Father’s Music. Dermot Bolger
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boxes together for me to climb into and provide running commentaries of me paddling single-handedly down the Amazon or planting the flag of Harrow and Wealdstone on Jupiter. At home he retreated behind the Evening Standard, an inoffensive man who ventured to the club for two pints every evening and whose occasionally animated voice might wake me on his return before Gran’s tongue dispatched him to bed.
When I started work on the Wednesday, the girls in Wilkinson’s were friendly and we even had a drink after work. But at lunch time and interrupting my journey home on Thursday and Friday, I found myself visiting tile shops and leading the staff on about an order I was hoping to place for the clubs I ran. By Saturday I was an expert on wall tiles. I’d also discovered that tile shop owners were among the drabbest males ever to have been hatched out in the sun.
Saturday night came. I heard Roxy and Honor ring my bell, then wait outside, puzzled by my absence. After they were gone I regretting hiding with the light out. I wasn’t in clubbing mood, but I couldn’t sit brooding by myself. I called at Honor’s flat, though I knew they were gone. Garth was dressing to go out.
‘You’ve missed the girls,’ he said.
‘They called. I pretended I was out. Was that awful?’
Garth grinned. I’d always liked him more than Honor.
‘They’re noisy dames,’ he said. ‘I love Honor as my baby sister but sometimes you need to be in the prime of your health to take her. You want to come for coffee?’
‘But you’ve a date, haven’t you?’
He beckoned towards the door. ‘It’s a late date if he shows at all. These shy young owls are frightened to venture out until the whole wood’s asleep.’
‘Does this owl hoot like a choir boy?’ I teased.
‘If he does it’s his own business.’ Garth was circumspect and I knew I’d intruded into a world he kept private. But I wasn’t being nosy, I had just wanted an affirmation that Luke had told the truth in something.
‘Listen,’ he said, more relaxed as we went down the steps. ‘Everyone comes out some time, but occasionally someone does it ten years too late. Do you know who Colonel Parker managed before he got his hands on Elvis? Dancing chickens. He would place chickens on what was actually a hot stove, switch on the music and those chickens danced all night. I never believed in reincarnation, but our friend Liam is so jumpy that in his last life he had to be a dancing chicken way down South.’
The wine bar Garth picked hadn’t filled up yet. There would be a jazz session later on with serious buffs clicking their dentures to some piano improv. Garth pressed me about when I’d last eaten, then ordered food. When I took my first sip of wine I knew I had to be careful. Once I started drinking I wouldn’t stop.
‘Who is he?’ Garth asked.
‘Who mentioned a man?’
‘Come on, Tracey.’ Garth grinned. ‘I should know the signs.’
‘I’ve only met him once,’ I said, with the wine making me realise how hungry I was. ‘It was exciting, but we were crazy with the risks we took.’
‘Do I know him?’
‘We got our roles wrong in the Irish Centre,’ I said. ‘You should have been my chaperon.’
Garth refilled my glass. ‘He wouldn’t be my type,’ he said. ‘I’ve never liked broody men. They’re dangerous, especially when they’re married.’
‘That’s the problem,’ I replied. ‘He’s not my type either.’
Garth laughed in recognition. I wondered about the other part of his life. It was good to talk to someone. The jazz started after the food arrived. It was hard to decide which was worse.
‘It’s a simple enough cock-up,’ I said. ‘The chef’s obviously playing the piano while the band are locked in the kitchen.’
We finished two bottles of wine, then ventured on to the street where it was raining. Garth waved a taxi down.
‘You take it,’ I told him, ‘you’re the man going places.’
He held the door open for me, then climbed in as well.
‘You’re in a bad way, sister,’ he said. ‘You’ll probably cost me the chance of a mother-in-law in Drogheda but we’re going to find out about this Irishman.’
Liam Darcy was waiting in a bar in Kensington. It was twenty minutes to closing time with a stampede of bodies hugging the counter. He saw me with Garth and looked cornered and scared. He rose.
‘Who’s she? A journalist?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Garth said. ‘Take it easy, Liam.’
‘I won’t take it easy, I …’ He lowered his voice as people looked around. ‘We agreed.’
‘Sit down,’ Garth told him. ‘The world isn’t out to get you and anyway you’re safer being seen in public with the likes of her than with me.’
Liam looked at me. ‘I can be seen with anyone I like,’ he protested. ‘Nobody can say that just because I’m having a drink with some …’
He stopped, flustered, leaving the word unspoken. It was a long time since I’d seen anyone so nervous. He was twenty-five or six but anxiety made him seem like a teenager on a first date. I could imagine a time when his clothes were fashionable. They probably still were in Moldova and Uzbekistan. He was good-looking but not in a way that appealed to me.
‘You’re the least gay looking guy I ever met,’ I lied to put him at ease.
‘Yeah, but those songs are a dead giveaway,’ Garth added.
‘What do you mean?’ Liam was defensive again.
‘They’re so corny and sentimental only a man would fall for them.’
It took Liam a moment to realise Garth was having him on. He looked at us, shamefaced. ‘I almost said “queer”, didn’t I?’
‘I’ve been called worse,’ Garth replied. ‘Names change nothing so take your pick. I’ll get us a drink.’
Garth pushed his way through the crowd. I sat in uneasy silence with Liam until he looked across.
‘You were in the Irish Centre,’ he said. ‘I remember your face. I’ve offended him.’
‘That’s between you and him.’
‘I just panicked. I’m not used to this. I almost didn’t turn up tonight.’
‘He’s a good man, Garth,’ I said.
‘We’re not … I mean we haven’t.’ He looked at me again. ‘Do I really not look gay? For years I’ve tried convincing myself, but you get sick pretending.’
‘Why not come out? In the long run it’s better.’
‘Maybe over here it is,’ he said. ‘But my manager would kill me. Two years ago I worked in Wavin Pipes in Balbriggan. I’d hardly an arse in my trousers. Now five people make a living out of me. I can’t walk away from all that.’
‘Would the Irish papers go crazy?’
‘They’d love it,’ he said. ‘I’d be a hero. But papers don’t count. They only mock my music anyway. I wouldn’t get gigs. The men running this business are fossils who’ll never change.’
I saw Garth joke with the barman as he gathered our drinks up. Liam watched him too.
‘So you live a lie,’ I said.
‘What’s so wrong with that?’ Liam was suddenly angry. ‘People think I’m stupid but I’m not. I know those songs are half-arsed but I like them. I like others, sean-nós, traditional stuff you never heard of, blues, rock, all kinds. Maybe my manager’s