Father’s Music. Dermot Bolger
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I replied. ‘It’s obvious you’re using me. Once you come you’d sooner wave a magic wand and make me vanish.’
‘You never wanted lies before.’
‘I want the fucking truth.’
‘The truth is I’ll be here for you next week and every week.’ He watched as I managed to do up the last buttons on my blouse. I hated myself for shaking, but who the fuck was Luke anyway? I wasn’t asking him to leave his wife, I didn’t want more of his precious time, but just that once he might show a shred of affection.
‘You’re wasted in tiles,’ I said, grabbing my coat. ‘You should have gone into plastics. You could have simply moulded a likeness of me to blow up.’
I slammed the door. I could imagine the receptionist lifting her head. But when I got downstairs I found that for once I couldn’t stare back at her because that was how I felt, a cheap tart, some man’s weekend piece of fluff. I kept my head down until I reached the street and ran.
I didn’t go back the following Sunday or the Sunday after that. I did nothing, except sit in the flat and smoke roll ups. I stared blankly at titles in the video shop. I splashed out on cheap wine but couldn’t even seem to get drunk. Roxy and Honor had stopped calling, perhaps guessing at all the times I was really in with the light out. I could have called for them or taken off by myself like I used to, but I seemed drained of emotion.
There were Christmas lights everywhere, late night shopping and office parties. I considered phoning Harrow, but I didn’t want to think of home or Christmas or anything which might drag the past back. One night I dreamt about that old black monkey and woke scared and unsure of where I was. Our affair was over, I told myself. I needed my own life, not some other woman’s cast-offs. In Gran’s pet phrase, gleaned from years of specialists, I had an addictive personality. Luke was the latest addiction to break.
But Luke was the first encounter to really affect me since my mother’s death. Everything else had a second-hand flavour. I wondered if his wife had consented all along. Was that why he had been so open in the Irish Centre? But I knew she didn’t know, because wives never do, and I was trying to justify something which had increasingly disturbed me. Every day I told myself it was finished and yet that statement seemed too definite for something as vague as our relationship. Some days I decided I was just playing it cool and letting him sweat for a while. I could break this habit whenever I wanted, but perhaps I should use Luke to get me over the loneliness of Christmas. The problem was that his absence made me realise how empty my life was.
On December the fifteenth I decided to visit his shop. I was on a tube and impulsively stayed on after my stop. I watched the stations flash past, not certain if I’d actually go in or what I expected to happen if Luke was there. Maybe I wanted to haul our relationship out into the wintry light of a Wednesday afternoon and see if anything remained. I just knew I couldn’t leave matters as they stood and I couldn’t walk back into that hotel any more than I could break away from Luke.
The store was crowded with serious-looking DIY folk beautifying their houses for Christmas. Piped carols were interrupted by special offer announcements. I felt an almost vengeful enjoyment in being there, setting the agenda for once. I moved around the aisles, watching his staff work and wondering if he was here or in the smaller shop a few miles away. The staff were young and well trained, marked out by red company jumpers and enthusiasm. I could hear them repeat the same soothing phrase, ‘I’m not trying to sell you this but it might just suit …”
A supervisor in a dark suit checked off a stocklist with a visiting sales rep. I passed him twice before I stopped to look back. It was Luke. I watched his eyes flick between the printed order form and the shelves. I felt chilled. I hadn’t recognised him and now, when I did, I realised that I didn’t know this man and I could never have slept with him. The rep was leaving. Luke called something after him. Even his voice sounded different. I was watching a chameleon. Luke turned to look straight through me for several moments before it occurred to him who I was. His face changed but only slightly. It showed neither encouragement nor surprise. I realised I couldn’t talk to him here, I had nothing to say to this man. I backed away, fleeing down a side aisle to escape.
The following Sunday I left it late before deciding to visit the hotel. There were delays with the tube and when it finally came three girls stood by the door laughing hysterically at their own inane comments, as if anxious to antagonise the whole carriage. After Wednesday’s visit I had sworn never to go near that hotel again. Yet at King’s Cross I raced through the passageways connecting the Northern and Circle lines.
I got stuck behind an old man struggling up the escalator with a suitcase. The case stuck out, blocking the left side where people tried to rush past. They cursed him silently and not so silently as he ignored the log-jam behind him. There was something unnerving in his stillness as he stared up the escalator as though a great fate awaited beyond the ticket barrier, which he had only to haul his battered case across the forecourt to confront.
Honor once told me she believed in angels after seeing one pass her window as a little girl. Momentarily I forgot Luke as I watched the old man, fixated by the notion that he was a soul on its ultimate journey. Perhaps this underground was full of ghosts that nobody noticed as they vanished down tunnels at the end of deserted platforms. I couldn’t remember if I had read about such a notion, but, as a child, shabby old men with cases had fascinated me with the unspoken fear that they were my dark father come back.
The suitcase bumped over the rim of the escalator and the old man stumbled, trying to hold it. I pushed past and ran down more stairs just in time to catch the train pulling out on the Circle Line. Yet all the way to Edgware Road I felt an obscure foreboding that I hadn’t stopped to help him.
There was no guarantee that Luke would have come or would wait this late. But I felt he would have taken my appearance in the store as a sign that I wanted to talk. If he didn’t show up then at least I’d be freed from the illusion that I had found somebody who needed me.
I emerged at Edgware Road into light rain and walked quickly on. Looking back, I realise that if I had paused to help the old man with his case I might have missed my connection and arrived so late that I would have run past the shops opposite the Irish Centre. Instead I slowed to stroll casually past so as not to attract attention. Apart from the restaurant with its bored belly dancer, only the newsagent was open, although even he had one shutter down. I saw him closing up, with a huge rack of foreign newspapers pulled in out of the rain. An Irish Sunday paper was there, incongruous among the mass of Arabic newsprint. I could hardly see the photograph in it and had gone past when the eyes drew me back. I leaned against the glass. It couldn’t be Luke, I thought, starting to panic. It was like him, but the face was stockier, the eyes more cold. Ironically it was the suit I recognised first, because, as suits go, Christy Duggan’s taste was pretty appalling. The photograph was obviously a family one, taken at a christening or wedding. I banged on the glass. At first I thought the shopkeeper wasn’t going to bother opening up. The paper was folded, but I could still make out the headline, Dublin Gangland Murder.
I stood outside under a streetlamp, reading the account of his killing over and over until the rain distorted the newsprint. Now I knew that Luke wouldn’t be in the hotel. He would have no way of letting me know the news and no way of guessing that I knew. But I walked on anyway, in case there was a message at reception. I wanted there to be a different receptionist, but the same one eyed me coldly, sensing she had the upper hand.
‘Is there a letter for me here?’ I asked.
‘I’m not his messenger,’ she retorted. ‘Go up and ask him yourself.’
She turned a page of her magazine, deliberately not looking up until I’d gone. I reached the top of the stairs. I hadn’t expected this. I must be important if Luke had found time to see me tonight. We had always kept emotions at bay and now I felt ill-equipped to console him. It didn’t seem right to walk in on his grief. I knocked twice before he opened the door. If he had been crying it was well hidden. He stepped back to allow me in.
‘Luke, I know and I’m sorry,’ I said.
He