Mr Lynch’s Holiday (22 page)

He heard his footsteps moving quickly and lightly, like a woodland creature scampering from bathroom to bedroom. He got up to catch him, but was too late, hearing the firm click of Eamonn’s door as he shut himself in once more. He knocked lightly.

‘Eamonn, are you awake in there?’

Silence.

‘Eamonn, I just heard you. Why don’t you come out and have some breakfast?’

‘I don’t want any, thanks.’

‘You can’t hide in your room for ever.’

‘I’m not hiding. I have a migraine.’

‘There’s no point feeling bad about last night. You had a bit too much to drink. Sure everyone’s done that.’

Long pause. ‘I have a migraine.’

Dermot sighed. He seemed to have spent a lot of the last fortnight addressing Eamonn’s door. It was reminiscent of the confessional box. ‘Should I call a doctor?’

‘No. I just need to lie in a dark room.’

‘For the love of God. You can’t spend your life lying in a dark room!’

Silence.

He left the apartment and went out for a walk. He’d intended to head down to the town, to get some supplies, make sure Eamonn’s cupboards were full before he returned to England. It occurred to him that that was the kind of thing sons might do for their elderly parents, not the other way round. Not for
the first time he considered that his presence wasn’t helping at all. Without him around Eamonn would have to pull himself together. Maybe it was a case of sink or swim. The thought failed to reassure him. The memory of watching his son dipping beneath the waves was still lurid and nightmarish.

Despite his intention to walk into town, he found himself a few minutes later outside Inga’s door. He was more surprised than she seemed to be at his arrival there. She was putting out food on the street for the cats. A bowl of leftovers and, next to it, a large bag of uncooked rice. He frowned at the rice.

‘What are the cats to do with that?’

But she just smiled and said, ‘Come in. I was just making some coffee.’

He glanced again at the bag of rice and then followed her in.

‘How’s Eamonn?’

He ran his hand through his hair. ‘My wife was always worrying about him. Fussing. It used to drive me mad. He’s a grown man, I’d say. He has a life of his own. Now it’s my turn.’

‘They never stop being a worry.’

‘I don’t know what goes on in that head of his. I don’t pretend to.’

‘Love can make us strange.’

‘I’m not sure it took love to make Eamonn strange.’

She smiled. ‘He frustrates you.’

‘Why doesn’t he go after her? The only fight in him seems with himself.’

‘Perhaps he’s giving her space and time.’

‘Well, give someone enough space and you won’t find them again.’

She looked at him. ‘Is that an Irish saying?’

‘I don’t think so. Though I just said it and I’m Irish. Is that the same thing?’

‘You’re very good. You could do a line in tea towels.’

He seemed to consider this and said solemnly, ‘“The sayings of Dermot.”’

‘I’d buy one.’ She smiled at him again. ‘So. I was going to spend the day painting.’

‘I should go.’

‘No. I’d like you to stay.’

He sat in the same chair for hours. The room itself as absorbing as a picture. The sunlight coming through the window. Inga’s small movements, transferring paint from a palette to the canvas. The painting at the centre of it all. He shifted focus from the abstract blur of colour where her brush met the canvas, to the resolved image of the broken chair that she was painting, to the wider room which framed her. He heard the brush sink into the paint, the creaking of the easel, her irregular breathing as she concentrated. The sun moved across the room, the pool of light shifting throughout the afternoon. He must have dozed off at some point. He woke up and saw the painting, imperceptibly augmented, richer, denser. Much later on, as it started to grow dark, he spoke, unprompted, and she didn’t seem to mind:

‘I wake up sometimes in the night and I can’t work out where I am, or what year it is. I think I’m back in the house I was in as a boy. I think my brother’s asleep in the room with me. It’s like, without Kathleen there to anchor me, I’m just floating about in my own life.’

She stopped to listen when he spoke, but didn’t turn around. When he finished she went back to painting. He wondered when she would think the painting was finished. He did not want her to finish.

‘My brother Dominic died a long time ago. In America. A car crash. He and his wife, both killed. Her name was Della Schwarz. I never met her. Della Schwarz. It’s a nice name to
say. She was pregnant.’ There was a long pause. ‘Six months or so. A baby. We got a letter.’

She sat down on a stool in front of her painting and laid the brush on the palette. She didn’t look at him.

‘It was his name in the letter. And she was his wife. He’d sent a telegram when they married, just a year before. It was them all right. I didn’t know him at all then. I hadn’t seen him in years. There were letters, but it was as if they were from a stranger. I didn’t know him as an adult, just this voice in the letters, talking about trains and jobs and roads and hamburgers and the people he had met.

‘It was a lorry that hit them. I imagine one of those big ones you see in American films, all chrome and pipes and a blaring horn. Crossed the carriageway and hit them head on. I suppose the driver had fallen asleep, or was drunk. I don’t know. They must have seen it coming. They must have known.

‘I remember him as a boy, waking me in the night, scared of ghosts, scared but not scared. Scared but brave. He’d call out my name, then get into bed beside me, his body frozen, like he’d been sleeping in the fields, teeth chattering with the cold, telling me about the ghosts he’d seen. I’d squeeze his hand and the chattering would slow and then eventually stop and then he’d be asleep again.

‘I think sometimes you lose people and you barely know it at the time. It starts as a small crack. That’s all it is. It takes years, a lifetime, before you notice what went out through the crack. How much you lost.

‘He sounded happy in the letters. He never mentioned ghosts. He was grown up, I suppose. He was in love. I’m sure she loved him too. He was going to be a father.’ He paused. ‘I can’t imagine that at all, but then … it never happened anyway.’ He coughed. ‘I don’t suppose he was ever scared any more, not as an adult. I hope not. Probably it was Della Schwarz
he called for. Terrified for her and the baby, not himself. He was a grown man. Three lives about to end. I hope she held his hand. I hope they both held hands.’

They sat in the dark for a long time until a noise from outside broke the silence. Dermot stood up; Inga looked at him and put a finger to her lips. She indicated that he should follow her to the window. They stood in the shadows looking out at the street. The bag of rice was gone and the food bowl empty. Dermot craned his neck expecting to see the unlikely sight of a cat dragging the heavy bag. He saw nothing, but heard the distinct sound of light footsteps running away.

The electricity had been off for five hours. Each time there was a power cut Eamonn wondered if the lights would ever come on again. He thought that one day the electricity company would give up on them. Just a handful of people. More trouble than they were worth. He often imagined himself close to a survival situation. In the last power cut he’d asked Laura if she thought they should start burning the furniture or barricading the doors, but she hadn’t seemed to share his sense of emergency.

It was late now and he wondered where his father was. He emerged from his room and found some of Laura’s scented candles. He put them on the table and lit them. They gave off a peppery smell reminiscent of church incense.

He sat still but his body buzzed. A vibrating pulse, small but insistent. It felt very much as if a tiny creature were trapped inside him.

‘There was an old woman who swallowed a fly.’

A song from infancy. He shut his eyes tight, trying to drive it away. It seemed designed, like so many childhood entertainments, only to perplex or infuriate. The thought of them now still maddening. London Bridge is falling down. There’s a hole in my bucket. Ten green bottles. Small tortures, ceaseless, repetitive, neither funny nor clever, just stupid people saying stupid things.

‘There was an old woman who swallowed a fly.’

She swallowed a cow to catch the dog. He remembered the version they used to play on the radio: a creepy-voiced man,
giggling as he sang, as if there were anything remotely funny about the whole grotesque chain of events.

‘There was an old woman who swallowed a fly.’

The song trapped like the fabled insect inside him. He resisted the temptation to smack himself hard in the face.

‘I don’t know why she swallowed a fly. Perhaps she’ll die.’

He had made a list in his room. He smiled to think of it: his great novel had in the end amounted to little more than hundreds of lists. It was appropriate that he should be methodical even in this. A neat array of bullet points – for once the implicit violence seeming appropriate. He looked at it.

• Laura gone
  
• Sexually assaulted neighbour
  
• No money
  
• No job
  
• No prospect of job
  
• Unable to write
  
• Unable to escape Lomaverde
  
• Unable to remain in Lomaverde
  
• Source of worry to Dad
  

It was like striking a match. Each time he looked at it, the self-loathing flaring brightly once more.

As a teenager, unhappy at school, he had once or twice entertained the usual fantasies. Seduced by the grand operatic vision, drunk with self-pity, passing exquisitely miserable hours planning the staging, the note, the playlist, the eulogy. They had never been anything more than desperate bids for autonomy. Comforting fantasies of death, to make life temporarily more bearable. This was not like those at all. He had no vision of after. No note. No self-pity. No self-aggrandizing. No self. That was the point. He just wanted to end. To draw a line under it all.

But despite the list, despite the Internet research, despite even choosing the spot, he knew with a heavy, stone-like certainty that he would not do it. Suicide involved blinding himself to the pain he would cause his father and Laura. Covering his eyes and trying to believe it wouldn’t happen because he wouldn’t be around to see it. Even he was not capable of such self-deceit.

He heard a key in the door and his father came in carrying a torch.

‘You’re up, then?’

‘Yes.’

‘Migraine better?’

‘A little.’

Dermot went into the kitchen and returned with some beers. He sat down on the futon beside him and said nothing for so long that Eamonn thought he had fallen asleep. Then he spoke:

‘Losing someone is hard.’

Eamonn said nothing.

‘I understand that.’

Eamonn nodded. ‘I know.’

‘Your mother too. She would have understood.’

‘Yes.’

‘She lost someone once, you know, someone close to her. She found it difficult.’

‘Who was that?’

‘Walsh. The priest you were asking about.’

‘He died?’

‘No, no. He just got moved on, you know the way they do. Your mother took it hard.’

‘I never heard her mention him.’

Dermot was quiet again for a while. ‘He was a breath of fresh air after Phelan. An educated fella, very energetic, full
of the books he’d read and the ideas he had. He and she became pals. I suppose she’d have stood out from the other women that hung around the presbytery. I’d say he’d have been delighted to find someone he could have a conversation with.’ He paused. ‘And I suppose the same was true for your mother.’

‘But Mom had you.’

Dermot rubbed his face. ‘She did. But I’d never really shared her interest in religion. It wasn’t such a big deal back when we married. But all those years we were waiting for you, the Church edged its way in. That’s what it does, doesn’t it? Find the chink. She was looking for something. I couldn’t talk to her about those things.

‘Anyway, Walsh came along. Stepped into the breach, you could say. He got her interested in all kinds of things. She started doing night courses – theology, that kind of thing – you know all those books she had. The truth was I wouldn’t have minded doing a few classes myself, wouldn’t have minded going along. I don’t know why I didn’t tell her that.’ He reflected for a moment. ‘I suppose I got the idea it wasn’t really me she wanted to be discussing these things with.

‘He came round the house one time for his tea. She was in a mania for days beforehand. All of a sudden we needed a bookcase in the lounge. I had to build one double quick to show off all our books – only it wasn’t our books that went on it, just hers.’

He was quiet again for some time.

‘She told me once that I had nothing to worry about with Walsh.’

‘What did that mean?’

‘Oh, you know, there’d been talk. Gossip in the parish. I think it was just that the other hangers-on were put out about the time he and your mother spent together. I never thought there was anything like that between them.’

‘Did you not ask her?’

Dermot ignored him. ‘She said: “You’ve got nothing to worry about with Walsh, he and I are just kindred spirits.” She said it to me as if that was OK’ – he paused to take a drink – ‘as if I’d never thought she and I might be kindred spirits.’

They sat in silence for a while before Dermot spoke again.

‘I’ve known plenty of clever people – you get them on the buses – maybe that surprises you, but you do. Philosophers and thinkers of all types – some educated in universities, some educated by themselves. But the thing about clever people is they don’t shout about it. Your mother, for example, she was one. She was brighter than he was, though she couldn’t see it. A few more of those night classes and she’d have outgrown him. Realized how much of his talk was just noise. She and he weren’t kindred spirits. I never believed that.’

‘So he was never a real threat?’

‘Not really. I don’t think so. I don’t think that’s arrogance. I knew her better than anyone. But the problem was, I wasn’t so clever. I didn’t like the man and I let that get in the way of things. I should have let him be. Let things run their course.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I went to see him.’

‘What did you say?’

‘Not much. I didn’t have to. He knew well enough. And he did what I knew he’d do.’

‘What?’

‘He skipped off. Moved on. Another parish. A word in the bishop’s ear. His work with us was done. I think they saw him as a high-flyer.’

‘Where’d he go?’

‘Latin America somewhere – it was probably a short cut to being a cardinal.’

‘That’s far enough. Better than you must have hoped.’

‘I don’t know what I hoped. I don’t know what I thought.’

He was quiet for a while.

‘I found a box when I was clearing your mother’s things. Stuffed with his letters. I counted them. A hundred and sixty-one.’

‘What did they say?’

‘I didn’t read them.’

Eamonn looked at him.

‘You don’t even know that she replied. Maybe he was wasting his time.’

‘You know, you can always tell the married couples on the bus. They’re the ones not speaking to each other. Everyone else chats, but the husbands and wives sit in silence. It makes you wonder: are they silent because they know each other’s minds and there’s no need for words? Or are they silent because they’re imagining conversations with other people? Or is one doing one and the other doing the other? Two different silences side by side?’

‘But they were just letters. Nothing real. You and Mom were happy in your own way.’

Dermot smiled. ‘We both thought the world of you, son.’

Eamonn shook his head, wanting more. ‘But with each other. You weren’t unhappy, were you?’

Dermot studied the backs of his hands. ‘I always loved her.’ He placed them flat on his knees. ‘But I’ve been less lonely since she’s gone.’