by Roddy Doyle
—Did it hurt?
—She missed.
He grinned.
—It broke the glass on a photograph of her mother. Knocked the fuckin’ thing off the wall.
—Brilliant.
—Well, it was. An’ she started laughin’ before I did. She’s great, Trish.
He tapped the ring with a fingernail.
—Anyway, we’re not divorced, he said.
—Hedgin’ your bets.
—No, he said. —Fuck off. No. What’s done’s done. I’ve no regrets.
—Is that true?
—It is, I think, yeah. It’s true enough. But tha’ sayin’ – no regrets, like. It’s a bit callous. Is it?
—It could be, I said. —An’ it’s definitely unrealistic.
—Exactly, he said. —How could you not have regrets? Some, at least. Everyone has a few regrets.
—Yeah.
—So, then, yeah, he said. —I do have regrets. Fuckin’ big ones. The whole family thing. I miss them – fuck me. I don’t even have to admit tha’ – you’d be the same, I know.
—Yup.
—It’ll iron itself out in time, he said. —Whatever tha’ fuckin’ means. So I’m bein’ told. Every time I open me fuckin’ mouth. But it’s true. It has to be. You don’t go from bein’ a good dad to an evil one, just like tha’. Or a husband. They’ll calm down.
—Probably, yeah, I said.
—Eventually.
—Yeah.
—Fuck it, he said.
—What about you?
—What about me?
—Will you calm down?
—I am fuckin’ calm, he said.
—Grand.
—Calm as – whatever.
He watched me – he was looking at my hand as I took my pint off the counter. He bent slightly and grabbed my other one, the left. I let him do it, so we both looked at the palm and fingers.
—Come here, you, he said. —Where’s your own fuckin’ ring?
He let go of the hand.
—I don’t have one, I told him.
—No?
—I’ve never had one.
—How come?
—Well, I said. —It wasn’t unusual back then, remember. For the groom not to have one. I’d’ve been happy enough but Faye wasn’t havin’ it.
—How come?
—She used to find weddin’ rings on the table at home, when she was a kid. After her father died.
—Jesus, he said.
—Yep.
—But did men have weddin’ rings back then?
—I know what you mean, I said. —But some must’ve. Cos Faye found them.
—An’ her ma was a bike?
—A tandem, I said.
I felt disloyal, and cruel. But there was no real point in trying to explain Faye’s mother to Joe. It was too complicated; the drink was drowning the words.
—But it doesn’t make sense, he said.
—What doesn’t?
—These lads takin’ their weddin’ rings off. Before they went up with her mother.
—Faye used to hide them.
—The rings?
—Yeah.
—Brilliant.
—Her mother paid her to do it, I told him. —After she did it the first few times.
—That’s mad, said Joe. —Kind o’ not funny, really. Did Faye think it was funny?
—No.
—She took the money, but.
—She saved it.
Faye was all set to go, before her mother died. She just had to pull herself away from the conviction that she was needed; and the fear that she wasn’t. She’d made it to Dublin once, when she was sixteen. Her mother guessed she’d be at her aunt’s flat, her father’s sister, Mary; and she phoned. Come home, pet. I’m dying.
—The whole ring thing, though, said Joe. —Two women, Davy. Tha’ was me for a bit. I sound like a fucker.
—A bit, yeah.
—I know. But I’d like to think I’m not. The fuckin’ Mormons an’ their polygamy, there’s no way it’d work out fairly. For the women – sure it wouldn’t?
—No.
—Now there was a religion designed by a man.
—They all were.
—Wha’?
—Religions.
—True, he said. —It’s all bollix. I’m feelin’ these pints now.
—Behind the head.
—Exactly, he said. —I’m out o’ practice. Still, though. Great to see you, man.
He held out his glass. He wanted me to tap mine against his.
—Good to see you too, I said.
We tapped.
I wanted to go now. I wanted to get back before the call. I wanted to sit with my father. Just sit. I wanted to tell him I loved him. I wanted to say it out loud.
—But men have managed it, said Joe. —The two households thing.
—Jesus, Joe –
—I know, he said. —But look it. Tha’ was me – in a way, it was me, how I was livin’. For months.
—It must be fuckin’ exhaustin’.
—No, he said.
—It must be, I said. —It has to be.
—No, I swear, he said. —I see why you’d think it. But it wasn’t.
—It wasn’t two households, was it, though – really? Two houses, the works.
—No, he said. —An’ – I don’t know. Dividin’ the time – a night in one place, a night in the other place. Tha’ must be a killer. Never mind the economics. Keepin’ track o’ the lies – fuckin’ hell. But look, I wasn’t messin’. D’you know what I mean, Davy? I wasn’t actin’ the prick.
—Well, you must’ve been.
—No.
—To an extent, I said. —You must’ve been. Did you tell Trish wha’ you were up to?
—No.
—There, I said. —So, you withheld the information –
—Are you fuckin’ jokin’ me? Trish?
—What I’m suggestin’ is, just because you didn’t think you were messin’ around, that doesn’t mean you weren’t.
—Lower the voice a bit.
—Was I shoutin’?
—A bit.
I looked to the sides – I saw no one looking away. The barmen were busy. We were okay.
—Did you stay away from home? I asked him.
—The house?
—Yeah.
—Yeah, he said. —A couple o’ times. Before –
—Trish found out.
—I told Trish – but yeah.
—How many?
—Wha’?
—Nights.
—Four. For a night, just. You know – a single night. Each time.
Now I lowered my voice; I wasn’t sure why.
—But you said you didn’t have sex with Jess, I said.
—No, he said. —But –
—Wha’?
—You’ll have to get past tha’ – the sex. If you’re goin’ to understand wha’ I’ve been tryin’ to say.
—Give me a fuckin’ break, Joe.
—Fuck off now, Davy – you give me a fuckin’ break. I’m not a slug an’ I’m not fuckin’ stupid either. I knew it couldn’t last an’ that I’d have to tell Trish. An’ I knew what would happen. An’ it did. Boy, did it – fuckin’ hell. Although even tha’ got complicated. But there was a spell – that’s what I’m sayin’. There was a spell when it felt perfectly, nearly perfectly fuckin’ normal to be livin’ the way I was.
He grabbed his pint. I thought for a second that he’d pour it over my head, or his own. But all he did was drink from it.
* * *
—
—What’s this? Faye said.
—What’s what?
It was two years or so after we’d moved to England. We were still a bit lost and Faye was pregnant again.
She was holding a piece of paper, a receipt.
—What the fuck is this supposed to be, David? she said.
She slapped my nose with the paper and stepped back before I could grab it.
—Stop it, Faye, I said.
—Stop what? Stop what, exactly?
—It’s not funny, I said. —Stop it.
She looked at the receipt. She brought it up to her eyes, although it was another twenty-five years before she’d start wearing reading glasses.
—Bombay Indian Restaurant, she read.
She stepped up to me again, and slapped me with the receipt. Harder this time; her knuckles brushed the side of my nose.
—Lay off, Faye – please.
—Who is it? she said. —Do I know her?
She was looking at the receipt again.
—Two starters, two mains.
—I hope you’re enjoying yourself, I said.
—I am.
—It’s boring, Faye.
—What’s boring, David? Indian food or adultery?
I laughed.
—What’s so funny?
—You are, Faye, I told her. —You’re brilliant.
She looked at the receipt. She’d been upstairs, putting Cathal, our eldest, to bed.
—It was in your pocket, so it was.
—No, it wasn’t.
—Maybe it’s mine, so.
—Maybe it is, I said.
—Who did I meet, I wonder? she said. —Are you interested?
—No.
—Don’t worry, though, Dave, she said. —I’d never let any man’s tongue near my fanny after he’s had a vindaloo.
—Wise move, I said. —It was us, by the way.
—What was?
—You were the woman, I told her. —We ate in that place a couple of weeks ago. We had Cathal with us.
—A likely story.
—You said it yourself, I said. —You’d be the only pregnant woman in England who liked spicy food.
There were times when I knew she was messing and times when she frightened me, when I thought I was sharing the house with a woman I didn’t know or like. Her unpredictability became a threat. I thought sometimes that she didn’t trust herself, she didn’t trust what we were; she was testing herself, rehearsing her mother’s madness. It was nasty, brief, sporadic and strategic. She never performed in front of the kids. She let them grow up and when they left, she let them stay gone. They never got the phone calls, Come home, pet, I’m dying.
—Guess what, Dave? she said the day we came home after driving Róisín to college in London.
—What?
—We can do what we want, she said.
—That’s true.
—The first time in fuckin’ for ever, she said. —We can starve the dog if we like.
—Do we want to do that?
—It can go onto the agenda, she said. —Is what I’m saying. We can do anything we want. Does that appeal to you, David?
It didn’t.
I’d no children; I’d nothing. I’d nothing to do and nothing I wanted to do, other than lie down and wait – I didn’t know for what. A revelation or a disease – both made equal sense.
She put her arms around me and she cried; she drenched my shoulder.
—They’re ungrateful little cunts, she said.
—Are you talking about our children, Faye?
—I am.
—We could watch telly, I said.
—My God, she said. —There’s a thought. Telly.
I kissed the top of her head. I knew what she was going to say.
—Never fuckin’ kiss me there, David.
I was finally getting to know her.
* * *
—
I watched Joe. He’d stopped talking. He’d stopped needing to talk. He was looking around again, as if we’d just arrived.
—This place hasn’t changed, he said.
He pointed at a line of old photographs.
—The dead writers are still dead, he said.
—That’s reassurin’.
—It kind of is, he said. —I go with it.
—Sorry?
—I go with it, he said. —I’m tryin’ to think of a way to describe it.
—Describe wha’?
—I don’t know, he said. —That’s part o’ the problem. The whole thing. What’s happened – since I met Jess.
—You go with it?
—Yeah – I think so.
—With the flow, d’you mean? I asked him. —You go with the flow?
—No, he said. —No. Definitely not tha’. Tha’ sounds like I’m bein’ led by the flute or somethin’. An’ I’m not. At all – fuckin’ at all.
—Okay.
—I’ll tell you what it is, he said.
But he didn’t – not immediately. He was looking at the bottles on the high shelves, and at the pictures. He didn’t look drunk now. The wetness had gone from around his eyes. He looked older – older than he’d looked a few minutes before. And turning – when he was turning his head – he seemed stiffer; his body had to go with him. The back of his head, down around the neck, looked fleshy.
I waited.
I wanted to leave again. Suddenly. I didn’t like my position here, the listener, the tape recorder. I wanted to call Faye. I wanted to see my father.
He put his hand on his glass again.
—It’s a thing abou’ gettin’ older, he said. —At least, I suppose it is. So many memories, you know. It becomes harder to separate wha’ happened from wha’ might’ve happened an’ wha’ didn’t happen but kind o’ seemed to.
He was looking at me.
—Is it? he asked.
—Is memory reliable? I said. —Is that wha’ you mean?
—I think so, yeah.
—Jesus, Joe.
—I know.
—For fuck sake.
—I know, he said. —I remember once. Listen –.
He lifted his glass. He drank. He took the glass from his mouth and held it to his chest.
—Not tha’ long ago, he said. —Only – Jesus – only a bit more than a year ago. We’d a do in our house. Aaron’s graduation, it would’ve been.
The name, Aaron, meant nothing but I knew he was one of Joe’s kids.
—College graduation? I asked.
—No, no, he said. —He’s not the eldest. That’s Sam. No, just school. End o’ sixth year, you know. A big deal these days – fuckin’ hell. Anyway, my sisters were there, an’ Trish’s sister, Grace. An’ the husbands. You know, yourself. The gang. We were ou’ the back, in the garden. We’ve a pond out there now, an’ a deck. A barbecue as well, one o’ the big lads. Like a fuckin’ helicopter under the cover, if you’re lookin’ ou’ the window at it durin’ the winter.
—We’ve one o’ them too, I said.
—There you go, he said. —Half the gardens in fuckin’ Ireland have them.
—Does Jess?
—No, he said. —No. D’you know wha’, though? I’m not sure. I haven’t been ou’ in her back garden.
—Really?
He seemed to be thinking about it, going back over the months.
—Yeah, he said.
—You live there.
—I know, he said. —It’s – wha’? – a bit odd, I suppose. But I don’t know. I just haven’t gone ou’ there. The wheelies are all out in the front, so –
—You’ve looked out the kitchen window, surely.
—I have, he said. —Yeah. An’ I haven’t seen a barbecue. But anyway, where was I?
—Your back garden.
—That’s righ’, he said. —Thanks. We were all ou’ there, sittin’ around in a big circle, like, an’ Trish starts tellin’ a story, somethin’ tha’ happened when the kids were smaller, a few years before – another couple o’ years back. There�
��s a school at the end of our road, d’you remember?
—No, I said.
I’d never been to his house.
—Ah, you do.
—I don’t.
—Well, there is, he said. —On the corner. A girls’ school – the national, you know. An’ if you’re tryin’ to get out, off the road, when all the parents are droppin’ their kids off in the mornin’ just before nine, you haven’t a hope. It’s jammed. It’s a pain in the arse. So, anyway, Trish was tellin’ everyone abou’ this one time. The car – our car, like – was stuck behind a jeep. The woman drivin’ the jeep had parked it nearly in the middle o’ the road an’ she was out of it, gettin’ her kids ou’ from the back. An’ Trish was tellin’ them all how I rolled down the window an’ called out to her, Excuse me? Exactly like I did do it – I’ll never forget it. So, the woman – a big girl, by the way, with a baseball cap. She takes her head out o’ the back of the jeep an’ turns. The way Trish was tellin’ it, it was fuckin’ brilliant. An’ we were all in stitches – all ages, you know. Kids an’ oldies, all laughin’. So anyway, I ask her – your woman with the baseball cap. I say, Would you mind movin’ your car, we’re just tryin’ to get out? An’ your woman just says, Fuck off.
—No.
—Yeah, said Joe. —That’s all. Fuck off. Straight at me. An’ Trish’s face, Davy, when she was sayin’ it. It was the funniest fuckin’ thing. Trish wasn’t wearin’ a cap when she was tellin’ it but, the way she was holdin’ her head, you’d’ve sworn she was. It was fuckin’ hilarious. But.
—But what?
—She wasn’t there.
—What d’you mean?
—She wasn’t in the car – Trish wasn’t. I was drivin’ an’ Holly was beside me. Just me an’ Holly. I was droppin’ her off to a football summer camp before I went on to work. She’s a great footballer, Holly. All sports, really. But it was June, like, so Holly was done with school but the girls’ school, the primary, was still open till the end o’ the month. That’s why she was with me. But the point is, Trish wasn’t there. She didn’t witness the woman’s performance. I told her later.
—Okay.
—You don’t think it matters?
—I don’t know, I said. —But not really – I don’t think so. We all do it, don’t we? Embellish stories, add to them. Especially in this country.
—No, I know wha’ you mean, he said. —As far as tha’ goes, yeah, I’m with you. She hears it from me, she hears me tellin’ it fuck knows how many times. So, she makes it her own.