The Sweet Second Life of Darrell Kincaid

by Catherine Robertson

  The song was something about some fields in a place called Athenry. Where someone was lonely …

  Then it faded out.

  Spoken words this time. The same man? Another?

  ‘She can’t bloody well stay like this forever, can she? We need to do something.’

  ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘Fine? She’s hardly fucking fine!’

  ‘Put another blanket on her if you insist. I, myself, am going to make a cup of tea …’

  Tea. How nice.

  More blackness …

  More singing. About young Willie McBride this time. Who, it transpired, was dead …

  Snippets of conversation …

  ‘I should never have let her go home on her own.’

  ‘Tip when buying a hair shirt: pick a smaller size. It chafes more effectively–’

  ‘Is he always this obnoxious?’

  ‘Fucking hell. You have no idea …’

  Was that toast I could smell?

  What was this song about? A veil. A long black one. Walking on a grave …

  ‘Whatever happened to fucking Danny Boy?’

  ‘They die in that one, too, you know.’

  ‘They don’t all die. Just the singer.’

  ‘I thought Danny ended up taking the low road back home?’

  ‘I think you’ll find that lyric in fact pertains to the Scottish song, “Loch Lomond”.’

  ‘Yeah? Where’d you find that marmalade?’

  It sounded like a knock. The door had been opening and closing so often …

  A to and fro of voices. And then–

  ‘Dear oh dear. This isn’t the best time, is it? And it had been going so well. No screaming infants on the plane. And a pleasant “Welcome to Heathrow” instead of a “Sir, could you step this way”–’

  Simon?

  There he was, kneeling beside the sofa in front of me. And I sat up and hugged him so hard I heard his bones creak.

  ‘Oh, Simon–’

  I burst into tears. Tears that came from the centre of my being, where they had been caged up for far, far too long.

  ‘Dear oh dear,’ I heard him murmur. ‘My dear sweet girl.’

  I wanted to stop but I simply could not. Though it must have been agony for him, there on his knees, Simon’s hold didn’t slacken at all.

  ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘It’s about time you let it out.’

  Finally, and it was an age, the onslaught began to dwindle into those hiccoughing sobs that are the coda of any prolonged crying jag. As they eased, I started, bit by bit, to become aware of things around me. Simon’s arms holding me, the sinewy strength in his shoulders as I clung to him, his chin pressed against my temple.

  I sat back and blinked at him. ‘Where’s your beard?’ I blinked at him again. ‘Goodness! When did you suddenly become this handsome?’

  His expression was only mildly affronted. ‘Decent haircut and a shave. Made a bit of a difference, hasn’t it?’

  ‘You’re fifty-three! Why now?’

  He shrugged. ‘Why not? No harm in reinventing yourself at least once in a lifetime.’

  From his pocket, he drew out a handkerchief. ‘Here.’ Gently, he wiped my eyes and held it under my nose. ‘I used to do this when you were little. Go on. Blow.’

  I blew. And wiped and blew again. And looked up to find five people staring at me.

  ‘How long have you all been here?’ I asked.

  They exchanged glances.

  ‘How long d’you think you’ve been on that sofa?’ Michael asked.

  I gazed at him, wide-eyed. ‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘How long?’

  ‘Two and a half days.’

  ‘Two days?’

  Simon, wincing slightly, got up off his knees and plumped down on the sofa next to me. He had on new jeans, a t-shirt and a very fashionable corduroy jacket. His glasses looked new, too. Dolce & Gabbana, I saw written on the side. I didn’t think Simon had ever even had heard of Dolce & Gabbana.

  ‘Did you introduce yourself?’ I asked him.

  He smiled fondly at me. ‘They were hardly going to admit a perfect stranger.’

  I leaned my head against his shoulder. ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’

  Michael harrumphed. ‘There’s gratitude for you. Here’s us keeping a bedside vigil for fucking days and he waltzes in at the eleventh hour and gets all the credit.’

  ‘You told me not to hug you,’ I reminded him.

  ‘Yeah, well,’ he muttered. ‘That was then … ’

  I stretched out a hand. ‘Help me up first.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Pathetic.’

  But he hauled me to my feet, and let me hug him.

  ‘Is this a new shirt?’ My voice was muffled against it.

  ‘Maybe.’

  I stood with my arm around him and, with growing embarrassment, stared at the others. Miss Flaky – I suppose I should now call her Ruth – was next to Claude, who apart from being a little pinched in the face, looked much the same as usual, suit and all. Ruth was shaking her head, smiling. Gabriel Flynn was smiling, too. Well, it was more of a smirk, really. Anselo wasn’t smiling at all.

  I counted two and half days forward from Friday night. ‘God, I’m sorry,’ I said to Anselo. ‘I’ve stopped you from working!’

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘Tyso’s got flu, anyway.’

  He dropped his eyes. ‘I’d better go.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said again. I glanced around the group. ‘I’ve put you all to so much trouble …’

  ‘No trouble,’ said Ruth.

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ objected Gabriel Flynn. ‘I’ve rarely made such an enormous sacrifice!’ He glared at me. ‘Why in the good Lord’s name do you not have cable TV?’

  ‘Can’t afford it.’

  ‘I missed Naked Wild On: Buxom Beauties. It may well have featured one of my very good friends.’

  Anselo was at the door, van keys in his hand. ‘I’ll – um–’ He darted a look my way. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’

  With a start, I remembered that Anselo was probably engaged. But I had no time to find out for sure, because with some speed, he stepped through and shut the door.

  ‘And now that the Young Lochinvar has departed, I, too, should be on my way.’ To my surprise Gabriel Flynn bent and kissed me on the cheek. ‘It is about time I did some work that I’m actually paid for.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I kissed him back. ‘For everything.’

  ‘Ah, to be sure – as unfortunately we do say, and far too often. It was a pleasure. Even more of a pleasure to see you in that racy if now somewhat crumpled dress.’

  Gabriel Flynn winked at me. Then he turned and nodded to the others. ‘Claude. Ruth. Michael. Whatever your name is – the brother.’

  Hands stuck in his pockets, he strolled out, whistling ‘Whisky in the Jar’.

  ‘Well,’ Ruth took a deep breath. ‘I don’t know about you but I could do with a cup of coffee. Who’s with me?’

  ‘I thought you only drank tea?’

  ‘So did I,’ she replied. ‘But right now, I need a bigger boost than I’m going to get from a raspberry fucking zinger.’

  Ruth roped in Michael to help her get the coffees. While they were gone, I showered and changed. And came down to find Simon asleep on the sofa.

  ‘Jet lag,’ I said to Claude, who had seated himself at my table.

  ‘Indeed …’

  That was it from both of us. We sat in silence until Ruth and Michael returned.

  ‘Here.’ Michael handed me a paper bag. Inside was a piping-hot buttery croissant, stuffed with ham and oozing cheese. I’ve never been so glad to see an item of food.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ I said indistinctly. ‘Thank you!’

  Michael glanced over at the sofa. ‘I got one for him, too.’

  ‘I’ll have it!’ I pulled the bag towards me.

  ‘Your body’s a temple, I see,’ he said drily.

  ‘Indeed it is,’ I replied,
licking buttery grease off my fingers. ‘To St Jude. The patron saint of lost causes.’

  Ruth finished her coffee. She gave herself a little shake. ‘Whoa! Rocket fuel!’ Then she said to me, ‘You gonna be OK?’

  I thought about it. ‘Probably.’

  Claude was shifting around as if embarrassed. ‘Darrell, I would like to offer you an apology,’ he began. ‘My behaviour to you has not been all that it should.’

  ‘Yeah, you should never stick your tongue down a woman’s throat without her permission,’ said Ruth. ‘It’s – what’s that Limey stuffed-shirt expression? Damned poor form!’

  ‘Must you be so coarse?’ Claude protested.

  ‘Yeah, Champ, I must. It comes, as you like to say, with the territory.’

  To Michael and I, she added, conversationally, ‘Boy, you’ve gotta say it for years of pent-up sexual frustration.’ She pulled on the string of an imaginary train whistle. ‘Mercy!’

  Michael’s coffee went down the wrong way, and he began to cough violently.

  ‘Ruth, please!’ protested Claude. ‘There is a limit!’

  ‘Oh, don’t get all puffed up.’ Ruth waved a dismissive hand. ‘You love it.’

  ‘I do not–’

  ‘Yeah, you do. You love it even more than when I do that thing with–’

  ‘Jesus!’ Michael had returned from the kitchen, where he’d gone for a glass of water. He thumped back down onto his chair. ‘Give the poor guy a break.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Claude, somewhat stiffly.

  Michael threw Ruth a baleful glance. ‘Not that she’ll listen to me.’

  The two men eyed each other for a moment across the table. Class, breeding and comparative bank balances all went out the window in a brief exchange of male bonding.

  Ruth caught my eye. ‘So you said you met his mother? What’s she like?’

  I blinked, surprised. ‘She’s great,’ I replied. ‘A little short-tempered, but–’

  ‘Wouldn’t you be?’ said Ruth. ‘I mean – the shit she’s had to put up with!’

  ‘Has she?’

  ‘Ruth–’ Claude’s warning was more of a formality; he clearly had no real hope of a result.

  ‘The family myth was that she was the big adulterer,’ Ruth told us. ‘And she did have a lover for years, but he died. Skied into a tree, apparently. Sounds like a bit of a bonehead if you ask me. But as we who sit here today all know, love ain’t picky.’

  Ruth leaned forward. ‘So the two other kids think Mummy was a slut. But she only ever had that one affair. And in fact, it was Daddy who was spreading it around town. Seems like he’d flop his johnson out for anything. Dead goat, you name it–’

  ‘Ruth, if you insist on telling everyone, which clearly you do,’ sighed Claude, ‘I’d appreciate it if you could leave me with at least a scrap of dignity.’

  ‘Sure, yeah,’ Ruth replied. ‘Whatever. So–’ She went on. ‘Daddy the duke was banging anything with a pulse – and he wasn’t always too careful. Let’s just say there were at least a couple of accidents–’

  ‘Oh my God–’ It all fell into place. ‘Marcus and Gus! They really are brother and sister! Jules and I both saw it but only she worked it out!’ I gazed at Claude in astonishment. ‘Your father adopted his own children!’

  Ruth was shaking her head. ‘And all the while pretending to be this earnest politician, dedicated to social good. What a shit-heel.’

  I looked to Claude. ‘But what about–’

  ‘Me?’ He said the word lightly. But his eyes shifted away, towards the window. ‘Well, there’s the question …’

  ‘Claude thinks he’s the odd one out,’ said Ruth. ‘That he’s the result of some other shit-heel’s wayward sperm.’

  ‘So?’ said Michael.

  ‘My reaction exactly!’ Ruth grinned. ‘But apparently with this English class shit, it’s the blood that’s all important. It’s way thicker than adoption-certificate ink. So Claude here feels like a fraud. Claudius Fraudius.’

  ‘And Marcus and Gus have no idea?’ I asked him.

  ‘Not as far as I’m aware,’ Claude replied. ‘But then, they are the ones who are close. They would not necessarily tell me.’

  ‘That must be hard for you,’ I said. ‘Knowing they share a bond that you don’t.’

  ‘Nonetheless,’ he said quietly, ‘I do wish that I liked them better.’

  ‘Don’t feel bad about that, Champ,’ Ruth told him. ‘I don’t like your jerk-off brother one bit. Can’t imagine Gus and I are going to be bosom pals, either. I like the sound of your mother, though. Can’t wait to meet her.’

  I saw Claude give a small shudder.

  ‘Wait wait wait!’ Michael held up his hand. ‘Are you saying you’ve decided you’re not your father’s son because you don’t look like him? And your brothers do?’

  ‘Brother and sister,’ I reminded him. ‘Gus is a girl.’

  Claude bridled. ‘It seems the obvious conclusion.’

  ‘Jesus–’ Michael reached for his wallet, pulled out a photo and slapped it on the table in front of Claude. ‘That’s my ex-wife. That’s my daughter. You tell me who looks like who.’

  Ruth and I craned our heads to see it, too. The photo must have been taken about ten years ago; Lydia looked no more than eighteen. And she looked nothing, absolutely nothing like either Michael or her mother. Michael had brown hair and brown eyes. In the photo, Beth Hogan was a redhead, the gorgeous Pre-Raphaelite kind with grey eyes, luminous skin and not a trace of a freckle. But her daughter’s hair was blonde, and she had hazel-green eyes not unlike Jenico Herne’s. Lydia Hogan could not have looked more unlike her parents if she had tried.

  ‘And before you say a word, she looks exactly like my mother’s mother.’ Michael replaced the photo in his wallet. ‘So there you go …’

  He said to Claude, ‘If I were you, I’d find out for sure, so you can stop moaning and start living. And I’d paint that unspeakable fucking house, too.’

  He saw my face. ‘Don’t say a word.’ Then he aimed a warning finger at Ruth. ‘And don’t you get any ideas, either!’

  ‘Too late,’ she said. ‘Already working on a plan. Gonna reroute the Thames. If it worked for Hercules–’

  Michael sat back in his chair and folded his arms. He had a small, dangerous smile on his face. ‘And what’s your story?’ he asked her.

  ‘Story?’

  He gestured with one hand at her blanket skirt and cardigan. ‘Why d’you dress like that? You get fiddled with as a kiddie? First boyfriend dump you for your mother?’

  ‘What is this?’ Ruth’s lip was curling in disbelief. ‘The Sigmund Freud hour?’

  ‘Don’t much like the tables being turned, do you?’ said Michael triumphantly.

  ‘Stick it back in the holster, Tex,’ she said in her bored drawl. ‘There’s no story. I just got sick and tired of being beautiful.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Sorry?’ Someone had to say it. May as well be me.

  ‘I got tired of being beautiful. It was a fucking burden. I was always expected to look good. Can I tell you how great it is not to have to wax anymore?’ She sat back. ‘And I got sick of men seeing nothing but my tits and ass. I mean I’ve got a degree from Brown, for Christ’s sake! And the intelligent ones were the worst! I’d be at dinner talking about Keynesian microfoundations and they’d have this glazed fucking look as they fixated on my cleavage. I’d wanna snap my fingers in front of their face and yell “Hello? Anyone home?”’ She shook her head. ‘Fuckers …’

  Then she glanced down at her skirt, with a smile that could only be described as affectionate. ‘I saw one of these babies for sale in some crappy hippy store and that’s when I decided. No more beautiful Ruth Harper. I’m going feral.’

  I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing.

  Ruth grinned at me. ‘Look at him,’ she said, nodding at an astonished Michael. ‘You could throw a ball in his mouth and win a prize.’

  ‘You s
till make an effort with the hair, though,’ Michael finally managed to say.

  Ruth screwed up her face. ‘Yeah OK, Tex, I’ll give you that. I came this close to doing a Britney once, but I chickened out.’ She sniffed. ‘I like my hair. So sue me.’

  The phone pealed. We all jumped. I retrieved the handset from the bookshelf.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is that Darrell Kincaid?’

  It was an American voice. A woman. Suddenly, my heart clutched with dread.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hello, Darrell. It’s Chris Peters. I don’t know – did you get my message?’

  ‘I did. I’m sorry. I’ve been – flat out.’

  ‘Oh, no problem. I’m glad I caught you. Listen–’

  She talked for no more than five minutes. I hung up the phone and burst into tears.

  ‘Oh my sweet fucking Lord,’ said Michael. ‘What the hell’s gone wrong now?’

  ‘No–’ I flapped one hand at him, and tried to stem the flow with the other. ‘No, it’s all good. I’m just so relieved.’

  On impulse, I rushed up and gave Michael a fierce, damp hug.

  ‘Ouch! Jesus! What’s that in aid of?’

  ‘Nothing! Everything! I’ve no idea!’

  Over on the sofa, my darling Simon began to snore. I checked my watch. ‘It’ll be eleven o’clock at night,’ I said to Michael. ‘Will that be too late?’

  ‘Too late for what?’

  ‘For you to call,’ I replied. ‘You do know the number, don’t you?’

  ‘I can’t call. It’s far too late. And I don’t mean that in a middle-of-the-night sense, either.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Darrell, I haven’t spoken to her for twenty-one fucking years!’

  ‘Chicken,’ said Ruth.

  He whirled round and brandished a finger. ‘Don’t you start!’

  As soon as he’d turned back to me, Ruth murmured, ‘Bo-ok, bok, bok.’

  Michael’s shoulders sagged. ‘I hate her,’ he said to me. ‘I really fucking hate her …’

  ‘I just tell it like it is, Tex. If you don’t like it, harden up.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Claude finally spoke. ‘Who, er, exactly are we contemplating phoning?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Ruth replied. ‘All I know is he’s being a big chicken about it.’

  ‘It’s his daughter,’ I explained. ‘He hasn’t see her for – well, quite a while.’