The Living

by Léan Cullinan

  I HADN’T BEEN OUT with the college gang in weeks. I was nearly afraid I’d have forgotten how to talk to them. I sat on the bus to Dundrum, watching raindrops slant across the misted windows. We rattled through the night, and suddenly I wanted to be home in my bed, curled up under the covers, warm and silent. But I’d told Denise I’d be there.

  I thanked the driver as I got out. He was a black African, but his ‘Have a good night, love’ was pure Dublin. The rain had eased off, and the wind seemed to have died down. It felt almost mild, in that wild October way.

  I’d just have one or two drinks and then go home.

  I reached the pub door, its stained glass panels glowing golden from the light inside. As I pushed it open, sound washed over me, the bubbling noise of a hundred conversations. The air was thick and warm.

  Over at the bar I saw the ever-comely Fenian Mick, a grin on his face and his red curls bouncing. He waved a greeting. ‘Cate, abú! How’re’ya?’ As I reached him he was gathering pints into his big hands.

  ‘Wait a minute and I’ll help you carry those down,’ I said, then turned and miraculously caught the attention of the barwoman. Gin and tonic, I decided, would be the drink of the evening. Just not too many of them.

  ‘So what’s the craic?’ Fenian Mick asked. He nudged me. ‘Come here, Dee says you’ve a new man.’

  ‘God, news travels fast. Yeah, I suppose I have.’

  I paid for my drink and picked up the remainder of Fenian Mick’s order, and we wove our way to the back of the lounge where the others were sitting. Denise was there with John-Paul, and Pat and Elaine and Noreen and Liddy. A ragged cheer went up when they spotted me, followed by a lull as I helped distribute the round of drinks. The conversation picked up speed again, a tumbling parade of in-jokes, puns and one-liners, weaving and circling around a mercurial sequence of topics. I synched easily with it. I might not go to the pub with the gang so often these days, but I was apparently still fluent.

  I was sitting beside Elaine, who after a while asked how I was. I told her about work – again omitting to mention MacDevitt – noticing that I was using the same phrases I’d used on the phone to Denise earlier. It was funny to think of myself, out in the big world, explaining what it was like to someone who hadn’t yet ventured there.

  I noticed Fenian Mick turning to listen to us. When I did my take-off of George he said, ‘Sounds like my dad,’ and I felt as if I’d stepped too close to him. He’d been very kind about the crush I’d had on him in college, though he hadn’t felt the same way. He was one of the good guys.

  I took another sip of my drink. The ice had all but melted, and the remaining liquid was tart and tepid.

  ‘So, who’s this new fella, then, Cate?’ Noreen said, leaning across from Elaine’s other side and tapping me on the forearm.

  As though a light-switch had been flicked, I had an audience. Fenian Mick, Elaine and Noreen were looking straight at me, and the others had noticed too. ‘Matthew?’ I said, and something caught in my throat; I had to stop to clear it. ‘He’s lovely,’ I went on, coming out of the cough, tossing off the verdict before I could hesitate, search for the right words.

  ‘Dee says he’s a Brit,’ Noreen said, a little slurrily.

  ‘Well, yeah, he’s from Bristol.’

  ‘I can’t imagine you going with a Brit,’ said Noreen.

  There was a tiny, howling silence, then Fenian Mick said, ‘Trinity made her soft,’ and they all laughed. ‘And why not, sure, if she wants him?’ A memory swam into focus: Fenian Mick and Noreen having a massive rant about Queen Elizabeth’s visit to Trinity. They’d wanted to organize a protest, but it never came off.

  Fenian Mick slapped the table with the flat of his hand. ‘Now, come on, Cate, give us the low-down. Name, rank, serial number. All that craic.’

  ‘Well, OK, he’s called Matthew, as I said, and he’s a new tenor in Carmina Urbana—’

  ‘Oho! A choirboy? Say no more,’ said Elaine.

  ‘And he’s a postgrad in UCD.’

  ‘Ah, he must be all right, so,’ said Noreen. ‘Matthew what? Would we know him? What’s he doing?’

  ‘Taylor,’ I said. ‘History.’

  ‘Who’s his supervisor?’

  ‘Professor Lawless.’

  ‘Lawless? Are you serious?’ Fenian Mick guffawed. ‘Well, whatever about you, Cate, I can’t see John Lawless getting into bed with a Brit – he’s a total ’RA-head. God, I’d love to be a fly on the wall at those meetings.’

  ‘He’s not writing on Republicanism, though, is he?’ Elaine asked.

  I hesitated. I knew how it would sound to them – how unlikely they’d be to accept the notion that a Brit could have anything useful to contribute on the topic.

  ‘You should’ve brought him along tonight,’ said Noreen, ‘so we could all have a gawk at him.’

  ‘Check him out, you mean?’ I felt uncomfortable now at the thought of what they’d all make of Matthew. Or he of them, come to that.

  ‘Ah, no, you know what I mean,’ Noreen said.

  ‘I didn’t think of asking him,’ I said. ‘We’re not really at that stage yet.’ I could feel myself closing in, a flower in the dark.

  ‘Well, how long have you been seeing him?’ Noreen wasn’t letting it go.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘A few weeks, just.’ It was exactly five weeks tonight, I was well aware. Noreen made a dubious face, took another swig of her pint.

  I said, ‘I think he’d be a bit overwhelmed if I just brought him here and plonked him down in the middle of you lot, all at once.’

  ‘Ah, that’s shite,’ said Noreen. She looked away, her lip curled in disgust.

  ‘Look,’ said Denise, ‘the man’s entitled to be a bit scared of meeting a bunch of hooligans like us.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But he has to be willing to meet your friends,’ Noreen insisted.

  ‘There’s time for that,’ said Denise. ‘The key questions for the moment are: is he straight, does he wash, does he ring when he says he will?’

  ‘All of the above, as far as I can tell,’ I said, regaining my poise to some extent.

  ‘Well, that’s a good start,’ said Denise.

  ‘Going on past form, you mean?’ I caught her eye, and we giggled. The messy darkness seemed to recede a little.

  ‘Who’s for more drink?’ asked Fenian Mick, rising. I handed him the money for another G&T.

  Four drinks later, I stood on the footpath opposite the pub, shivering, hugging my coat around me. The rain was at bay, although the surface of the street gleamed with wetness like a beach after a wave.

  I was none too steady: the world heaved and flickered unless I kept a close eye on it. John-Paul had said I’d easily pick up a taxi on the road. The others were staying put until they were thrown out, then probably walking back to Denise’s with a carry-out. I didn’t regret not joining them. I was ready for my bed. As I’d got drunker I’d felt less and less part of the evening, more exposed, eroded.

  I watched a car pull out of the pub car park and pause at the kerb, though there was no other car moving on the street that I could see. It rolled slowly out on to the road and lumbered along a little way to stop outside a late-night shop. I turned my head just in time to hail a taxi that was speeding to catch the lights.

  The driver was young, distracted, listening to dance music. ‘Do you mind?’ he asked, gesturing towards the radio, and I told him he was grand, no problem. We didn’t converse as we waited at the traffic lights. The driver whistled through his teeth, accompanying the repetitive riff of the music.

  As we began to move again I looked out the window at the car sitting outside the brightly lit shop. I had a wild suspicion about it. The car had its head- and tail-lights on, and a man sat in the driver’s seat, smoking. As we passed I caught the glint from his glasses. I snatched a look at the licence plate: 52845. I’d been right.

  We drove on. I shifted in my seat so I could just se
e a bit of the road behind us in the wing mirror. There was a vehicle behind us now, all right, but the power of its headlights meant that there was no chance of glimpsing the number. It looked like the same car. Maybe I should tell the driver that I thought this car was following me, ask his advice. Maybe he’d turn out to be an expert at losing a following vehicle, weaving and turning, steering wheel wrenched from side to side and tyres squealing, the dance music turned up high for a soundtrack.

  He’d think I was mad.

  It had started to rain again.

  I let the taxi go at the end of my road. I looked round as it drove off, but saw no dark car pulling up nearby. I hugged my coat around me and started to walk down the narrow cul-de-sac.

  The car was sitting outside my house with its headlights on. My heart jumped, and for a second I thought I might throw up. I had to keep walking. To hesitate would be to suggest that I was somehow in the wrong. ‘It’s just routine,’ I said aloud, and heard the distortion of alcohol in my voice. ‘Oh, god, I am too drunk for this,’ I whispered.

  The pavement was like a tightrope. I looked down at my feet in their runners, left, right, left, right, watched as drops of rain fell on the fabric and were absorbed. The car was motionless, dazzling. I’d need to go awfully close to it to get to my front door. Point-blank range.

  I couldn’t think of any reason why they’d want to shoot me, but once I’d had the idea, it was hard to shake. My jaw clenched, and tears began to come. I looked down at my feet again: they were still moving.

  No friendly light in any of the windows of my house. Aidan and Sheila were on their way to China. As I got nearer I readied my key. I was picturing the car door opening, a big man surging out, grappling me as I tried to reach home. I’d scream, I thought. I’d scream loud enough to bring the neighbours out into the street. I’d break his silver-rimmed glasses.

  I was there. My key slid into the lock, and I looked round, hardly believing that nobody had tried to stop me. The car had slid back a length and was indicating to move off. I couldn’t see who was inside. As I watched, the headlights flashed one painful throb into my eyes, and the car rolled smoothly away.

  I let myself into the house, closed the door and sank to the floor of the hall.

  I SAID NOTHING TO anyone about the car outside my house. I woke up on Sunday, indeed, feeling certain that I’d blown the whole thing out of proportion – it was all in my head, my cruelly thudding head.

  Rehearsal the following Thursday was frustrating. Having dispatched our better-known pieces, we honked and squeaked our way through A Song of Ireland, completely failing to get a sense of the overall shape of it. The basses dragged; the sopranos struggled with tuning. We slogged through the pompous finale, then Diane, who had kept her cool with evident difficulty for much of the evening, said, ‘All right, I don’t think we’ll get anything more useful done tonight. Let’s go to the pub.’

  I’d barely spoken to Matthew since our parting after the film on Friday. No chatty little text messages, no bridge of understanding. Lying in bed alone one night I’d cooked up a joyless little drama, wherein he, tiring of my company, was looking for excuses to back out. We had nothing in common; he was cleverer than me, more attractive. I wasn’t what he wanted. Maybe he even had a girlfriend back in England. Such things were not unheard of.

  When he fell into step beside me as we walked out into the street, I was surprised. He left some space between us, and I felt the distance like a canyon with a wintry wind sweeping down it. I turned to look at him, saying nothing. The others all seemed to have gone ahead.

  As we neared the corner, Matthew caught at my sleeve and pulled me towards the railings. We stopped and kissed fiercely, at first touching only with our lips, but then relenting, holding, hugging, warming each other.

  Matthew said into my ear, ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been … I’ve been stupidly busy.’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  He stroked my hair, and I drew back to look at him. ‘We’re like a pair of illicit lovers,’ I said.

  He shrugged. ‘Well …’

  ‘Do you mind the others knowing?’

  ‘I thought you might,’ he said, the dimple on his right cheek deep with a half-smile. I didn’t believe him.

  I said, ‘I think it’s sort of inevitable, unless we’re a lot more …’

  ‘Careful—’ said Matthew.

  ‘Secretive,’ I said.

  We did some more kissing.

  ‘I don’t have a problem with them knowing,’ I said, savouring the bright new knowledge that there really was something for them to know about.

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Matthew. ‘But I don’t want to make a thing of it, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘What about …’ I paused, ‘public displays …?’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Matthew, kissing my forehead in a thoughtful way. ‘I don’t really want to be too blatant about it. Not yet.’ He drew back and looked at me, eyes serious. ‘Is that all right?’

  ‘That’s fine,’ I said. ‘Sort of an open secret, then?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Right you are.’

  ‘Story of my life,’ he murmured as we turned to walk on towards the pub.

  Inside, the others were settling themselves round a cluster of tables, piling coats in a corner, declaring their orders to the ones who were going up to the bar. I made for a table where Joan and Tom were just sitting down. Matthew tapped me on the shoulder and asked what I wanted.

  ‘Pint of Guinness, thanks.’ I sat down to face the other two, who eyed me with mischievous interrogation.

  ‘Well, look who has a new friend,’ said Joan.

  ‘What?’ I said, trying desperately not to blush.

  ‘That was a tap on the shoulder, if I’m not much mistaken,’ said Tom.

  ‘Indeed it was,’ said Joan.

  ‘Proprietorial, one might almost say,’ said Tom.

  ‘Rubbish,’ I said, unable to keep my wide grin in check. I busied myself with taking off my coat and stashing my bag under the table.

  ‘Have it your way,’ said Joan, disdainful.

  Matthew returned with pints for the two of us, just as Val and Anja the Austrian soprano joined our table. They were deep in a debate of some kind.

  I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what annoyed me about Anja. She was the picture of perky zeal. You could imagine her practising her English syntax, memorizing lists of idioms. ‘But that is exactly what I say,’ she insisted as she and Val sat down. She appealed to the table at large. ‘If you are going into public life or you are becoming a celebrity, you must give up your right to privacy. People are going to look up to you for your leadership, and they have the right to know what sort of person you are.’

  ‘But no, that’s nonsense,’ said Val. ‘You can’t just make a blanket rule like that.’

  ‘They have a right to know about anything that might affect your ability to do your job,’ Tom said. ‘Apart from that, it doesn’t matter what you’re like in private.’

  ‘But what if you are a criminal?’ Anja seemed really incensed.

  ‘Well, that’s what Tom is saying,’ said Joan. ‘If you’re a criminal, that would affect your job. And if the public had any sense, they wouldn’t vote the crooks back into office.’

  Val said, ‘And celebrities don’t have any power anyway, so who cares what they do?’

  ‘They have no political power, maybe,’ said Anja. ‘But they certainly can have influence on people’s behaviour.’

  ‘I don’t think they can, really,’ Matthew said mildly. ‘I think they sometimes give people an excuse—’

  ‘Oh, we’re talking round in circles here,’ said Val, setting her glass on the table with a slight thump. ‘The bottom line is, you can’t enjoy a life lived under scrutiny the whole time. Nobody has a right to follow you around and spy on you. As long as you’re doing no harm, you have a right to your secrets.’

  I looked over at Matthew and saw his mouth twitch minutely.
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br />   ‘But how can anybody tell if you are doing harm or not until they found out more about you?’ Anja persisted. ‘I think people really want to know who they are dealing with. It matters to them.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter to me,’ Val said, causing Anja to let out an exasperated sigh. I recalled Val’s outrage at her contact details being sent to Belfast. She was playing devil’s advocate.

  Matthew took out his phone and frowned at the screen, then began to text.

  Anja said, ‘No, but obviously it matters to lots of people, or the media that report it wouldn’t survive.’ She took another drink. ‘Anyway, it’s entertainment. What is wrong with that?’

  Tom said, ‘Most of it is engineered by the PR people, anyway.’

  ‘Yes, exactly – they like it,’ said Anja happily, and downed the rest of her drink.

  I turned to see Matthew bending to pick up his coat – cursed my weakness when the sight sent a bolt of adrenalin through me. Fear is not the appropriate response here, I told myself. Matthew stood up, unfolding himself smoothly from the low bar stool. I wanted to lay hold of him and drag him home to bed.

  ‘You off, Matthew?’ Joan said.

  ‘Yeah, sorry,’ said Matthew. ‘I’ve got to go and meet somebody.’

  ‘See you soon, then,’ I managed to say. He waved to the crowd of them, and was gone.

  I looked back down, hoping nobody would speak to me for a minute or two. Matthew had left without finishing his pint.

  Two hours later I was well on my way. I was in a fine mood – thoughts of Matthew’s departure had receded to a manageable distance, and I was successfully ignoring the fact that I’d have to get up for work in the morning.

  I was having a heart-to-heart with Val. I barely knew Val: quiet and difficult-looking, with her dark spiky hair, her nose-ring and her blood-red fingernails. She finished rolling a cigarette, took another sip of her pint.

  ‘I take it you don’t smoke?’ She turned the bag of tobacco towards me.

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t. I was only testing you. I’d be a soprano only for these, I swear.’

  ‘Jaysus, keep smoking,’ I said, and we roared laughing.