‘Wow,’ she said, knowing he wanted her to be impressed.
‘Yeah, that’s it,’ he said. He removed his Tom Ford sunglasses and smiled at her. He took her hand as they walked past the faded elegance of a Georgian terrace.
The next street was run-down and grim; council houses, many of them derelict. Conor had warned her that it wasn’t the most salubrious area but Dublin still seemed like a city of such wild contrasts. Nothing was predictable and she resented the unfamiliar feelings of being out of place and unsure.
She pulled her Ronny Kobo skirt down a little after she was wolf-whistled at by some beer-bellied men outside a pub. Conor had glared at them but she dragged him on. Then she felt silly – it was already virtually to her knees. The tank top was a bit tight but very little seemed to fit her properly these days, and it was the only red one she had. It wasn’t really her colour.
Conor had glanced at her when she changed in the room before checkout but he hadn’t said anything. He was dazzling, of course, in a red Ermenegildo Zegna cashmere crew knit with chinos. When she asked him if she looked okay he returned a perfunctory ‘fine’. She should have pressed him. She really needed to get some new clothes, bras especially.
On a blocked-off street near the stadium, Sarah noticed a blonde girl with blue ribbons in her hair, maybe seven or eight years old, skipping ahead of her parents and an older brother. She wore a light sleeveless blue top and a yellow flowing skirt to her calves. One of her plastic sandals was blue, the other yellow. She swung her little flag from side to side before her, and sang: ‘Up Clare, up Clare, up Clare, up Clare, up Clare!’
Sarah’s feet hurt – another new sensation. The Valentino pumps had seemed the best option, usually so comfortable. She wasn’t wearing bloody runners for the next seven months, that was for sure. She sighed.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked, trying to make eye contact.
‘It’s nothing. Really, don’t worry, I shan’t ruin your day,’ she said, and changed the subject. ‘Is the atmosphere always so,’ she began, and carefully chose her next word, ‘pleasant?’
‘Always,’ he said, with pride. ‘Never any problems.’ He turned to her. ‘Now, it will be noisy. Some fellows might get carried away, after the drink, in the heat of the moment, and so on.’
‘What? Irishmen drinking? I’m shocked.’
‘Hey, you lot are not so bad at it either. In the Premier area it won’t be too crowded. But I’ll probably get a bit noisy too.’ He shrugged. ‘Just giving you the heads-up.’
‘Fine by me,’ she said, and reminded herself again why she was really there. She didn’t do sports, let alone Irish sports. She told herself to buck up.
Her one and only time at Twickenham with James and his friends had been an utter disaster. Despite being tipsy from the champagne in the tent, she had seethed all through the match. Him pleading amnesia that morning, when in fact he’d tried to force himself on her in Charles and Megan’s apartment in Richmond the night before. She’d had to jam her knees up into his chest before he got the message that no meant no. He was well aware too that she couldn’t shout at him with the others sleeping next door. He’d promptly fallen asleep while she’d fumed through half the night. If she’d had any gumption at all she’d have walked straight out and gotten a taxi home. It had heralded the end, really – a wasted two years. Live and learn.
But the testosterone of those huge men on the pitch butting into each other like goats; the appalling fans braying and swaying and spilling beer; the drunken renditions of ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot’. She shuddered – surely this would be different?
She thought about the winter night her father had brought her to see Chelsea at Stamford Bridge. She must have been around thirteen. As they queued to enter through a turnstile, a large group of drunken northern football fans were herded past by policemen on horses. The hatred in their eyes, their shaved heads, their vicious chants. She had been so frightened in the grim, dark, hostile shadow of that West London monolith that she’d almost peed herself. Not that she let on, of course – not to Father. ‘Hmm. Now is this lip stiff or is it wobbly? Stiff or wobbly, Sarah?’ ‘Stiff, Father.’ ‘That’s my girl.’ If only he knew. Already she had learned how to please him.
The rigidity in his lined face last February when she’d told him that she was ‘seeing’ an Irishman. What a silly euphemism, too. For ‘seeing’, read: ‘head-over-heels in love with’, ‘fucking the brains out of’, ‘soon to get pregnant by’, ‘hoping to spend the rest of my life with’.
Of course, Father had been too English to openly disapprove, but the lack of warmth, or even interest, did hurt. She was certain that he’d come round to the idea of an Irish son-in-law as soon as he met Conor. If they ever did meet. Claudia had phoned that Sunday when they were all due to have lunch in Soho with the news that he was ‘under the weather’ and ‘couldn’t possibly travel across town in that heat’. Gold-digging bitch.
At the gate their tickets were scanned by a smiling woman in a navy pants suit, as though they were in an airport boarding a plane. She waved them through and pointed out the lifts. Sarah was surprised that there were lifts, and she berated herself. Why not? A well-dressed middle-aged couple shared the lift with them.
Conor nodded to the man, who wore a well-cut suit and tie and expensive-looking shoes. He had keen, intelligent eyes.
‘Limerick didn’t quite make it this year, Seamus,’ Conor said.
‘Next year, please God. We’ve some good players coming up. Ye’re Cork anyway by the looks of ye.’
‘Yes, Conor Dunlea. Pleased to meet you. This is my girlfriend, Sarah Taylor. Sarah’s from London but she’s an honorary Cork woman for the day.’
‘Seamus Curtain,’ the man replied. ‘And this is my wife, Finola.’
Sarah shook hands with the tall, elegant woman, who wore a fitted navy and cream two-piece suit, with pearl drop earrings to match. The huge sapphire around her neck looked real.
‘Sarah, if there’s a more stunning-looking woman in Croke Park today, I’d be shocked,’ she said, and smiled as the lift doors opened. ‘You’re a very lucky young man, Conor. I hope you appreciate that.’
‘I do indeed,’ he said, and Sarah felt herself blush. What a lovely thing to say.
They walked out into a carpeted reception area with windows along its full length, giving a view onto the vast stadium and the green area at its centre. A match was in progress, though not many paid attention to it. Faint cheers ebbed and flowed from outside as the white ball was struck up and down the pitch. The stadium was still quite empty. The other couple were immediately subsumed into one of the groups of people standing around. A young woman with a tray of drinks approached them.
‘Drinks? Madam? Sir?’
Conor took a bottle of Heineken and Sarah a sparkling water.
‘Not going to have a drink?’ he said.
‘It’s a bit early. Trying to be good,’ she said. ‘Maybe later.’
He nodded and they clinked bottle to glass. She looked around and was relieved to see some younger people in jeans.
‘Who were that couple?’ she said. ‘Do you know them?’
‘Oh, he’s Seamus Curtain,’ Conor said. ‘He’s … well, he’s rich. A billionaire, in fact.’
‘A billionaire?’ she said. But Conor was watching the hurling and did not react.
Her friends used to mock her. Because she’d always gone for the posh ones. The rich ones, who were mostly shits, some of whom had treated her like a common tart before dumping her. But Conor wouldn’t do that. Yes, he could be detached, sometimes. She had often waited for him in bars and restaurants, and wondered which Conor she would be spending the night with. If that was the price she’d pay, she told herself, it would be utterly worth it.
She had broached the subject of them living together, but he’d been elusive. Her plan had been to move in with him when her lease was up in December, even before she got pregnant. When they discussed it, he complained that his pla
ce was too small – whereas it was anything but. The location at St Katherine’s Docks was perfect for work, though she would love to quit when the maternity leave ended. When he got his partnership from the firm, they could buy a house in Kensington or Chelsea, with a nice garden for the little one.
An autumn wedding, perhaps, the following year. A russet and crimson theme with rustic invitations. The Oleg Cassini organza three-quarter-sleeved wedding dress would accentuate her height – she’d have her figure back by then. A marquee in Hampton Court, a civil ceremony in one of the rooms there. Her little niece Rebecca a flower girl, strewing petals; Natasha her maid of honour; a pink ribbon in baby Clara’s hair – Clara, called after her mother.
He was so hard to pin down, but the baby would change everything. Now, she just needed to tell him.
The match itself was a blur. The ball seemed to fizz up and down the pitch at random, and Sarah could not keep up with it. The players stood around a lot of the time in pairs, and when the ball came near them they engaged in some kind of frantic wrestling or they chased each other and swung their sticks dangerously.
Conor grew more agitated and distracted as the game progressed. He had been drinking steadily since they arrived. He hardly touched the overcooked food they were served and Sarah ate too much and felt dyspeptic, the beef repeating on her. The noise was horrendous. One fat man near them kept standing up and shouting something about a banner.
Conor tried to explain the rules to her at the beginning and how teams score, goals and points, and the different colour flags held by the men in white coats by the goal, but it was pointless. She couldn’t take it in.
His despair shocked her, when Cork seemed destined to lose. He screamed, almost hysterically, at the Cork players and the referee – it was so unlike him. His eyes rigid with a helpless panic, his hand over his mouth. The match appeared to be nearing its end.
Only then did it occur to her. What if they lost? If they lost, she couldn’t possibly tell him today. Could she? She was running out of time and they were flying home later. How stupid could one be?
He barely noticed when she excused herself to go to the toilet. Such a relief to get away from the tension, the noise, all the shouting. The Ladies was utilitarian, not that it mattered. And mercifully empty. Huge roars reverberated around the walls and she winced, clutching at a toilet roll holder in the cubicle. Her Facebook and Twitter feeds wouldn’t connect – it kept telling her there was ‘no network available’. She tried to text Natasha – ‘message failed’. She tried to phone her but it wouldn’t connect. She felt like smashing the useless bloody thing on the tiles at her feet.
‘You fool, you bloody fool,’ she whispered.
An attendant came in as she was drying her hands and Sarah stared at her as if she were a ghost. She looked at herself in the mirror, at the huge dark bags under her eyes. She had to rummage in her handbag for her compact. Another deafening roar. Women and girls surged into the cubicles behind her.
She was sure that her legs wouldn’t carry her back up the steps to her seat. But it had to be now – she couldn’t put it off any longer.
The flow of people down the steps buffeted her. She held her Marc Jacobs handbag in front of her for protection. People were so ignorant. She reached their area, which had almost emptied, and Conor was standing with his back to her. Sarah braced herself and took a breath. It had to be now.
She licked her lips, her mouth as dry as powder.
Dúchas
What I want most at this moment is to leave my seat in the stand and walk down the steps and turn right to the bar I passed on the way up. It would be quiet with the match due to begin, and as welcoming as a long-loved dog. I imagine the first taste of the cool stout as it flows from the plastic glass into my mouth – the bliss. I’m not speculating here, it’s what I know. I can smell it, savour it: the chill pliancy of the glass in my hand, my thumbprint on the condensation. The black creaminess, the soft, soothing cotton-woolness of it. The unseen roars coming down the concrete steps would carry no threat, as I lean on the bar counter, drink in hand.
I hope you will never long for that type of bliss, Sean. I worry sometimes that I might have passed it on to you. You know the word dúchas; you know what it means.
Recovery – to be always in recovery and never recovered. That’s where I am, in my own little Limbo. But Limbo is better than Hell, and that’s where I used to be, dragging others down with me. I wonder: why am I thinking about this now, of all times? The truth of it is that thoughts like these are rarely far from my mind, but I’m okay with that. Even at my lowest ebb, you know, I always seemed to be able to hold close the idea that I would survive, I would be sober, I would be able to call myself a man, a husband, maybe even a father, again some day.
Will you do one thing for me, Sean? If you ever have a son, don’t put a hurley into his hand. For the love of God, just don’t. I know it could deprive me of ever seeing my grandson on a pitch, but I’d hate for you ever to have to go through what I’m going through right now.
I look up at the long concrete beams in the Hogan Stand roof over our heads. If I knew their length, depth and curve-ratio I could calculate their structural load capacity.
A herring gull glides by.
I watch the arrays of swaying colours – red and white, saffron and blue. A previously quiet and nondescript woman in the row behind stands up and screams: ‘Up the Banner!’ A dusting of spittle erupts from her wide-open mouth and drizzles on unnoticing heads below. Others rise, as if in rejoinder, and bellow at the hurlers who now file into two lines behind The Artane Band. I stay sitting, trying to breathe, looking at the wrinkles on the tweed jacket of the Kanturk man in front of me.
Your poor mother this morning. Neither of us slept a wink, of course, and then she was up out of bed early, all go, fussing over my sandwiches, which she proceeded to ruin by putting mayonnaise on the ham instead of mustard. I didn’t have the heart to tell her. The state of her at the door, wringing her hands.
‘He’ll be all right, won’t he? Will they win? What if they lose?’
‘He’ll be fine,’ I replied.
Very likely it was a lie. Sport is cruel. Crueller than you can imagine, Sean, though you might just find out today.
I tell myself to breathe and I stand up. I watch the fifteen Corkmen march behind the band as they pass my section of the stand. The noise is apocalyptic. I scrutinise your body language. You are first in the line, as captain, and I see a rangy, dark-skinned, short-haired twenty-eight-year-old; hurley held in your right hand, helmet in the other. You are the spitting image of my brother Johnny when he was your age. You’ve a languid walk, jaunty it might even seem. Good.
Sean, when your mother and I gave you up for adoption, it broke our hearts. But you have to realise that we were so young. Evelyn was barely seventeen when she fell pregnant, and I’d just turned eighteen. We hadn’t a clue. We were in shock; we were ashamed – they made us feel ashamed; we were frightened. Evelyn’s father was, well, to call him a vicious dictator would be an understatement. But I should have fought him. I should have. Our only consolation is that Michael and Anne are such good people and that they have reared you so well.
As the teams break away from the band, I wonder if there is an open meeting going on at this very moment, somewhere in the inner city. There usually is. Pat would understand and pick me up later – it wouldn’t be the first time. I remember going to one on Dorset Street when I was on vigil with Evelyn when she was due with your sister Roisín in the Rotunda – probably just a half-an-hour’s walk from here. My name is Tim and I’m an alcoholic. I touch the phone in my top pocket. The App would tell me where to go.
I rise again with all the others and face the flag for the national anthem. The words appear on the big screen. A blonde woman sings from a dais near the sideline. An elderly Corkman on the opposite end of the aisle to me weeps. Veins of tears flow down his hollow, bearded cheeks. He fears it will be his last time; I can see it in hi
s eyes, in the pained passion of his delivery. The song ends in the usual shortened climax and everybody sits as the players move to their positions.
You take your place at left half-back, instead of on the right, where you were selected.
Pat elbows me.
‘They put him on McMahon,’ he says.
I nod. If only I could breathe.
I was so happy when I found out that you were growing up in Glanmire – the home of Sarsfields – and that Michael was a hurling man. When you were eight, Evelyn did something she shouldn’t have. She went to her sister-in-law, who worked in St Margaret’s Adoption Society. Somehow, she persuaded Helen to show her your file – how, I’ll never know, but I have my suspicions. The truth is, Sean, that Roisín didn’t make it. We lost your beautiful baby sister on a hateful day in May, in a cold room in the hospital, and her perfect little eyes were the same shade of blue as the sky directly over you now while the referee readies himself to throw the sliotar in. Your mother was never the same again, and you know, she was younger on that day than you are now. We couldn’t have any more children, the doctors made that clear, because of what they called a ‘major chromosomal disorder’. How you escaped, they couldn’t tell us, but getting pregnant again might have been disastrous for Evelyn. Then, of course, there was only you. But you weren’t there either, or only as a kind of shadowy reminder of everything we’d done wrong.
I never really know how I feel about hurling. There are times (and this is definitely one of them) when I hate this crazy game, and I play down the five All-Ireland finals I played in myself and the three I won. But then, for a few hours today, I had been receiving homage from old friends and foes in and around Croke Park. And I feel it is my due, though nobody will ever hear me say it.
I can see a couple of Kilkenny men a few rows down from where I’m sitting: Tommy Brennan and J.J. Heffernan from Ballyhale. In some ways they look just like ordinary middle-aged men out at a match, with their flat caps, bent noses and thinning hair. Sean, they are anything but ordinary, I can tell you that for nothing. The things that they’ve done, and the things that they know. My only hope is that, after today, you will know some of them too.
The First Sunday in September Page 5