Home Stretch

by Graham Norton

  Pictures from Pride marches, gay picnics, fundraising nights for people with AIDS, protests, petitions being handed to embarrassed-looking men in suits. Groups of people fighting for their rights. His rights. Finbarr was humbled by their courage and their commitment, especially because, if he was being totally honest, he feared that if he’d been born thirty years earlier it was extremely doubtful he would have had the energy or motivation to make the noise for change. He felt very small.

  Finbarr had nearly reached the end of the box of photographs he was sorting through. These were from the early noughties, so less interesting to him. Some of the drag queens were still on the scene now. The interiors had hardly changed. He found a clump of photographs held together with an elastic band. They were all of the same crowd of people standing in the street, taken from different angles. He thought it was outside the George. Nobody was holding banners so he assumed it couldn’t be a march or demonstration of any kind. He turned the first photograph over and on the back someone had written in black ink, ‘Bomb scare 2008’. Finbarr turned the picture back round. He was amazed. He had come to Dublin not that long after that and he had never heard about a bomb scare in the George. He looked at the drinkers in the street; some looked stony-faced or concerned, others were still laughing as if they knew that it was all a hoax. He was about to put the pictures back when a face in the crowd caught his eye. He looked closer. Was it? He got up and turned on the overhead light and held the photo up. He saw that his hand was shaking.

  He fumbled in his jacket on the back of the chair and retrieved his phone. He struggled to catch his breath. Placing the photograph on the table he zoomed in using the camera. The image captured, he stared at it in disbelief. He had to do something, tell someone, but who?

  Quickly he scrolled through his contacts and texted the picture to his uncle Connor. Is this who I think it is?

  II.

  Old Mrs Coulter wouldn’t have been able to recognise this place. Ellen looked at the neat garden, the edged flower beds on either side of the concrete path, the lawn of even green. Of course, she would never get to see it now.

  The old lady’s heart had finally grown weary and allowed her to leave the small corner of the earth that she had occupied for the last few years. Martin, for all his devotion when they had lived together in the old house, had only made the journey home from the UK to see his mother five or six times. Ellen knew that the old woman no longer recognised her son, but it still seemed heartless. It was as if, in order to start his new life in England, he had to completely erase the old one. Naturally he had come home for the funeral.

  It had been a very small affair. Finbarr and Aisling had come back, and her own parents were in attendance, along with a scattering of older people from the town who would have known her back when she was the doctor’s wife and at the very heart of life in Mullinmore. Dan and Chrissie had pointedly ignored their former son-in-law and Martin had given them a wide berth too. Had he guessed that Connor had told them the truth, or did he just think their blank stares were because of the divorce? Would it even cross his mind that Ellen and Connor had chosen not to tell his children about the crash to protect his relationship with them? He was inscrutable, and then, just as Ellen was beginning to think that he must be completely dead inside, all at once, at the end of the service, he had begun to cry in silent jagging sobs. Ellen wasn’t sure what she should do. Chrissie had turned and rolled her eyes. It was Aisling who had gone and put an arm around her father’s shoulders.

  Ellen stared straight ahead at the coffin. She thought about the big old house. All the cleaning and dusting. The hours that woman must have spent, bent double, scrubbing and polishing, and now here she was being carried away in a shiny wooden box with gleaming handles she would never see. What was the point of any of it?

  It struck her as cruel when Martin announced he was having his mother cremated. Ellen wasn’t a believer, far from it, but she wondered how Martin could leave his father all alone in the family plot waiting for his wife who would never come. If her parents hadn’t already despised Martin, this monstrous act would have sealed his fate. For that, Ellen was almost glad he had done it. Finally, everyone, the whole town, could see the sort of man he was.

  It had taken Ellen longer than she liked to admit to become accustomed to a life without Martin in it. She loved her bungalow and only having herself to answer to, but it was as if a part of her was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. After all the years she had spent with Martin, she couldn’t quite trust him to just stay away. She carried with her an unspoken worry that he would find a way to return and ruin her quiet contentment. Ellen knew that Martin still messaged the children occasionally on Facebook, but unless they were lying to her, Aisling and Finbarr knew as little about his life in Southampton as she did. After the maternity cover, he had found a job in another practice and he was renting a flat with a view of the sea. They knew this because he liked to post pictures of his morning coffee on a small metal table with the waves in the background. Often Ellen was tempted to unfriend him, but that would have caused more trouble than it was worth with the children so she scrolled as quickly as she could past any of his posts. She noticed that while Finbarr continued to ‘like’ them, it was only Aisling who posted comments.

  ‘Living the life, Dad!’

  ‘Cup of joe and go!’

  ‘Waving back!’

  Ellen didn’t understand any of it. The pictures, the coffee, or the comments. She knew that for Aisling this version of a father, vaguely cosmopolitan and distant, suited her reinvented version of herself far better than an overweight, middle-aged mother living in a pebble-dashed bungalow outside Mullinmore. Aisling had managed to get herself a job as a junior account manager with a PR firm in Dublin. Apart from attending an endless parade of bar and restaurant openings, Ellen wasn’t really sure what the job entailed. After about six months, Aisling announced her engagement to her boss, Philip, who happened to be the son of the man who owned the firm. Ellen had only met the boy a couple of times. He was a ruddy lump of a thing, a thatch of blond hair over a face with a seemingly permanent sheen of sweat. Ellen imagined he was an ex-rugby player gone to seed. Aisling seemed more excited by the size of her new diamond than the man on her arm. It was now nearly two years since the fanfare of the engagement but still no word of an actual wedding. Finbarr claimed the question had only been popped because of an unfounded pregnancy scare. Ellen worried it would all end it tears. Still, that might be what Aisling needed to reattach her feet to the ground.

  Three years on and Ellen still experienced the same thrill when she got back to the house. Every time she walked down the short path to the front door she felt like falling to her knees like the Pope kissing the airport tarmac. This weekend, however, was going to change everything. As she opened the door and stepped into the hall, she hoped, not for the first time, that she was making the right decision. She was. She was certain of it. And if it did all turn out to be a mistake, then no harm done – well, not that much. She was tempted to go and light a candle in the chapel as she had done when she was a girl. She chuckled at her own foolishness.

  Walking around the house, tidying up, clearing out drawers and the wardrobe in the back bedroom, she felt almost giddy with a mixture of nerves and excitement. Naturally, she recalled when she had felt like this before, and how that had turned out, but surely this time it would be different? She wasn’t a child. They weren’t rushing anything.

  It had been the spring of 2013 when she had walked into the shop at Lawlor’s garden centre. Bill Lawlor had retired long ago and now Shane Dunphy was managing the place. He had worked there since he was a boy and grown into the son that Bill had never had. It was generally assumed that one day Shane would inherit the lot. This theory made sense given all the work he had put into the place, opening a café, expanding the shop, investing in greenhouses for exotic plants. All Ellen wanted was a recommendation for someone who could help her tackle the overgrown garden that sur
rounded the bungalow. She had managed to cut back the hedges and mow the grass by herself, but she had finally accepted that the job was too big for her alone and besides she hadn’t the first idea about what to plant or where.

  She found Shane outside, beyond the car park, pushing a wheelbarrow of plants between some raised beds. With his short legs and wide shoulders he made it look easy. His face bore the healthy tan of a life lived in all weathers. When he announced that he did the sort of work Ellen was interested in, she wasn’t sure how to respond. She didn’t imagine that she needed someone who knew as much as Shane did, and she feared how much it might cost. On the other hand, she couldn’t very well backtrack because she had stated quite clearly that she wanted to hire someone to help her with the garden.

  ‘Are you sure?’ was the best she could manage.

  Shane smiled at her reassuringly. ‘Don’t decide now. Why don’t you check out the website? It’s all on there. At the end of the day labour is labour, the real costs are the plants, and that’s as long as a piece of string. You can spend as much or as little as you want.’

  Ellen nodded and looked around as if already considering what to plant.

  ‘I tell you what, would you like me to come one evening this week just to have a look and give you an idea?’

  From someone else it might have seemed like a heavy sell or being pushy, but from Shane it just came across as helpful, friendly even.

  ‘That would be great. You know where I am?’

  ‘I do. The old Coulter bungalow.’

  ‘That’s the one. Any night except Wednesday would be grand.’

  Ellen left with a spring in her step. Things were moving. The garden had been annoying her ever since she had got the inside of the house in order.

  It was the next evening when the doorbell chimed. It was just starting to get dark but there was still enough light for them to walk around outside. Ellen pointed out where she thought she might like a little patio or deck. Shane listed plant names that meant little or nothing to her, but she smiled and nodded. Really, she just wanted it to be like one of those makeover shows on television where she could leave for the afternoon to come back and find that it had all magically been done.

  ‘Let me put some costs together for you and I’ll get back to you.’

  She shut the door. He drove away.

  It was more than she had intended to spend but if she didn’t use Shane, who would she use? Besides, she liked him and whoever she used would cost something. She trusted that he’d do a good job and the money was in the bank for now, so she might as well spend it. It was an investment, she told herself. She was adding to the value of the property. She chose to ignore the fact that there hadn’t been a single offer on the place when it had been on sale for all those years.

  One Saturday about three weeks later, the work started. Ellen stood at the kitchen window transfixed. It was all so noisy and dramatic – trees being cut back, the lawn torn up. Shane waved and smiled at her through the window as happy as a child on Christmas morning who had asked Santa for a second-hand rotavator. Ellen wasn’t sure of the etiquette, so at lunchtime she stepped out into the back garden. Shane cut the motor when he saw her and wiped his arm across a sweaty brow.

  ‘What are you doing for lunch?’ she called across the ploughed lawn.

  ‘Don’t worry about me. I have a sandwich in the van,’ he said, pointing towards the front of the house as if the location of the van gave his statement more credibility.

  ‘Will you eat it inside? I’ll make a pot of tea.’

  ‘Great job. I’ll be in in a minute so.’ He restarted the motor and continued pushing the rotavator to the far end of the lawn.

  Ellen made her way back inside and put out a plate for Shane’s sandwich. She considered a napkin. No, too much. She tore off a strip of kitchen roll and put it on the table. The kettle began to whistle.

  When Shane came into the kitchen, he brought the garden in with him. The smell of freshly dug earth, the heat of a body that had been working hard. Although not very tall, his bulk seemed to fill the small room. The neat little set of table and chairs looked like doll’s house furniture when he sat down.

  ‘Would you not have a bowl of soup? There’s plenty,’ offered Ellen.

  ‘No. No. Work away. This is loads for me.’

  As Ellen fussed around the cooker, she studied the man tearing into his sandwich of thick, roughly cut bread. He was younger than she was but not by much. His hair was flecked with grey, and his weathered face was creased around the eyes. Still, there was something boyish about the way he sat, an awkwardness that he had clearly never grown out of.

  ‘You have the place lovely,’ he commented, looking around between mouthfuls.

  ‘Thanks. It suits me,’ she had replied modestly. She was always thrilled when someone complimented the place.

  ‘It must make a change after the big house,’ Shane said casually.

  ‘It is, but a good one. I love it, to be honest.’ She sat with her bowl of soup.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about your troubles.’

  Ellen wondered what particular part of her life Shane might be referring to. Her dead mother-in-law, her long-lost brother, or her divorce.

  ‘Thank you. It’s not so bad,’ she said vaguely.

  ‘You have children, don’t you?’

  He must have been talking about the divorce.

  ‘Yes. A boy and a girl. Grown now, both working in Dublin. What about yourself, are you …?’ She wasn’t sure how to finish the question. Married? With someone?

  ‘No.’

  He finished his sandwich while she took another spoonful of soup. The atmosphere had become uncomfortable. Ellen cursed herself for asking a personal question. She considered what to say next, to get things back on track. Shane gave a little cough and wiped his mouth with the paper towel.

  ‘There was someone for a long time. Long distance. Limerick. I think she got sick of waiting. Married someone else.’ He shrugged, resigned to his situation.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’ Ellen tried to keep her voice light. She had just wanted a bit of company for lunch, not a heart to heart.

  ‘Well, you know I don’t make that much at the moment, not till Bill goes anyway, and she wanted a house, kids, you know, stuff I couldn’t give her. Not yet anyway. It doesn’t look like Bill is going anywhere fast.’

  ‘Is he well?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘Very!’ They both laughed.

  After that things became easy between them. Each weekend he returned to continue the work, Ellen would bring him out mugs of tea. He’d eat his lunch with her. She dropped into the garden centre during the week and they walked through the rows of plants with Shane giving her ideas for her garden. When he described the smells of jasmine or the night-scented stock, she imagined herself sitting on her new patio on a summer’s evening sipping a glass of rosé. Sometimes she imagined that Shane was sitting at the table opposite her. What was the harm? It was his garden as well now, wasn’t it?

  When he eventually made his move it all seemed so inevitable. The weeks of waiting had just been time wasted. One Saturday night Shane had knocked on the door to let her know that he was off. She thanked him and said that she’d see him the following weekend, but he hesitated on the doorstep.

  ‘I saw you liked wine, so I picked you up a bottle.’ He held out a bottle of red wine.

  ‘Thank you.’ She took it and looked at the label. Chianti. ‘That’s lovely. Thanks.’ Shane was looking at her expectantly.

  ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, the penny dropping. ‘Would you like a glass now? One for the road?’

  ‘If you’re not busy …’

  ‘No. No. It would be nice.’

  ‘It would. Very nice. Yes.’

  They hadn’t even finished their first glass when his hands were on her thighs and his mouth on hers. They slipped off their chairs onto the floor. Ellen kept thinking that she would stop him or that he would pull away but that didn’t h
appen. His hands seemed to be everywhere, her breasts, her legs, and then his fingers were inside her. She whimpered and found herself doing things she had never considered before. She was biting his ear, throwing her head back and letting out moaning sounds she didn’t recognise as her own voice. Then he had pulled her to her feet and without either of them uttering a word, she had understood and led him by the hand to her bedroom.

  After a life spent dreading the very idea of sex and being thankful that it wasn’t a part of her marriage, she now found herself consumed by it. When she was with Shane, she just wanted to be touching him, be held by him and when she wasn’t, she remembered the taste of him, the heat of him, the weight of him. The way that Shane was around her made her self-consciousness vanish, her feelings of not being attractive or desirable disappear. He wrapped his arms around her, cradled the softness of her belly, gazed down at her as if she was some rare impossible beauty. What made his adoration bearable was that she felt the same way about him. She allowed her hands to explore his body, the folds of flesh, the wiry tufts of hair, it was all just perfect in her eyes.

  Soon people had noticed the garden centre van parked all night outside the bungalow and the gossip started. Before they had even had an opportunity to talk about what they were or what they were doing, they had become an item. Shane kissed her in the street before he got in the van to drive off and, just like that, they had gone public. Ellen had no idea how it might all end. It could be a fling or something far more serious, but for now she didn’t care. She was as giddy as a teenager and she was happier than she could ever remember being before.

  Finbarr had been pleased for her when she broke the news, although he did little to disguise his bewilderment about how she could be bothered to embark on a romance at her stage of life. Aisling had been uninterested veering towards dismissive until she figured out the identity of her mother’s new love interest.