The Misremembered Man (23 page)

“Now, I’d say it was more of a gravy brown meself. Lord, and doesn’t it match his teepee terrible well. Y’know, Paddy I think you should get one a them teepees as well, ’cause you’re getting a bit thin on tap, so ye are.”

Down at the Lonely Hearts table, the farmer and the teacher were conversing more freely, expanding on their chosen career paths—the one in the farmyard, the other in the classroom—while the temperature in the lounge took on a tropical quality. Jamie talked about his animals and his accordion, and Lydia spoke of her love of books and music.

Gradually, Jamie began to relax, the drink and sultry atmosphere doing their job of smoothing down the more abrasive corners of his fearful self. He could not believe how well he felt in this woman’s company and was postponing an urgent need to visit the bathroom in case he missed out on anything. But after an hour he finally excused himself because, besides the need to urinate, he was experiencing a strange crawling sensation on his scalp.

Once inside the toilet, he checked himself in the mirror and wiped away what he imagined were beads of sweat. He was mistaken.

They were beads of glue—toupee glue.

He was startled, but not overly concerned. He ran some water on his fingers and, a few sticky minutes later, all traces of the adhesive had disappeared. He smiled into the mirror, pleased that everything was going so well.

Satisfied, he entered the toilet stall, locked the door and proceeded to urinate, gazing down at the bowl. As he peed merrily, he fell into his old habit, one he had had for as long as he could remember: He would read and memorize the writing on toilet bowls:
Shanks Patent “Unix” Washdown; Royal Doulton “Simplicitas”.
.. He knew a half-dozen of the manufacturers’ stamps by heart and the same ones seemed to crop up everywhere. He thought about how fortunate he had been in meeting this fine lady at last, and began to spin a fantasy that soon had him in its grip.

He saw himself in a white suit walking up a sun-kissed aisle with Lydia on his arm. He heard the organ music swell as they reached the altar and knelt on the tasseled cushions. He saw himself slip a wedding band onto her finger, then kiss the bride as the music started up again.

The outer door of the lavatory clicked open, bringing Jamie back to the present. He hurriedly finished up—only to discover that his zipper wouldn’t budge. He remembered Mr. Harvey’s advice:
They’re a bit stiff when new, but just give it a good tug to get her going and you’re away.
Jamie bent his head lower to examine it, sucked in his belly, squeezed his eyes shut and, with one deft movement, gave a tremendous tug. It solved the problem: He was safely zipped up again.

He discovered, however, that the force needed to free the zipper had had the unfortunate consequence of freeing something else as well.

Jamie felt a lightness, and a refreshingly cool sensation on the crown of his head. He went to flush the toilet, but his eye lit on something strange in the bowl. He crouched down for a better look.

“Ah,
Jesus
, Mary and Joseph!”

His hand flew to the top of his head—and found only a sticky, bare scalp.

“Ah,
Jesus
, Mary and Joseph!” he cried again as he lifted out the sodden, urine-soaked hairpiece, the full implication of the disaster hitting him with the force of a wet carp across the face.

“Jamie, is that you?” The voice came from the other side of the stall.

Jamie held his breath. What if it was the baldy wee bastard with the camera? But he realized then that the baldy wee bastard would not know his name.

“Aye, it’s me,” he said tentatively. “Who’s that?”

“It’s Paddy, Jamie.”

“Aw Jezsis, Paddy!”

Two stall doors unlocked as one. Paddy stared at his friend, trying to come to terms with a rare sight of a crestfallen Jamie, looking as though he’d had a head-on collision with a child’s cut-’n’-paste craft set. His scalp was ridged in adhesive tape and splodges of glue. Incongruously, in amongst it all, just below the crown, Paddy could make out the words
Bonding Times May Vary
, printed in red lettering.

“God oh, what happened, Jamie?” Paddy asked the superfluous question, knowing all too well the answer. Jamie held it in his right hand, and it was dripping urine onto the tiles.

“Jezsis Christ, Paddy, I never expected the like of this!” He looked dejectedly at the sodden hairpiece. “Thought I had it on good an’ tight. I pulled away at it in the house, begod, to make sartin, and it wouldn’t budge.”

But even as he was saying those words, he was suddenly remembering the warning on the little instruction leaflet, the leaflet he’d no more than glanced at. Now, too late, he was recalling lines that read:
Excessive sweating can shorten bonding times. Do not use gel or lotion on this product.

“Och, we’ll give it a wee wash,” Paddy said, “and slap it back on ye.” He patted Jamie’s head. “Sure it’s still sticky, so should stay in place right enough.”

“But it’s gonna be wet!” Jamie wailed. “What am I gonna say to her when she sees me with a soakin’ wet head?”

“Leave it to me, Jamie.” Paddy took the wig and started to wash it under the tap with soap. “Ye could say you went out for a wee walk and it rained.” Paddy was thinking on his feet, something he rarely had cause to do.

“But Paddy, the sun’s blazin’ down outside and I can hardly say it was rainin’ in the toilet.”

Jamie stared into the mirror and almost wept, looking as inconsolable and desperate as a convict on his way to the hangman’s noose.

“God, it’s a terrible thing,” he cried. “Me and her were gettin’ on powerful well, so we were, and now it’s all spoilt.”

Paddy was nodding in commiseration while drying off the hairpiece with a towel. He held it up to the light, and was satisfied.

“There ye go now, Jamie. Try that.”

Jamie repositioned the toupee as best he could. But the soaking in the urine had had its effect, and this, coupled with the fact that Paddy had not properly rinsed off the soap, had caused the synthetic fibers to shoot up. The wig now resembled an electrocuted water rat.

“That’s looks grand now right enough,” Paddy observed, but knowing as he said it that he was stretching the truth to screeching point. “Sure it’ll take you back to the table for another wee while. Me and Rose can wait as long as ye like, Jamie.”

Glumly Jamie studied his reflection. But maybe Paddy was right, he thought; when he turned his head from side to side, it maybe could pass at a push. But only just.

“Och now, is it not fearful bad lookin’?” he asked the mirror, knowing it was, but leaving it to Paddy to reassure him, or not.

“Not a bit of it,” Paddy said smoothly. “It looks a wee bit wet, Jamie, but it’ll dry with the heat a your head soon enough.”

“Well, maybe you’re right.” Jamie looked long and hard in the mirror. “And how’s the rest of me?”

“You look grand, Jamie. Me and Rose were just sayin’ we never seen you lookin’ as well.” He patted Jamie on the back. “And we were just sayin’ that you and Miss Devine look very well together. She’s a fair, well-lookin’ lassie. Ye know, Rose was just sayin’ you look like yous were made for each other, for the pair of yous have the same noses, so ye have.”

“God, did Rose say that, did she?”

“She did indeed. Now I think that you should go out first, Jamie, because it might look a bit strange the pair of us comin’ out at the same time. We’ve been in here a good bit and you wouldn’t want people to be talkin’, like.”

Jamie nodded.

“You wouldn’t want to be keepin’ that lady waitin’ any longer.”

“No, I s’pose you’re right, Paddy.”

Jamie prepared to go, checked himself in the mirror again, rebuttoned his jacket—but made the mistake of looking down at his feet. The action had the unfortunate consequence of dislodging the wig again. It struck one of his glossy, brown toecaps and slid across the floor like a fleeing rodent.

“Jezsis Christ, Paddy, that’s the end of it! It’s all up now. Naw, I can’t go back out. The bugger just won’t stay on.”

Paddy stooped to pick it up.

“Now, Jamie,” he said gently, “could ye not try? You could keep your head good and steady and not look up nor down, then it’d stay on, like.”

“Naw, Paddy, I couldn’t risk that.”

“Are you…are you sartin now, Jamie?”

“Y’know I’d rather be put up agin a wall and shot, begod, than have me hair fall off in front of her. That’s as true as God put breath in me.”

Paddy scratched his head, in a quandary. “Aye, I s’pose you’re sartin right enough.” There would be no dissuading Jamie on this one. His mind was made up.

Both men stood in a muddle of indecision. Then Paddy’s eyes lit up.

“I’ll tell you what, Jamie. I’ll go and ask Rose what we should do.”

Jamie brightened.

“That would be the thing, Paddy. Rose’ll know what to do. Why didn’t we think of it sooner?”

And with that, Paddy left. Jamie stuffed the toupee into his pocket and sat down in one of the toilet stalls. He would await Rose’s undoubted wisdom, and her solution to this monumental problem.

Lydia checked her wristwatch. James had gone to the gents some twenty minutes earlier and she was beginning to feel uneasy. The photographers were now settled at several tables in a cordoned-off area, enjoying plates of sandwiches. Every time Lydia looked their way she would catch the menacing flash of McPrunty’s bifocals as he looked
her
way. She picked up
The Times
again and pretended to read it.

What on earth, she wondered, had happened to James? She resolved to approach his friends and ask the man to go and check the bathroom.

She folded the paper and went to get up. She saw, however, that it was unnecessary. His friends had disappeared also.

“Hello, Miss Devine!” a voice behind her made her jump. She turned to see a woman holding out a hand. “I’m Jamie’s—I mean James’s—friend. Rose McFadden’s me name.”

Lydia remembered. “Oh Rose, yes! How nice to meet you. Has something happened? Is James all right?”

“No, Miss Devine—”

“Call me
Lydia
, please.” She looked at her anxiously. “Do please sit down, Rose.”

“Thank you, Lydeea, I will indeed!”

Rose installed herself in Jamie’s chair and rested her purse on her knee.

She had dressed carefully for this very special occasion. Lydia could not have known it, but the polyester frock Rose wore had been cut on the bias by her expert hands; or that her Aran cardigan—which showed her deftness with the bunny bobble and fisherman’s rib—had won first prize in the ladies’ knitwear section of the Duntybutt Women’s Institute Creative Christmas competition of 1972. Her hair—freshly permed at the Curl Up ’n’ Dye salon—was a confection of cinnamon-tinted bubble curls. Her face was freshly dusted with Yardley Almond Surprise. At her wrist a charm bracelet clinked its twenty-three charms—each one honoring another year of a marriage survived.

“Now there’s nothing to worry about, Lydeea,” she said kindly. “James has just got a wee problem in the toilet which might take a while to put right—if you folly me meaning.”

“No, I don’t, Rose. Is he ill?” Lydia sat forward. “I have firstaid experience. Perhaps I could help.”

Rose was not prepared for this, had promised Jamie that she’d “take care of everything.” She had assured him that telling Lydia he had taken ill was the best ploy, but now she saw that Miss Devine was genuinely concerned and wanted to know what exactly was wrong. Rose had to think fast; it was something that she, like her husband, was not used to doing. She therefore said the first thing that came into her head.

“Well y’know, Lydeea, God-blisses-an-save-us, but it’s not as serious as that. It’s just that he has a problem.” She glanced down quickly at her lap, then looked up again and nodded. “Down there.”

Lydia continued to stare, perplexed.

“It’s a
gentleman’s
problem,” Rose explained, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Sometimes it takes him an hour, maybe even two.”

Lydia didn’t know what to say. A silence ensued. Then Rose committed the cardinal sin of all inexperienced liars: She began to crochet a great frill of anecdotal “fact” to make the lie appear more plausible.

“Oh, it runs in the family, Lydeea. His uncle was the very same, if truth be told. And y’know what they say: A leper doesn’t change his socks. Now me mother, God rest her soul, was different altogether: runnin’ steady one week then the next nothing atall. It was the nerves, I think. She had a nervous dep-position—or whatever it is they say. Was never much of an eater anyway; would peck at things like McGinty’s chicken. And y’know, when you don’t eat proper it’s not good for you, and James—God-save-us—was on a diet, for to meet you, like.”

Rose sat back in the armchair, pleased that she’d got the awkward news delivered.

“I’m terribly sorry to hear that, Rose.”

“And believe me, Lydeea, James is very sorry that he can’t come out just now too.” She canted forward again, clutching the purse, as if she were about to divulge the third secret of Fatima. “And he unner-stands that you don’t want to be waitin’ that long, so he’s asked me to ask you—that’s if you wouldn’t mind—could you give him a phone number if you have one, because he sez he’d like to see you again because you’re a real lady, and I can see that meself, Lydeea.”

Lydia smiled and reached for her purse. She wrote down her number and tore the page from her diary. Rose folded it and stowed it in her purse.

“Thank you very much indeed, Lydeea. James will be very pleased that you unnerstud his wee problem.”

She got up and took Lydia’s hand. “And I hope you and James get to know each other better,” she said, “because he’s a very fine fella with a very kind heart, and there’s not too many like him goin’ about these days. God, y’know, since you started correspondin’ with him, he’s been as proud as a cock on a dunghill and as happy as a cat between two houses.”