me.

  He picked up the kettle. I wanted to dash across and grab it from him. I wanted to open the back door and fuck the thing out into the garden.

  —I haven’t been a very good father, he said.

  He’d raised his voice, almost to a shout, so he’d be heard over the roar of the water rushing into the kettle.

  —I wouldn’t say that, I told him.

  He’d turned off the tap.

  —I would, he said.

  He was putting a match to the gas. He was an old man at the cooker. His thin hair was standing, lit by the sun coming through the window beside him. I couldn’t see his face but, the way he stood, he was reminding himself, trying to remember why he was standing there. I wanted to hold him.

  I heard the gas. I watched him waiting, not trusting the flame. He didn’t want to turn, to face me. He was looking for something else he needed to do. All this was seconds, not minutes.

  He turned.

  —I mightn’t have the right, he said. —But I’ll say it anyway. I think you should be careful.

  —Careful?

  —Yes.

  —Fuckin’ careful?

  —David.

  —Sorry. Careful, though? What d’you mean?

  —She’s very young.

  —So?

  He shrugged. He smiled.

  —Right, he said. —Before you say it. Yes, your mother was younger than me.

  —Six years.

  —Yes.

  He wasn’t smiling now.

  —She’s wild, he said. —Your lassie.

  —Faye.

  —She was half naked.

  —We’d been upstairs.

  —I don’t want to interfere, he said. —I can see why you –. She was attractive.

  —She still is.

  —You were introducing her to me and she wore – what was it? – one of your jumpers. I could see her hair. For God’s sake, David. I’m your father and she was displaying herself. Here! And you, son – you let her. In case you hadn’t noticed, David, we’re not the bloody Borgias.