‘I don’t think I remember either of them.’
‘Roche used to go round in a pin-striped blue suit. He looked like one of the masters.’
Lairdman shook his head. ‘I’ll say cheerio, Fergus. Again, my gratitude.’
‘They were the bright sparks who washed your hair in a lavatory bowl.’
Boland had said to himself over and over again that Lairdman was welcome to her. He looked ahead to an easy widower’s life, the house she had filled with her perversities and falsehoods for the last twelve years as silent as a peaceful sleep. He would clear out the memories of her because naturally she wouldn’t do that herself – the hoarded magazines, the empty medicine bottles, the clothes she had no further use for, the cosmetics she’d pitched into the corners of cupboards, the curtains and chair-covers clawed by her cats. He would get Molloy in to paint out the rooms. He would cook his own meals, and Mrs Coughlan would still come every morning. Mrs Coughlan wouldn’t be exactly sorry to see the back of her, either.
‘I don’t know why,’ Lairdman said, ‘you keep going on about your schooldays.’
‘Let me get you a decent drink before you go. Bring us two big ones,’ he called out to the barman, who was listening to an anecdote the man in the gaberdine coat was retailing at the far end of the bar.
‘No, really,’ Lairdman protested. ‘Really now.’
‘Oh, go on, man. We’re both in need of it.’
Lairdman had buttoned his black overcoat and drawn on a pair of black leather gloves. Finger by finger he drew one of the gloves off again. Boland could feel him thinking that, for the sake of the woman who loved him, he must humour the cuckold.
‘It takes it out of you,’ Boland said. ‘An emotional thing like this. Good luck to you.’
They drank, Lairdman seeming awkward now because of what had been said. He looked a bit like a priest, Boland thought, the black attire and the way he wore it. He tried to imagine the pair of them abroad, sitting down together in a French restaurant, Lairdman being pernickety about a plate of food he didn’t like the look of. It didn’t make sense, all this stuff about a devastating sense of humour.
‘I only mentioned the school,’ Boland said, ‘because it was the other thing we had in common.’
‘As a matter of fact, I’m a governor up there now.’
‘Ah, go on!’
‘That’s why I said we’d maybe send the children there.’
‘Well, doesn’t that beat the band!’
‘I’m pleased myself. I’m pleased they asked me.’
‘Sure, anyone would be.’
Stupid he might be, Boland thought, but he was cute as well, the way he’d managed not to make a comment on the Roche and Dead Smith business. Cuteness was the one thing you could never get away from in Dublin. Cute as weasels they were.
‘You don’t remember it?’ he prompted.
‘What’s that?’
‘The lavatory thing.’
‘Look here, Boland –’
‘I’ve offended you. I didn’t mean that at all.’
‘Of course you haven’t offended me. It’s just that I see no point in harping on things like that.’
‘We’ll talk of something else.’
‘Actually, I’m a bit on the late side.’
The second glove was again drawn on, the buttons of the smooth black overcoat checked to see that all was well for the street. The glove was taken off again when Lairdman remembered there’d have to be a handshake.
‘Thanks for everything,’ he said.
For the second time, Boland surprised himself by being unable to leave well alone. He wondered if it was the whiskey; the long drive and then the whiskey on top of an empty stomach because of course there hadn’t been anything in the house for his breakfast when he’d gone to look, not even a slice of bread. ‘I’ll come down and do you scrambled eggs and a few rashers,’ she’d said the night before. ‘You’ll need something inside you before you set off.’
‘I’m interested in what you say about sending your children there,’ was what he heard himself saying. ‘Would these be your and Annabella’s children you have in mind?’
Lairdman looked at him as if he’d gone out of his senses. His narrow mouth gaped in bewilderment. Boland didn’t know if he was trying to smile or if some kind of rictus had set in.
‘What other children are there?’ Lairdman shook his head, still perplexed. He held his hand out, but Boland did not take it.
‘I thought those might be the children you had in mind,’ he said.
‘I don’t follow what you’re saying.’
‘She can’t have children, Lairdman.’
‘Ah now, look here –’
