The Misremembered Man

by Christina McKenna

  She watched his head surface above the table again—his face redder now, not only from the added embarrassment, but from the heat as well—clutching the banknote.

  “Where’s the—?”

  “Oh, don’t worry, James. I’ve already got it.”

  She saw him open his mouth to protest but she held up her glass and heard herself say something she knew she probably should not have said, but, in those moments, she would have done anything to save James further discomfort.

  “Cheers, James. To you and me.”

  Jamie was elated. Miss Devine could not have realized the effect her words had. They could only mean that she accepted him, in spite of his many shortcomings, and he could not quite believe that he’d heard her correctly. The only two women who’d cared for him in his life were his dear Aunt Alice and Rose McFadden.

  But this stranger was different. She knew nothing about him apart from the little he’d disclosed in his two letters. He wanted to bow down before her.

  Instead he held up his glass and returned her smile.

  “Yes, to me and you,” he said. “I mean to say: you and me, Lydeea.”

  He swallowed a generous mouthful of whiskey.

  “Would you mind if I smoked, Lydeea?”

  “Not at all. Go ahead.”

  She was trying to work up the courage to tell him how her circumstances had changed, but was waiting for the right moment. It would be insensitive to deliver the bad news and simply leave. Lydia somehow appreciated the enormous amount of courage it had taken to get Mr. James Kevin Barry Michael McCloone from the farmhouse in Duntybutt to this table in the Royal Neptune, Lisballymoe.

  She would have to make the best of it.

  After a few more drafts of whiskey and a few puffs of his cigarette, Jamie felt better. It was, however, still terribly hot and he could feel himself beginning to sweat. He wanted to loosen his tie, but thought that it might not be polite.

  “Are your parents still alive?” Lydia asked.

  She noted how his expression changed. He looked down at the table.

  “No,” he said. “Unfortunately they’re not still living because they’re dead.”

  “I see.” She tried not to smile at the answer. “I’m sorry.”

  “Well, what I meant to say is that—”

  “It’s all right, James. I know what you meant.”

  She expected to be asked the same question and was preparing to lead into her well-rehearsed explanation about her mother, but oddly enough no such query was forthcoming. Instead, James asked something totally at odds with her train of thought.

  “I suppose you drive a car, Lydeea.”

  “Yes, yes I do. And you?” She wondered where this was going.

  “No, not the car…just the tractor.”

  “That’s right; you told me that in one of your letters.” She looked up the lounge. The couple who had accompanied him were deep in conversation.

  “So, you got a lift with your friends.”

  “I did, aye. That’s Rose and Paddy McFadden, me neighbors. Paddy’s good about runnin’ me places, so he is.” The whiskey was loosening Jamie’s vowels and flattening his consonants.

  There was another pained silence. Jamie tried not to look too much at Lydia, his gaze falling everywhere except her face. He thought her too beautiful and sophisticated and intelligent to be having anything to do with the like of him, and was caught between wanting to make a good impression and not wanting to make a fool of himself. This was very difficult, in that he had virtually no experience of the former and too much experience of the latter. He was uncomfortable; he now knew what the expression “hot under the collar” meant.

  “What kind is it?” Jamie did his best to look at Lydia as he asked the question.

  “Sorry, what?”

  “The wee car you have…what, what breed is it? Er, I mean, I mean to say…the make of it, like?”

  “Sorry, James, I was lost there. Must be the sherry.” She wished they’d get the air-conditioning sorted out. It was stifling. She made a face. “Oh, it’s just a small car: a Fiat eight-fifty.”

  “Good enough wee car.”

  Jamie drained his glass and lit another cigarette. He took a puff—only to find, to his astonishment, that he still had the first one going in the ashtray. He stubbed it out immediately, and put a hand up to smooth his hair, changed his mind just as quickly, and laid the hand back down on the table again, staring at it as if it were some kind of offensive weapon.

  Meanwhile, Lydia found herself beckoning the waiter again. James McCloone was sending out some strange signals; she felt that more alcohol might help calm him and found herself uncharacteristically ordering another sherry.

  “Never took the test meself, never had the time,” Jamie was saying. He was still staring down at his hand and throwing the odd glance at his friends’ table. “But then Paddy’s very obligin’ that way.”

  Farther up the lounge, Mr. and Mrs. Paddy McFadden were installed at a table enjoying a malt whiskey and an orange juice respectively. Paddy sat nodding like a dashboard dog, and puffing on a cigarette while Rose—already hearing wedding bells and the patter of tiny feet—kept up a whispered commentary on developments at the Lonely Hearts table.

  “God, they make a lovely couple, don’t they, Paddy?”

  “Aye, they do indeed.”

  “Y’know it’s as if they were made for one another, because the pair a them have the same noses on them. D’you see that, Paddy?”

  “God, now that you say it, and now that I’m lookin’ at them, a see what you’re sayin’ right enough, so a do.”

  Lydia smiled at Rose and Paddy and Rose rewarded her with a tiny Windsor wave.

  “Aye, Paddy’s very obligin’ that way,” Jamie said again, “…and you like…you like the cookin’ yourself, Lydeea.”

  Lydia wasn’t terribly sure how driving and cooking went together in James’s head, but she assured him that she enjoyed cooking very much.

  “I brought you some a them buns I was talking about.” He pushed the crumpled bag toward her. “The rock buns.”

  “How very thoughtful, James!”

  “Oh, look Paddy. He’s givin’ her the wee rock buns.”

  “A see that, Rose. I’ll maybe go up here for another half ’un. D’you want another one a them oranges?”

  “Look: Jamie must be talkin’ about them, ’cause Lydeea’s lookin’ into the bag.” Rose caught Paddy’s arm with the excitement of it all. “D’you see that, Paddy? God, a hope she doesn’t ax how he made them ’cause he’ll maybe not mind what a tolt him.”

  “Aye so,” said Paddy, eager for the drink and breaking free. “Will ye take another one a them oranges, will ye?” Paddy stood patiently rattling change in his pocket.

  Rose continued to gaze down at Jamie and Lydia, her face glowing with pleasure and approbation. All at once she felt a need to celebrate having masterminded this blessed meeting and Jamie’s transition from lonely, bachelor farm hand to potential husband-to-be.

  “Rose—”

  “No, Paddy I’ll tell you what I’ll have,” she said, removing an embroidered hankie from her sleeve and mopping her forehead, “I’ll have one of them Hervy’s Bristle cream sherries, so a will.”

  Mystery solved, thought Lydia. She closed the bag and smiled back at him. She noticed strange globules of sweat forming on his forehead. “Thank you so much. Did you make them yourself?”

  “Aye, so,” Jamie lied.

  “Really!”

  Jamie, emboldened by Lydia’s admiration and the booze, thought he’d further impress her by explaining how he made them.

  “Oh, they’re easy to make, so they are. Ye just throw a bitta flour in a basin and stir it about a bit and…and…” He tried to remember back to Rose’s demonstration. “Then ye fire a coupla eggs in and stir that ’bout another wee bit. And after that ye…ye…” Jamie looked up at Rose, thinking to gain inspiration, but all he got was another regal wave, whilst Lydia sat noddi
ng encouragement.

  “Aye, so…oh, now I mind. After that ye toss in a fistful of them wee brown boys, can’t mind—”

  “Sultanas?”

  “The very ones! And stir them about for another wee bit and then they’re ready to pitch in the oven, and that’s them ready.” Jamie took another gulp of whiskey, pleased with himself. He felt that by using such aggressive verbs as “throw, fire, pitch, and toss,” he would come across as more of an expert in the culinary arts.

  “How very interesting!” Lydia smiled, wondering what had become of the sugar, salt and that all-important margarine.

  At that moment they were distracted by a commotion by the lounge doors. A group of gentlemen on the wrong side of middle age had entered. All were battling with different stages of hair depletion and had compensated for the loss with beards, mustaches and sideburns. They were casually attired in cravats and sports jackets, and Lydia saw to her consternation that each was carrying a camera. All at once she made the connection with the announcement board in the lobby. The camera club was having its convention here today—the Killycock camera club, the same club of which the dreadful F.X. McPrunty was a member. She looked away quickly, her heart pounding. God grant that Mr. McPrunty was not among them!

  Jamie saw the fright on Lydia’s face but was at a loss to understand the reason. He studied the gentlemen more closely, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Och, they’re just a heap a them…photo…photo-graphers. But I wouldn’t think they’d be takin’ our pitchers, so I wouldn’t.”

  Lydia smiled and tried to appear calm. She, too, was perspiring now. She wondered whether to make a run for the ladies. When she cast her eyes toward the group again, she was surprised to see a busty young woman in their midst, wearing a miniskirt and wet-look boots. All the gentlemen were buzzing around her like mosquitoes round a tourist.

  So that is what is meant by “glamour” photography, thought Lydia.

  Later, looking back on all that was to ensue, she could only blame herself. As the young woman flicked her blond tresses about and flirted, Lydia was aware that one of the gents in the party was looking her way. She dared not look his way, for her fears were well and truly founded. She turned her attention back to Jamie.

  “Gosh, it’s hot in here, James, isn’t it?”

  “It is a bit warm, right enough.”

  “D’you mind if I open the window?”

  “Oh, sure I’ll do that, Lydeea.”

  He struggled up, almost overturning their drinks, and tried to fumble the window open, while Lydia looked on. It was hopeless.

  “I think somebody must a painted it shut, so a do. The bugger won’t budge.”

  He sat down again. “Or it could be one a them newly fangled boys that don’t open because maybe somebody would be wantin’ to throw hisself outta it.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Lydia, even though she didn’t. Since they were on the ground floor she thought it unlikely, not unless a midget wanted to do away with himself. She smiled and sneaked another look at the group.

  What she saw confirmed that it was too late for escape. It was too late to run, too late to hide, because right there before her eyes, what she’d feared most was taking shape and trotting toward her. The little bald head atop the furious tortoise face, the mulberry cravat, the camera bouncing on his emblazered belly; all were unmistakable. Frank Xavier McPrunty halted at their table. He looked from Lydia to Jamie, and back again.

  “I thought it was you,” he said in a fussy little voice. “Well, may I say I think you have a cheek coming in here and cavorting with another man. You should be ashamed of yourself!”

  Jamie stared at him and then at Lydia, who was deciding that her best ploy was to deny everything. She gave McPrunty a withering look; the sherry had made her bold.

  “I don’t know who you are,” she said in her best teacher’s voice, “but my friend and I are having a quiet drink and I would appreciate it if you left us alone.”

  “You’re a fine one to talk about friendship!”

  Lydia saw his wattles wobble hotly above the red cravat. She wasn’t going to get rid of him that easily. But Jamie was on his feet, face blazing, temper coming to the boil—he was seizing his chance to be masterful.

  “Ye heard what my friend said, didn’t ye?” he cried. “If you don’t get away from this table I’ll hit you a dunder, so a will.”

  McPrunty’s courage seemed to waver under Jamie’s threat. He took a step back.

  “Yes, and you’re someone to be talking!” he admonished Jamie. “She’s making a fool of you as well.”

  And with that he turned on his heel and marched back to the group by the bar.

  “Did ye know that nosy oul’ bastard, did ye?” Jamie eyes were following McPrunty’s retreat. Then it dawned on him that his choice of words might have been better considered. “Pardon me, Lydeea, I meant to say—”

  But he stopped because Miss Devine had started to laugh. Jamie joined in; he could hardly do otherwise. The strange little man with the camera had broken down the barrier between them.

  “Oh look, Paddy, they seem to be gettin’ on terrible well now,” Rose said, nudging Paddy who’d nearly nodded off; the whiskey, the balmy atmosphere and Rose’s ear-numbing blow-by-blow analysis of the romantic proceedings having a soporific effect. “A wonder did that wee man want to take their pitcher ’cause y’know they look terrible well together. Paddy, are you listenin’ timmie?”

  “Aye, maybe he did,” said Paddy, blinking back into the reality of the situation, like a dozing hound being roused from its midday nap. “Jamie looks powerful well in that suit…peat brown, a think Mr. Harvey said it was called.”

  “Now, I’d say it was more of a gravy brown meself. Lord, and doesn’t it match his teepee terrible well. Y’know, Paddy I think you should get one a them teepees as well, ’cause you’re getting a bit thin on tap, so ye are.”

  Down at the Lonely Hearts table, the farmer and the teacher were conversing more freely, expanding on their chosen career paths—the one in the farmyard, the other in the classroom—while the temperature in the lounge took on a tropical quality. Jamie talked about his animals and his accordion, and Lydia spoke of her love of books and music.

  Gradually, Jamie began to relax, the drink and sultry atmosphere doing their job of smoothing down the more abrasive corners of his fearful self. He could not believe how well he felt in this woman’s company and was postponing an urgent need to visit the bathroom in case he missed out on anything. But after an hour he finally excused himself because, besides the need to urinate, he was experiencing a strange crawling sensation on his scalp.

  Once inside the toilet, he checked himself in the mirror and wiped away what he imagined were beads of sweat. He was mistaken.

  They were beads of glue—toupee glue.

  He was startled, but not overly concerned. He ran some water on his fingers and, a few sticky minutes later, all traces of the adhesive had disappeared. He smiled into the mirror, pleased that everything was going so well.

  Satisfied, he entered the toilet stall, locked the door and proceeded to urinate, gazing down at the bowl. As he peed merrily, he fell into his old habit, one he had had for as long as he could remember: He would read and memorize the writing on toilet bowls: Shanks Patent “Unix” Washdown; Royal Doulton “Simplicitas”... He knew a half-dozen of the manufacturers’ stamps by heart and the same ones seemed to crop up everywhere. He thought about how fortunate he had been in meeting this fine lady at last, and began to spin a fantasy that soon had him in its grip.

  He saw himself in a white suit walking up a sun-kissed aisle with Lydia on his arm. He heard the organ music swell as they reached the altar and knelt on the tasseled cushions. He saw himself slip a wedding band onto her finger, then kiss the bride as the music started up again.

  The outer door of the lavatory clicked open, bringing Jamie back to the present. He hurriedly finished up—only to discover that his zipper wouldn’t
budge. He remembered Mr. Harvey’s advice: They’re a bit stiff when new, but just give it a good tug to get her going and you’re away. Jamie bent his head lower to examine it, sucked in his belly, squeezed his eyes shut and, with one deft movement, gave a tremendous tug. It solved the problem: He was safely zipped up again.

  He discovered, however, that the force needed to free the zipper had had the unfortunate consequence of freeing something else as well.

  Jamie felt a lightness, and a refreshingly cool sensation on the crown of his head. He went to flush the toilet, but his eye lit on something strange in the bowl. He crouched down for a better look.

  “Ah, Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”

  His hand flew to the top of his head—and found only a sticky, bare scalp.

  “Ah, Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” he cried again as he lifted out the sodden, urine-soaked hairpiece, the full implication of the disaster hitting him with the force of a wet carp across the face.

  “Jamie, is that you?” The voice came from the other side of the stall.

  Jamie held his breath. What if it was the baldy wee bastard with the camera? But he realized then that the baldy wee bastard would not know his name.

  “Aye, it’s me,” he said tentatively. “Who’s that?”

  “It’s Paddy, Jamie.”

  “Aw Jezsis, Paddy!”

  Two stall doors unlocked as one. Paddy stared at his friend, trying to come to terms with a rare sight of a crestfallen Jamie, looking as though he’d had a head-on collision with a child’s cut-’n’-paste craft set. His scalp was ridged in adhesive tape and splodges of glue. Incongruously, in amongst it all, just below the crown, Paddy could make out the words Bonding Times May Vary, printed in red lettering.

  “God oh, what happened, Jamie?” Paddy asked the superfluous question, knowing all too well the answer. Jamie held it in his right hand, and it was dripping urine onto the tiles.

  “Jezsis Christ, Paddy, I never expected the like of this!” He looked dejectedly at the sodden hairpiece. “Thought I had it on good an’ tight. I pulled away at it in the house, begod, to make sartin, and it wouldn’t budge.”