The French girl’s red-rimmed eyes suddenly seemed to make sense. She still said nothing, just looked embarrassed.
“Oh, that’s awful,” I said. I felt I shouldn’t say more, but my curiosity got the better of me. “How much is an abortion?”
The American glared at me. Chris, with some humor in her voice, said they cost about three hundred pounds. I had thought so, and nodded sagely to myself.
I had wanted to impress Chris with my worldliness, I realized, and although the American continued to regard me with disfavor, Chris and I seemed on the same wavelength somehow. In the face of the French girl’s lethargy and despair, Chris chatted on gaily about her impressions of the Irish, and I laughed at her wit and sarcasms. She had a self-sufficiency that astonished me. She was a feminist, also, I thought, and maybe even ... But nothing she said betrayed her one way or the other. She did not seem to have or need a lover. How refreshing, I thought. She told a story about being pestered by men while in Italy which astonished me, for her hostility and righteous anger toward her harassers was more than any Irish woman would ever admit to or even, perhaps, feel. “So finally this guy comes up behind me and lifts up my skirt and I turn around and scream at him. I just completely lost it,” she said, her eyes sparkling.
“And what happened?” I asked, smiling.
“He slunk away,” she laughed.
I giggled too. It was fun to think of her having that power, and right somehow that she should.
* * *
We sat together on the train down to London. By this time we had all stopped talking. The French girl was sleeping and the American sat by her protectively. I read my book, Chris read her magazine, eating an apple and now and then saying something to me. It was damp and overcast outside. The train was packed, dimly lit and smoky, but it was British Rail and it was headed for London and I didn’t care. Chris went out at some point and bought me back a can of cider, which I drank gratefully. I wanted to ask questions about her life in Australia, but somehow it seemed pointless, and I was too shy.
Finally, stiff and sore, we emerged from the train to a warm London evening.
I stood with my bags on the platform of Euston Station. Chris and the others were headed for the Tube. I was going to get a taxi. The others pulled away, the American barely nodding to me, the French girl still with her face averted, pale and listless.
Chris looked at me directly. She grinned. Then she held out her hand.
“Good luck, mate,” she said.
I clasped her hand. As she turned to go I felt a pang. I watched them as they moved off. She was sauntering, with her long legs, the other two hurrying to keep up. I was trembling slightly, for her words had thrilled me. Good luck, mate. I had sensed some real bond between us, some affinity, and I knew then that she must have felt it too. God, if only I could be like her, I thought. So confident. And to say that to another woman! She had said it warmly, like a man would to an acquaintance that he wished well. As I left the station I felt a little less chilled. It could be the cider, I thought.
* * *
London taxis were enormous black vehicles. I sat in the back feeling very small. There was a thick sheet of glass between me and the back of the driver’s head. I began worrying about whether I should give him a tip or not, and if so, how much. It was rush hour traffic and we moved ponderously through the streets. I found myself wishing that I had taken the Tube with Chris and her friends; they would have given me directions and it might have been shorter in the end. I had had to ring Stevie at work to tell him what day I was coming, and it had been a very brisk conversation. Was he even going to be there? Of course he would be, I thought, but I fretted that I was about an hour later than I said I would be, and maybe he would have gone out. I was dreading meeting this guy Paul, wishing that Stevie had not given him a place to stay. It was going to make things so much more unpleasant, I brooded. How on earth will Ron deal with him being there? I didn’t really understand the setup.
“Here we are now,” the taxi driver said, opening up the little window between us. “That’ll be seven pounds and thirty pence.”
It seemed a fortune. I managed to find a fiver and three pound coins and he gave me back 70 pence. There was a moment of hesitation between us. He got out, opened up the back of the taxi and handed me my bags without saying a word. As he drove off I realized my face was flushing. Oh God, I should have tipped him, I thought. But at least he didn’t make a scene.
Rather shakily I dragged my bags up the front path of an old grey house. Number 12 Chatham Terrace, Kilburn looked as if it had seen better days, but the garden was nice, with a few little rosebushes in bloom. The neighborhood seemed busy enough, rather dingy though. I looked around for a moment and then read the name tags on the door of the basement flat. None seemed familiar. I began sweating, wondering if I had got the wrong address. I hauled my bags up the front steps. There was no name on the front door. Fuck, I thought, this couldn’t be right.
I knocked on the door. I couldn’t hear anything. I peered through the letter slot, but it was an enclosed box and I couldn’t even see the hall. I sat down on the front steps and put my head in my hands. Just at that moment, it started to rain—a light, almost refreshing sprinkle. It reminded me of Dublin and I swallowed hard.
Someone came running up the front steps. For a second I thought it was Ron, and stiffened. He was a slim, pale-skinned fellow of medium height with short brown hair, light brown eyes. He was carrying a large plastic sack. For a moment he stopped, startled, and I stared at him blankly.
“Are you Cathy? Hi,” he said, just as I blurted out, “I’m sorry, I think I’ve got the wrong address.”
His eyes were kind. “I’m Paul. Sorry to keep you waiting in the rain. I had to run out to the launderette.”
“Isn’t Stevie...?” I began, rather pleadingly, and he shook his head. “Nah, he had to go to Heathrow to meet Ron.”
“Oh, so you haven’t seen Ron yet.” This pleased me for some reason. I was glad I had got there first.
Paul opened the door and picked up one of my bags. He did this gracefully and unobtrusively, so that by the time I stood up my bags were both in the hall. I wandered in, hesitating a bit. It was very dim in the hall, and the house had an aura of faded Victorian elegance.
“God, I’ve never lived in this old a house,” I said, looking around.
“Well, I certainly haven’t!” Paul said. He seemed privately amused by something, maybe my accent. “The kitchen’s this way,” he added over his shoulder.
In the kitchen I sat as Paul put on the kettle and began making tea.
“Oh, you’ve the Irish habit,” I said at last. I gestured towards the teapot.
“Me mum’s Irish.” He was silent for a bit, sitting at the table now across from me, running his fingers through his hair. We’re both nervous, I thought, and this reassured me. At last Paul said, “So what’s Ron like?”
“Well ... you’re not asking the right person,” I began. I looked down at the table, twisting my hands together. “He’s not a friend of mine or anything. I don’t really—we don’t get on that well. He’s OK. He doesn’t like me much.”
When I looked up I saw Paul looking at me. “You know, you’re not what I expected,” he said suddenly.
“Why, what did you expect?” My cheeks grew hot with embarrassment.
He struggled with a reply. “You’re not—well, when Stevie told me his sister was coming I thought, Oh, all right, she’ll be like this, you know I had some picture of you in my head as someone fairly self-assured, tough, or maybe even bitchy, and I thought you’d be trouble, that we wouldn’t click... ”
There was a strange, awkward silence. I didn’t know what to say, but wanted to be pleasant. For some reason I felt that it was important that he should like me.
“Ron’s that way,” I said finally, in a low voice. “He’s exactly like that.”
Paul nodded. He smiled at me then, a small somewhat rueful smile.
“
Well, I don’t know how much longer I’ll be here.”
“I don’t know how long I’m staying. I don’t know how long I can stand it.”
“You’re a bit fearful, then.” Paul poured me a cup of tea.
“That’s a good way to describe me, yeah.”
We laughed. “I’m that way too,” he said. Then, sipping his tea, he murmured, “I don’t know where I’d be now if it wasn’t for your brother.”
I didn’t know what to say. Maybe he thought I knew nothing. I still wasn’t quite sure what he and Stevie had been to each other, and there was no way to ask. But what Paul had been, his past, that in itself was something I almost couldn’t fathom.
He spoke quietly, he was self-effacing, but there was something about him that seemed strong and poised. His London accent was alien to me, but despite the fact that he and I were from different countries and very different backgrounds, I sensed some familiarity in our characters, something deeply passive about the way we viewed the world and others. I liked it. We’re about the same age, I brooded, and yet he must have lived through so many horrible experiences. He had sold himself for money. But he had kept himself apart from it all, I thought, and here he was, sitting at a table and drinking tea with me, a stranger, and being kind. In the silence that grew between us there was already something companionable, as if he’d accepted me. I knew that I would have to do the same, that I couldn’t judge him.
“I’m supposed to be looking for work,” I said, stirring my tea. It was hard to make conversation, so I had ended up talking more about myself than I usually would.
He nodded. “I work in a bookshop now. Just part time, but it’s something. I get a lot of reading done anyway.”
“Oh, I’d love that,” I said rather shyly.
“There’s a women’s bookshop called Silver Moon that you could try. They sometimes need people.”
“I suppose you know London very well,” I said.
He shrugged. “I don’t like London much.” He said it rather flatly.
“Oh.”
There was another long pause.
“Still, it’s nice to get to know Irish people, “ he said with an effort. “There are a lot about now. I always like the Irish.”
“You don’t see yourself as Irish then.”
“Nah, I couldn’t. I really don’t know anything about it.”
“Well, you haven’t missed much!” I said.
“I’ll show you your room, shall I?” he asked, getting up. “It’s not much of a room, did Stevie tell you?”
“No,” I said. I got up too. “Where do you sleep?”
“Well, as of today, on a sofa in the sitting-room.”
I stared at him, shocked. “Oh, no. I didn’t mean to kick you out of your room! Stevie never said... ”
“It’s OK,” Paul said. He seemed taken aback by my earnestness. “You know, you really have first claim on it. You’re his sister. I’ve known you were coming for ages.”
I must have still looked upset, because he said, “It’s still the lap of luxury to me. I lived in a squat for years. And before that I shared with my brother. I never had a room to myself before now.”
“I’ve always had a room to myself,” I muttered. “Will you really be all right?”
“Yeah,” he said with a smile. “Very much so.”
* * *
I watched in surprise as Paul deftly made up the bed. That was why he’d been to the launderette, to clean the sheets, I thought. And Stevie had just vanished; how typical. The room was small and dark with a big, brown, varnished wardrobe that dwarfed everything. I looked out the window onto the patch of garden in the back down below. I felt restless and exhausted at the same time. I sat on the bed. Paul paused at the door.
“Come see the bathroom,” he said. I wearily obeyed, and he showed me a large room with one of those old-fashioned porcelain baths that had claw feet. Bottles of shampoo, shaving cream and cologne littered the top of the sink.
“Nearly everything is Stevie’s,” Paul said. “He thinks they’re so cheap here. He always buys too much for himself at Boots.”
“Now Ron can share them, I suppose,” I said sourly.
He laughed. “There’s a space for you.” He pointed to the lower shelf of the medicine cabinet. “I do all the cleaning around here; that suits Stevie.”
“I bet it does,” I said.
“And I cook. In fact that’s what I’m going to do now. Fancy a glass of wine?”
“Maybe later, thanks,” I said. “I think I’ll settle in.”
I lay down on the bed fully clothed in the half-darkness and stared into space. I could hear Paul’s clanking in the kitchen, but vaguely, and I knew I would also hear when Stevie and Ron finally arrived. I had wanted to be alone, but once by myself I found I had little to think about. The first few moments with Paul came to mind, his charm. Yes, that was the word, charm. He seemed concerned for me. It was strange, for I had expected him to care only about himself; I had thought he would be a hard and selfish person. No wonder Stevie took him in, I thought sleepily. He’s nice. The movement of the boat had not quite left me and the bed still seemed to be tilting. I’m lying in his bed, I thought, so I suppose that means that he and Stevie didn’t share one... I felt sorry for him then. Had he wanted Stevie? Had they slept together once or twice? Was he selflessly making way for Ron now? It was hard to know. He seemed resigned to things changing and I hadn’t learned how to be yet.
Chapter 16
There was a figure standing by the door. I could barely make him out.
“Stevie?” I said anxiously.
I switched on the little light beside the bed. It was indeed Stevie, looking solemn. He moved a little further into the room.
“You missed supper,” he said in an almost accusing tone.
“Oh, sorry. I fell asleep. I was so tired. Paul was very nice, he showed me everything.”
“Good,” Stevie said. He seemed to be brooding about something. I sat up and rubbed my eyes.
“Is anything up?”
I usually never asked this; in fact there was usually never any reason to with Stevie.
“I dunno,” Stevie said, standing by the window now. “Maybe I’ve done the wrong thing.”
“What do you mean?”
He pushed the door shut with his foot. “Ron’s in a foul mood. He’s not happy about Paul being here. He thinks I’m doing it on purpose.”
“Well, didn’t you expect this? I mean, you can’t exactly just kick Paul out!”
“Ron thinks I can. He says I would if ... well, you know.” His voice ended in a mumble.
I shrugged. I felt cold about the whole thing.
“I disagree,” I told him. “I like Paul. You have this prior arrangement with him... He’s just getting himself back together, it looks like. Wouldn’t turfing him out send him back to his old ways?”
Stevie shifted uneasily, but said nothing.
“You do want to help him, don’t you? I mean, that was the purpose of taking him in?”
He cleared his throat. “Of course. What other... No, it’s just that Ron sees it in a completely different light. You know, that everyone’s responsible for themselves.”
“That’s why he hates me, I suppose.”
Again, Stevie said nothing. I had put him on the spot. I didn’t care now.
“You could kick me out too, if that would ease his mind.”
Sighing, Stevie said “Jesus!” and headed for the door. I lay back down on the bed with a faint smile on my face. It was the first time I had ever seen my brother really miscalculate a situation: well, no, perhaps the second. Coming home and telling the parents had not been the cakewalk he’d expected it to be. It wasn’t that I enjoyed his misery, just that it was a part of life that seemed inescapable to me, and he’d successfully avoided it for years.
* * *
The next morning was a Saturday, so no one was working. Ron had an interview with a stockbroking firm on Monday; an old college
friend of his father’s was an executive there. He seemed smugly certain he would get the job. We had a protracted, rather tense breakfast together. Paul made pancakes, cooked sausages and eggs and tomatoes, while the rest of us sat around the table sipping tea. Ron alternately sulked and analyzed his job prospects. Stevie told stories about the bank. Apparently there was a little clique of gay men there and they had given him a hard time at first, but by now he was a sort of pet.
“Do you know any gay women?” Ron asked Stevie suddenly. Paul was flipping pancakes onto our plates.
“Come sit down, Paul. No, I don’t. Why?”
“For Cathy,” Ron said, with what appeared to me as a slight sneer. “She needs entertainment now that she’s hit the big city, doesn’t she?”
There was a silence. Then Stevie said lightly, “Maybe you can find some for her, since you’re so concerned.”
“I don’t need any,” I said, with my mouth full of pancake.
“I’m sure you know some dyke pubs where we could take her,” Ron said to Paul.
Paul glanced at me. There was something kind and reassuring in his gaze. Turning to Ron, he said simply, “Leave it out, will you?”
Ron flushed.
“These are fantastic,” I said to Paul. “You should be a chef.”
He smiled, pleased. “I never thought of that. I’ve got into cooking in a big way since I’ve been here.”
“Yet another skill you’ve picked up,” Ron said sourly. Again a long silence gripped us.
I glanced at Stevie covertly. He was at a loss, I realized. He couldn’t publicly shut Ron up, but he wanted to. At least I hoped he did. I couldn’t believe what Ron was hinting at, and I began to be afraid that there would be much more of this to come.
* * *
That Saturday we did touristy things, more or less together, though Paul and I tended to lag behind, letting Stevie and Ron go on ahead. We went to the National Portrait Gallery and the British Museum. We strolled down King’s Road in Chelsea. I saw the Thames, and Westminster Abbey, and Piccadilly Circus and Trafalgar Square. It was there, as Stevie and Ron lingered on the steps of the National Portrait Gallery that Paul pointed to a bench near the statue of Nelson.
The Leaving Page 23