light tan. His father was a big, physical man who liked to get a decent handful when he said hello; who thought a handful of daughter-in-law was, at his age, only fair. His wife might rebuke him, she might rap out a ‘Thank you, Francis!’ and everyone would laugh – I am not imagining this – at my discomfort, and the wonderful, horny badness of their old man.
They were a good couple, for all that. They had fun. The place was always busy with cousins and friends and various ‘associates’ who dropped in clutching bottles of Heidsieck or Remy Martin and laughing about ‘coals to Newcastle’ as they were invited into the front room. It reminded me of my own father, the mock seriousness, ‘Oh take no notice of that fella!’, with its under-swell of self-importance and things unsaid; the way they were all
I am not sure what there was to know – my father either – I am not sure what they actually got, for all their air of being canny: the pub licence, maybe; planning permission for some bungalow. It hardly seemed worth all the nods and winks, and though it made me nostalgic for the men who tickled the back of my neck to produce fifty- pence pieces in the hall, Conor hated it – it made him literally itch in his clothes and try to shrug free.
What Conor liked about being home was the chance it gave him to be a boy again. He liked wrestling with his brothers and being a slob and leaving the kitchen work to the women, and it never ceased to astonish me. If this was regression then he was going back to some smaller self, one long ago discarded. So my rage at the sink was only partly to do with the drudgery of being a guest in that house, it was more to do with the loss of the man I knew to this loutish teenager who was a stranger, possibly, even to himself.
In bed, at night, I tried to claim him back – I was sleeping with Sean at the time, I know that, but these things don’t always work the way you think they should – and some night, before the drinking got too humourless and steady, I knocked on his shaved brown head to see if he was still in there. And he was. He opened his eyes in the darkness. Then he loved me up, down and crossways, as though I was a dream of his future come impossibly true, there among his old football posters and scattered CDs, as though the truth was better than he ever could have imagined.
We did not fight until New Year’s Eve. I can’t remember what triggered it. Money probably. We used to fight about money. His mother. I mean, tick the list. The way the washing machine was left to flood after he ‘installed’ it and pushed the button and went back to play Shattered Galaxy. The whole internet thing maddened me, by then – I can’t remember when it happened, when Conor at the cutting edge turned into Conor hanging out with a load of wasters online. I went so far as to check his browsing history once, but it was completely unremarkable – which just made it worse, somehow: at that stage I would have been happy to find porn.
But this could not have been the fight we had in Youghal because we were outside, far away, for once, from any screen. We were walking on the beach and the pain of the cold air on my lungs was like the pain of the view on my eyeballs, after four days of kitchen living and bad Christmas TV. It was being in the open that let it loose, I think. Even when I shouted, my voice seemed to happen in its distant echo, out where the sky grew low over the sea.
The beach was not completely empty – there was a woman walking down near the water and a man taking photographs, with a very ordinary camera, from the giant concrete steps that held the land safe from the waves. Lines of black posts marched down to the shoreline, small and smaller, overtaken, each in their turn, by the shifting sand. The new summer houses, a little toy village, tucked themselves under a distant headland. Conor said his father owned four of them,
The fight was not, in fact, about money; nor was it about the internet, or the flooded kitchen, it wasn’t about the box – I remember saying this – of our lives, the colour of the box, or the smell of it, whether things worked in the box or not, but just the fact that we were in a damn box, when we might be free.
It was the last day of the year. I had decided to give up cigarettes in the morning. Maybe that was what it was all about: the yelp of the addict before it is all taken away. Or maybe it was because I was giving up for Sean, who found the smell of stale cigarettes so disgusting. So he too was looming as the day ticked on – this need I had to be right for Sean. And the anger that came with this was terrible; the pure annoyance of smashing my way out of one box, only to find myself in another one.
There is nothing like a bit of drama on an empty coastline, the shrill little screams and foot stampings entertainment for the gulls, tinnitus for the fishes. There is nothing so pointless and refreshing: a sad backside hitting a million affronted grains of sand, the faint ticking, in the rocks, of footsteps walking away.
Conor went back to the car and left me to it, to the skyline and the line where the sea lapped the shore, and I watched as the water sank into, or pulled away from the sand.
I was quite happy, then. I lit a cigarette and was happy for the length of it. Nothing moved, except the water, which was always moving. I thought the world might have stopped, except for the progress of ash down the cigarette’s white shaft.
It was New Year’s Eve – my least favourite day of any year – and I just didn’t think I could do it, this time. I thought midnight would kill me, every strike of the damn clock. I wanted to sit where I was, and let time pass elsewhere. How do you do that? You could rise up and let the earth roll beneath you. You could float on that still, cold sea. You could love one man and never stop kissing another.
Never stop.
When I climbed back into the car, I said to Conor I was going home, that I really wanted to see my mother tonight, and he could come too if he liked but I would prefer he didn’t.
‘No, really prefer,’ I said.
And that I just… wanted… some time… all right?
Conor, out of pity for this and for all sad human cliche, sighed and leaned forward to the ignition.
‘I’ll drive you up,’ he said.
‘No.’
‘Well you take the car then,’ he said. ‘I’ll catch a lift.’
And I didn’t say ‘Thanks,’ or ‘Sorry,’ or ‘It’s not you, it’s the damn cigarettes.’ I neither lied to him nor told the truth – that all this had nothing to do with him, nor even, in a way, with Sean Vallely.
I headed for Waterford along the N25, slipping down the high curving road into Dungarvan just as the streetlights came on. I thought about my mother-in-law’s face as I said my unexpected, hurried goodbye.
‘Don’t worry,’ I might have said. ‘I will not break your son’s heart.’
Or something of that nature. Even if it was a lie. Even if we were to speak, which we did not, of course. The power had shifted between Conor’s women, that was all, though I did not enjoy it as much as you might expect.
Conor brought the car around to the front door and I put my case in the boot. I kissed them all goodbye outside their big white bungalow, and my wretched father-in-law kept his hands to himself, for once. But you know, I never really minded flirting with my father-in-law. I probably liked it as much as anything. I am a terrible flirt.
I passed the turn off to Brittas and the one for Enniskerry at the beginning of the motorway lights. I drifted all the way to the Tallaght exit, worked my way through the suburban streets and pulled up the handbrake outside my mother’s front door. I switched off the engine and stood out of the car in the winter silence, the blood in my veins still hurtling on.
It was nice to be with my own family for once. Even though I had no family to speak of, and it was just the two of us, sitting in front of the real flames of my mother’s artificial gas fire, flicking channels through the midnight bells and drinking Sea Breezes.
Joan poked the ash of her cigarette vaguely at the fireplace, even though it wasn’t a real fireplace, and she loosed her stockings through the cloth of her skirt, to let them settle around her ankles, in two gossamer nests. My mother was strangely slovenly, for someone who looked so pristine. Or more than pristine; for someone who seemed to gather the available light about her. It used to embarrass me, the way she sat in the kitchen with our friends after school, getting all their chat and letting the ash topple on the tiled floor. It wasn’t as though she didn’t have an ashtray. I found one in the fridge once – which wasn’t a surprise; the contents of the fridge were often a little arbitrary. ‘What do you do all day?!’ I remember shouting at her, when I got in hungry one afternoon. To which she said nothing. There was nothing for her to say.
I suppose, in the early years of her widowhood, she let things slide and we did not forgive her for it. Children want things to be ordinary. Maybe that’s all they want.
