The Middle Place

by Kealan Ryan

  It’s cool looking at the wives watching the husbands. No matter how bald they are, no matter how white their legs are or how fat their guts – the wives watching them run into the sea look as proud as if they were watching David Hasselhoff in his prime hurdling the waves. Honestly, I doubt Hasselhoff would be able for it. Freezing. We used to go down in woolly hats and gloves – I can’t imagine how it must feel when the water hits your nuts for the first time. It’s tradition that my mam would have everyone back to the gaff afterwards for mulled wine. We’d all come in shivering, but I swear to God the people who didn’t hop in the water needed heating the most. My dad always seemed grand.

  He wasn’t going to do it this year, but I’m glad my mam con­vinced him to.

  His flip-flops are the last thing he takes off and as soon as they are, he runs like hell over the sharp pebbles with me running right beside him. The two of us reach the water and it’s the first time I ever notice my dad flinch. Not a whole lot, his shoulders just tighten slightly on his second leap. He probably does it every year, but I was too far away or cold to notice. I am right beside him this time. Martin, his mate, is just in front of us and my dad wants to catch up and dive under before him. The splashes from Martin strike him square in the face and for the first time since my death I can see that my dad is happy. He has smiled and stuff in the past few months, but not once have I seen this grin. This grin is different: curled up slightly to one side and gritting his teeth with excitement.

  Martin stubs his toe on one of the underwater rocks so starts the worst-looking dive I’ve ever seen. It almost appears like he’s dancing. If a wave hits it won’t look so bad – they usually dive into a wave – but, unfortunately for Martin, he plunges when the water is shallow and calm.

  This gives my dad his chance to skip past and hurl himself into a foaming wave with me right behind him. His smile is in overdrive as he holds his breath – everything seems as though it is in slow motion. He can feel each tiny drop of icy water touch down on his neck, run along his back until he is totally submerged. The cold feels good, invigorating. Immersed, he shuts his eyes as the salty water closes in around his mouth and ears, but he doesn’t want to come up just yet. Holding on to his breath a little longer, he skims his chest off the seabed – the same little ritual he does each year. I stay with him. He’s still strong and handsome, especially for a guy in his sixties, and looks the image of an older Val Kilmer, although I suppose Val Kilmer must be pretty old by now too. The water is dark and murky, but I can see him perfectly – making a face like he’s blowing into a trumpet.

  In a way I wish I could stay down here forever with him – only a few feet underwater but a million miles away from all his troubles. For a second he just drifts along – enjoying the sounds of the ocean and the distant muffling of people shouting and splashing. Everything is so peaceful for these few seconds. He slowly starts rising till his head feels the wind whip past it, but before any more of himself hits air he takes a deep breath and dives in again. My mam goes to wave at him but he is back underwater before she has raised an arm.

  When he comes back up the second time, Martin is standing beside him, spitting and blowing snot out his nose. The Baltic weather doesn’t seem to bother him, just the fact that too much saltwater has gone into his gob. ‘That’s it, Marty, get it out – just try not to get too much more on me like a good man.’

  Martin can barely speak he is coughing so much. ‘Feckin, ugh – swallowed the water the wrong way.’

  ‘The wrong way? Jesus, Marty, you’re not supposed to drink the stuff – people piss in it, you know.’

  ‘Ugh – don’t say that. Jesus, I took a mouthful there.’ Martin’s eyes are watering up so much it looks like he is crying. My dad, on the other hand, looks like he is having a ball.

  ‘Jesus, Marty, pull yourself together – your wife’s watching, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Piss off, Frank.’

  ‘Well you don’t want her to see you crying, do you?’

  Martin starts smiling, ‘Piss off will you.’

  ‘Here, let me help you.’

  Before Martin has a chance to say piss off a third time, my dad is on top of him pushing him back under the water. Too weak from all the coughing to fight him off, he gives up almost straight away. He shouldn’t scream though, that’s his biggest mistake – mouth wide open once again to take in another fresh batch of piss-filled saltwater.

  The women laugh their asses off at Martin’s face when he comes back up. None more so than his own wife. He looks around to give my dad a thump, but he’s disappeared like a flash, smiling away to himself as he heads out to sea. He swims out further this year than he ever has before. Usually they just kind of swim about in a circle for a few minutes, then head back. It’s not so much swimming but splashing about and sticking your head underwater – this year though my dad is going for a proper swim, so much so that my mam starts to get a little anxious about how far out he is. He just keeps swimming straight, swimming so hard the water isn’t even cold anymore. My dad has always been a strong swimmer, so this is the first time I can keep up with him. It’s great, the two of us cutting through the water as if we are racing for gold in the Olympics.

  Eventually my dad stops – he is getting tired and the shore is a fair distance away. He can’t even hear the voices of the people on the beach anymore, just his own heavy panting. It’s funny, but this is around the spot where I sometimes come at night – when I’m not in Danny’s or down in the woods, I like to drift out to sea and look back at the shore.

  Treading water, he tries to decipher which figure on the beach is my mam. When he can’t spot her he half thinks of swimming further out still, but instead allows himself to lay back and float here for a while, looking up at the cold, grey sky. He closes his eyes as his breathing becomes more regular – the sweat from all his exercise washes away and goosebumps begin to rise on his arms and chest.

  Small drops of rain begin to fall and lightly sprinkle his face. I can see right up to the cloud where the first drop originated and know there are plenty more where that came from. I think my dad knows too – he starts smiling seconds before the bucketload comes down; he always loves swimming in the rain. He takes one more look to the shore and spots my mam – knows it’s her by the way she is standing. Knows she’ll be waiting for him and won’t be able to stop herself from worrying. Time to go back so. He puts his head down and swims even harder than he did on the way out and doesn’t stop until being welcomed with a warm towel underneath my mam’s umbrella.

  21

  Orla wakes up on the same couch I had woken up on countless times before. At first she doesn’t know where the hell she is, but after a second of focusing in on the fireplace and the pictures on the walls she gets her bearings. A horrible noise woke her. When she raises her head she notices Robbie pressing the buttons on a toy telephone. I always hated that thing. All those noisy toys used to drive me crazy. I always said I’d never have them in the house when I had kids, but the problem is that other people buy all that shit for him. I always figured he’d be as happy building bricks or bouncing a ball as he would be pushing a head-wrecking button or playing with so-called learning toys that make the noise of a cow mooing.

  The great thing here is that it was actually Orla who got him that particular toy. The face on her is priceless. Groggy head, messy hair, dry lips and last night’s caked-in make-up are making her feel even worse than she looks.

  ‘Robbie, honey, turn that off; you’re waking Orla,’ Pam says.

  ‘No, it’s okay. I’m awake,’ she says, stirring.

  ‘Oh sorry, Orla, I hate that damn thing.’

  ‘Hey! I got that for him.’

  ‘Oh really?’ Pam laughs. ‘In that case, Robbie, keep playing with it.’

  ‘Oh fack off,’ Orla says, then shoots her hand to her mouth for swearing in front of the boy.

  Rising up
on her elbows she takes another look around the room. Christ, it’s not too bad; she figured it should be a total pigsty after the night. Even though it had just been the pair of them they sure managed to raise the roof – brought in the new year in style. Orla had even sourced a bit of weed off her brother. Pam hadn’t smoked any in ages, but she loved it last night. The party had everything except for people. Wine, vodka, weed, singing, dancing – basically trashing the place and going wild.

  ‘Jesus, did you clean all that mess up?’

  ‘Sure did, sleepy head – or is it fake sleeper?’

  ‘No, I swear, I was asleep.’

  ‘I know you were; I’m only messing. Sure you couldn’t fake that snoring.’

  Orla’s cheeks blaze. ‘God, I wasn’t, was I?’ Pam starts laughing at her. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Half eleven.’

  ‘Agh, what time are you up since?’

  ‘I’m up with Master over there since about eight.’

  ‘Wow. You’re some woman. You’re not cleaning since then, are you?’

  ‘Not at all, I was pure mush the first couple of hours. The mess wasn’t actually that bad once I got started.’ The buzz buzz off Robbie’s phone makes Orla wince and sit up completely. He presses it again and Orla gives the little man a dirty look that neither he nor Pam notice. Buzz buzz.

  ‘Christ, I see what you mean about that thing.’

  ‘Robbie, honey, stop playing with that. Poor Orla is not feeling too good.’

  ‘Yes, Rob – Orla must be coming down with something.’

  Robbie looks up at Orla and then presses the button again. Buzz buzz.

  ‘Oh Christ.’ The two of them start laughing.

  ‘Here, do you want a cup of tea?’ Pam offers.

  ‘Love one.’

  Orla follows Pam into the kitchen. She doesn’t look too sure-footed when she first stands up, but with each step seems a little steadier. Looking at herself in the small mirror above the landline gives her a shock. ‘Oh God. I look like Medusa.’

  The pair of them sit down at the table with their mugs of tea. Orla has a pint of water and two fig rolls before the kettle is even boiled. Her stomach is in knots, but she’s one of those people who don’t like to admit to getting hangovers. Pam’s biting her lip, trying not to laugh. She hasn’t seen Orla this bad in a while.

  ‘How’s the head?’

  ‘Fine, yeah,’ Orla says as she holds her forehead and looks outside at the frosty day. ‘It was some night, though, God almighty.’

  ‘It sure was.’

  ‘Are we party girls or what?’ Orla says, then her expression turns more reflective. ‘It was just what we needed. You have to let loose once in a while or else what’s the point?’

  ‘You’re telling me.’

  ‘You needed that. To get drunk and have a good cry.’

  Pam smiles. ‘I sure did – well the drunk part, anyway. Thanks again for coming over.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have missed it. Besides any other party wouldn’t be the same without Pammy at it.’

  ‘Well that’s true.’

  Pam looks happy. She has the type of hangover where, even though you feel sick, you don’t mind because the night was so good and you’re hanging out with someone who’s in the same boat as you. ‘Do you want to watch a movie or something?’ she asks, eager to keep things going.

  ‘No, I better be heading off.’

  ‘Stick around, sure – we’ll have a fry-up.’

  ‘Ooh, tempting. And it does look particularly Arctic out there.’

  Arctic. Who says that?

  Pam nods, her hands wrapped around the mug, drawing in its warmth. ‘Sure does. You know Chris’s dad went swimming in that this morning.’

  ‘Tell me you’re kidding.’

  ‘He does it every year.’

  Orla looks a little sicker at the very thought of it.

  ‘I was just on to Chris’s mam, Kate, there,’ Pam continues. ‘She said he did great. Swam miles out, the rain didn’t bother him a bit.’ Pam cracks another one of her smiles. ‘It must have been freezing.’

  ‘Well, I really admire that,’ Orla says. ‘Throwing caution to the wind and saying what the hell?’ She still annoys the hell out of me, but I have to say I am warming to her more since I died. ‘I’m a bit like that in business, and you can tell the rest of the staff appreciates it.’

  Strike that.

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Oh sure – you have to take chances in this life, sweetheart, otherwise why get out of bed?’

  She works in a post office.

  ‘I get out for this little fella.’ Pam picks up Robbie and tickles his belly. ‘Don’t I, Mister Early Bird.’ Robbie giggles. God almighty, I love that sound. It’s about the only thing I loved in life that doesn’t cause me pain in death. It just sounds that sweet.

  ‘That’s right, and that’s the biggest chance of all – raising a son.’

  I don’t even know what she means by that.

  ‘Stay for a movie,’ Pam persists. ‘We’ll hang out.’

  She ends up staying for the fry, alright, but hightails it after that. It doesn’t do her any favours – the grease off the rashers disagrees with her and she knows she’ll have to spend the rest of the afternoon with her head down the toilet. I wish she hadn’t headed off so soon. Pam looks sadder now that she’s left. Not mad miserable or anything – it’s just the happy glow she had when she woke up is gone.

  Robbie is annoying her a bit too, saying repetitive stuff the whole time. ‘Da ba’, referring to the next-door neighbours’ dog barking. ‘Yes, sweetie, the dog is barking,’ Pam responds patiently.

  ‘Wha da?’ – where is the dog.

  ‘He’s outside,’ Pam tells him.

  Robbie sits on this information a while and then says, ‘Da ba.’

  I find it cute as all hell, but Pam is in no mood. ‘Robbie, darling, play with your car,’ she says, handing him the red race-car that Pam’s mam got him for Christmas. That only occupies him for a few minutes, until he breaks off one of the wheels. Now he keeps repeating over and over again, ‘Ca boken … ca boken.’

  Poor Pam’s head is wrecked.

  I allow myself to drift off for a while out into the rain. It’s a miserable day for a New Year’s, but I feel pretty good. Usually when I try and feel the world around me I get a bad vibe. But today is different. Maybe it has to do with everyone celebrating or maybe because this time of year is a family time – either way the horrible depression that has been with me since I died has lessened. I don’t exactly feel good, but I don’t feel all that bad either.

  22

  Sure enough, as expected, it’s those who avoided the water who are trying to heat themselves up back in my parents’ house. Most of the swimmers are fine. My mam has a bunch of finger food out: chicken goujons, cocktail sausages, sausage rolls. She always puts on such a great spread. Her dad had been this amazing woodturner and a few years back he made her a beautiful big bowl out of bog oak. It’s perfect for her mulled wine and she takes it out each year after the swim for that reason. Everyone always oohs and aahs over it as they ladle out the wine and get slowly pissed.

  My mam is in her element serving all the grub and keeping herself busy. Dad is more subdued; he has said little since leaving the beach. Marty starts slagging him about swimming halfway to England, saying that he had swum that far out because he was afraid of what Marty would do to him in response to being dunked. My dad just laughs and takes another sip of his Heineken. Ordinarily he would take the piss back, but today he just seems happy to sit there smiling.

  ‘Who the hell were you trying to impress anyway, swimming all the way out there?’ Marty presses.

  ‘No one, Marty. I was just going to the toilet.’

  ‘Haha, good man.’

  They all s
eem to be having a lovely day. Most are hungover from the night before but, in the same vein as Pam, they all feel as if it adds to the whole thing, everyone buzzing off the fact that they are all wrecked.

  I used to like hangovers. Not when you had to go into work or anything – then I’d hate them – but I used to love hangovers when you had nothing to do. Like a day spent lying in bed with Pam, watching a movie or something; just the two of us arsing about the place, a bit of alcohol still in our system, not yet fully sober. Chatting and laughing about the night before, guzzling back the water and trying to decide whether to eat French toast or have a fry-up. I’d always get a giddy feeling in my belly on those mornings – knowing that I just had a deadly night. Even after Robbie was born and hangovers became less frequent, I still didn’t mind them. A headache was no match for the sight of his two outstretched arms as he asked to be picked up.

  Ah well, no more piss-ups or hangovers for me. Danny, the prick, took care of that.

  Speaking of which. Sleeping beauty – get up, you lazy shit, it’s fucking five o’clock. Jesus, I’m all on for sleeping in late but this is ridiculous – it’s not like he had a super late night or anything. How the hell does Michelle stand him? Drooling on himself and snoring, fucking pig. He looks like your man Brutus out of Popeye. A bit of consolation – for me, at least – is that he had a crappy night last night. That pub they always go to is shit. It looks like something out of The Commitments – no windows, stained brown carpet, shit wallpaper, the jacks stink, or at least they look like they should stink – mad slippy floor. People pissing wherever the hell they damn well please and nobody cleaning it up. Why pick this place as your local?

  Just after midnight Danny went into those manky jacks. There was no one in the toilets – everyone was on the dance floor hugging each other, so Danny had his pick of cubicle. He always goes for the cubicle whether it’s a number two or not. He never goes in the urinal, even if the cubicle stinks of stranger dump and he has to wait to get in there. It’s weird. He’s afraid of getting splash-back off either himself or someone else. It happened to him once, years ago, when he went for a piss wearing shorts and felt nothing but little sprinkles ricocheting off the urinal and hitting his shins. He was getting it from all angles because it was one of those wall urinals instead of a bowl. But Christ, not to use them ever again is a bit much. Besides, he was wearing jeans this time.