by Rose Doyle
ROSE DOYLE
THE STORY OF JOE BROWN
Rose Doyle is a Dublin writer and journalist. She is the author of thirteen novels, two of them for younger children and one for teenagers. She has also written radio plays, short stories and more journalism than she cares to remember. When not writing, she enjoys the company of friends, goes to films, walks, talks and compulsively reads.
THE STORY OF JOE BROWN
First published by GemmaMedia in 2010.
GemmaMedia
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Boston MA 02109 USA
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Copyright © 2004, 2010 Rose Doyle
This edition of The Story of Joe Brown is published by arrangement with New Island Books Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Printed in the United States of America
12 11 10 09 08
1 2 3 4 5
ISBN: 978-1-934848-37-1
Cover design by Artmark
Library of Congress Preassigned Control Number (PCN) applied for
OPEN DOOR SERIES
An innovative program of original
works by some of our most
beloved modern writers and
important new voices. First designed
to enhance adult literacy in Ireland,
these books affirm the truth that
a story doesn’t have
to be big to open the world.
Patricia Scanlan
Series Editor
Chapter 1
Joe Brown had been staying less than a month in the hostel when things began to go wrong. Small, but irritating, things.
The first thing was that some of his books went missing. Then four pairs of socks got lost in the wash. Then the cherry yoghurts he kept for breakfast disappeared – every one of them. He’d had five in a container in the fridge. Things went from bad to worse when a new resident arrived. He was an older man who drank and didn’t wash. He was given the bunk-bed beside Joe’s. Long before any of this, the dank loneliness of the recreation-room had been getting him down. With its brown walls, green floor, ancient 21-inch TV and twelve creaking wooden chairs, the place oozed despair. In no time at all it had eliminated the charms of freedom.
The “friend” who’d recommended the place was probably still laughing at his joke. Joe Brown cursed him and began looking for a room to rent.
He knew it wouldn’t be easy to find, given his limited finances. His neatly written ads on the notice-boards in the local Spar and barbers hadn’t got a single response. That he didn’t have a mobile phone and that the hostel’s public phone was out of order didn’t help matters.
He found a room, and had his first sighting of Julia Ryan, on a grey November morning just two weeks into his search. Julia was hard to miss. Under a red wool coat, flapping open in spite of the cold, she wore jeans and a white T-shirt. She had silver hoops in her ears.
He was waiting to pay for his paper in the Spar when she came in. She stood looking around, saw the manager and went straight up to him. Smiling, tossing her blonde hair, she spoke to the man briefly. When he nodded, clearly captivated, she went to the notice-board and pinned a small card there. Then she left.
Joe left the queue and watched through the window as she walked briskly down the street. He knew she hadn’t even noticed him. He knew he would read her notice as soon as she was out of sight.
He’d been going to the Spar every morning because there, at least, he was treated like an ordinary person. The young people behind the counter saw only an anorak-wearing male customer with a beard and glasses.
It was easy to become a nobody, he’d discovered. Very easy. The trick was not to give anyone a reason to take a second look at him or to think about him. He followed the same ritual every morning. He paid for his paper with the exact amount of money. If he bought milk or bread, he handed over the exact number of coins for them too. This attention to detail meant he never held up the queue or attracted attention. He was just as careful in every other part of his life.
He’d been different before. He’d enjoyed a chat then. He’d liked getting to know new people. It went against the grain to be so careful, but it had to be done. This way he didn’t have to explain himself and face frozen smiles or abuse when people found out who he was.
Being friendly, exposing himself to hurt, had, in any event, been his downfall.
Once, soon after he’d re-entered the world and before he’d learned to be quiet about what had happened, a woman had actually hit him. She’d swung with her open hand and left a red weal across his face. He’d grown the beard after that, as a sort of protection as well as a disguise.
He’d stopped using his real name too. Hearing his name was what had enraged the woman. After a lot of thought, he’d settled on Joe Brown. It was a plain name. It didn’t attract attention.
His own name and face, both of them far too well known, he committed to the rubbish bin of history. James Mulberry, with his limp brown hair and round, eager-to-please face, belonged in the past.
He liked Joe Brown, the name and the person he’d created to go with it. He was growing to like him more every day.
That morning, when Julia Ryan disappeared from view, he walked casually to the notice-board and read the notice she’d pinned next to his. She’d been every bit as precise as he’d been himself. She wanted a lodger. She was offering a room for rent in her house. It had an en suite shower and could be seen at any time. The rent included use of the kitchen. The address was in Copper Avenue, just two streets away.
Chapter 2
The second time Joe saw Julia Ryan she was standing in the doorway of her house. She was still smiling but wore a blue-and-white striped plastic apron over her jeans instead of the red coat.
Close up, he saw that she was older than he’d at first thought. Older than he was himself, even. But she was lovely, really lovely. She had blue eyes and dark lashes and skin that was as flawless as pouring cream. Joe Brown was thirty-two years old the day he met Julia Ryan. Julia was ageless.
The house was large and modern but trying to look old. It had pillars each side of the door and many windows with small panes of glass. To Joe Brown, it didn’t seem the kind of house whose owner would have needed to rent out rooms.
But things were rarely as they seemed in life, as he’d discovered to his cost.
“Have you come about the room?” Julia, standing in the doorway, sounded worried. She was a little breathless. Joe nodded and she opened the door fully. “Come on in then,” she said. “I’ve just finished giving it a bit of a clean. It hasn’t been used in a while.”
Joe followed her up the blue carpeted stairs, then across a paler blue carpeted landing. She talked all the time. Nervously, he thought.
“I wasn’t expecting anyone to come so soon.” She fiddled with her hair as she spoke. “I thought it would take a few days …” She opened one of the white-painted doors off the landing.
“I had a notice on the board in the Spar myself –” Joe began.
“I hoped the person who put that up would reply!” She interrupted him, beaming. “Do you work around here?” she said.
“In the library,” Joe replied, then stopped. Best not to give too much information. Joe Brown was a quiet fellow.
“In the library …” she echoed as she pushed open the door. “That’s nice.”
The room was to the back of the house. It had more frills and flounces than Joe cared for. But it was bright and the bed looked comfortable. It was also clean
. Everything the hostel was not, in fact.
“Will it do?” She sounded even more worried. Joe nodded and her expression became one of relief. “I’ll need a few days to sort things out,” she said. “Could you ring on Friday?”
He rang on Friday and moved in on Saturday.
Late in the evening, after he’d unpacked and sorted his few belongings, he wandered down to the kitchen to make himself a nightcap. He didn’t really want one, but he was hoping to meet Julia before going to bed. He met her daughter instead.
“I’m Angie.” She half-turned from the fridge. “I suppose you’re the lodger.” She gave him a cursory look before turning away to click her long fingernails on the fridge door. “Mum never has anything interesting in here.” She was sulky and tapped her foot impatiently. “Always the same old junk. Would you like a yoghurt?” She made another half-turn, trying to smile and failing miserably. Her eyes were unfriendly. She looked to Joe to be about eighteen.
He felt as if he’d been hit in the stomach with a wooden plank. He’d been a fool, again. He’d slipped back into James Mulberry behaviour. He’d arrived here in a haze of bright dreams and silly ideas about himself and Julia becoming friends. More than friends, perhaps, in time. But his landlady was married. She had a grown daughter whose father, Julia’s husband, would no doubt arrive home any minute. If he wasn’t already in the house. Joe Brown had been very, very stupid. A woman like Julia was bound to be married.
He’d been spending too much time alone, losing touch with reality. This was a wake-up call and he’d better pay heed. He would not be so stupid again. As Joe Brown, he would pay his rent, keep his nose clean and put nonsense about cosy friendships with his lovely landlady out of his head.
Angie sat at the table eating a yoghurt. She made a half-hearted effort to be pleasant. But it was clear she didn’t like him moving into the house. As dark as her mother was fair, she was every bit as good looking, though in a different way. Where Julia was doll like and blue eyed, Angie was strong boned with large brown eyes. She lacked her mother’s lightness of touch too. She probably took after her father in temperament as well as appearance.
“We won’t see much of each other,” she said. “I work at night. In a club.”
“Sounds interesting,” Joe said. Angie shrugged. When the kettle boiled, she raised her eyebrows at him but didn’t move.
“I’ll just make myself a cup of tea,” Joe said and got himself a mug.
“Whatever.” Angie shrugged and finished the yoghurt. “Mother says you’re a librarian.” She looked bored.
“Yes,” Joe said.
He was the library handyman, in fact, and lucky to have any job. But Angie didn’t look like a library user, so let her think what she liked. It wasn’t as if he’d never been a librarian. In prison, when they’d discovered his liking for books, they’d put him in charge of the library. But there was no shortage of people who liked books outside of prison. And libraries preferred to employ people without criminal records. Keeping the windows and the gutters clean was his job these days.
“Do you like to read?” he asked Angie.
“Nope. It’s a stupid, boring waste of time.” She reached behind her and turned up the volume on a small white television sitting on the work top. “Reading’s for nerds –” She stopped and shrugged. He finished the sentence for her.
“Like me?” he offered.
“If the cap fits.” She shrugged again. “What good did reading ever do you?”
The way she looked at him said it all. Angie Ryan was seriously under-impressed by her mother’s lodger. He could have told her that reading had got him out of prison ahead of time. Instead, he said, “Would you like me to make you a cup of tea too?” and reached for a second mug.
“All right,” Angie said. Joe turned the kettle back on. It was white with a gold handle. Everything in the kitchen was either white or gold. The floor tiles were white with grains of gold running through them. It all looked very expensive.
Julia came into the kitchen while the kettle was boiling up again. “I’m glad to see you’re making yourself at home, Joe,” she said, filling the room with her smiling good humour. “And so is Angie. Aren’t you, my pet?”
“Absolutely,” Angie said.
“Have breakfast with us in the morning,” Julia invited. “There’s no need to be shy or to stand on ceremony. It’s nice for us to have a man about the house. Isn’t it, Angie?”
“Wonderful,” Angie said. “Just wonderful.”
Chapter 3
Joe’s days formed a pattern after that.
The dull November mornings dawned a lot brighter in his new room than they had in the hostel. He found it easier to get up and a lot easier to feel hopeful about life.
Every morning he had a breakfast of cereal and toast with the Ryans, mother and daughter. Julia usually had it on the table for him when he arrived down to the kitchen.
“I’m not much of a cook,” she said the first morning, laughing. “If you want boiled eggs, I could just about do them. Anything else you’ll have to do yourself.” She was wrapped in a soft, white towelling housecoat, her face smooth and young looking.
“Toast and cereal are just grand,” Joe said. A coffee on its own was what he was used to. It would have done, but he didn’t tell her that. He liked her fussing about him.
The days in the library, fixing and cleaning, became almost pleasurable now he had the evenings in Copper Avenue to look forward to. It took only a week for him to begin thinking of the house as home.
Most evenings Julia was there when he arrived in. There would be pizzas or TV dinners in the oven and a bottle of wine open on the table.
“Please don’t be embarrassed,” she said the first evening. “I like company for my evening meal and Angie’s never here. You’ll be doing me a favour, eating with me.”
So eating together became part of the pattern too. They talked a lot, about nothing much but easily. Julia never asked him about himself. He never brought up the subject of a Mr Ryan. If he was dead or gone, fine. Better still if he’d never existed.
But if he was alive and due home any day, Joe Brown didn’t want to know. He was enjoying things too much the way they were. Time enough to face reality when the bubble burst. As he felt sure it would. For now, for these short November days, it was a case of seize the day – carpe diem, as an old lag who was a something of a Latin scholar used to say. Not that it had done him a lot of good. He was in prison because he’d seized the chance to rob his banker employer and been caught.
Joe had no idea why Julia Ryan didn’t question him about his life. He was just glad. He didn’t want to have to lie outright to her.
He took to helping her wash up after dinner. But he was careful not to push things too far. When everything was dried and put away, he would say a polite good-night and go to his room. He knew better than to outstay his welcome.
At the beginning of the second week, Julia asked him to watch television with her.
“I’ve a bit of reading to do for tomorrow,” he lied. “But thank you.”
“If you change your mind, I’ll be here,” Julia said lightly. “Me and the television.”
She seemed a little hurt. But he still thought it was better to keep his distance. He was afraid of them becoming too close too soon, so he stayed in his room most nights, looking at the TV there. Twice a week he went to the gym.
Julia rarely went out at night. When she did, she came home early. She liked the movies, she said, and an occasional drink with friends.
Angie seemed to stay in bed all day. Joe had no idea what kind of club she worked in. He didn’t ask questions about that either. He didn’t ask anything at all about Angie. If he took to asking questions, then Julia might too.
He did look, discreetly, for signs of a Mr Ryan. There were none: no clothes or personal belongings; nothing in the bathroom, kitchen or living-room to indicate that another man had a home there.
He listened too. But as far as he
could make out there were never any loving phone calls. Joe Brown felt himself growing happy. It was a feeling he didn’t trust.
“What will you do for Christmas?” Julia said to him at breakfast on the Monday of his third week in the house. It was early December. The usual seasonal hysteria was in the air. He’d liked the hysteria, and everything else that went with Christmas, once.
“I haven’t made any plans yet,” he said, carefully.
The truth was that he’d been more than a little put out by his mother’s reaction when he’d phoned about going home for Christmas. The neighbours were still “hostile” to him, she said. Seeing him would rake up memories for them. It would make it harder to forget what had happened. People still talked about it. The newspapers hadn’t forgotten either. Someone had been around the place, snooping, in recent months.
It would be better, his mother said, if he waited until after Christmas. Until the spring perhaps, when people were feeling a little more cheerful about life in general. “I have to live with them all the year round and you don’t,” she said. The way she said it, he knew his absence would be the best Christmas present he could give her. Joe had wished her a happy Christmas and said another goodbye to James Mulberry.
In the kitchen, he watched Julia carefully as he said, “I was half thinking I might take a trip somewhere for Christmas. I’m not a great person for celebrating and festivities.” He didn’t feel like being around when Mr Ryan arrived home for Christmas. He’d decided, anyway, that Joe Brown would not be a party animal. James Mulberry had loved a good time, never leaving a party until dawn crept into the sky.
“I like a quiet Christmas myself,” Julia said, smiling. “It’s a lonely time of year, don’t you think?”
“It can be,” Joe said.
“Angie and I would like you to spend Christmas with us,” Julia went on. “That’s if you don’t go away, of course. We’ll be alone, and you know what they say?” She shook her head and gave a rueful laugh. “Two is company and three is a crowd. A crowd would be nice this Christmas. There were just the two of us last year …” She was talking quickly now, too quickly. “I was planning on getting a turkey. I’ll cook it myself. First time ever. I’ll buy in everything else, including a big pudding. Just in case my cooking doesn’t work out. We’ll have stuffing and cranberry sauce and …”