Father’s Music. Dermot Bolger
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sound the same?’
‘They don’t,’ Luke said. ‘Listen.’ He spoke quietly, showing where each tune slipped effortlessly into the next reel in the set. His enthusiasm made him seem boyish. Yet his suit gave the impression of someone impersonating a Bulgarian trade diplomat. I told him so and he laughed, claiming most people never saw beyond an expensive suit. It was a good way to remain invisible.
‘Why do you want to be invisible?’.
‘I’m a private man,’ he said.
‘Enjoying your secrets.’
‘Contradictions,’ he replied. ‘Secrets are dangerous, they self-destruct. Contradictions are different. We’re born under the sign of contradiction. Without them we’d still live in the trees.’
‘Which am I?’
He looked across and raised the tape. ‘You’re a bonus,’ he said.
‘Luke, you’re full of shit.’ I laughed and he joined in, savouring the joke against himself. I didn’t want to talk anymore, I wanted to hear that music. Previously I’d only ever heard snatches, but now it filled me with curious elation. It was seductive. I wondered at how my father’s playing had once lured my mother to swap Harrow for the wilderness of Donegal.
I almost told Luke about my father, then remembered his remarks about travellers. I felt a flush of shame not even Gran might have fully understood. For her the problem with my father had been a matter of class, but with Luke it was a matter of caste. Suddenly I felt like an untouchable, an Irish tinker’s child.
‘You’re quiet,’ Luke said, watching me. I wanted to strip away that expensive suit and drag him down a peg.
‘Your type don’t normally like this music.’
‘Who are my type?’ he replied coolly.
‘People from the slums of Dublin.’
‘I was born in no slum,’ he said. ‘Is that what you’re after? A bit of rough trade, some peasant Paddy to fuck?’
He seemed about to stop the car, then changed gear and put his foot down.
‘I didn’t mean to insult …’
‘You did,’ he said, taking a corner at speed before slowing down, his voice more controlled. ‘People put you in your box and never let you out. That’s why I left Ireland.’
‘Is London any freer?’
‘It’s different at least. You’re just another thick Mick to be patronised.’
The tape ended. He turned it over. There was a hiss before music filled the car again.
‘What are you after?’ Luke said.
‘I don’t know. I wanted to see who you were. I’m not some … I’m not a tart.’
‘I know.’
I stared at the passing streets. It might have been better if he had stopped the car and let me out. This evening we were sober and aware of the void between us.
‘What are you looking for?’ I turned the tables.
‘I don’t know either.’ I felt he was being painfully honest. ‘Every morning I brush my teeth but the staleness won’t go. I get on with life but it’s not me in this suit. I’ve made myself numb so as not to feel this ache.’
‘Why don’t you leave?’
‘Running away solves nothing,’ he said. ‘It still leaves tomorrow to face.’
‘Is your brother a master criminal?’ I asked.
‘The Ice-Man?’ Luke laughed. ‘That sells papers but Christy can hardly tie his shoe-laces. He’s no saint, but if he’s a gang lord why hasn’t he two shillings to rub together? I’m not defending him, but he’s your ordinary decent small-time crook. Nobody in the crime world takes him seriously, but he’s got a big mouth and papers like that. Two of our uncles were famous hard men. A family is like an area, once it gets a reputation the truth doesn’t matter. Real criminals keep their heads down, they like it that way. And they’re only trotting behind the the big scams in fraud by accountants. But that’s not sexy enough, newspapers need bogeymen with half-arsed nicknames.’
He was quiet as a new tune began. ‘The Blackbird,’ he said. ‘Listen, it’s my favourite set dance.’
I was happy not to talk. We’d reached an equilibrium, a wary trust that was as far as we were willing to commit. I closed my eyes, immersed in that lilting tune. It suited the night we drove through, these deserted streets which, in a few hours, would be thronged with every race. We were strangers, separately caught up in the music and wild applause and stamping boots when it finished. Another tune began, with a frighteningly raw sense of abandonment. It was the first time I’d ever felt high on music alone. When I glanced at Luke I felt his sense of isolation.
‘Do your children like this music?’ I asked.
‘It’s not their fault,’ he said. ‘Basically by now they’re English. They’d say they’re Irish and their pals call them Irish, but in Dublin they’re seen as English and rightly so.’
‘I’m English,’ I said, ‘and I like it.’
‘But you’re not running away from it.’
‘How old are they?’
‘I’ve a lad of four,’ he said. ‘The other two are older, almost your age if you must know.’
‘What are they like?’
‘Let’s say it was different when they were younger.’
‘What’s your wife’s name?’
‘Just stop it right fucking there.’ Luke pressed the eject button and the tape slid out, filling the car with static. ‘Two weeks ago I wanted a ride, not a social worker.’
I stared away, hurt. But maybe it was all he had wanted and all I’d wanted too, or allowed myself to want. Was I not just trying to ease my conscience now? Questions wouldn’t change the fact that I’d screwed a married man. We had been a diversion from stale lives. Because that’s what my life was, hysterical laughter in clubs only hid its hollowness. I wanted something more, but not a steady job or boy-friend. I wanted excitement. I wanted Luke’s brother to be ‘The Ice-man’. I wanted to fuck whoever I wanted, with me deciding what was right or wrong.
Luke seemed tense as he parked at a row of shops. No one was about and I grew nervous. Last week I had fled from a youth in a lane, vowing never to walk myself into trouble again. Luke got out, producing keys as he bent to pull a steel shutter up. The shop was called AAAssorted Tiles.
‘Do you want marks for spelling and originality?’ I asked.
He turned off the alarm and opened the glass door.
‘It’s first in the Yellow Pages,’ he said, ‘should you care to look.’
Once inside he pulled the shutter partly down and switched on one set of lights so that half the store lay in shadow. I walked along the display units, fingering tiles and listening to him list the countries they were from. There was something soothing in his tone. There was a beautiful jade tile from India on a shelf. I pocketed it.
‘That’s stealing,’ he said.
‘You can’t talk.’
Luke smiled, remembering the panties. He walked to the counter and switched the light off. I gripped the tile, wary now. But he just opened the glass door and pulled the shutter up so I could see him clearly in the street light. He turned.
‘What you see is what you get,’ he said.
‘No Godfather, no master criminal.’
‘We don’t pick our families,’ Luke replied. ‘We