‘
Exactly like
him.’
‘
I remember you took it
calmly. Wisely.’
I have to change the subject.
‘
Yes,’ I say. ‘So what
next? Will you go back, study some more?’
‘
Maybe. I’m feeling drained
right now. Jaded. But I will, probably, eventually. If I do a PhD
I’ll start it in New Zealand. Dunedin, perhaps.’
I nod.
‘
What?’
‘
I didn’t say
anything.’
‘
I can read you like a book
though. It’s all over your face.’
‘
Well, is
it a
life
?’
‘
I don’t live in the past,’
Chris insists. ‘I never have. Not completely. And besides, your
past is just as important to you as mine is to me.’
‘
Ah, but
it’s not the same thing
intirely
,’ I say, putting on a mock
Irish accent. ‘Mine’s personal, family history stuff. Yours is . .
. well, different. I don’t mean it’s less important, to you, it’s
just that you can never have as much stake in it, the same
passion.’
‘
Who says?’
‘
Well, can you?’
‘
Of course,’ he says. ‘But
where’s the point in arguing about it?’
‘
Arguing? Who’s arguing?
This is a debate. I used to enjoy them at school.’
I think: this was, still
is, the crux. We will never be able to completely understand each
other. Some-times being different is not enough.
Chris allows himself a grin. ‘You and I did
have some passions in common. The candle vigil, remember? I think
it was the first time I really got passionate about something other
than the ancient world.’
‘
What about Chloe and
Daphnis?’ I ask him. ‘Doesn’t that count for anything
anymore?’
‘
Daphnis and Chloe,’ he
agrees. ‘But it was on a different level entirely.’
Dreams
I had weird dreams. Maybe it was because of
eating too much pizza too quickly. Or perhaps I slept restlessly
because I’d stupidly forgotten to take sun block on the walk and my
pale Irish skin got burnt as a result. Anyway, I dreamt Chris and I
were still kissing passionately in amongst the tussock when Becs
suddenly came strolling by. I was really surprised to see her
because I knew she hardly ever chose to walk anywhere and so I
guessed that she had followed us on purpose to spy. She had a
wicked gleam in her eye and, as Chris and I rolled apart, she
pulled her statuette of Priapus from her jeans pocket and waved it
under our noses. ‘What’s his like?’ she said. ‘Come on, you can
tell me.’
I woke up in a sweat, panicking like on the
night
Gran had died. Unlike
then, I must have gone back to sleep almost immediately because
next Gran herself appeared in my dream, running up the track like a
well-oiled athlete. She was waving something but she was still too
far away for me to see what it was.
As she came closer we heard her shouting,
yelling at Becs to leave us alone. Becs took one look at the thing
Gran was waving and hared off in the opposite direction.
‘
Gran!’ I said. ‘Thank
goodness you came.’
‘
Don’t thank me,’ she said.
‘Thank God.’
And then I saw she was brandishing her
rosary beads, warding off evil. She made Chris and me kneel beside
her and pray. ‘The first glorious and colourful turning point,’ she
intoned. ‘The first mystery of human attraction.’
And then she faded away, as she had when she
died, raging against the dying of the light and I woke up a second
time, in tears.
Dance party
It wasn’t really a dance party, not in the
proper sense. It was a party, and there was dancing, and it was
loud and energetic and some of the people there were probably high
on the dark stuff, but it was on St Patrick’s Day, my birthday, and
there was an Irish bash.
Now, there’s Irish and
there’s
Oyrish
.
The first is the real thing, the other is the equivalent of green
beer and plastic leprechauns. Most of the stuff that happens on St
Pat’s Day falls into the second category but my family has always
celebrated the day, not in any flash nightclub or synthetic Irish
bar, but in a genuine Irish couple’s house, twenty minutes out of
the city, in the middle of green-belt. How
appropriate.
They were friends of my parents from way
back and each year they invited us, and many others, to join them
in marking the day. They put up a marquee on their back lawn and
because they were musicians, they played for us.
Old sentimental songs, the sort Gran had
loved. Old rebel songs, my personal favourite. Modern Irish folk.
Modern Irish folk-rock. The works.
We’d all crash there for the night, in
sleeping bags in the big tent.
I loved the party although as a really small
child I hadn’t been allowed to go. Mum and Dad abandoned me the
evening of my birthday, after having also celebrated it in style I
hasten to add, leaving me at home with Gran.
I wondered whether Gran
would have wanted to be there rather than babysitting me so I asked
her but she shook her head vigorously, took out her rosary beads
and put on a CD of the Pope chanting the various Mysteries, perhaps
in the hope of getting me to sleep quickly!
Much as I loved Gran, you can see that I was
glad - overjoyed! - when I was finally old enough to celebrate St
Patrick’s Day properly.
‘You won’t want me there,’ Chris said when I
invited him. ‘I’d just be an impostor.’
‘
Don’t tell me what I
want!’
‘
Sorry. I
forgot.’
‘
Stop forgetting that you
can’t read my mind. You’re just trying to get out of it. You’ll be
with me, that’ll be enough to make you an honorary Irishman for the
night.’
‘
I’m no good at dancing,’
he said. ‘Any sort of
dancing.’
‘
That’s the only sort we
dance.’
‘
And I’m not a connoisseur
of Irish stout.’
‘
Neither am I,’ I
said.
‘
I won’t have to do
anything will I?’
‘
What do you
mean?’
‘
Get up and sing or tell a
story or anything like that?’
‘
Oh yes. Everyone has to
tell a story and sing. You won’t be able to get away with not doing
either of those.’
‘
Then I’d rather stay
home.’
‘
I was kidding Chris. Read
my lips. KIDDING.’
‘
I hoped you were,’ said
Chris.
It was dusk and little solar lamps were
starting to light up the lawn as we walked over to the marquee.
‘
Stop a second,’ he
said.
We paused in the middle of the lawn, letting
the olds get on ahead. A spotlight from the big tent fell on us
like a radiant beam from the Happy-Forever-After place.
‘
Happy Birthday,’ Chris
said, handing me a small package.
‘
What is it?’
‘
A birthday present of
course. Open it and see.’
I opened the gift-wrapped
square. Opened the greenstone-coloured box.
Not
rosary beads
please
I said to myself remembering,
with a sense of shock and loss, the sapphire present Gran had once
given me.
‘
It’s beautiful,’ I said,
picking up the hook-shaped bone pendant.
‘
I was thinking about our
conversation on the hills,’ Chris said. ‘About you being part
Irish, Scots
and Polish and me being part ancient
Greek,’- (‘Mad’, I said again) - ‘but you were right too, I
realised, we do live in New Zealand so what better thing than a
Maori pendant to unite us. Remember where we started.’
‘
But we’re not Maori,’ I
said.
‘
It’s symbolic,’ he
said.
‘
And what do you mean
‘started?’
‘
Everyone has to start
somewhere,’ he explained. ‘You said you were going to live forever.
Well, you can’t.’
‘
I know.’
‘
That’s
why we have to do as much as we can of what’s important to us in
the time we’ve got,’ said Chris. ‘Go places, see things,
live
.’
‘
We?’ I said.
‘
Anybody,’ he said. ‘That’s
what I meant. I wasn’t assuming anything.’
‘
I don’t think I would have
minded if you’d assumed this time,’ I said. ‘Meant us.’
‘
Us then,’ he said. ‘You
contrary individual.’
‘
It’d be nice if we were
able to do lots of things together,’ I said. Then I grinned. ‘Like
dance,’ and I grabbed his arm and started hauling him over to where
the big tent puffed in the wind, from where we could already hear
guitars, drums, mandolins and fiddles beginning to colour the night
air.
Lord of the dance
The dancing was wild and free. I know I also
felt wild, exultant and free. I hoped Chris experienced the same
vitality. We certainly let ourselves go. Drained ourselves of
energy and then discovered it had magically renewed itself.
What we had been, what we were, what we
might become were all, that St Patrick’s
night, mixed up together in a delicious brew that was as
intoxicating as liquor.
I had turned seventeen, at last I was in
love and anything could happen.
Overheard
I had to make a dash for
the loo and when I came back to the marquee I saw that Mum, Dad and
two of their long time friends, Kristy MacGowan and her partner
Shane Moore, had come outside as well and were sitting at a table
together.
‘
Enjoying yourself Andrea?’
Dad asked.
I nodded and smiled.
‘
Haven’t seen much of you.
Why don’t you come and talk to us instead of hobnobbing the whole
night long with that boy of yours?’
‘
Leave her alone,’ said
Mum.
I wasn’t bothered. I knew Dad was only
kidding.
‘
We’ve got lots to talk
about,’ I said. ‘When we’re not dancing. And your conversation
wouldn’t be nearly as interesting. Sorry. See youse
later.’
I went back inside, pausing however, just
inside the tent, nosey to know what they were talking about. Chris
and me, maybe? But no, nothing as riveting as that. I wasn’t
absolutely sure but I worked out it was religion, of all
things.
‘It’s a load of shite,’ Shane said. ‘We gave
up years ago. Can’t think why the two of you haven’t.’
Kristy said, ‘Leave them be, they can do
what they like.’
‘
Sure, sure,’ said Shane.
‘But didn’t you tell us your Andrea’s left?’
‘
She has,’ I heard Mum
say.
‘
Sensible young thing,’
Shane commented.
‘
She has to find her own
way,’ Dad said. ‘That’s what we all had to do.’
‘
You should meet some of
the women in my group,’ said Mum, to Kristy I assumed. ‘Real
powerhouses and most of them over sixty. I’m one of the
youngest.’
‘
I wish more people would
actually take notice of them,’ said Kristy. ‘Trouble is, no one
does. They might as well be hiding underground for all the impact
they have.’
‘
Don’t you go having second
thoughts,’ said Shane. ‘A mid-life conversion.’
‘
Re-conversion,’ said
Kristy.
‘
I think the impact’s going
to come from individual conviction,’ said Mum. ‘That’s where it’s
going to count.’
‘
Take it to the streets,’
said Shane. ‘If you want anything to happen, that’s where to do it.
Man, you guys used to be so good at that.’
‘
There are ways and there
are ways,’ said Dad.
‘
Come along to a meeting,’
said Mum.
‘
Maybe I will,’ said
Kristy, defiantly I thought.
Shane grunted. ‘I’ll get us another drink,’
he said.
As I heard him get up I vanished back into
the marquee.
The Tower of the Winds
We stayed in our dusky corner of the tent.
The dancing continued. Mum and Dad were back in the thick of it. It
was getting late, or early, depending on how you looked at it.
‘
Still enjoying it?’ I
asked Chris.
‘
Exhausting but it’s good.
Thanks for inviting
me.’
‘
I’m glad I did. I’m glad
you came.’
‘
Can I ask you something?’
said Chris.
‘
Ask away.’ In the mood I
was in I would have listened to anything, agreed to nearly
anything.
‘
You know the Tower of the
Winds?’ Chris said.
‘
The Tower of the Winds?
No. What is it? Something ancient I suppose?’
‘
Andrea!’
‘
I don’t know, I don’t,
honest,’ I yawned. I was tired. Thank God there was a weekend to
follow. A glorious, blissful long sleep-in in the
morning.
‘
The Horologium. I’m going
to be writing an essay about it, remember?’
‘
Oh yes. I remember that. I
didn’t know it had another name. You never said.’
‘
Maybe I didn’t. Well, the
Tower of the Winds is one of the few almost completely intact
buildings in the ancient world. It’s a small
masterpiece.’