“What’s playing in Galway?” asks Dermot.
“At the films?”
“Anything.”
“A Friel at the Druid. Music. The usual.”
Dermot eyes the last crescent of stout in his glass. Sits back in his chair. “I’m not up for it.”
Over by the bar the cooking show on television goes to commercial—an ad for the Ab-Buster machine. A woman rows herself over the carpet of a bright living room.
Dermot turns back to Michael. “Do you suppose there’s anything down at the water?” The local kids sometimes have bonfires on the beach. Dermot would know a
few from town and Michael would recognize some from the University. There’d be drink and a measure of company.
“How would I know?”
“We could walk over.”
They take the short cut through Costelloe’s field, Michael catching his coat sleeve on the barbed-wire fence as he climbs over, Dermot turning his ankle in a rut. The two of them silent as they cross, the sound of the wind in the hawthorn. When they get down to the beach, the light from the bonfire becomes visible, an orange globe over by the pier. The black ink of the bay a skirt that obscures even the Islands.
All that week, fish heads had been washing up on the beach. Dermot steps over one, then another. Pocked eyes, bone showing under the gill. Michael ambles along at a distance, watches Dermot bend down, study the fish at his feet.
When they get to the bonfire the kids make room for them. Dermot knows two or three by name—a McGilloway nephew from Furbo, Jimmy Greenon, a girl called Barbara that he sees some nights at Hughes. He looks over at her, nods, and she looks away. Michael has found one of his students, stands with him over by a bucket full of beer cans. The sound of a guitar coming from the breakwall.
A log is thrown on the fire and the flames lift. Over by the road a few kids break branches off the low shrubs that line the field. A car parked near the low wall to the beach has steamed windows. The moon is half full.
Michael walks back over to Dermot, pulls a can of Kilkenny out of his coat pocket, and gives it over. Produces
another from under his arm. Opening his can and raising it in Dermot’s direction, he intones, “To the composting of elements. Or fish guts, at any rate.”
Dermot flips the tab on his can and sips at the foam, lifts the whole enterprise in the air. Thinks for a second then adds, “Between wood’s rim and the horses of the sea.” He takes a long drink from the can.
Michael lets himself be baited. “Wood’s rim?”
“In three days’ time he stood up with a moan?” Dermot narrows his eyes. “And went down to the long sands alone / For four days warred he with the bitter tide / And the waves flowed above him and he died. It’s Yeats.”
“My apologies.”
“Who the Christ let you into Ireland anyway?”
Michael drinks from his can of lager, swallows. “I believe it was your Prime Minister.”
Michael does as expected. He finds a group of students he knows and stands with them by the fire, talking about their programs, their professors, the new Gallery the University is building near the canal. It isn’t lost on Dermot that these students could have been his. Not these exactly, but this generation. He’d have been at it for twenty-five years by now. If he’d stayed on course, if he’d hung on at Trinity, fought for his position; if he hadn’t met Sophie.
Dermot sets off along the beach. Once he’d brought Abbey down here so she could meet kids closer to her own age. As soon as he saw her in conversation with one of the boys from Salthill he’d discreetly walked away. They were on
about Toronto, the boy having gone there one summer to stay with his aunt. That was last November. It had been cold away from the fire so Dermot made for the shadowy outline of the breakwall, climbing the hill that joined it to the upper road. Then he’d dropped down to the far side of the concrete barrier, the last lick of the sun straddling the water. The noise from the party had receded, and only now and again could he make out music from the stereo as it was carried over the wall by the wind. When he first came to Spiddal there were musicians who’d come to the beach with instruments to play. Now it was all hip-hop and portable stereos, music he didn’t recognize. That night, Dermot had watched the sun bleeding down until it was underwater, the bay going from blue to black. He must’ve been there an hour.
All I want
, he was thinking,
all I want
, and his mind had looped around that idea like it was a song lyric he’d once known.
All I want
, and it had occurred to him he wanted Abbey to go home with that boy from Salthill, to fall in love with someone who didn’t need her. It had occurred to him that he wanted to bow out, to stay on the other side of the breakwall while the world churned on without him. He had lit a cigarette and the smoke burned the back of his throat. The cold became more apparent. He’d lifted his back away from the concrete. He wanted out, out of everything. If there was a vote going, if it was his lot in life, his fate, that was up for consideration, he’d abstain. And he felt heavy, wondered if he’d even be able to lift his foot, move it forward over the sand, lift the next foot, pull himself up the stubbly grass hill that led to the parking lot above. He’d moved his hand towards his mouth and picked a strand of tobacco off
his bottom lip. He’d listened for the music, concentrated hard, but there was none. Perhaps everyone else had gone home. He’d leaned back against the cold wall and tried to sort through the different shades of darkness. He was waiting for Abbey to find him and the realization made him sick.
Now Dermot walks towards the breakwall, and, squinting, makes out a group of kids sitting on the near side of the pier. Finn, the new postal worker is among them. And the girl from Hughes, and a guy wearing army pants and a bright sweater, strumming a guitar. Much to Dermot’s surprise, he sees Flagon with them, lying beside a black girl he’s never seen before, the girl scratching his dog’s chin. As soon as Dermot is close enough, Flagon picks up his scent. He whistles low and she trots over. Circles him a few times, nuzzling his legs.
“Ya big hussy.”
She sits down and looks up at him, tilts her head.
“All right, all right.”
Seeing Dermot, Finn raises a hand in greeting. The girl, Barbara, looks away again.
“How’s it?” Finn calls.
Dermot nods, raises his hand.
“What happened after the wake?” Finn had been there, saw Dermot take Deirdre out of the house. All the kids now, all four of them, looking over.
“A boy,” Dermot calls back, then louder, “she had a boy.”
Dermot walks towards the bay and Flagon trots ahead, turning around every few feet, waiting for a command. When they get to the water the dog stands there with two paws in the soup. Barks once into the darkness. Dermot watches the
tide lap up around his shoes, recede, lap up again. Waits for the water to soak through.
Finn Eason had taken over Eileen’s job at the post office. One morning he was simply there, in the van, dropping off a bill for the fence material, a credit card application, and the next moment he was backing out of the driveway without as much as a word. Dermot had run into him again on the road a few days back. Finn had pulled over and rolled down the window, his walkman on. Fumbled through the mail on the seat beside him. Handed a letter over—an ESB bill. Dermot recognized the logo for the electricity company in the top left-hand corner. Finn put the van in gear and spun away. Dermot had hoped for something from Abbey. Or even a social word from the postal boy. He’d enjoyed Eileen McGilloway’s chatter. She’d pull up and say, “You’ll have to try my lemon squares, Mr. Fay. It’s a new recipe, quite tangy.” And the next day, wrapped up in aluminum on his doorstep, Dermot would find two lemon squares. And McGilloway would always apologize if there was no mail, and comment on any that there was. “Ah, but where’d we be without electricity?” Standing at the edge of the bay, the line between the sky and the water all but gone, Dermot can hear McGilloway as if she was right beside him.
“Where’d we be, Mr. Fay?”
“In the dark, Mrs. McGilloway, in the dark.”
Climbing Bray Head
WHEN Dermot gets home he lights a fire, sits on the couch, and Flagon comes to stand in front of him. “Stop staring.” He tries to usher her off, but she won’t go. “I mean it. Away with ya.” He walks into the kitchen, pours a drink, and she stands behind him, watching. He drinks the whiskey, staring back at her, and then turns to top up the glass. The light in the front room on and the rest of the house gone dark.
Dermot gets a blanket from the bedroom and lays down on the couch. Closes his eyes. Listens to the spark and hiss of the fire. Flagon panting over by the door. There’s something familiar about those sounds together and he tries to think of what it is. Can picture licks of long grass, bracken that crackles underfoot as he steps on it, making his way up a hill. Then nothing. He goes back to it again, the walking uphill. Tries to see the size of his shoe. What age is he in this memory? There’s the grass, the bracken. He goes down on his hands for a minute to scamper along. And then he sees her. His mother. Standing on the rise towards the headland in Bray.
His mother had taken him to Bray when he was seven and for the first time that he could remember, the trip was about him, not the world of adults where you’re bribed into going to an aunt’s with promises of fruitcake and tea. Like the times Dermot’s mother had brought him along to visit her older sister Kate, who was suffering from rheumatism. She would tell Dermot they were going on an outing, that it would be fun. That if he behaved himself, and his cousin Joe was home, maybe he could ride their pony. And he did, once. The cousin, all of fourteen, his torn brown jumper held together at the shoulder with a stitch of red wool, walking Dermot, legs slung over the pony, around the paddock while his mother watched from a window in the upstairs of the house. Dermot going in circles, still more waiting than riding. The pony dead-eyed. Dermot’s bare legs feeling the pull of skin over her rib cage. The cousin saying, “Atta boy.” The flies buzzed around all three of them as they wore down a wheel of grass. Dermot had watched the ground the whole time—the weeds near the byre that came into view again and again just to the left of the pony’s bobbing head. It was mid-summer and the thick stalks arched out of the ground. Then his mother came out. He remembers her hands under his arm pits, Dermot pulled awkwardly down from the pony so that his shoe, already untied, slipped off. Then the cousin bent down to pick it up, farting once, a loud pop—looking up to see if anyone had noticed, and everyone had. So he’d slapped the pony’s rump, as if to blame her. “Right, see yas.” Going in to the house to check on his mother.
But it’s Bray that Dermot wants to think about—climbing up Bray Head, stumbling over the grass and scree, and
then, for a while, walking the clear path straight on, until it arched up again and the two of them had to lean forward, use their hands. “Good boy, son,” she had said, and he’d looked back to see if she was coming, holding up sometimes to make sure she didn’t fall too far behind. She was wearing trousers, beige ones; they were grass-stained by the end of the day, mud up along the one hem from the right foot slipping. Near the finish she’d raced up ahead of him, on her own then, not even looking back. And that’s how he remembers her now, at the top, looking out, not even seeing him crest the ridge.
He’d expected more from the top—more than the view of the sea, the grey stretch of it. He’d expected something monumental. The two of them clambering up after each other, racing towards a grass and mud peak. “Ever since I was a girl I’ve wanted to climb it.” His mother reaching for his hand and starting down.
He doesn’t hear the first knock.
“Dermot, let me in.” Abbey’s knuckles against the wood of the door, raw and red from the cold. The road, the beach, everything had gone dark since she started walking. “Dermot!”
Her head is throbbing at the temples, her neck’s still sore every time she swallows; the cold goes right through her. It’s close to midnight. Other than the ride to Barna, she’s been on foot.
“Dermot!”
Abbey’s voice comes to Dermot the way sound travels through a tunnel, distilled and faraway, until the pitch of his dream subsides and he can hear her clearly. In two strides he’s at the door, opening it, her pinched face in front of him, arms
crossed over her chest, backpack at her feet. He wants to touch her, to cup her face in his hands but instead he stands back, lets her go past him, has a sense that he should be angry although he isn’t sure why. His hand still on the latch, holding the door open. Abbey heads through the front room without a word. Goes into the bedroom. And for a second it’s as if time has rolled backwards, transporting them into some old, unresolved argument. Where had they left off? Dermot tries to nail it down, figure out what part of it they’ll go forward from now. The proposal? The tug-of-war before she left for Canada? The day she first moved in? As if the past two weeks never happened. Behind him, Abbey turns on the light in the bedroom, pulls the second blanket off the bed, wraps herself in it.
Dermot rubs his face, his eyes, with his hands. He can hear Abbey in the bedroom moving around. When he looks up, she’s standing in the doorway watching him. Then she goes over to the dresser, opens her drawer.
Empty
, he thinks. She took everything with her. She throws the blanket back onto the bed and walks around the corner into the bathroom. After a minute Dermot moves away from the door. Thinks,
this is all going wrong
. Unsure of what to do about it. He wants to say something to Abbey about her being home, but he doesn’t. Instead he stands there bewildered, watching her from behind as she turns on the immersion switch, starts taking off her clothes. It occurs to him then that maybe she’s come back to pack her last few things, that tomorrow she’ll leave him. So he walks out of the room and sits on the couch. Gets up again and opens the far cupboard to find a bottle. The sound of the water running through the pipes.
Between the Cottage and the Bay
DERMOT stands beside the bed watching Abbey sleep, the covers pulled up to her chin and balled around the one fist. He’s been watching her a while, the way she opens and closes her mouth, turns and nestles the pillow. He’d gone for a walk, made it as far as St. Éinde’s. Sat on a pew holding a bottle of whiskey in both hands, willing himself not to drink it. When he’d come back to the cottage, into the bedroom, he thought she’d wake up, but she didn’t. So he stands by the bed wondering if he should get in.