‘Do you want a coffee or something?’ Finbarr asked.
‘Do you have any tea?’
‘I do.’
‘I’m away from home so long but still I haven’t got into coffee first thing.’
Finbarr jumped to his feet. ‘Actually. Wait a second.’
He dashed into the kitchen area and emerged a moment later with a distinctive red carton branded ‘Barry’s Tea’.
‘A food parcel from home.’ Finbarr was laughing.
‘Irish mammies!’ Connor replied. ‘I’d love some.’
Finbarr padded past him wearing only his underwear. Connor couldn’t help but look. The confidence of youth. That ripple of abs and pert ass, all probably achieved without stepping foot in a gym. Despite his hangover Connor felt a stirring in his own underwear. He followed Finbarr around the corner where he was putting water in mugs before placing them in the microwave.
‘No kettle!’ Finbarr gave an apologetic grin..
Connor leaned against the wall. ‘Do you work out much?’ Was he really doing this? He wondered if he was still drunk.
Finbarr turned from the sink to face him. ‘I run a bit. Why, do I look like I work out?’
Connor reached forward and stroked the young man’s stomach.
‘Well, I’d call those abs.’
Finbarr giggled and stepped back.
‘Easy, tiger. You’re getting Barry’s tea and that’s all!’
Connor hung his head. ‘Sorry. I think I’m still a bit drunk. Ignore me.’
‘You can only blame booze for so much. Do you mind black tea? We don’t have milk.’
‘I’ll pop out and get some.’ Connor felt relieved to have something to do after his embarrassing attempt at seduction. He headed for the door. Finbarr stopped him.
‘Jeans!’ He was pointing at Connor’s bare legs. ‘Maybe you are still drunk.’
‘Shit!’ Connor walked back to the sleeping area where the rest of his clothes lay on the floor. He was putting on his jeans looking at the small clues to Finbarr’s life that were scattered about. A glass bowl of condoms. An old-fashioned money box marked ‘Fire Island House Share’. A pile of photographs. As he did up his belt he glanced at the picture on top. A younger, much neater version of Finbarr standing with a girl who was clearly his sister and a woman … Connor froze for a moment and then grabbed the photograph to peer at it more closely. His breathing had become fast and shallow. This wasn’t possible. He was confused. The alcohol was making a fool of him. He put the photograph back down and looked around like a man trapped.
The sound of bare feet on the wooden floor. Finbarr stood in the doorway holding out a steaming mug.
‘What’s wrong?’ He sounded genuinely concerned.
‘Nothing.’ No; he couldn’t just leave without knowing. ‘It’s just … Well, that photograph. Who is that woman?’ He pointed and noticed that his hand was shaking slightly.
‘That’s my mother. Do you know my mother?’ Finbarr asked incredulously.
‘Ellen?’
‘Yeah, that’s right!’
Connor swallowed and looked directly at Finbarr.
‘She’s my sister.’
A hush descended on the two men as they silently recalibrated their relationship. Finbarr had an urge to put on a T-shirt. Outside, a jackhammer had begun to break ground.
‘You’re that Connor.’ It wasn’t really a question, but the older man nodded.
‘Granny and Grandad often talked about you. They think you’re in London.’
‘I was.’ Connor didn’t like this. He felt exposed. All his secrets laid bare before this boy.
‘This is amazing. Like, what are the chances? Mammy will go mental when I tell her.’ He held out the tea. ‘Barry’s to celebrate?’
Connor took the mug with a weak smile. Should he ask him not to tell? Beg him to keep his secrets, or was this the moment to end all the hiding? He looked at the young man opposite him wearing nothing but skimpy sky-blue briefs. He had lived in Mullinmore.
‘Does your mother know that you’re …’ His voice trailed off and he just gestured vaguely towards Finbarr.
‘That I’m fabulous? Of course she does.’ He laughed and then in a more serious voice continued, ‘Yeah, she was fine about it. Dad was a bit weird but he’s OK now.’
Connor was shocked that the thought of a father hadn’t even struck him till now.
‘Oh my God. Your father. Who did Ellen marry?’ It seemed extraordinary to him that his little sister’s life had gone on in his absence, that she was now a woman in her forties with this grown-up son.
‘Dr Coulter. Do you know him?’
This made no sense. ‘Dr Coulter? Sure he must be about a thousand years old by now.’
‘No.’ Finbarr laughed. ‘His son. Martin Coulter.’
Connor gasped and his mouth hinged open and closed. He felt winded, as if he had been punched. He had to leave. His only desire was to not be in this room any more.
‘I’ve … I’ve got to go.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t feel well. I’ve got to go.’
‘Well, give me your number so I can get in touch.’
Connor was already at the door.
‘I’ll drop it into the bar,’ he called over his shoulder. He slammed the door and stumbled down the stairs. Outside the heat and noise of the street accosted him and made him feel as if he was hallucinating. He wanted to sink to his knees and howl out the hurt and confusion that was coursing through him. Instead he staggered to the kerb and was violently sick.
III.
Was it good news? Yes, it was. It had to be, and yet that isn’t how it felt. Ellen had left the house with such purpose and excitement, but a nagging dread was making her slow her pace. When she imagined telling her parents that Connor had been found, she had envisaged some sort of celebration: her father raising a glass, her tearful mother hugging her with joy. But now, the closer she got to the pub the more she suspected that this was all going to end with wailing and distress and, of course, it would all be her fault. She had already decided that she wasn’t going to give them every gory detail about how her son had met Connor, nor mention her nauseating suspicion that there might have been some even more unsavoury elements of their encounter that she was being spared, but the problem was that she was now left with precious little information. She had grilled Finbarr over the phone but all he seemed to know was that Connor was alive and liked a drink. She knew her mother was going to want more than that.
Ellen let herself in through the street door. Hayes Bar no longer opened during the day. She called up the stairs.
‘It’s me!’
‘Up here, love.’ It was her mother’s voice. Ellen’s heart sank. She really hoped her father was there as well. Maybe she wouldn’t break the news without him. There was hardly any rush. After all, they had waited this long.
In the kitchen Chrissie was filling the kettle to make her daughter the tea she knew she would be having. Dan was also there but sitting in silence at the table with his paper. Chrissie complained often about his Sudoku addiction. ‘He opens that paper in the morning and then I can’t get a word out of him until he has finished that bloody thing. I’d get more chat out of a spoon.’
Now Dan looked up, his pen hovering in mid-air. ‘Ellen,’ he said, as if her name was the answer to an unasked question, and then returned to his puzzle. Chrissie sighed dramatically.
‘Would you not put that bloody thing down for five minutes and talk to your own daughter? Honestly. Tea, pet?’
‘I will,’ Ellen said and pulled out a chair from the table.
‘Biscuit?’
‘No thanks.’
‘I will,’ Dan said without lifting his head.
‘He speaks!’ Chrissie exclaimed with mock delight as she poured the boiling water into the teapot.
‘How’s Martin?’ Ellen’s mother called casually over her shoulder.
‘He’s fine,’ came the inevitable reply.
Ellen had decided many years before to no longer involve her mother in the reality of her marriage. There really wasn’t anything to discuss. She had made certain decisions and now, without being able to say she was happy, she quite enjoyed her life.
Her father-in-law had died in 2006. The green-keeper at the golf course had found him stretched out like a sunbather just beyond the eleventh hole. Without him, old Mrs Coulter went downhill fast with previously undiagnosed dementia. Martin had decided he would move his mother into the family home, turning the dining room into a downstairs bedroom with a small en-suite bathroom. This might have horrified Ellen save for two things. The first was that she would never have to attempt another dinner party, and secondly Martin had finally agreed she could have help in the house so that his mother would be taken care of.
Life was easier. After Finbarr and Aisling were born it seemed the Vaseline had been put away permanently. Ellen suspected that Martin might be indulging his desires elsewhere, but she honestly didn’t care. There always seemed to be some medical conference or pharmaceutical sales event that he had to attend. Ellen imagined that after the PowerPoint presentations were over the delegates might continue to satisfy their keen interest in biology, but she never asked questions. Martin seemed quite content to come home and work in the surgery all day and then at night sit with his mother or head into his office and shut the door. It wasn’t what anyone could have described as a happy marriage, but as a life it was very manageable. Over the years Ellen had convinced herself that her expectations had been unrealistic. It seemed nobody found the experience of being married easy. Little Dom had left Trinny for some bottle blonde from Kerry who had come to work in the bank. Her friend was now working on one of the make-up counters in Brown Thomas up in Cork and living in a shared house with girls nearly half her age. Connie Bradley had ended up in the refuge in the city and that was after the guards had been called to the house nearly every weekend for months on end. Yes, Ellen had a lot to be grateful for.
Pleasure was to be found in unlikely places. She enjoyed letting Martin think that she cooked meals from scratch. She would buy vegetables every week and leave them on display, sometimes even peeling a carrot or potato to leave the skins around the sink, but in fact she was microwaving ready meals in the back kitchen. She was confident that Martin would never check the spare fridge back there because it didn’t contain milk or the bottles of Pouilly-Fuissé he ordered for himself but never shared. Her palate wasn’t educated enough, apparently. Sneaking his precious French wine into her big tumblers of spritzer was another hot little secret that brought her joy. They barely spoke, but Ellen had grown to enjoy the silence. It was certainly preferable to what had at one time passed for conversation but was really just Martin complaining or quizzing her about why certain tasks had been left undone around the house.
It was astonishing to her how their lives took care of themselves. The surgery rolled on, and with Annie Lynch coming in every day to look after her mother-in-law and help out in the kitchen, it seemed the only things that needed to be communicated between them were if she was going to be out at a meeting or charity event, or if he was away at one of his conferences. Even then, sometimes they just left a note. People, many people, had much worse lives than hers so she stopped complaining. Ellen decided that being unhappy was a choice and she was no longer going to make it hers.
When Finbarr had come home from college two Christmases ago, she had known that something was wrong. The boy hadn’t been himself. He walked into rooms and then, without speaking, walked out again. The unwavering self-confidence that had defined him for as long as she could remember seemed to be missing. Finally, he had sat down with her in the kitchen. She had made them both a cup of coffee and then from her secret stash produced two orange Club bars because they were his favourite and it was Christmas. She tried to help him. ‘Is everything all right? In Dublin? With you?’ It was that point on a winter’s afternoon where you’re not sure if you should have the lights on or not. In the encroaching dusk she couldn’t really see his expression, but the moment she heard his voice she realised what he was about to tell her. She felt like such a fool for not realising her son was gay before now that she found it hard to concentrate on what he was saying.
Everything made sense to her. It wasn’t perhaps the life she would have chosen for her son; she knew how cruel people could still be, but she understood the world was a very different place now and Finbarr had always seemed like one of those people destined for success. She doubted very much if this news was going to change that.
She tried to focus on what he was saying. There was no one special in his life yet. He was still her son. Nothing had changed. She found tears springing into her eyes. She was both touched and surprised to find that he seemed to care what she thought, that he was seeking her approval. She reached across the table to hug him and it felt like the easiest embrace they had shared for many years.
‘Will you tell Dad?’
‘Do you not want to?’
‘It would be better coming from you.’ Finbarr’s face looked almost babyish. Ellen patted his hand.
‘He’ll be fine.’
Ellen tried to imagine how the conversation with Martin would go, but struggled. She understood why Finbarr would want her to be his proxy.
As she stood outside her husband’s study door, she felt strangely alive. Her heart had begun to beat faster and she could hear her own breathing. This was better than passing off ready meals as home-made. This felt more like opening the study door and lobbing in an emotional hand grenade with the pin removed. Of course, she hoped that Martin could still accept and love their son, but she also relished the thought of telling him that his son wasn’t the man he wanted him to be. Finbarr had seized the controls to his own life, and she was certain that would distress her husband. She remembered the sulking that had gone on when Finbarr announced he wasn’t going to study medicine. Ellen found that she was smiling, so quickly re-composed her face and knocked on the door.
Inside, Martin sat in a pool of light from the desk lamp. He took off his glasses and peered at her as if he had just noticed rain had begun to fall. Ellen clenched her jaw. Was this what he was like with patients? She cleared her throat.
‘It’s about Finbarr.’
After she had passed on Finbarr’s news, Martin examined his fingernails for a moment and then asked, ‘When did he tell you this?’ Ellen explained and then her husband just said, ‘Right,’ before turning back to his computer. Ellen stood silently for a moment expecting Martin to say more.
‘Will you … will you speak to him?’
Without looking up, her husband gave a grunt which she assumed was one of agreement, so she turned and left.
Dinner was served without incident. Ellen passed around dishes with artfully placed lumps of microwaved chicken that she had carefully charred under the grill before serving. Ellen knew it probably took her more time and effort producing these fake meals, but she didn’t care. It was the ownership of the secret that she enjoyed. That was hers, and hers alone. Aisling dominated the conversation with excited chatter about the ski trip she was going on after Christmas. Ellen was tight-lipped in her disapproval. It was too much money, but of course Martin had said yes. It seemed to Ellen that Aisling had always been given everything she had ever wanted. So had Finbarr, but somehow, he didn’t seem quite as unappreciative. At least he would pop in and see his grandparents above the pub without being asked, whereas Aisling treated Dan and Chrissie as if they were subhuman.
Ellen glanced between her husband and her son. They both seemed unperturbed. Aisling headed back to her room, before Martin excused himself and went to sit with his mother, leaving Finbarr and Ellen alone. She wondered how Martin could bear to spend so much time with his mother. Most of the time she didn’t know him and if there was a ripple of recognition it was usually because she thought he was his father. She seemed to have erased her son entirely. Ellen found little to admire about her husband, but
she was touched by his devotion to his mother.
‘Did you tell Dad?’
Finbarr’s voice broke the silence with an accusatory tone.
‘Yes, of course I did,’ Ellen replied defensively. ‘Why? Has he not said anything to you?’
‘No. Nothing.’ Finbarr ran his hand through his hair. ‘Was he very upset when you told him?’
Ellen considered this question, unsure of how to answer. The truth was that she really didn’t think he was, but to just say ‘No’ made it sound as if his father didn’t care.
‘Not especially. He’s concerned, obviously.’
‘Concerned? What about?’ His chin was thrust forward, as if spoiling for a fight, but Ellen could see the fear in his eyes.
‘Oh, nothing really. You should talk to him.’
Later when she went to bed, Martin was already there, typing on his phone. Ellen occasionally wondered who he could be messaging but when she had asked, she was always told it was ‘work’. Diagnosing people by text at half past eleven at night seemed unlikely to her, but she didn’t care enough to pursue it. This marriage only worked if she didn’t engage with it. Still she felt she should speak on Finbarr’s behalf.
She sat at the dressing table and took off her earrings.
‘Did you speak to him?’ She addressed her husband’s reflection in the mirror. It seemed easier.
‘What?’ He looked up, annoyed.
‘Finbarr. Did you talk to him?’
Martin paused as if trying to remember who this Finbarr she spoke of was, but then he recalled.
‘No. No I didn’t.’ He returned to his phone.
Ellen watched him as she took a small scoop of moisturiser and began rubbing it into her face. She assumed that even Martin might be compelled to say something more. Whatever their relationship might be, the one undeniable truth was that they were both parents of this young man. Surely Finbarr’s revelation deserved some sort of discussion. But no, he was folding his glasses and putting the phone on the bedside table. Soon he would be asleep.
‘Are you going to?’
Martin sighed heavily. ‘What? What do you want me to say?’
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