‘Knockavoy is great bloody place!’ Jem declared, reeling slightly. ‘This is great song!’
‘Who is it?’
‘Haven’t clue!’ Jem said happily. ‘But it is great bloody song! Come on, everyone up dancing!’
Although feeling slightly old and well-dressed, drunk enough to get to feet. Bridie and Barry also took to floor but Treese stayed seated, smiling enigmatically. You would think Treese not dancing because too sophisticated but those closest to her know she doesn’t dance because never learnt to enjoy it when fat.
Dancing quite happily when unexpectedly received sharp poke in lower back. Quite painful, if you want honest opinion. Think it got me in the kidney. Turned around. It was long-haired girl Jake had been talking to. Young, surfy, many tattoos. (I have tattoo, but is only discreet one of butterfly on ankle. Way outclassed by this girl with Celtic knot circling her upper arm, sunburst around her belly button and Om symbol on her wrist.)
‘
You
are Lola?’ she said.
Am used to everyone in Knockavoy knowing all about me, but this was different.
‘… Er… yes.’
She gave me scorching head-to-toe once-over with her eyes. ‘I am Jaz. Remember my name.’ Before could laugh at such cheesy line, she stalked away, bumping into Jem, who went staggering into Bridie, who clouted him roughly and said, ‘Mind where you’re dancing.’
Life sad, no? Tattoo girl clearly besotted with Jake, but he is making play for me. But I am not interested in Jake because in love with Paddy. But Paddy getting married to Alicia and actually, that is where chain ends because Alicia bound to be in love with Paddy because how could she not be?
‘Come upstairs for minute,’ Bridie whispered.
‘Why?’
‘Just come on.’
Pushed way through people snogging on stairs. Then another flight of stairs, no one snogging on this one. Followed Bridie, who was doing
exaggerated tiptoe walk, up bare, wooden steps. At top of house, she pushed open a door with tips of her fingers, but didn’t cross the threshold.
‘This is Love-God’s bedroom,’ she confided.
‘How you know?’
‘Asked around.’
We stood at door and peeped in. Like magic-land in there. Light flickering from three fat white candles stuck in Gothic trident candelabra. Bleached floorboards. Sand. Wooden four-poster bed, top draped with fishing nets (but not smelly). Lopsided locker. Paint peeling but not depressing. Somehow beautiful.
Windows open, muslin curtains billowing in breeze, sound of waves rushing and sucking.
‘The things that must happen in this room…’ Bridie sighed. She seized my arm in sudden painful grip. ‘Look in drawer beside his bed,’ she urged. ‘Go on, see if he’s got condoms in it. I bet he has. Go on, Lola.’
‘No.’ Didn’t want illusion spoilt simply to satisfy Bridie’s sick curiosity.
Didn’t want to see matches, broken watch, hair bobble, Anadins, Rizlas, leaking pens, fluff and other bedside-drawer detritus.
‘The candles…’ Bridie breathed. ‘So romantic.’
‘Probably because he is too lazy to change broken light bulb,’ I said.
And what kind of irresponsible fool leaves naked flame unattended?
With three sharp, no-nonsense puffs, I extinguished the candles. Bridie annoyed.
Back downstairs, Jake in dancing room. He saw me come in, turned quickly to hi-fi, did something and suddenly music changed from Arctic Monkeys (I think) to slow song. Dancers startled. Cut off in their prime. Distinctly heard someone ask,
‘What’s this shite
?’ Jake cut swathe through them, stood before me and in low voice asked a question.
‘Hmmm?’
Knew what he was asking, but wanted to watch his mouth say it again.
Louder he said, ‘Would you like to dance?’
‘… Okay…’
He took my hand in courtly gesture and led me two feet into centre of room.
‘Go on, Lola!’ Jem called, as if encouraging horse in Grand National. He was really quite fluthered.
Heard Bridie hissing, ‘Shut up, Jem, you imbecile!’
Jake opened his arms – beautifully sinewy; biceps bulgy but not obscene, not like Mr Universe – and I stepped into them. Hit by the heat of his body.
Hard to describe how I felt. Not lustful or giddy with romance. But not reluctant either. Not repelled by fact that he wasn’t Paddy. I suppose I was… I was… interested.
He placed one hand between my shoulder blades, other on small of my back. Nice. At moment have so little physical contact in life. (Mrs Butterly very fond of me, but she is rural Irish woman: would kill her to do hug.)
I slid arms around his neck, hands getting tangled in hair at nape of his neck. Nice space under his collarbone, just to the right of the shark’s-tooth necklace, to rest head. Experimentally tried it. Yes, pleasant. Nice fit. Relaxed into it. Closed eyes.
His T-shirt warm and soft, chest underneath warm and hard. Pleasant, pleasant, oh undeniably pleasant.
Felt like eight thousand years since had slow-danced with a man. Just doesn’t happen past the age of fifteen, does it?
His skin smelt salty. Suspected if I stuck tongue out and touched his neck, would taste salt.
In fact, as took a breath, noticed he smelt slightly of sweat. Unusual. People behave as if to smell of human being is obscene. Him not smelling of sharp citrus scent seemed gauche… but perhaps it is me who is gauche? Maybe that is the way of the younger people: not washing so frequently, not clogging up sweat glands with white stuff which then goes all over clothes, not drenching themselves with pungent chemicals (i.e. aftershave). Perhaps I and my attachment to magnolia blossom fabric conditioner seem risible to them.
Jake tightened his hold on me, sliding one hand round from small of back to waist and pressing harder between shoulder blades with
other hand. Fine, all fine. But kept my focus above the waterline. If any stirrings below it – in either of us – just didn’t want to know.
Song ended. New song started, also slow. But had had enough. Can’t describe it any better than that. Had liked the feel of him and smell of him, but no more for tonight.
‘Thank you.’ I pulled away from him.
He seemed surprised. ‘That’s it, Lola?’
‘That’s it, Jake.’
He smiled.
Look in his eyes: admiration? Respect? Maybe not. Who knows?
I went back to others.
‘Why you stop?’ Bridie demanded.
‘Because wanted to.’
‘I see, you are playing long game –’
‘I’m not.’
‘– but it will do you no good. You might as well go up those stairs and get into bed with him right now!’
Said nothing. Bridie doing transference. She fancies him.
Awoke feeling peculiar. Hung-over, of course. Jem only person up. In kitchen, reading newspaper.
‘Going to ring my dad,’ I said. ‘Ring him every Sunday around this time.’
Went outside, sat on front step and rang number in faraway Birmingham.
Dad answered by saying their phone number. Is quaint, no? Time-warp stuff. (They do it in Margery Allingham books. ‘Whitehall 90210’, etc.)
‘Dad?’
‘… Oh… Lola.’
‘This a bad time?’
‘No.’
‘You sure? You sound…’
‘I sound what?’
‘… Like it’s bad time. Like you don’t want talk to me.’
‘Why wouldn’t I want talk to you?’
‘… Um… ah…’ Sudden courage. ‘Dad, why don’t you ever ring me?’
‘Because you ring me every Sunday.’
But couldn’t help wondering: What if I didn’t ring? How long would it take before he rang me? Sometimes felt like testing him, but couldn’t run the risk that he might simply never call me – ever – and then I would have no father.
Desultory conversation ensued. Most of talking done by me.
Then Dad asked, ‘What you want for Christmas?’
‘It’s only October.’
‘It’ll be upon us before we know it. So what you want?’
‘Bottle of perfume.’ Is sort of present he thinks fathers should give to daughters.
‘What kind perfume?’
‘Any kind. A surprise.’
‘You buy it, I will send you postal order.’
Postal order! Why not cheque? He has bank account! No need for postal order!
Whenever I think of life lived by Dad and his brother – Uncle Francis, also a widower, also prone to depression – I always imagine depressing play about rural Ireland in the fifties. Picture in my head has them living in small cheerless cottage where kitchen is full of steam from enormous pot of potatoes constantly on boil. From early morning to sunset, days are spent in back-breaking work, tilling fields and milking cows, while wearing ancient white dress shirts and shiny-bummed suit trousers. Conversation non-existent. Every evening they each eat thirteen floury potatoes, and drink pint bottle of stout, while listening to sea-area forecast on wireless. Then they get on their knees on hard-flagged kitchen floor and, leaning elbows on bokety wooden chair, say fifteen decades of the rosary, before undressing to their vests and long johns and sleeping together in narrow iron bed. For many years, day in, day out, life continues in this vein, until eventually one of them hangs himself in cowhouse.
I know reality is not like that. Uncle Francis’s house, in Birmingham suburb, small but modern. Has electricity and running water, unlike house in my head. Also each man has own bedroom and know for a fact that Dad has pyjamas and tartan dressing gown and doesn’t
need to sleep in long johns. Fair amount of religious iconography, mind you. Pride of place a picture of Sacred Heart: picture of Jesus, revealing red heart – i.e. internal organ – in his chest. Many Catholic homes sport one, but Uncle Francis has de luxe version – red flashing lights inset into heart. Terrifying. Had to get up one night to get glass of water and when saw red heart floating in darkness of hall, own heart nearly seized up in chest from fright. They go to Mass every Sunday but other than that, have no idea what they do with their time. I know they went to grand reopening of Bullring. (FYI, Bullring is shopping centre in centre of Birmingham, not actual bullring.) Another big outing – cinema to see
The Da Vinci Code
. (Were quite defensive about it, poor things. ‘Is better to be informed about attacks on Catholic church. Was terrible the way Opus Dei was portrayed. Is fine organization, full of fine people, and you don’t have to wear that thing on your leg if you really don’t want to.’)
Eventually conversation meandered to complete halt. My patience expired, said huffy goodbye, snapped phone closed and marched back in to Jem.
‘How’s your dad?’ he asked.
‘Emotionally unavailable to me.’ (Had learnt this in therapy.) ‘You know what, Jem!’ Sudden burst of frustration. ‘Is no wonder am a bit fucked-up. I mean, look at family I come from – dead mother, depressed father, depressed uncle. All things considered, am actually pretty normal!’
‘Yes!’ Jem agreed. ‘Yes, indeed!’
Jem, loyal friend.
Bridie made us go for walk on beach –first time since arrived in Knockavoy that I had put foot on beach. Noted with quiet satisfaction Bridie and Barry wearing normal clothing. Then she made us go to pub and drink several drinks to ‘make most of weekend.’ (Barry forbidden to drink, as driving home.)
Didn’t want any alcohol – felt hung-over, quite sick, actually, from quantities consumed the night before – but Bridie shamed me into it. ‘Not every weekend your friends visiting from Dublin!’
Waved off Bridie, Barry, Treese and Jem. Really quite drunk.
‘Feel bad leaving you here on your own,’ Jem said.
‘Will be fine! Glad you’re going back. Am destroyed. Do not have constitution for all this drinking and debauchery. Very fond of you all but do not come again for a while.’
Woke far too early. Felt mildly wretched. Circadian rhythm knocked way off course by weekend of drinking and late nights.
Rang Bridie for chat.
‘Why you ringing?’ she asked.
‘Chat.’
‘Chat? Have spent whole bloody weekend with you. Must go now.’
She hung up and I stared at phone. ‘Feck you, then,’ I said.
When stinging feeling had passed, rang Treese. Someone – not Treese – answered, ‘Treese Noonan’soffice.’
‘I speak to Treese, please?’ Hard to get to talk to her directly. She is important woman.
‘Who’s calling, please?’
‘Lola Daly.’
‘What’s it in connection with?’
‘Latrines.’
Got put straight through. Knew I would. Latrines, magic word.
‘Everything okay, Lola?’
‘Oh yes, just ringing for chat.’
But Treese also unable to chat.
‘Lola, sorry. Crisis here.’
Lots of anguished shouting and howling in background. Every second word seemed to be ‘latrines.’
‘By the way,’ she said, ‘you should sleep with that surf boy.’
Then she was gone.
Deflated. Undeniably deflated. Stared gloomily at phone. Considered ringing Jem, but couldn’t take another rejection. Then phone rang! Was Jem!
‘Hear you are looking for a chat.’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Is okay. Urge has gone off me now.’
Kindly, though, very kindly.
Didn’t go to town. Loitering around house, half-heartedly looking for kicks. Jem had brought my post from Dublin: many, many look-books from designers but too painful to study them. At moment too sad to be reminded of non-working status. In desperation, made terrible error of looking through newspapers Jem had left behind. Shouldn’t have. Sure enough, on society page, was picture of Paddy and Alicia the horse at opening of some art exhibition.
Terribly upset. Shaking, all of me – the obvious parts like fingers and knees and lips, but also the hidden bits – stomach lining and bladder and lungs. Ferocious pang of longing for my mother. Missed her with frightful hungry force. Wanted to visit her grave and have chat. But couldn’t drive to Dublin. Hands shaking too much. Besides was barred.
Had idea. Would go to Knockavoy graveyard, would visit someone else’s grave, some woman of similar age to my mother, and talk to her.
Walking to graveyard in hope that physical activity might help – endorphins, serotonin et al. – but only on road few minutes when car pulled up beside me, lots of glassy clinking noises. Rossa Considine in his eco-mobile. Bad, burny feeling. What did he want?