Love

by Roddy Doyle

  —Yeah.

  —Sad.

  —Yeah.

  —Never, he said. —Fuckin’ awful. It breaks my heart. Serious now – it does. Now –. Before I go on. I have to say this as well. She isn’t fuckin’ miserable. That’s not wha’ I mean.

  —I know.

  —A pain in the arse, I mean. She isn’t. She isn’t a whinger, Davy.

  He was looking at the floor again. He looked back up at me.

  —She’s, he said. —She’s lovely. An’ one o’ the reasons she’s lovely is because she’s so unhappy. Davy.

  It was like he wanted me to say something. But I knew he didn’t. He wanted me to look at him. Straight at him.

  —I’ve never known an unhappy woman before, Davy.

  —Trish?

  I hadn’t meant to say anything. But I loved saying the name. Trish. Its effect – what happened. It was like an electric shock, static electricity, a quick jolt up the arm.

  —The happiest woman in Ireland, he said. —Happiest woman ever born – that’s my Trish.

  He smiled.

  —She’d swallow the world, he said. —You know those yokes, Davy?

  —Wha’ yokes?

  —On the water, he said. —The sea.

  —I don’t know what you mean.

  —Ah, you do. The yokes. Noisy fuckin’ things. But good crack.

  —I don’t know.

  —You fuckin’ do, he said. —You do. I can’t think o’ the fuckin’ name. Jet ski – jet skis. I knew I knew it. D’you know what I’m talkin’ abou’?

  —Jet skis?

  —Exactly.

  —Wha’ about them?

  —Ah, for fuck sake. Wha’ I’m saying – what I’m sayin’ is. Fuckin’ –. Trish is a fuckin’ jet ski. That’s what I mean. She’s fuckin’ brilliant.

  —Wha’? I said. —You ride her in the water?

  He laughed – he burst out laughing. He exploded.

  —For fuck sake.

  He wiped his eyes. I was laughing too. He put his hand on my shoulder. He staggered, a bit. He kept his hand there, then dropped it, and looked at the counter for his pint.

  —Her energy, he said. —That’s all I meant.

  —Why didn’t you just say energy then? I asked.

  —Fair enough, he said. —Fair enough. Cunt.

  He picked up his glass. It was half full. I was ahead of him.

  —Forget jet skis, he said. —Dams, locks, fuckin’ jet skis – forget all o’ them. Here’s one – here’s –. Trish is a force o’ nature. Is tha’ clear enough for you?

  —Yeah – grand.

  —It passes muster.

  —It does.

  —Ah, good, he said. —If a force o’ nature is a good thing – yeah?

  —Yeah.

  —Trish is a very good force o’ nature, he said. —I’ll tell you, man, I’ve been blessed.

  —Okay.

  I was wishing I knew Trish.

  —Jess, he said. —Jess. Davy?

  —Wha’?

  —I’m talkin’ abou’ Jess now, okay?

  —Yeah.

  —Wha’ sort of – wha’ kind of a machine is Faye, by the way?

  —Wha’?

  —Trish is a jet ski, he said. —What’s Faye?

  —You said we’d forget about jet skis.

  —Fuck jet skis. Come on. What machine is Faye? It is Faye – I’m right, yeah?

  —Yeah.

  It wasn’t just the drink. He was being nasty again, when he could concentrate.

  —I haven’t thought about it, I told him.

  —Go on, come on, he said. —She has to be somethin’. A toaster.

  —No.

  —A fuckin’ –. I don’t fuckin’ know. A hairdryer.

  —Forget it, Joe.

  —A Dyson yoke.

  —Fuckin’ forget it, Joe.

  He looked at me. He shrugged. He smiled.

  —Grand, he said. —Point taken. No machinery.

  He looked at his drink. He brought it to his mouth.

  —Actin’ the maggot, he said.

  He drank.

  —Sorry, he said. —It was wha’ my mother always said. Anyway. You’re actin’ the maggot, Joseph.

  He drank again. He put the glass back on the counter. He parked it. He brought it slightly forward, and back. It almost toppled.

  —Yikes – shite. Leave well enough alone. Whatever tha’ fuckin’ means.

  He picked the glass up again.

  —The things we say. We don’t even know wha’ they mean. Jess isn’t a force o’ nature.

  —So, I said. —Jess isn’t a jet ski.

  He didn’t laugh. He shook his head.

  —No, he said. —She isn’t. You’re right. I love her, Davy, d’you know tha’?

  —You told me, yeah.

  —Yeah, he said. —Yeah – well. I think that’s why I love her. I think.

  —She’s different to Trish.

  —Yeah. No – yeah. I don’t know. I don’t think so. It’s not either or. Well, it is. Unfortunately.

  —Is tha’ wha’ you want, Joe?

  —Wha’?

  —A ménage à trois?

  —A wha’?

  —You know what I mean, I said.

  —No, he said.

  He’d thought about it.

  —No, he said. —No, I know wha’ you mean. An’ no. I don’t want one o’ them – a menage. An’ come here. Not because it wouldn’t work.

  —It wouldn’t.

  —God, no. Fuck, no. Never. But it doesn’t matter. It never really occurred to me – not the sex thing way, anyway.

  He’d lowered his voice. He was looking at me now over his glasses. Then he lifted his head.

  —I make her happy, he said.

  I took a guess.

  —Jess.

  He didn’t nod or shake his head.

  —I don’t have to do anythin’, Davy, he said. —I don’t really know how to explain it – sorry. It must be a pain in the arse.

  —No.

  —Listenin’ to this shite. It must be.

  —No.

  —Go on to fuck.

  —Okay, I said. —It is.

  —Is it?

  —No, I said. —I’m messin’ with you. It isn’t.

  —I appreciate tha’, he said. —Good to see you, man. Where’s my fuckin’ pint? Here – look it.

  He put his hand around his glass, then – as if bracing himself – lifted it.

  —I’m reluctant, he said.

  He examined the word. He looked as it passed his eyes.

  He was happy with it.

  —I’m reluctant to say this, he said. —I’m nearly reluctant. But I’ll say it an’ we’ll see where it gets us.

  He looked at his pint. He drank from it.

  —It’s like livin’ in a fairy tale, he said.

  —Yeah, I said. —You mentioned the film – earlier.

  —Did I?

  —Tha’ one –

  —Wha’ one? Stardust. It must’ve been Stardust.

  —Yeah, I said. —You mentioned Stardust.

  —No, he said. —No, I mean I did. But I don’t mean I’m livin’ in the story of tha’ one. In the plot – I don’t mean tha’.

  —Okay.

  —I mean, he said. —Like – I’m reluctant to say it. I said tha’. Cos it’s mad. But there you go.

  —I don’t understand.

  —Join the fuckin’ club, Davy.

  He finished his pint. He put the glass down, then picked it up and put it at the far edge of the counter, as far away as he could put it.

  —The demon drink, he said. —That’s a phrase I can understand. No problem understandin’ tha’ one. I don’t drink much, by the way. That’s why I’m hammered. Are we hamm
ered, Davy?

  —We are.

  —Grand, he said. —I am, anyway. I have magical powers.

  He looked at me.

  —I do, he said. —Magical powers.

  He held up his hands, wriggled his fingers.

  —Not the spooky kind, he said. —I can’t –. Fuckin’ –. Bend spoons an’ tha’. I can’t bend spoons, Davy. I’m not Uri what’s his name. Geller.

  —That’s a relief.

  —There was a fuckin’ chancer.

  —Yeah.

  —Spoons, me bollix.

  He picked up his empty glass.

  —What I mean, he said. —Wha’ it is. The fairy-tale thing. It’s like this. I can make her happy. An’ by the way. I think I’m the first person to be able to do tha’. So – come here. Just let me concentrate for a bit. I’ll sober up. Then I can explain it properly. Once an’ for all. Once an’ for fuckin’ all. An’ forget abou’ magical powers by the way – that’s not wha’ I mean.

  * * *

  —

  —Are you happy, David?

  Faye had looked up from her plate. I didn’t know what to say. It was a trap. It wasn’t.

  —Yes, I said.

  —Good, she said. —So am I.

  —Are you?

  —Yes, she said. —I think I am. But.

  —What?

  —What does it mean? Happy.

  —I don’t know.

  —I’m not giddy, like, she said. —I’m content. Are you?

  —Yeah.

  —Are you?

  —Yes.

  —Good, she said.

  It was terrifying.

  —That’s all I want, she said.

  —Same here, I said.

  —What?

  —I want you to be happy.

  —Well, she said. —We seem to be quite efficient at it, so. Making one another happy. Aren’t we great? She smiled.

  —How’s the beef? I asked her.

  —Oh, I’m very happy with it, thanks, David, she said. —Very happy. It’s a lovely piece of beef. Fair play to you.

  —It’s not too pink?

  —God, no. It could never be too pink. As the man said. You seem nervous.

  —No.

  —Tense.

  —No.

  —Are you happy enough, yourself? With the beef.

  —I am, yes, I said. —I think I timed it well.

  —I think you did too. It’s all I want.

  —Beef?

  She smiled.

  —You, she said. —You to be happy. Do you believe me?

  —Yes.

  —Do you?

  —Yes.

  —Good.

  * * *

  —

  He was staring at his glass again. He looked up.

  —All I have to do is listen, he said.

  —To wha’?

  —Jess, he said. —She –. Everythin’ I say must sound mad. How long’ve we been drinkin’?

  —Hours.

  —Hours, he said. —We ate earlier, didn’t we?

  —Yeah.

  —Tha’ seems like days ago.

  He was right. I couldn’t remember what I’d eaten.

  —So anyway, he said. —I’ve been tryin’ to get to the point all night. Find the words that’ll make sense. An’ that’s it – after all tha’. I listen.

  He was changing again. His eyes had cleared. He’d said he was going to sober up, and that seemed to be happening. I looked at him and remembered what he’d said about having magical powers.

  —So, he said. —Listen. I go home.

  —New home?

  —New home, he said. —Yeah. Yeah – I think I can call it tha’. It feels like home. I suppose.

  —Where is it?

  —Clontarf, he said. —Not far from where we were earlier.

  —Right.

  —Dollymount, more.

  —Okay.

  —So, yeah. I go home. An’ it’s like I’ve always been there. I said that earlier as well – or somethin’ like it. An’ it’s not necessarily because I think I’ve always been there. But she does.

  He seemed happy, relieved; he’d said what he’d wanted to say.

  —I don’t get you, I said. —Sorry.

  —Wha’ don’t you get?

  —She thinks you’ve been livin’ with her for years?

  —Not exactly, he said. —But yeah. That’s it.

  —Is that okay?

  —Wha’?

  —Are you alright with it?

  —With wha’?

  —Tha’ she thinks you’ve been livin’ with her since the early ’80s.

  —It’s not fuckin’ exact, he said. —I told you. Not literal. But she feels it. So – so do I.

  —You’re made for each other – somethin’ like tha’?

  —That’ll do, he said. —Tha’ covers it, I think. Like I said. I listen. An’ I don’t think I ever did tha’ before. I don’t think I had to. Trish didn’t give a fuck if I was listenin’ or not.

  —Tha’ sounds unfair.

  —You’re right, he said. —I regret sayin’ it. Kind of. Not really, though. Fuck it, Davy, I’m in love. I run home, just to see her.

  I remembered that. I remembered charging for the train, the bus, to get to Faye’s house, our flat, wherever I was going to see her. She was often there ahead of me and I’d loved that too, watching her as she saw me arrive, the smile – the glee, the reined-back excitement – that it provoked. There was once, we’d just moved to England, and I charged in the door. She was watching Neighbours.

  —I was lying back in the bed in my lingerie, she said. —But then I got up when you weren’t coming home.

  —What lingerie?

  —Well, I’ll tell you, David, I hid it. And it’s going to stay hidden, so it is.

  I could still imagine that charge, a man of my age, of Joe’s age, racing to see a woman, to be seen by a woman. A sixty-year-old man’s charge, but the excitement and the honesty could still be there. It didn’t have to be a different woman; I wanted to run to Faye. I wanted to look at Faye and find her looking at me. Without the questions or the concern, or embarrassment.

  I could feel it on my skin, in my legs; I wasn’t drunk, again. We were stranded on some island of sobriety. We had a few minutes to talk. I had a few minutes to listen; the tide would be coming in again. Any minute.

  —What’s it like? I asked him.

  —Like?

  Aggression took over – I could see it – but he pulled it back.

  —The house, d’you mean?

  —Not really, I said. —But yeah.

  —Well, it’s nothin’ like ours, he said. —Jesus, listen to me – ours. I mean –

  —I know what you mean.

  —It’s in bits, he said. —I’m tellin’ you. Trish would go fuckin’ spare if she ever saw it. You left me for this? But it’s cosy.

  —Fuckin’ cosy?

  —Wrong word, he said.

  He grinned.

  —Comfortable, he said. —An’ anyway, it’s not the house tha’ matters. The décor. I never gave a toss about tha’ shite, anyway. It’s her, Davy. I’m in a different world, man. I’m livin’ in a life I never actually lived.

  —Sounds mad, Joe.

  —Fuck off, it’s not. Well, it is. A bit, just. But I’ve been given a second chance.

  —Joe –

  —More to the point, he said. —Give me a minute here. More to the point. She’s been given a second chance. That’s what it is, Davy. I’ll tell you a thing she said to me early on an’ it nearly killed me. I shouldn’t be tellin’ you this but wha’ harm, you’re my buddy. An’ you know her.

  —I don’t.

  —You did. Back in the day. I hate tha’ sayin’ or whatever it is. Is it day or days?

  �
��Day.

  —Yeah, well. Only cunts say it.

  He grinned.

  —In our youth, he said. —You knew her in our youth. An’ you fancied her as well.

  —I didn’t.

  —You fuckin’ did so.

  —Wha’ did she say?

  —Will we have another pint here? he asked.

  —Go on, yeah, I said. —We’ll never get to George’s.

  —’Course we will.

  He called the barman.

  —Excuse me –. Yeah, two more, please. Thanks.

  —Wha’ did she say? I asked him again.

  —Well, I could tell you. Word for word, like. But without the context, it’ll sound dreadful. But come here, you’re sound as a pound, I know tha’. But –

  —Tell me an’ then work backwards.

  —Why’re you so keen to know?

  —I’m not, I lied. —But a minute ago you were all set to tell me.

  —‘I wish I hadn’t lived.’

  —She said tha’?

  —Yeah.

  —Jesus, Joe.

  —Yeah.

  —Jesus – on your second date?

  —Fuck off now. But yeah. It was the saddest fuckin’ thing, Davy, I’m not jokin’ you.

  He looked at me. I looked at him. And we laughed. I held his right arm, he held my left. And we laughed.

  —It’s not funny.

  —I know.

  —It wasn’t funny.

  —I know.

  —It isn’t.

  We laughed. He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes, and put them back on and took them off again.

  —The fuckin’ things are steamin’, he said. —The heat off me face.

  —She said tha’? I said.

  —Yeah.

  —What age is she? Fifteen?

  —It wasn’t funny.

  —Okay.

  —It really wasn’t funny. I swear to God. Don’t look at me, for fuck sake, I’ll start laughin’ again. I don’t want to.

  That got us going again.

  —Laughin’ like tha’, I said. —It makes me want to piss, sometimes it does. Is it the same with you?

  —No, he said. —I don’t laugh much, but.

  —I’m not fuckin’ surprised.

  We laughed again.

  —Enough, he said. —Enough.

  We were wiping our eyes. Mine were sore, too big, both dry and saturated.

  —She’s a bit of a clown, Joe, I said. —Is she? She must be.

  He was putting his glasses back on.

  —Wha’ did you fuckin’ say?

  —Come on, I said. —I didn’t ask to be born.