The Living

by Léan Cullinan

  ‘Hang on, though,’ put in Val. ‘That doesn’t make any sense. Why would they waste their time investigating Carmina Urbana when they can just use someone like the National Chamber Choir – people who do this kind of gig all the time and already have whatever clearance they need?’

  ‘They could do that,’ said Joan. She looked uncomfortable. ‘But …’

  ‘Oh!’ said Val. ‘It’s the Diane connection, isn’t it?’

  ‘I suspect it is,’ said Joan. ‘What’s the Diane connection?’ asked Mircea.

  Joan lowered her voice and leaned forward, glancing from face to face. ‘It’s not something she advertises, particularly, but Diane is the daughter of Jennifer Mallon, if you remember.’

  I didn’t. Or, wait, a faint memory stirred. A name to bring out when you needed to end an argument – ironclad, irrefutable. Jennifer Mallon: I could hear it in Mum’s voice.

  Beside me, Matthew spoke for the first time, ‘Wasn’t she … shot by a British soldier some time in the early eighties?’ He’d spoken as softly as Joan had.

  Joan nodded.

  Val said, ‘It was one of those totally awful, unnecessary tragedies – I remember hearing about it at school. She was driving her baby daughter to visit her dying husband in hospital – I know, you couldn’t make it up – and she got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Young soldier panicked. Shot her and she crashed the car.’

  Mircea said, ‘Wow. And Diane was her baby?’

  Joan nodded. ‘The father died of cancer a few months later. Diane grew up with her aunt and uncle in Kildare, I think.’

  Val said, ‘So it’s like this big symbolic deal to have Diane’s choir singing at a peace event. I’d say the Brits are super-sensitive about it.’ She looked awkwardly at Matthew.

  ‘So we ought to be, by the sound of it,’ he said.

  There was a silence, broken by Val standing up. ‘Joan, you’ll have another of these lads?’ She offered to take Joan’s empty beer bottle.

  ‘Very much so, my dear,’ said Joan.

  Linda flopped down on to Val’s vacated chair and leaned over to talk to Joan and the others on the bed. Matthew and I remained standing. I could feel the heat of him, his beauty, snaking around me like a fog.

  He turned towards me. ‘Did I read something about your employer in the newspaper?’

  Really, Matthew, you want to talk about work, again? Oh, well, better than nothing. I’d have to be careful not to overstep George’s boundaries this time, though. I said, ‘You mean the MacDevitt thing?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. The Laochra na Saoirse memoir.’

  I couldn’t help smiling.

  He hesitated. ‘What? Did I say that wrong?’

  ‘No, it was lovely,’ I said. ‘You have no idea how completely bizarre it is to hear Irish spoken in an English accent.’

  ‘Well, how do you say it?’

  I channelled my Leaving Cert Irish teacher and delivered the phrase in its full rolling, guttural glory. ‘Actually,’ I confessed, ‘that’s not how I say it. But it’s how a native speaker would say it. More or less.’

  ‘OK, and what did I say?’

  We’d turned now to face each other, standing close enough that if I moved my hand carelessly it would brush his sleeve. ‘It was more … lake-ra na sair-sha.’ I caricatured him, exaggerating his crisp diction.

  He sniffed. ‘Fine, I’ll just refer to them as the Heroes of Freedom, then, shall I?’

  ‘Grand, so,’ I said. ‘But come here, how do you even know about them? I barely do. We didn’t learn about them at school.’

  ‘It’s my field,’ he said simply.

  Val was back with Joan’s beer. ‘What’s your field?’ she asked. ‘History, isn’t it?’

  I put a tiny bit more space between me and Matthew, in case she’d notice.

  ‘That’s right,’ Matthew said. ‘Republicanism, really. Tell me, Val, have you heard of Laochra na Saoirse?’

  ‘Weren’t they one of those People’s Front of Judea-style factions in the seventies?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Val said, ‘Ha. So different from nowadays. We’ve really moved on.’

  They chatted easily about politics, while I struggled against the feeling that they were the grown-ups and I was the child. I had nothing to add to their discussion.

  ‘I’m going to see if anyone’s dancing,’ I said suddenly, and headed back to the sitting room.

  Several people were, to some nineties Britpop thing – bouncing and twisting in the centre of the floor. I joined in for a while, then got myself some water and stood by the window. The lower sash was closed over the tops of several carrier bags containing beer, which had been left outside on the fire escape to keep them cool. Rain had collected in the plastic crevices, working its way in under the sash.

  I danced some more after I finished my water, then stopped to rest again. Somebody put on Lady Gaga, and suddenly the dancers were a bristling throng, all leaping and posing and roaring along with the lyrics. I saw the group from the spare bedroom come streaming in, Val dragging a reluctant Matthew by the hand. They joined in on the outskirts with an improvised Gaga-esque dance, in which their attempts to cast Matthew as the Lady herself fell flat. He was not playing ball.

  As the next song began Joan arrived beside me, puffing. ‘Oh, good lord, I’m too old for this. Time for some sustenance.’ She raised the window and bent over to retrieve another beer from her stash. Matthew emerged from the dancing mass and came towards us, a particle reaching escape velocity.

  ‘You’ve got the right idea, Joan,’ said Matthew, reaching out the window to get a beer of his own. ‘You want one, Cate?’ He was panting slightly, and the whisper of his breath was thrilling.

  ‘No thanks,’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘I’m driving, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Ah, yes, you are, aren’t you?’ said Joan. ‘Now, feel free to say no, but would there be any chance of a lift home when you’re going?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, ‘no problem.’ I checked the time: it was nearly midnight. ‘I’d be thinking of heading off fairly soon, actually – would that be all right?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Joan. She gave me a sympathetic look. ‘It’s not so much fun when everyone’s pissed, is it? I’ll just go and find out if Val wants to come too.’

  Matthew and I went on watching the dancing. I got the impression he was working up to something. ‘Look, um, again, feel free to say no … but is there any chance I could have a lift too?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, my voice sounding squeaky and unprepared. I realized that I didn’t know where he lived (yet), and also that I’d drive him to Shankill or bloody Swords if he asked me to.

  There was a brief pause, while Matthew registered the fact that I hadn’t asked him where he was going before agreeing to take him there – I could see the realization move across his face like a searchlight – and then he said, ‘Thanks. You’re a star,’ and blinked a few times. He took a long swallow from his can, and I watched his throat work as he threw his head back, the skin stretched across his smooth Adam’s apple. I gazed at the point where the flesh curved and disappeared into its cave of dark fabric. My lips would fit that curve beautifully – the thought set off a cluster of sparks from my belly to my knees.

  I said, ‘I’ll just go and see if Joan’s ready.’

  He lifted his drink. ‘Fine, I’ll finish this, then – see you in a minute.’

  I picked my way between the dancers and found Joan in the hall with Tom. She had her coat half on and was still holding her drink. ‘Nearly finished!’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘We have to wait for Matthew.’

  This raised a few eyebrows. Tom let out a noise like a surprised siren. ‘The bould Matthew, no less!’ he said. ‘I’ll drink to that!’ He proceeded to do so, clinking his bottle with a flourish against Joan’s.

  ‘It’s not what you’re thinking,’ I said. ‘He just asked for a lift, that’s all.’

&nb
sp; ‘So your intentions are entirely honourable, young lady,’ said Tom gravely.

  ‘Entirely.’

  I went to the spare bedroom to retrieve my coat. Val was sitting in the low chair again, joint in hand, garlanded in sweet smoke. There were three or four others kneeling on the floor at her feet, like acolytes. I knew none of them.

  When I got back Matthew was just emerging from the sitting room with Donal. Joan hastily drained her bottle. Tom turned to Matthew, and I could see he was on the point of embarking on an innuendo. I seized him for a goodbye hug, which took him off guard a little, bid goodbye to Donal, and hustled Joan and Matthew out the door.

  Outside, the wind blew fine rain into our faces. I led the way round the corner to the car and unlocked it. Matthew and Joan came after me, arm in arm – Joan was the more unsteady on her feet. There was a brief dispute on the kerb about who should have the honour of ceding the front seat, which Matthew lost. Joan climbed into the back.

  I tried not to let my eyes keep flicking to my passenger as I started the engine and pulled out from the kerb. ‘Joan’s first, I presume,’ I said firmly, and nobody argued. We spoke very little on the way there, exchanging sparse comments about the party, the music, Donal and Linda’s flat.

  Joan and Val lived not too far from me, in a small terraced house in Rathgar. I stopped the car outside and kept the engine idling, watching until Joan found her keys. The hall, with its red walls and white woodwork, looked bright and warm. The light rippled through the wavy glass in the door as Joan closed it.

  ‘RIGHT, THEN,’ I said, turning to Matthew. ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Kilmacud,’ he said, ‘but—’ He tipped his head down slightly and pinched the tip of his nose, giving me a sideways look. The streetlight caught on a curl that had dropped down over his temple. ‘But, well, I just thought, rather than make you drive all the way out there, maybe you might have a sofa or something I could sleep on, and then I could get a bus in the morning. Or something.’

  I sat fizzing for a year or so. ‘Yeah, sure,’ I said at last. ‘I have a sofa – you could – that would be great. Fine. OK.’

  I started the engine again and performed an awkward turn between the rows of parked cars that lined Joan’s street. When I’d got us moving again I said, ‘Do you often invite yourself to stay the night with strange women, then?’ I glanced across at Matthew as I stopped the car at the T-junction. His eyes were gleaming.

  ‘Oh, rather,’ he said. ‘The stranger the better. I’m known for it. In fact, this is nothing. Sometimes I accost them in supermarkets.’

  He raised one eyebrow. Our eyes locked, and suddenly I felt as if I’d been touched, hooked. A rope of meaning tautened between us. My mind formed the thought carefully: He wants to kiss me.

  ‘So this is your traditional English reserve.’ I turned on to the main street.

  ‘Exactly. Well spotted.’

  By the time I parked under the ash tree my belly was dancing a tarantella, and hordes of hopped-up spiders were running up and down my limbs. I was nearly sure I was right about Matthew, but nearly is nerve-wracking.

  I let us into the house and held a finger to my mouth for silence as we went upstairs. ‘So. Here we are,’ I said as I opened my door. I stood aside to let Matthew in. ‘One sofa, as advertised,’ I went on. ‘I’ll get you blankets and stuff in a bit.’

  It was odd to see him here. He stood in the middle of my sitting room, leaning on one foot, hands held slightly out from his body and his head tipped forward, as if the ceiling were too low. I afforded myself a long look as I took off my coat, from his dark blue jeans to his curly hair. He loped over to the window, covering the distance in three long strides, and looked out into the street. He stood to one side, looking slantwise.

  ‘Very Victor Laszlo,’ I said, quietly enough so that he didn’t have to hear me if he didn’t want to.

  ‘Very what?’

  ‘You know, Victor Laszlo? Casablanca? That scene in the hotel where he’s looking out the window at the watchers in the street.’ Matthew looked a bit puzzled, but didn’t say anything. ‘I don’t have the Venetian blinds, mind you,’ I continued, then stopped, suddenly self-conscious.

  ‘I’ve never seen Casablanca,’ he said. ‘Is that dreadful?’

  ‘I’m shocked – shocked!’ I said. ‘We’ll have to do something about that. In the meantime, would you like some tea?’ I moved towards the kitchen.

  ‘Tea,’ said Matthew firmly. ‘Yes, please.’

  In the kitchen I watched my hands as they lifted the kettle and grasped the tap. Matthew was at the kitchen door when I turned from the sink, leaning his face against the door jamb, four fingers curled round below, almost to the wall. It was such a tactile pose, it sent further tremors through my system. I took a gulp of air.

  ‘Where’s your bathroom?’ Matthew said. His speaking voice was exquisite, soft and light, like feathers brushing my skin.

  ‘Other door,’ I said, gesturing with my free hand. ‘Through the bedroom. Sorry about the mess.’ I turned back to set the kettle going.

  Having put out mugs and teabags and spoons, I went and arranged myself on the sofa, leaving plenty of room to one side. From the kitchen I could hear the small, deliberate whisper of the kettle as it began its long climb towards boiling point.

  Matthew came back and sat down, right in the middle of the available space.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘have you managed to sneak a peek at that Republican memoir, then?’

  Oh, for fuck’s sake! Everyone, it seemed, wanted to hear all about how central I was to the production of this one bloody book. Dad, Mícheál, and now Matthew. How tragic to be such a disappointment to them. I swallowed my frustration with difficulty. ‘I told you,’ I said. ‘I’m only a serf. George won’t let me near that project.’

  ‘So what does he let you near, then?’

  ‘Well, actually, in fairness, I have started copyediting. I’m working on a set of proceedings from an indescribably glamorous conference about fisheries.’

  ‘Gosh, how magical.’

  I caught his eye, and we looked straight at each other for just a little longer than was strictly necessary.

  ‘This George Sweeney’s a bit of a control freak, then, is he?’

  I allowed myself a disloyal laugh. ‘You’ve met him, have you?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Matthew, and we had another of those looks.

  The kettle switch snapped off just then, sending me springing to make the tea.

  ‘Milk and sugar?’

  ‘Just milk, please.’

  I tried to focus on the task at hand. Pour, stir, squeeze teabags and dump in sink, plop and cloud of milk, deep breath, careful walk back to the sofa. ‘Sir’s tea.’

  ‘Thank you, Madam.’ He smiled as he took his mug, a warm, open smile that bolstered my hopes.

  As I sat down, Matthew said, ‘He’s quite the Irish nationalist himself, though, isn’t he?’

  ‘George? Um … yes, I suppose so.’ Presumably he was, if the allegations in the newspaper had been true. ‘You wouldn’t really know from talking to him. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I was wondering if he’d be worth interviewing for my research.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I said. I did not want to talk about his research. ‘Something about the Republican movement, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Matthew. ‘Basically, I’ve come to answer the Irish Question.’

  ‘Oh?’ I said, feeling more than a hint of annoyance now. ‘And tell me, what is the answer to the Irish Question?’

  ‘Blowed if I know. My supervisor says I’m such a lazy English wastrel I’ll never solve the riddle. But the authorities – by whom I mean Sellar and Yeatman – are fairly clear that every time Gladstone came close to discovering the answer, the Irish secretly changed the Question.’

  I frowned. ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘Sorry – historian joke. Never mind.’ He took a sip of tea. ‘It’s a book.’

  I decid
ed to drop it, and tried to think of some other conversational direction to take. I drew a blank. ‘So, what exactly are you researching?’

  ‘Well, if you really want to know, at the moment I’m looking at the career of a civil servant who was sacked by Harold Wilson in 1976.’ He spoke with exaggerated dullness.

  ‘You make it sound so interesting,’ I said, relaxing a little.

  ‘Don’t I just?’

  I paused, then said deliberately, ‘I could listen to you all night.’

  Once again, we were looking straight at each other. Much more softly, he said, ‘Then I intend to go on talking.’

  But in fact, he fell silent.

  From there, it was a smooth, delicious dance towards the moment when we drifted closer together on the sofa, the moment when we crossed the line and slid into each other’s space, the moment when we got so close that our faces blurred – and then Matthew brought his hand up and rested his fingertips on my cheek as we kissed, gently at first, then more urgently, deep, searching kisses that made my body hum, planted a knot of clean, singing pleasure in my very centre.

  Eventually, I stood up and whispered, ‘Come on.’ Matthew got up too and allowed me to lead him by the hand into the bedroom. I fervently thanked myself for having changed my sheets that week. ‘I’ve decided,’ I said, ‘that it’s far too much trouble to get out the spare blankets for you.’

  ‘Oh really?’ He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ I said. ‘You’ll just have to share my bed with me.’

  There was a moment, a short time later, as I crossed the room to turn off the light, when everything seemed to teeter on an edge. I felt acutely aware of my nakedness, how my pasty body must look under the unkind bulb. With my hand on the switch I looked back towards the bed, to see Matthew propped on one elbow, head held back slightly, face solemn, looking intently at me.

  In that moment I almost made a flippant remark to puncture the atmosphere, but something stopped me. Some niggling idea at the back of my mind that here was a junction, a choice between flippancy and seriousness.

  Without letting go of Matthew’s gaze I turned off the light, then groped my way back to the bed and the eager mysteries of his body.