The Living (3 page)

‘So,' he said, ‘what do you do when you're not singing?'

‘In those rare moments, you mean? I work for a publisher.'

‘Oh?' His elegant eyebrows registered interest. ‘I was a publisher's reader for a few years, before I bit the bullet and re-entered academia. What house do you work for?'

House
seemed an impossibly elevated term for George's outfit. ‘You won't have heard of it. It's tiny. It's called Bell Books.'

He flexed the corners of his eyes. ‘Hmmm. I think I might have, actually. Do you publish mainly Irish interest?'

I couldn't help smiling. ‘All Irish publishers publish mainly Irish interest,' I told him gently.

He looked slightly embarrassed. I watched the tiny ridges on his lower lip, how they caught the light. His ear, too, was particularly lovely – a dainty pink swirl that hugged the side of his head, framed bewitchingly by dark curls. He said, ‘But no, I'm sure I have come across you before. Bell Books. You don't do fiction, do you?'

‘No, it's all government reports, touristy books, history, that sort of thing.'

‘Ah, that's it. I think my supervisor is writing a preface for one of your books.'

‘Is your supervisor John Lawless?'

‘Yes, that's right, he was telling me about it last week.' Matthew seemed unconcerned by the coincidence, which was a good one, I felt, even by Irish standards. He went on, ‘What's the author's name again?'

‘Eddie MacDevitt,' I said, and immediately got the feeling that perhaps I shouldn't have. ‘But I'm not – I don't – I'm not working on that project. I don't really work on the books themselves.'

‘Don't you?'

‘I just do the website, and correspondence and stuff.' It was my turn to be embarrassed. Suddenly, my job seemed meaningless and dull.

‘That could be fun,' said Matthew. ‘What's Eddie MacDevitt like as a correspondent?'

He was so keen, I wished I had something exciting to tell him. ‘I don't know,' I said. ‘My boss is handling the whole thing himself.'

‘I see,' he said. I tried to fight the conviction that I'd somehow blown my chance at a first impression.

We turned our attention to the general conversation. Val Dunne, a fellow alto, was unhappy. ‘Wait – what? They want our actual
names
?' She was addressing Joan Richardson, the hearty English-woman who acted as benign dictator of the choir committee and stiffened the musical sinews of the soprano line.

Joan said, ‘Yes, that's right, we have to send a complete list to Belfast next week. Names, contact details, dates of birth, the lot.'

‘Dates of birth? You're joking!'

‘No, it's all seriously official.'

Val wasn't giving up. ‘So you're saying, some random fuckers up in Belfast are going to have my name and address and phone number and e-mail and fucking
shoe size
?'

‘But, Val, they're not random fuckers.' The obscenity sounded
peculiar in Joan's mouth. ‘It's the Civil Service. They're responsible people. This is a high-profile event. They need to know who's going to be there, that's all.' Her tone was cajoling now. ‘Yes, all right, they're going a bit overboard with the red tape, but you know how bureaucrats are.'

Val sat back and scowled at her shiny red fingernails. ‘Well, I don't see how having my mobile number is going to help them, is all.'

‘I'm sorry,' said Joan. ‘It's a condition of our doing the gig.' She looked deflated. She and Val were housemates – perhaps she was worrying about stony silence in their shared spaces.

I left soon after that and went for my bus. Waiting at the stop, I sang the registration numbers of a few passing vehicles. Just as I spotted my bus turning the corner, a large dark saloon car manoeuvred out of a nearby parking spot and rolled slowly away from me. I read its number: 52845. Tricky. Was there something there?
52845
: I whistled it under my breath …

Aha! It was the opening of
Chichester Psalms
, which we'd been rehearsing earlier. How gratifying that I was now in a position to make this catch. I wouldn't have known it two hours ago. A complete phrase too – very rare. It boded well for the coming season, I decided. I bounced up and down as I hailed the slowing bus, and grinned. I felt oddly as though I'd accomplished something.

B
ACK IN MY
flat I made a cup of tea and sat at the table in the living room looking out at the soft darkness. Through the window
I could see the top branches of the young ash tree that grew on the pavement opposite. They hadn't been visible earlier in the year. They waved at me, and I waved gently back.

On reflection, I wasn't too worried about having made a bad first impression with Matthew. It had been OK. Anyway, he was the one who'd gone all nerdy about my job. I wondered fleetingly if he was thinking about me too – a squishy thought, and one that required prompt management. I'd better find something to bring me back down to earth.

I switched on the radio as I tidied up. There was an interview with some dried-up academic about recent outbreaks of trouble in the North. Dissident Republicans rearing their scaly heads again. A couple of weapon stashes, a punishment beating, a bomb plot mercifully foiled. Dr Expert described in careful, polysyllabic detail how these ongoing paramilitary activities could ultimately, if unchecked, precipitate an unthinkable return to historical instabilities. Both interviewer and interviewee spoke with assured middle-class Dublin accents, the rounded intonation of entitlement and benign dispassion. The sound evoked the flavour of home. Schooldays, back a decade or more. Homework in front of me on the dining table. Radio voices floating in from the kitchen. Head down as Mum and Dad argued about the same old, same old news:
Republican ceasefire – would it hold?

‘Nora, they got what they came for, and they need to do the decent thing now – lay down their arms and not be acting the maggot.'

‘They're not acting the maggot, Paddy. This wasn't what they came for. This was never about bureaucracy. You know that as well as I do. This is about beliefs. This is about history. This is about
blood
.'

N
OTHING COULD POSSIBLY
have appealed to me less that Sunday than a trip to Ardee. There were so many arguments against it, starting with enforced interaction with my family and going right through to the fact that my car (which wasn't really mine) was having one of its periodic crises. I wished I'd stood up to Mum when she'd rung. But Sunday lunch with Uncle Fintan and Auntie Rosemary was nearly as immutable as Mass itself. From time to time, it simply had to be endured.

It might not be so terrible – I hadn't seen Uncle F in ages. Then again, Mum had been hassling me to talk to him about my rent, which he'd set at a nominal rate when I'd moved in here. I sat in my living room, gulping down coffee and thinking of my uncle, his bemusement at the prosperity that his little investment in the eighties had brought. Even now, no negative equity for him.

Out in the street, I encountered my downstairs neighbours, Sheila and Aidan. Their smart black hatchback stood agape. Sheila turned from the car as I emerged, and walked back towards the house, carrying a small potted bush in one hand and some garden tools in the other: a matching spade and fork, a trowel hanging from her finger by a leather loop. More plants stood on the footpath where they'd been unloaded from the car.

‘Hiya, Cate,' said Sheila. The tools were gleaming new, unsullied by soil or stone.

Aidan was wrestling a plastic-wrapped futon mattress out of the car. He lifted his chin in greeting. ‘How's it going?' He looked groomed, as always, in pristine jeans and a pale green shirt.

‘Here, let me give you a hand,' I heard myself say. I took hold of the slippery package at its nearest corner and tugged at it.

Aidan murmured and shook his head, but I stuck to my guns. I could feel the strain in my shoulder muscles. Why was I persisting? We heaved the thing on to the footpath as Sheila came back.

‘Thanks,' she said. ‘My folks are coming for a visit next week, so we're trying to make the place look a bit respectable.'

‘Ah, hence the plants and everything.' I nodded.

‘I know! We actually asked Mr Sullivan ages ago and he said we could plant whatever we liked out the back, but then do you think we did anything about it? So now we've just got a few bits and pieces and we're going to stick them in and see what happens.' She spoke rapidly, in an unceasing stream. ‘Is he well, anyway?'

‘Uncle Fintan? Yeah, I think he's in good form.'

‘Oh, that's good. He was off to Spain on his holidays when we saw him last. He was due a holiday, I'd say.' Sheila shook her head sadly. ‘I thought he was looking awful tired.'

‘Ah, yeah,' I agreed. I was beginning to edge away.

‘And how's the new job? Going well?'

The last time we'd spoken had been the morning of my first day at Bell Books. ‘It's going great,' I said.

‘Well, that's good,' said Sheila.

‘Listen, I'd better …' I raised a valedictory hand and began to move towards my car, which was parked across the narrow street.

As I walked, the engine of a car parked a little way down the road hummed to life. I looked at it, and felt a tiny thrill of recognition as I realized that it had the same registration number as the one I'd seen a few days ago: 52845, the opening phrase of
Chichester Psalms
. Funny how Dublin seemed so big, yet you ended up crossing the same people's paths all the time. Was this the same car? I couldn't remember the make or year of the one I'd seen before, so I couldn't tell for sure.

‘Spooky,' I said to the ash tree as I fished for my keys.

It was shortly after I took the Ardee exit off the M1 that my car decided to stage its big huff. Suddenly and inexorably, it slowed, ignoring my frantic pumping of the accelerator. I was lucky to be able to indicate, brake and pull over before the momentum dissipated altogether. I switched off the engine and sat in silence, gathering my resources.

When I felt ready, I phoned the house. Dad answered – just home from Mass, grudgingly willing to head back out and help me.

‘OK, bye, Dad, thanks a million.' I felt like a fifteen-year-old who'd missed the last bus. Mortified. Beholden.

My accent, too, had slipped back into its old patterns: the Louth lilt bleeding easily through the Trinity College patina that I'd taken such care to build up. Cate from Ardee. Such a comedy
hometown – you could never admit to it without some Dublin fucker exclaiming ‘Arrrrdeeee!' in what he fondly imagined to be a Louth accent.

But you couldn't lie about it either. Someone would always know.

Dad pulled up across the road and motioned for me to wind down my window. ‘Leave that car where it is – I'll get the young fella from Lanigans to pick it up in the morning.'

Back at the house, I followed Dad into the hall just as Mum came out of the kitchen, arms outstretched. ‘Caitlín! It's lovely to see you, pet. Come on in – we're all set.'

‘Hi, Mum.' I gave her a brief hug and avoided eye contact. Why wasn't she having a go at me?

‘Look who's here!' Mum exclaimed, unnecessarily, as we went into the dining room. Uncle Fintan, Auntie Rosemary and my brother Mícheál were seated at the table, under starter's orders. Mum took two quick steps towards Uncle Fintan and said in a pantomime whisper, ‘Is she up to date with the rent? Is she?'

I flinched. ‘Mum!' This was a bit much, even in the circumstances.

Uncle Fintan gave his soft laugh. ‘Oh, yes, Nora, she's. Sure isn't she a model tenant?' His voice was gentle and slightly blurred, still carrying that distinct Castlebar accent that he shared with Mum. I'd always loved his trick of breaking off before he finished a sentence. He spoke with a slow expansiveness, his vowels like clear pools of water. He beamed at me, and suddenly I was included in the joke.

Chair legs barked on the wooden floor as everyone settled themselves at the table; heads bowed in appropriate humility as Dad mumbled ‘Bless-us-oh-Lord'. I found myself mouthing ‘Amen'.

I was sitting beside Auntie Rosemary, who sprang up as soon as grace was said to help Mum serve the soup.

Uncle Fintan was his usual yielding, nervous self, his eyes tracking his wife as she moved around the room. She wore a double string of glass beads that oscillated and clicked as she stretched to put the bowls on the table. Her arms were nut-brown from her holiday.

‘Tha – thank you, that's,' said Uncle Fintan as Mum gave him his soup. Dad ate noisily, rumbled approval. Mícheál, gangly and shiny-faced, stared at his placemat and tapped the tabletop with his spoon while he waited to be served.

Was he
sulking
?

The soup was too salty, just as Dad liked it. Roast pork followed, with mounds of mashed potato, limp baby vegetables, and a shallow jug of viscous, cooling gravy.

Conversation, at first, was confined to praise of the food.

Mum tutted as she tucked into her mash. ‘This needs more pepper.' She frowned at the table, where no pepper was in evidence, then turned to Mícheál. ‘Would you get the pepper for me, love?'

Mícheál rolled his eyes, hauled himself to his feet, stumped over to the hatch, reached into the kitchen for the pepper-grinder, slouched back to the table, and set the pepper down beside Mum
with a little thump, like a chess piece, before resuming his seat. I squirmed on his behalf – the whole performance had been so pathetically immature.

Mum let out a tiny, outraged
Ah!
and bounced back in her chair as though she'd been hit. ‘Mícheál Houlihan, I'm surprised at you!'

Mícheál studied his clasped hands.

‘What's this, now?' Dad wanted to know.

Mum sighed and said, ‘Is this about the flag?'