An Evening of Long Goodbyes

by Paul Murray

  We got into the van. Frank stowed our winnings in the glove compartment and started the engine.

  ‘Funny to think she’ll be leavin, though, isn’t it Charlie?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I think maybe she’ll be all right.’ For as the city began to unreel through the window, and with all that money in the glove compartment, it felt like there was time still to set things to rights, to turn the clock back on old hurts. The night seemed limitless and replete with possibilities; everything glistened with water as if it had just come into being. ‘Well who’s this?’ as a long brown nose poked between the seats and smiled doggishly at us.

  ‘Bark!’ he said, as we hit the motorway and picked up speed.

  ‘What’s he sayin, Charlie?’

  ‘He’s saying, “Forward, friends! Don’t fall behind!”’

  ‘Bark!’

  ‘That’s right, old chap,’ I laughed, rubbing his chin. ‘That’s right –’

  15

  All the excitement must have overtired me, because I nodded off on the way. I was having the strangest dream, in which we were all buried in a terrible avalanche: but then I woke up to find we had stopped outside the old house, and that the avalanche was nothing more than the rumbling of Frank’s stomach.

  I don’t know who Mother was expecting at that late hour, but she seemed surprised when she answered the door and found me there: in fact she turned quite pale, and her glass slipped out of her hand, sending sherry all over the floor.

  ‘I’m perfectly all right, leave it be, Charles,’ she recovered herself. ‘I wasn’t expecting any more guests, that’s all. Didn’t I tell you eight sharp? And honestly, is that what passes for a clean shirt with you these days?’

  I began to explain about the rent and the race, but Mother cut me off. ‘Charles,’ she said, peering downwards, ‘there appears to be something dripping on my foot.’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you – Mother, I’d like to introduce the newest member of the, the gang – An Evening of Long Goodbyes.’

  ‘You’re not planning to bring it inside, I hope.’

  ‘Well, yes, it’s a sort of a bon voyage gift for Bel, you see.’

  ‘Charles, if you think I’m going to let you take in some flea-ridden stray to die on my parquet when there are guests in the house…’

  ‘It’s not going to die. It’s just had a couple of knocks, that’s all. Give it some food and it’ll be right as rain – won’t you, old fellow?’

  Mother sighed heavily and straightened up. Muffled sounds of merriment drifted past her from inside. ‘Where’s Patsy?’ she said. Raising her lorgnette, she stared into the shadows, then turned back to me. ‘Charles,’ she said sotto voce, ‘that is not Patsy Olé.’

  ‘No Mother, it’s Frank, you remember Frank –’

  ‘Not the boy from the cloakroom?’

  ‘Yes, yes, that’s him.’

  The ends of her mouth took another turn south. ‘I know several people who would be very interested to hear his thoughts vis-à–vis the whereabouts of their handbags.’

  ‘Oh, that’s just silly,’ I objected. ‘Frank’s straight as a die. Why, just look at him…’

  We considered Frank once more where he waited by the van. He waggled his fingers at us and grimaced horribly.

  ‘I promise I’ll keep an eye on him…’

  There was a faint whistling sound as Mother exhaled through her nose. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘But if there is so much as a hint of trouble…’ She let the threat hang unstated in the air. ‘And take that thing in by the kitchen.’

  I wasn’t sure whether she meant Frank or the dog, but I didn’t press her. I gave Frank the nod: he lurched over and, picking up the stricken greyhound at either end, we navigated around the soggy garden.

  Rococo Christmas decorations hung in the windows, and every light in the house was on, throwing buttery light over the grass and the leafless trees of the orchard; the bottle-green Mercedes sat proudly in front of the garage, like a mountain lion surveying its kingdom. From outside, the kitchen resembled a Greek funeral: black-clad caterers were rushing everywhere, carrying dishes and dropping pots into quivering mounds of soapsuds. No one paid any attention to us or to our strange cargo – not until we found Mrs P, fiddling about in the alcove by the refrigerator.

  ‘Master Charles!’ she cried, throwing her arms around me. ‘You have a face again! Your beautiful face!’ And then she caught sight of the dog. ‘Ay, Master Charles, you have run him over with the car?’

  ‘No,’ I said, annoyed. ‘It’s a bon voyage gift for Bel.’

  She said something in Bosnian and Zoran, the round-headed son, came over and began pressing the dog’s ribs with his fingers.

  ‘I am thinking this dog is how you say a goner?’

  ‘He’s not a goner. I wish people would stop saying things like that, you’re upsetting him,’ although admittedly An Evening of Long Goodbyes wasn’t looking his best, lying there on the floor not moving. ‘He’s had a couple of knocks, that’s all. He just needs some food, and… what are you doing?’ Zoran had attached a thin metal clamp to the dog’s side and was rattling about in a case of sinister-looking instruments.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Mrs P whispered in my ear. ‘He is trained as a doctor.’

  This was news to me, as all I had ever seen him do was drink beer and play the trumpet badly; and An Evening of Long Goodbyes didn’t appear too keen on those needles that were materialising out of the case. Still, Zoran seemed to know what he was about and, on consideration, it was probably better that the dog was patched up a bit before we surprised Bel with it.

  ‘Charlie…’ a feeble hand clawed at my sleeve.

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, man, don’t be so melodramatic – Mrs P, I don’t suppose there’s any dinner left? Frank’s feeling a bit…’

  Mrs P was doubtful, but said she would forage about and see what she could do. In the meantime, she directed us to clean ourselves up and join the others inside.

  ‘Here, Charlie, how come Mrs P isn’t invited to the party?’ Frank asked as we came down the hall.

  ‘Well she’s… well I mean it’s not that she’s not invited, as such. She prefers to stay behind the scenes at these things. Hates extravagance, you know.’

  ‘Oh right. I was just wonderin what was she cryin about.’

  ‘Was she crying?’

  ‘Yeah, when we came in.’

  ‘Probably chopping onions or something. Or maybe she’s upset about Bel. She’s very maternal, you know, cooks generally are.’

  Individual voices could be heard as we approached the dining-room, Niall O’Boyle’s pre-eminent among them: ‘… new alloys we’re using mean that when you drop it down the toilet, for example, it won’t break, and if you stand on it – go ahead, stand on it – see? That’s the future of communications you’re standing on there. Or even, say, if you threw it against a wall…’ We pushed open the door to enter a seraglio of hushed lights and the most breathtaking golds and reds.

  ‘Good Lord!’ I said, taking Frank’s arm. ‘Isn’t this wonderful? I say, duck –’

  ‘What?’ Frank said, as Niall O’Boyle’s phone came whizzing through the air to catch him square on the temple, and he toppled to the floor like a felled tree. Two dozen pairs of eyes lit on us, and at the head of the table Niall O’Boyle and Harry, the phone-thrower, stood guiltily agape. Mother looked balefully at me. Hastily I picked the phone up and displayed its flashing screen. ‘Still working, ladies and gentlemen.’ Everyone exhaled a happy sigh of relief and resumed their chattering.

  ‘I was just trying to demonstrate,’ Niall O’Boyle blustered.

  ‘He’ll be all right,’ Mother assured him, drawing him back to his seat. ‘Bel, darling, get him some ice or something, will you?

  Bel rose reluctantly from the far side, the warm glow of the candelabra catching in a slender gold necklace around her neck. She was also dressed in black. She came round and knelt down beside F
rank, who was writhing about with his eyes closed, babbling incoherently. ‘Where have you been?’ she said. ‘What have you done to him?’

  ‘I haven’t done anything to him,’ I said. ‘It’s been rather an exacting day, that’s all.’

  ‘The pair of you smell like a distillery.’

  ‘Let’s just get him some food… is there any food left?’

  ‘There are truffles,’ Bel thought. ‘And maybe some bisque?’

  ‘What’s bisque?’ Frank said, opening his eyes.

  We guided him to a chair. Bel went out and returned with an ice pack and a plate of leftovers that Mrs P had scraped together, which seemed to pacify him. I sat down opposite. I was feeling a trifle light-headed myself. I hadn’t eaten anything since that crêpe Frank had thrown in the dustbin and I was beginning to wish I’d taken his advice and we’d stopped at the takeaway for Chicken Balls on the way back from the dog-track. But it was too late now, so I made do with a bottle of smoky Rioja which was floating around, lit my briar and took in the table. Mother was seated at the top, with the guest of honour, Niall O’Boyle, on one side and Harry on the other in that repellent country-squire waistcoat. Mirela was next to Harry; I did not allow my gaze to linger. Beside Niall O’Boyle was a woman in a rather unfortunate lavender jacket – his personal assistant, I discovered – and then, Geoffrey, the woolly-headed old family accountant. I hadn’t seen him in the house since he’d executed Father’s will; he looked uncomfortable, as if something were caught in his throat. Our place in the new order was plain; we had been given unglamorous seats in the middle, just at the watermark past which the company descended into hooting actors and stage managers.

  ‘Must’ve thought we weren’t coming tonight,’ I said to Bel jauntily.

  ‘What is that thing?’ She reseated herself next to me with a choking cough. ‘Since when do you smoke a pipe?’

  ‘I have a lot of time on my hands,’ I explained. ‘As I was saying, though, we almost didn’t make it. It’s been a perfect nightmare of a day. But I said to Frank, this is Bel’s going away, and come hell or high water I’m going to be there.’

  ‘It smells repulsive,’ she murmured.

  I was glad she was talking to me, even if she wasn’t exactly turning cartwheels; but she seemed removed from things, and everything she said had a rhetorical ring, such that I began to feel foolish replying to her. Try as I might, I could not breach this porcelain reserve: not only was I unable to get on to the subject of forgiveness, and the manifold speeches I had prepared on that topic, but – once I had passed on Jessica Kiddon’s message about the taxi and made a little smalltalk about the décor – I quickly ran out of anything to say to her at all; and frankly it came as something of a relief when Mother stood up and pinged a glass and I realized that, although we might have missed the food, Frank and I had arrived just in time for the dull speeches.

  ‘Tonight,’ Mother pronounced, ‘is a night of hellos and goodbyes. In one way, it is a sad occasion, because we will be taking leave, if only for a short while, of our dear Bel, who is travelling to Russia in the morning. But in the main it is a joyful one, for tonight we mark the beginning of a new epoch – a new passage in the history of this marvellous old house.’

  We applauded dutifully.

  ‘It is also an opportunity for us to say thank you – to Telsinor Ireland, and more particularly to Mr Niall O’Boyle, whose personal vision and sense of social commitment, so rare in today’s business world, have played such a part in creating this unique partnership.’ As Niall O’Boyle basked like a basilisk on a rock, Mother asked us to reflect for a moment on the meaning the partnership – cemented tomorrow morning when the papers were signed – would have for the house. She outlined the plans to renovate the old west wing, expand the theatre, begin the long-promised instruction of children from underprivileged parts of the city; she explained how, on a more personal level, the signing of the papers would at last secure the house financially, something that her late husband, for all his years of work, was never conclusively able to do –

  ‘Charles, stop twitching.’

  ‘It’s Geoffrey, he keeps staring at me. He looks like he’s suppressing the urge to bless himself.’

  ‘It’s your face, Charles,’ Bel whispered back. ‘Haven’t you seen it? You look exactly like – oh –’

  Mother had moved on to the goodbyes part of the speech and was calling on Bel to stand up and take a bow. ‘Our loss is Russia’s gain,’ Mother was saying. ‘Bel’s devotion to the theatre has never been in question. I can’t think of any other girl who would come to her own going-away party dressed like Hamlet…’

  Everyone laughed obligingly and clapped again. Frank leaned over to Mirela, who had left most of her food uneaten, and asked if she was planning to finish it. Niall O’Boyle rose and thanked Mother and began to read from flashcards handed him by his PA to the effect that Amaurot was more than just a house, it was a symbol, the symbol of an ideal, and how inspiring he personally found it to see this ideal being perpetuated by modern technology in the form of the Telsinor Hythloday Centre for the Arts, and so on and so forth; I drifted away. There was a fresh sally of rain against the window. To my left Bel fidgeted with a doily. The tubby stage manager was rubbing his foot up and down the girl with barrettes’ ankle and trying to make her laugh.

  ‘… a central part of our project of renewal, who really embodied these values we’ve been talking about, and more importantly used them and shared those qualities with others in order to make the world a better place, a permanent monument to him.’

  Noisy applause here. ‘What did he say?’ I whispered to Bel.

  ‘They want to put up a statue of Father,’ Bel said, absently twisting her doily into a garrotte.

  With this announcement, the speeches came to a close, and the table fragmented into a happy babel of conversation. But Bel retreated further into herself, watching the proceedings as if they were occurring on the other end of a microscope. It didn’t matter what I asked her about – Yalta, Ramp, Olivier’s legal travails – she would answer politely in as few words as were humanly possible, and then withdraw into silence. It was like being seated next to a vacant lot.

  I decided it was time to bring out the big guns. When Mrs P came in to ask about coffee (Frank was right, she did look rather out of sorts), I had a word in her ear. A few minutes later, An Evening of Long Goodbyes nosed into the room, bandaged up and looking much improved.

  ‘Well!’ I said. ‘Look who it is!’

  ‘Who is it?’ Bel barely lifted an eyebrow.

  ‘Don’t you recognize him?’ I said, seeking to disengage the dog’s head from its reproductive organs momentarily so she could see him properly. ‘It’s that dog you bet on at the races that time, remember? An Evening of Long Goodbyes. You thought it was romantic.’

  ‘What’s it doing here?’ Bel said.

  I stifled my exasperation. ‘Well, it’s for you, obviously. I mean it’s a bon voyage gift.’

  ‘We robbed it from the car park,’ Frank chipped in unhelpfully.

  ‘We didn’t rob it,’ I said. I explained about the race and the dog’s heroics earlier that evening. Bel still didn’t seem to understand how this related to her; she nodded neutrally, patting the smooth area between the dog’s ears, and made some remark about not knowing if Aeroflot allowed dogs on as hand luggage.

  ‘You’re coming back, aren’t you?’ I said, beginning to feel a little browned off. ‘I just thought it would be nice to have a dog about the place again. I remembered how you used to dote on that spaniel…’ This I felt sure would elicit a response, but her face remained blank as the silver tag nestled in my pocket. I thought about producing the tag as evidence of her obsession, thereby proving that the dog was a good present, Aeroflot’s luggage policy notwithstanding; but I checked myself. I had done my best to make amends. If she was going to be infantile, that was her business. She returned to her reverie. I fell into a grumpy silence of my own. From the other side o
f the table, Frank resumed his muttering, mingling it with superstitious glances at Bel of the kind that a savage might throw at a bicycle. Oh yes, we made quite a party.

  ‘You know,’ Niall O’Boyle was telling Mother, tilting his chair back from the table, ‘I’ve always fancied one of these big houses. A man could get some thinking done in a place like this.’

  ‘Oh, these old piles are far more trouble than they’re worth,’ Mother laughed. ‘Don’t be fooled. So much work just to keep them going, and it’s only on nights like this that they truly come into their own.’ But even as she said it, her eyes roved over the lavish appointments, and sparkled with approval.

  ‘It’s those Slavic cheekbones,’ the lavender-jacketed PA said, stroking her wine glass and gazing at Mirela. ‘They photograph so beautifully…’

  ‘I’m calling it The Rusting Tractor,’ Harry said to Geoffrey. ‘It’s about a young woman moving from the city to an isolated village in Connemara, one of those places that’s totally stuck in the past, you know, no Internet access, two TV channels – anyway, she gets in a fight with the locals because she wants to put a mobile-phone mast up on her land, because I don’t know if you’ve been to the west but the coverage is really appalling out there, but to them this is a kind of sacrilege, because, you know, the “land”, capital L –’

  ‘Charlie!’ a hoarse voice called from across the table. ‘What’s he talkin about?’

  ‘I think he’s talking about mobile phones,’ I said.

  ‘… so what develops is a conflict between the quote-unquote “new” Ireland, the Ireland of technology and communication and gender equality, and the “old” Ireland of repression and superstition and resistance to change, which is represented by the rusting tractor…’

  ‘Why does he keep doin that thing with his fingers?’

  ‘Oh, it’s a sort of inverted commas,’ I whispered. ‘Just ignore him. It’s patent nonsense anyway. Mobile phones, the very idea is absurd. People don’t want to be bothered with phones when they’re out and about, that’s the whole reason they leave their houses.’