‘But he’s still Daddy.’
‘Yes, but he’s Daddy without drink. He’s in grand form, you’ll be delighted with him. No, I won’t come in tonight, Helen, but I’ll give a ring over the weekend and maybe call round for a few minutes.’
Helen looked mutinous. ‘I thought priests were meant to help the community. That’s what you always say when you come up to the school to talk to us.’
‘I am helping, by not poking my nose in. Believe me, I’m older than you are.’
‘That’s the thing people say when they’ve no other argument,’ Helen said.
* * *
Emma cycled down the road and saw Helen moodily kicking a stone.
‘Are you only coming home now?’ she asked, annoyed that Helen hadn’t been back to welcome Gerry earlier.
‘I called in to see Father Vincent on the way,’ said Helen.
‘What about?’ Emma was alarmed.
‘Private business, you’re not to ask people what goes on between them and their confessor, it’s the secrecy of the confessional.’
‘Sorry,’ said Emma. ‘He’s not coming round here tonight by any awful chance, is he?’
Helen looked at her mother with a puzzled look. ‘No, he’s not actually.’
‘Good, I want us to be on our own today. You run ahead and say hallo to your father, I’ll be in in a moment.’
Unwillingly Helen walked on: as she turned in the gate she saw her mother take out a comb and mirror and pat her hair. How silly Mummy could be at times. What was she combing her hair for now? There was nobody at home to see her. You’d think she’d have combed it when she was in RTE where she might meet people who’d be looking at her.
* * *
Gerry gave Helen a hug that nearly squeezed the breath out of her.
‘You’re very grown up, you know, a real teenager,’ he said.
‘Oh Dad, it isn’t that long since you’ve seen me, it’s only a few weeks. You sound like an old sailor coming back from months abroad.’
‘That’s what I feel like, that’s exactly the way I feel – how clever of you to spot it,’ he said.
Helen and Paul exchanged fairly alarmed glances. Then they heard Mum’s bicycle clanking against the garage wall and everyone looked at the back door. She burst in through the scullery and into the kitchen. She looked flushed from riding the bicycle; she had a huge bag of groceries which she had taken from the basket. In her jeans and shirt she looked very young, Gerry thought.
They hugged each other in the kitchen, rocking backwards and forwards as if the children were not there, as if Gerry wasn’t holding a second mug of Bovril in his hand and as if Emma weren’t holding the shopping in hers.
‘Thank God, thank God,’ Gerry kept saying.
‘You’re back, you’re back again,’ Emma said over and over.
Solemn-eyed, their children looked at them from the door into the hall. Their faces seemed to say that this was almost as bad as what they had been through before.
* * *
The telephone rang as they were having supper. Emma, her mouth full of prawns, said she’d get it.
‘It’s probably your mother, she said she’d ring.’
‘She has,’ said Gerry.
It was Jack. He had been kept late at the shop. Mr Power had decided at the last moment that all the furniture in the show-rooms should be shifted around so that the cleaners could get at the place from a different angle. Emma spent two and a half minutes listening to a diatribe against Mr Power; she grunted and murmured soothingly. Then the tone of Jack’s voice changed, it became conspiratorial.
‘Is he home?’ he whispered.
‘Yes, thank God, he came home this afternoon. Looks as fit as a fiddle. We’ll all have to go up there and be pampered, I tell you.’ She laughed and sounded light-hearted, hoping Jack would catch her mood.
‘And is there … is there any sign of …?’
‘Oh yes, very cheerful, and he sends you his good wishes – we’re just having a welcome home supper for him actually.’ Would Jack take this heavy hint, was there the remotest chance that he might realise he had rung at a meal-time?
‘Is he listening to you, there in the room?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Well, I obviously can’t talk now. I’ll ring later, when he’s asleep maybe.’
‘Why don’t you ring in the morning, Jack, say, late morning. Saturday’s a good day, we’ll all be around then, and you could have a word with Gerry himself. Right?’
‘I’m not sure if I’ll be able to ring in the late morning.’
‘Well, sometime tomorrow …’ She looked back at Gerry and affectionately they both raised their eyes to the ceiling. ‘If only you’d get a phone, we could ring you. I hate you having to find the coins always for calls.’
‘There’s no point in paying the rental for a telephone, and they charge you any figure that comes into their heads, I tell you, for the number of calls. No, I’m better to use the coin box, it’s not far away. It’s just that there’s often a lot of kids around on a Saturday.’
‘Well, whenever you can, Jack.’
‘You’re marvellous with him, marvellous. Not many women would be able to cope like you.’
‘That’s right,’ she laughed. He was such a lonely figure she didn’t like to choke him off too quickly. ‘And how are you keeping yourself?’ she asked.
Jack told her at length: he told her that he had a bad neck which resulted from a draught that came through a door which Mr Power insisted on being open. He told her that people weren’t buying as much furniture as they used to, and that this craze for going to auctions and stripping things down was ruining the trade. She motioned to Paul, who was nearest to her, to pass her plate. She was annoyed with Jack’s timing and his insensitivity, but if she hung up she would feel guilty and she wanted to be able to relax tonight of all nights without another problem crowding her mind.
She looked over at the table as she let Jack ramble on; they all seemed to be getting on all right. Gerry looked great, he had lost weight too. The two of them were much more like their wedding photograph than they had ever been. His jaw was leaner, his eyes were bright, he was being endlessly patient with the kids, too, which was a lot more difficult than it sounded. Helen in particular was as prickly as a hedgehog, and Paul was restless. Jack seemed to be coming to an end. He would ring tomorrow and talk to Gerry, he hoped Gerry appreciated all that she did for him, going out and earning a living, keeping the family together. If only he had had sense long ago and not put so much at risk. ‘But it’s all fine now,’ Emma said wearily. Jack agreed doubtfully and hung up.
‘Was he repenting of my wicked life?’ asked Gerry.
‘A bit,’ Emma laughed. Gerry laughed, and after a moment the children laughed too. It was the nearest to normal living they had known for about four years.
* * *
Gerry spent Saturday in his study. It was a four-bed-roomed house and when they had bought it they had decided at once that the master bedroom should be his study. Other men rented offices, so it made sense that the big bedroom with the good light should be where Gerry worked. The little bathroom attached to the bedroom was turned into a darkroom. Once it had been a miracle of organisation: a huge old-fashioned chest of drawers, a lovely piece of furniture holding all his up-to-date filing system. As efficient as any steel filing cabinet, only a hundred times more attractive. The lighting was good, the walls were hung with pictures; some of a single object, like his famous picture of a diamond; some were pictures that told a success story. Gerry receiving an award here, Gerry sharing a joke there. Then there was the huge, bulging desk, full recently of bills or handouts, or refusals or rubbish, making a mockery of the filing.
He had sighed when he saw it, but Emma had been beside him.
‘Tell me what you want except a couple of black plastic sacks to get rid of the rubbish,’ she had said.
‘And a bottle of Paddy to get rid of the pain of looki
ng at it,’ he had said.
‘You poor old divil, it’s not that bad is it?’ she said lightly.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m only being dramatic. I’ll need a dozen plastic bags.’
‘Don’t throw everything out,’ she said, alarmed.
‘I’ll throw a lot out, love, I have to start again from scratch, you know that.’
‘You did it once, you’ll do it again,’ she said and went downstairs.
* * *
Gerry made himself four big, sweeping categories: Real Rubbish; Browsing Through Later Rubbish; For the Filing Cabinet; and Contacts for the New Life.
Almost everything seemed to fit into those; he was pleased with himself and even hummed as the marathon sorting work went on.
Emma heard him as she made the beds and she paused and remembered. Remembered what it used to be like, a cheerful confident Gerry, whistling and humming in his study, then running lightly down the stairs and into his car off to another job. In those days there was a big pad beside the phone where she put down the time the person called, their name, their business. She had always sounded so efficient and helpful; clients had often asked was she Mr Moore’s partner and she would laugh and say a very permanent partner – they had found that entertaining. For months, years, the phone had hardly rung for Gerry, except a call from Des Kelly or a complaint from his brother Jack, or a list of complaints about something from his mother. Should she dare to believe that things were ever going to be normal again? Was it tempting fate to believe that he might really stay off the drink and build his business up? She didn’t know. She had nobody to ask, really. She couldn’t go to Al Anon and discuss it with other wives and families, because that somehow wasn’t fair. It would be different if Gerry had joined Alcoholics Anonymous; then she would be able to join something that went hand in hand with it, but no. Gerry didn’t want to go to some room every week and hear a lot of bores standing up and saying, ‘I’m Tadgh, I’m an alcoholic.’ No, the course was the modern way of dealing with things and he had done that and been cured.
She sighed; why was she blaming him? He had done it his way and he had done it. For six weeks in that home he had become stronger and more determined. For two days now at home he was managing. She must stop fearing and suspecting and dreading, dreading things like the first phone call from Des Kelly, the first row, the first disappointment. Would he have the strength to go on being sunny after all these?
* * *
Gerry had tucked three bags of Real Rubbish into the garage, all neatly tied at the neck. He insisted that Emma come up and admire what he had done. The room still looked very much of a shambles to her, but he seemed to see some order in it, so she enthused. He had found three cheques as well – out of date, but they could be re-dated. They totalled over £200.00. He was very pleased with himself for finding them and said that it called for a dinner out.
‘Are you sure they weren’t re-issued already? One’s three years old.’ Emma wished she hadn’t said it. It sounded grudging. She spoke on quickly. ‘If they have been, so what? You’re quite right, where will we go?’
He suggested a restaurant which was also a pub. She kept the smile on her face unchanged. There was going to be a lot of this kind of thing, she’d better learn to get used to it. Just because Gerry Moore had to cut alcohol out of his life, it seemed a vain hope that the rest of Ireland would decide to stop selling it, serving it and advertising it.
‘I’d love that,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘I’ll wash my hair in honour of it.’
Des Kelly rang a bit later.
‘How are you, old son?’ he asked.
‘Ready for the Olympics,’ Gerry said proudly.
‘Do they include a few jars of orange juice, or is that more than flesh and blood could stand?’
‘Oh, this flesh and blood can stand anything, but not tonight – I’m taking Emma out to a slap-up meal to say thank you.’
‘Thank you?’
‘For holding the fort and all while I was above in the place.’
‘Oh yes, of course, of course …’
‘But tomorrow, Des, as usual. Twelve thirty?’
‘Great stuff. Are you sure you won’t …’
‘I’m sure, I’m sure. Tell me about yourself – what have you been doing?’
Des told him about a script which he had sweated blood on which was refused by a jumped-up person who knew nothing, and he told him about one that had gone well and got a few nice write-ups in the paper.
‘Oh yeah, I remember that, that was before I went in,’ Gerry said.
‘Was it? Maybe it was. The time gets confused. Well, what else? The same as usual. I’ve missed you, old son, I really have. There’s not much of a laugh around. I tried leaving Madigan’s and I went to McCloskey’s and I went down to the Baggot Street area for a bit, Waterloo House, Searson’s, Mooney’s, but there was no one to talk to. I’m glad you’re out.’
‘So am I.’
‘Were they desperate to you in there?’
‘Not at all, they were fine, it was up to me. If I didn’t want to go along with any of it I didn’t have to.’
‘Well, that’s good.’
‘And you can relax, I’m not going to be producing leaflets at you and telling you that you should cut it down a bit.’ Gerry laughed as he said it. Des laughed too, with some relief.
‘Thanks be to God. See you tomorrow, old son, and enjoy the second honeymoon night out.’
Gerry wished that he had found cheques for two thousand, not two hundred, then he would have taken Emma on a second honeymoon. Maybe when he got himself set up again he’d be able to do that. He’d think about it. It would be great to be out with a villa hired for two weeks in one of these places like Lanzarotte. There was a fellow in the nursing home who had bought a house there with a whole group of other Irish people, like a little complex of them out there. They made their own fun, they brought out a ton of duty-free – well, forget that side of it, but there were marvellous beaches and great weather even in winter. He went back to his sorting. It was the section on contacts that was giving him most trouble. A lot of agencies seemed to have changed, merged with others or gone out of business. A lot of new names. A lot of bad blood with some of the old names – work promised and not done, work done but not accepted. Jesus, it might be easier starting afresh in another country. Australia? This place was a village, what one knew at lunch time everyone else knew at tea time. Still, nobody had said it was going to be easy.
* * *
Gerry was in very low form by the time it came to dress up for going out. The children were out of the house: Paul was with Andy as usual and Helen had gone to a tennis lesson. She had asked that morning at breakfast if the household budget would cover tennis lessons. She didn’t really mind if it didn’t, and she wasn’t going to be a strain on people, but if the money was there she would like to join the group. Gerry had insisted she join, and said that he would get her a new racquet if she showed any promise. She had departed in high spirits and would stay and have tea with one of her friends who lived near the courts.
Emma was fixing her newly washed hair; she sat in a slip at the dressing table and watched Gerry come in. At first she had thought he might want them to go to bed. They hadn’t made love last night, just lay side by side holding hands until he drifted off to sleep. This seemed like a good time. But no, that was the last thing on his mind so she was glad he hadn’t really attended to her slightly flirtatious remarks. It didn’t seem so much of a rejection if he hadn’t heard what she had said. His brow looked dark.
‘It will be nice to go out, I’m really looking forward to it.’
‘Don’t rub it in. I know you haven’t been out for a long time,’ he said.
She bit back the aggrieved retort. ‘What will you have, do you think?’ she said, searching desperately for some uncontroversial side to it all.
‘How the hell do I know until I see the menu? I don’t have radar eyes. I’m not inspired by the Holy Ghost
to know what’s going to be served.’
She laughed. She felt like throwing the brush and every single thing on the dressing table at him. She felt like telling him what to do with his dinner invitation – an invitation she would have to pay for anyway until those out-of-date cheques were cleared – if they ever were. She felt like saying the house had been a peaceful and better place while he was in the nursing home. But she managed to say, ‘I know. Deep down I’m just a glutton, I expect. Don’t mind me.’
He was shaving at the small handbasin in their bedroom. His eyes caught hers and he smiled. ‘You’re too good for me.’
‘No I’m not, I’m what you deserve,’ she said lightly.
In the car he took her hand.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘Don’t mind about it,’ she said.
‘The night just seemed hard ahead of us, no wine with the dinner and all.’
‘I know,’ she said sympathetically.
‘But you’re to have wine, you must, otherwise the whole thing’s a nonsense.’
‘You know I don’t mind one way or the other. You know I can easily have a Perrier water.’
‘Part of the fact of being cured is not to mind other people. It was just that I got a bit low there, inside, in the house, I don’t know. I’m fine now.’
‘Of course you are, and I’ll certainly have a glass or two if it doesn’t annoy you.’ She put the key into the ignition and drove off.
Technically he was allowed to drive again now, but he hadn’t reapplied, or whatever you were meant to do. And in the last few months he wouldn’t have been able to drive. She had offered him the keys as they came to the car and he had shaken his head.
In the bar, as they looked at their menus, they met a couple they hadn’t seen for a while. Emma saw the wife nudge her husband and point over at them. After what looked a careful scrutiny he came over.
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