He tapped the ash from his cigarette into an ashtray which was kept for his use, beside the gas-fire. All his movements were slow. He was a slow thinker, even though he was clever. He arrived at a conclusion, having thought long and carefully; he balanced everything in his mind. ‘We must think about that, Norah,’ he said that day, twenty-two years ago, when she’d suggested that they should move to England. A week later he’d said that if she really wanted to he’d agree.
They talked about Bridget and Cathal and Tom. When they came in from the cinema they’d only just have time to change their clothes before setting out again for the Christmas party at Bridget’s convent.
‘It’s a big day for them. Let them lie in in the morning, Norah.’
‘They could lie in for ever,’ she said, laughing in case there might seem to be harshness in this recommendation. With Christmas excitement running high, the less she heard from them the better.
‘Did you get Cathal the gadgets he wanted?’
‘Chemistry stuff. A set in a box.’
‘You’re great the way you manage, Norah.’
She denied that. She poured more tea for both of them. She said, as casually as she could:
‘Mr Joyce won’t come. I’m not counting him in for Christmas Day.’
‘He hasn’t failed us yet, Norah.’
‘He won’t come this year.’ She smiled through the gloom at him. ‘I think we’d best warn the children about it.’
‘Where would he go if he didn’t come here? Where’d he get his dinner?’
‘Lyons used to be open in the old days.’
‘He’d never do that.’
‘The Bulrush Cafe has a turkey dinner advertised. There’s a lot of people go in for that now. If you have a mother doing a job she maybe hasn’t the time for the cooking. They go out to a hotel or a cafe, three or four pounds a head –’
‘Mr Joyce wouldn’t go to a cafe. No one could go into a cafe on their own on Christmas Day.’
‘He won’t come here, dear.’
It had to be said: it was no good just pretending, laying a place for the old man on an assumption that had no basis to it. Mr Joyce would not come because Mr Joyce, last August, had ceased to visit them. Every Friday night he used to come, for a cup of tea and a chat, to watch the nine o’clock news with them. Every Christmas Day he’d brought carefully chosen presents for the children, and chocolates and nuts and cigarettes. He’d given Patrick and Pearl a radio as a wedding present.
‘I think he’ll come all right. I think maybe he hasn’t been too well. God help him, it’s a great age, Norah.’
‘He hasn’t been ill, Dermot.’
Every Friday Mr Joyce had sat there in the third of the brown armchairs, watching the television, his bald head inclined so that his good ear was closer to the screen. He was tallish, rather bent now, frail and bony, with a modest white moustache. In his time he’d been a builder; which was how he had come to own property in Fulham, a self-made man who’d never married. That evening in August he had been quite as usual. Bridget had kissed him good-night because for as long as she could remember she’d always done that when he came on Friday evenings. He’d asked Cathal how he was getting on with his afternoon paper round.
There had never been any difficulties over the house. They considered that he was fair in his dealings with them; they were his tenants and his friends. When it seemed that the Irish had bombed English people to death in Birmingham and Guildford he did not cease to arrive every Friday evening and on Christmas Day. The bombings were discussed after the news, the Tower of London bomb, the bomb in the bus, and all the others. ‘Maniacs,’ Mr Joyce said and nobody contradicted him.
‘He would never forget the children, Norah. Not at Christmas-time.’
His voice addressed her from the shadows. She felt the warmth of the gas-fire reflected in her face and knew if she looked in a mirror she’d see that she was quite flushed. Dermot’s face never reddened. Even though he was nervy, he never displayed emotion. On all occasions his face retained its paleness, his eyes acquired no glimmer of passion. No wife could have a better husband, yet in the matter of Mr Joyce he was so wrong it almost frightened her.
‘Is it tomorrow I call in for the turkey?’ he said.
She nodded, hoping he’d ask her if anything was the matter because as a rule she never just nodded in reply to a question. But he didn’t say anything. He stubbed his cigarette out. He asked if there was another cup of tea in the pot.
‘Dermot, would you take something round to Mr Joyce?’
‘A message, is it?’
‘I have a tartan tie for him.’
‘Wouldn’t you give it to him on the day, Norah? Like you always do.’ He spoke softly, still insisting. She shook her head.
It was all her fault. If she hadn’t said they should go to England, if she hadn’t wanted to work in a London shop, they wouldn’t be caught in the trap they’d made for themselves. Their children spoke with London accents. Patrick and Brendan worked for English firms and would make their homes in England. Patrick had married an English girl. They were Catholics and they had Irish names, yet home for them was not Waterford.
‘Could you make it up with Mr Joyce, Dermot? Could you go round with the tie and say you were sorry?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You know what I mean.’ In spite of herself her voice had acquired a trace of impatience, an edginess that was
