Yeah?
Yes. I wouldn’t be surprised if somebody’s been killed. Ambulances, police, fire engines.
Don’t know, never heard anything about it.
I’m sure it’s been on the news.
Don’t know. Oh this. He settled on a film to watch. Seen this before. The guys in this are muppets.
I was actually in town the other night, Jean said.
Yeah?
I haven’t been in town in the evening for a long time.
OK.
Yes.
There you go then, he said. Something different. Being in the town.
I was at an exhibition of photos.
Right.
I was at a competition for members of these different photography clubs. They were showing some of the entries in a place round the back of that old church. Near the lingerie shop.
A photography exhibition. Different clubs, she said. A competition.
So, Malcolm said, it was like, you’d entered it.
Yes, I’d entered.
You win anything?
No, I didn’t win anything.
In fact, even though the gallery walls were hung with numerous photos, Jean’s hadn’t even made the cut for general display.
Better luck next time, said Malcolm. Jeez this guy’s so dumb. He actually didn’t even notice she had a gun.
When Jean was first on her own she was advised to join groups, the general belief being that it would prevent her descent into some kind of slough of despond. Initially she tried a book club at the library but she could rarely get beyond the first chapter, when the books had chapters. Sometime later she produced anaemic scenes in a watercolour class and felt only relief when the teacher said that the group would not continue after the summer months. Most recently she had become a member of a club which necessitated the purchase of a camera, because it was a camera club. The only other woman at the club was a divorcee called Angie. That was the first thing that she had told Jean about herself: recently divorced and all very acrimonious. Some weeks at the camera club had been theoretical so, for example, they had sat in a circle to hear about apertures. The practical sessions were themed: one week it was musical instruments and then the next portraiture. Some of the men hadn’t wanted to photograph each other and the tutor, Sam, had had to give them a prim little lecture on the importance of the objective eye. There were a couple of field trips, one to an abandoned farm where they took photographs of rust on corrugated iron and light streaming through broken roofs, and another to Carrickfergus Castle. On that occasion there was the opportunity to take photos of a young woman in a white dress.
Jean saw that the door was opening again. Ah, Inakeen, with the cup. That was how she watered the plants in the three tubs outside the house, going backwards and forwards with the cup. Did she not think about getting a watering can? Even a big saucepan would have done the job. Perhaps she was worried about deluging them. If Inakeen was only coming to the door, she didn’t wear the full rigmarole so it was possible to catch a glimpse of her pinched little face. Black Sail? Only the eyes. Only ever the eyes. W7, the whole face, a toffee penny.
Malcolm won’t get fooled again after the split from Mariel, the mother of his three-year-old son, Anton. On one of the days after her husband died, when people sat around the perimeter of the room, making conversation that drifted from banal to profound and back again as the tea cooled in their cups, Jean watched as hands with some kind of reminder scrawled on them lifted the tray from the coffee table in the centre. When she went out to the kitchen, Jean saw that someone had washed and put everything away. Then Malcolm appeared.
This is Mariel, he said, putting his arm around her waist. She’s Canadian.
Well, you are, he said.
Thanks for reminding me, Mariel said.
She gave Jean a smile that was a wink.
Mariel was from outside Quebec City. The foreignness in her voice never quite went away even after Jean had spent hours, days with her. Malcolm’s other girlfriends, the ones she had met, had had a sweaty glamour, all glowing skin and cleavage. Under Mariel’s shapeless clothes there was sinew. Her lank hair was tied back with an elastic band. When Malcolm told Jean that he was to become a father she thought that either he or Mariel must have miscalculated somehow because the two of them didn’t seem suited at all.
Maybe you need a better camera, Malcolm said. Nikon D Series. Meant to be really good. You heard of that?
No. Well, I’ve heard of Nikon. But not the D Series.
Might be the problem you know. Maybe you’ve just not got the right equipment.
I don’t know if the camera makes much difference.
Costs about 500 quid this camera. So, probably about 400 quid difference, minimum, to what you have.
I don’t know.
You get what you pay for, Malcolm said. Got to say I think that’s very true.
Jean shrugged.
It would make a difference, Malcolm said. Believe me.
I’m in a wine club, he said. See between 5 quid and 20 quid? Massive jump in quality. For something really special you obviously need to go dearer. Personally I wouldn’t spend less than twenty. Every couple of months all of us in the club go to some restaurant, you know, fine dining, wines in triple figures. Sommeliers—the whole shebang. That’s wine guys, he added.
After the initial sighting of Black Sail, Inakeen and W7, Jean saw nothing of them for some time. She did not notice them move in; it must have happened in the dead of night. But one day a trip to the shops revealed W7 and Inakeen in the vegetable aisle, looking at the net bags of onions. Others watched them too, although they feigned interest in the shelves. Then Black Sail came into view, striding along with a twelve-pack of crisps. Inakeen! she said, her voice impatient, and she gestured over to the till. Inakeen. Jean said it to herself later on when she was sitting in her living room. She liked the gentle cadence of it. It sounded the kind of name someone would call their house but it meant mother, mum, mummy perhaps. Inakeen was obviously older, her movements more tentative.
Jean grabbed a bag of oranges and followed them to the till. She could see the girl behind one of the counters, the one with the flurry of stars tattooed down the side of her face, mentally calculating at which till the women in black were likely to end up and it looked like she didn’t want it to be hers. Black Sail’s rucksack had a broken zip, Inakeen’s brown leather bag a buckle and a shoulder strap. W7’s was decorated with tiny diamantes and embroidery. Inakeen’s hand rested on the top of the bag, small and in colour not so very different to the bag itself, except the leather was smoother. The laughter behind Jean came from two teenage girls who were holding up their phones. Hey yous! one said. Hey yous! Then the girl turned to her friend. There’s no way that is anything other than totally fucking weird, she said. Seriously fucked up way to go around the place like. Tick—tick—tick—boom! Jean moved slightly to look at the end aisle display, temporarily obstructing their view.
I don’t suppose you’ve been in contact with Mariel? Jean asked Malcolm.
He sighed again.
I was just wondering.
No mother, I haven’t. Not in the last couple of weeks. But I suppose you have.
Would I be right?
She had, but it had only been brief, and on the computer. Anton couldn’t wait to get away to play with some toy so Mariel had to keep forcing him to sit on her knee. Mariel kept pointing at Jean, saying Mamie! Mamie! Anton stared momentarily at the old woman on the screen and then the computer froze. It worked for thirty seconds, and then froze again.
Here we go, Malcolm said. Wondered how long it would be before you brought the subject up. Wondered how long it would be before the subject would turn to that bitch. So, tell me all about it. Tell me all about Mariel and tell me all about Anton, my son.
They seemed fine, Jean said. It was only very briefly I was speaking to them.
Right, he said.
Anton’s getting bigger, Jean said.
Child in growth shocker.
Malcolm, said Jean. Come on.
Never wanted to call him Anton. Never did. Anton. Sounds like a name you’d give a waiter. Do you know what I wanted? Lawrence, after Dad. But no, that wouldn’t do, all Mariel, as per bloody usual, so that’s why we ended up with Anton. Never liked it as a name, never wanted it.
It’s just a name, Jean said, wondering if there was so very much of a difference between Anton and Lawrence.
Well, the whole thing’s a fucking joke. I’ve got a son who, well, putting aside the fact that he actually lives halfway across the world, doesn’t even speak the same language as me. I mean, Jesus. French. J’habite à Belfast. Ou est le restaurant. Christ almighty, fucking French.
Fewer people learn languages these days, Jean said. They’re in decline.
Malcolm used to come home from school, dump his bag at the door, then retreat to his room to watch videos, as it was then. He’d wanted blackout curtains in the room because the other ones let in too much light when he was watching whatever it was he watched. She’d bought them for him, got a duvet cover to match.
Little wonder, he said. Waste of time. J’habite à Belfast. Ou est le restaurant.
Jean had gone to their house most days when Anton was just a new baby. If the weather was good she and Mariel would walk long, looping routes with the pram, up one side of the road and down the other, past charity shops, chemists, cafes, hairdressers. If it was wet, they might stay in to watch a film, whatever was on the TV, a western or a romance, it didn’t really matter. The blow heater was always on. It was warm. There was the coddling noise of the steriliser, the warmth of the baby, the hot washing and milk smell.
Jean missed Mariel and Anton more than she did Lawrence. Her husband was someone she once overheard being described as a fellow who would put a bob on himself both ways. And whoever it was said to didn’t care to disagree. But death was a kind release for the diminished man lying in the hospital, eyes staring at a never-ending news programme. With the departure of Mariel and Anton, however, there was no counterbalance. She could try if she wanted to think of Mariel as the bitch as Malcolm did, but she knew that she wasn’t.
One day, as they took turns pushing the pram, Mariel said to Jean that there was something she had to tell her. And the thing she had to tell her was that she and Malcolm were going to split up.
Definitely? Jean asked.
Oh yes definitely, Mariel said. Absolutely.
Oh my goodness.
Does it really come as a surprise to you, Jean?
No, she said. Not really.
Jean wondered how Malcolm felt about it.
About us splitting up? Mariel shrugged. Well, he feels the same way. That’s it. Over. He’s going to move out next week. He’s going to stay with a friend. No, not like that. Just a friend. Friend friend.
Just like that, Jean said. Over.
Yes, said Mariel. Just like that. The way it happens sometimes.
Sad, said Jean.
Yup.
It really is sad, Jean said. But at least, at least, what there is out of it all, is this little chip of humanity.
And she nodded at the pram.
Little chip of humanity? Wow. Mariel laughed. That’s very profound, Jean.
They walked past shop after shop, and when they were waiting at the traffic lights Mariel said, The thing I should say, Jean—and this is the thing that Malcolm does not feel the same way about—the thing I should say is that I intend to go home. Back to Canada.
Jean had said that no, she couldn’t be serious.
But Mariel was and she had numerous reasons, including the fact that her mother wasn’t well. And that her long-term employment prospects were better over there. And that her plan had never been to stay for any length of time in Ireland.
But what about Malcolm? Was she going to take Anton away from him, take him away just like that?
Mariel pulled at her ponytail. She said that it wasn’t something that was easy to do but it was for the best.
The best for who? Jean said.
My mother’s not well, she had said again, and she’s got no one else.
It had started to rain and everything around was ugly, the people with their hangdog faces, the screaming signs, things reduced, prices cut. Jean might have said, there’s me too. There’s me. There is me.
But they walked along in dismal silence, until Jean eventually offered the idea that perhaps it might not be forever. You never know, she said, you could always come back after a couple of months. Things might improve. Sometimes they do. And Mariel didn’t contradict her, colluding in the fiction that this was something temporary.
It went to the family court. Malcolm did not give consent to the relocation. But the judge found in favour of the mother, as was usual. He was to have access during holidays, but his one trip to Canada had been a disaster. Anton was strange with him. He cried when he was passed into Malcolm’s arms. And then there was the near punch up with the guy who Mariel said was one of her co-workers.
Malcolm had found the picture that he had been looking for earlier. Look, he said, this is her.
The young woman was on a beach, grinning at the camera as she stood on one leg in a balletic pose.
Yoga, said Malcolm.
She looks very nice.
Really into yoga and all of that. Not the spiritual guff, chakras and all that crap, just the exercise.
She certainly looks very well.
Jean still walked the same route up one side of the road and down the other even though Mariel and Anton had left almost two years ago. The Indian restaurant had gone out of business and the bar had supposedly caught fire. The chinaware shop that had held on for so long was no longer there and in its place there was a shop that sold bodybuilding supplements. There was a new estate agent’s, three by three photos of new houses in the window. There was a new chemist’s shop. W7 was in there at the W7 stand. W7 was a budget make-up brand, one of a number that ran the length of the shop. W7 stood with the usual diamante bag but at close range Jean could see that some of the glass pieces had fallen off, loose threads hanging where they used to be attached. She never wore trainers like Black Sail or pumps like Inakeen. W7 always had heels. W7 was putting eyeshadows on the back of her hand, dark greens, purples, browns, bruise-like colours. Jean considered the Maybelline jumbo mascaras at the next stand, the blue and blackest black, the almost black, while W7 moved on to liquid eyeliners, drawing a repeated figure of eight on her wrist with one of the tiny brushes. Jean could see the weave of her scarf, the warp and weft, and the points of the pins that she had used to secure it. W7 was wearing trousers and even though they were dark Jean could see the inch or two at the hem where she had walked in water. W7 dropped an eyeliner and Jean bent down to pick it up. W7 took it, smiled and put it back.
I don’t suppose you want something to eat do you, Malcolm? Jean asked. Maybe you’d like to stay and have some tea? It’d be good if you did. I did a shop yesterday so there’s some nice stuff.
No, he said. Gonna be heading on before too long. Just a flying visit really.
Right you are then.
Did Mariel mention me?
Jean couldn’t remember.
Did she mention me, say anything?
Of course she did, Jean said.
Maybe I should go back again to the court. Try to get some real ballbreaker who’s going to make things a nightmare for her.
Christ knows the ideas that kid’s going to get, he went on. Give it another year and he won’t even know who in the name of God I actually am, that’s if he even knows now.
Mariel and Anton might move back at some point, Jean said.
Oh aye right, like anybody believes that.
You need to go over again maybe next summer. I’m sure it would be better than last time.
Yeah how dead on of Mariel, generously giving me an opportunity to see my own son.
Jean was silent.
Well, anyway, like I s
aid, flying visit.
Do you know what, before you go, would you mind having a look upstairs? Jean asked. I’m trying to sort things out a bit. There’s a couple of boxes of stuff in your room. I wouldn’t want to throw anything away that you would like to keep.
Like I should be grateful for the opportunity to see my own son.
He shook his head. Let’s see this stuff then.
Jean became so accustomed to the schedule over the road: it was one of the certainties of life that W7 left early in the morning and came back in the afternoon, carrying the bag that probably contained a laptop computer. Most days, at about half past eleven, Inakeen and Black Sail would leave the house, sometimes on foot, sometimes in the car. Sometimes they would bring back shopping, sometimes nothing at all. On Fridays they would all leave at afternoon teatime and come back in the evening.
The curtains were always opened in strict order: the two upstairs bedrooms which Jean took to be Inakeen’s and W7’s, then the downstairs. Jean thought that Black Sail would have taken the room at the back, grumping because it was the smallest, but really being quite pleased because it got the sun in the afternoon and looked out onto the back garden. Jean could tell who was opening the curtains: if it was W7 then she was actually visible because she came in front of the curtains to pull them, whereas Inakeen was never seen. Black Sail was invisible too, but Jean could tell it was her the way they were yanked open. One morning last month the curtains in the one of the upstairs bedrooms remained closed, and they stayed that way for the next two days. And then after that the other bedroom curtains also stayed closed. Jean thought that they were ill. She took a walk down the parallel road to see their house from the back, and she could see that the curtains were closed in the back room too. She wondered if she should do something and eventually decided to hang on their front door a bag containing a loaf of bread and two pints of milk. When she went over, she rang the bell which gave an unlikely peal of extended complexity. Jean touched the leaves of one of Inakeen’s plants at the door as she listened to hear footsteps—but there were none. In the morning the bag was still there. Should she take it back? Jean waited until midday and then went over to retrieve it. It had been raining and water had pooled in the folds of the bag. As she passed their living room she peered in the window. There was a big sofa, soft looking, corduroy perhaps, and stuff all over the floor, magazines and shoes. She imagined the three of them, laughing at something, feet up on the sofa. The next day Jean was pleased to see that the curtains were opened again in the front room on the right, and then W7 appeared with the laptop bag. It took a little longer for Inakeen to get over whatever it was because her curtains stayed closed for another few days.
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