A Time for Friends (14 page)

Jonathan pushed away his half-eaten breakfast and gave a deep sigh. All around him the hum of chat and laughter, the clatter of cutlery against china and the smell of
Bewley’s coffee could not give him the feel-good experience Sunday morning breakfast in Omni always did. Orla lifted her head from the
Sunday Tribune.
‘You OK, hon?’

‘Yeah I’m fine,’ he fibbed. ‘Didn’t sleep great last night.’

‘You’re not finishing your brekkie?’ she asked, fork poised.

He laughed and shook his head. ‘I’m leaving room for a Mammy Dinner! She’s cooking a roast for me so she can “feed me up”, so she said, so help yourself.’

Orla speared a sausage and hash brown. ‘I
love
hash browns!’ she raved, eating with relish. Do you want another cup of coffee?’

‘No thanks. I think I’ll head, if that’s OK with you. I want to get on the road.’ Jonathan tried to keep his tone light. His stomach was knotted, he felt faintly
queasy.

‘No prob,’ his friend said distractedly. Orla’s topknot had just come askew and she was tucking her long auburn hair back into the tortoiseshell comb that kept it in place. She
didn’t realize just how agitated he really was, he thought. He had never told her about his past. He hadn’t told any of his friends about his childhood secret. He just wanted to be
normal with them and not have them feel sorry for him. Dublin was his future, he’d reasoned. He never wanted to look back.

But sometimes, in spite of your best intentions, you had to, he thought morosely, folding up his paper neatly and taking a last slug of coffee. ‘Are you going to stay the night at home and
come back early in the morning or will you drive back tonight?’ Hair sorted, Orla tucked into the cream cake she had treated herself to.

‘I’m going to come back tonight. It’s bad enough having to get up on Monday mornings to go to work without having to get up at the crack of dawn and drive for an hour and a
half from Rosslara to Dublin, in bumper-to-bumper traffic.’ Jonathan grimaced. He stood up and leaned over and kissed her. ‘Be good!’

‘Don’t be a spoilsport,’ Orla grinned. ‘I’ll be as bad as I get the chance to be. Ciao
,
baby, drive carefully.’

‘I will,’ he assured her before making his way in between the tables in the crowded restaurant to the exit. Eating breakfast in a café had become the new fad in Dublin, a sure
sign that the grinding recession that had banjaxed the country in the last decade was over, he reflected. It was all so . . . nineties . . . so cosmopolitan. It was far from hash browns he’d
been reared, but now a fry-up wasn’t considered a fry-up without them.

Sunday was the only day they had had a cooked breakfast when he was growing up. It was such a treat to come home from Mass, dressed in his Sunday best, and have his mother put the rashers and
sausages on the pan and to listen to them sizzling and spitting while she fried bread on another pan. How they would all tuck into this once-a-week treat with gusto, and then, because it was
Sunday, have a chocolate gold-grain biscuit afterwards, to dunk into the second cup of tea. Now every day was a fry-up day, it seemed.

The weather had changed, and it was spitting rain as he hurried through the car park wishing he could just go home and flop and not have to face the ordeal ahead. He was committed to attending
the removal now, he thought ruefully, having phoned his mother the previous evening to assure her that he would be coming and would give her a lift to the church, much to her delight.

He was veering from being bullish and determined to apprehensive and subdued. He had tossed and turned all night, his thoughts whirling, trying to keep his anger at bay and his disgust with
himself that he had never confronted his abuser.

Higgins would look him in the eye as brazen as you like and greet him as though nothing had ever happened in the past. ‘You’re looking well, laddie, the big smoke is suiting ya,
isn’t it, Nancy?’ he’d said the last time Jonathan had been home, and he and Nancy were walking up their garden path and Higgins had been coming down his, clomping along
breathlessly, leaning on his cane. Jonathan, as usual, had been furious at his nerve but because his mother was with him he had forced himself to say hello.

‘Wimp!’ he’d chastised himself privately, wondering if Nancy hadn’t been with him would he have confronted Gus Higgins or told him to fuck off. Now it was too late. His
pervert neighbour was going to his grave and Jonathan would never have the satisfaction of seeing fear in his eyes, or apprehension, at the anticipated knock on the door from the guards. His chance
was gone because he hadn’t had the guts to deal with the perpetrator of his abuse, Jonathan castigated himself,
loathing
himself for his failings.

Right now he felt very sick and fluttery in his stomach. He got into the car just as the drizzle turned into a sudden downpour. He and Orla had driven to Omni in their own cars so that he could
head off after their breakfast. He was sitting at the traffic lights at McDonald’s when a thought struck him and he cursed loudly. The bloody curtain material – he’d forgotten to
bring it. His mother had assured him she had cleared the decks and was all ready to commence making them. What an idiot he was; now he’d have to drive back to Drumcondra. ‘Prat!’
he cursed himself, heading right towards town instead of left as he’d intended. The traffic was heavy even though it was Sunday as he sat opposite the Skylon, idling in neutral, and he
realized irritably as he saw people streaming along the wet footpaths, decked in their county’s colours, and cars with flags fluttering out of their windows that there was a match on in Croke
Park and he was going nowhere fast. By the time he got to the bedsit he was fit to be tied.

A note was stuck under his door.
Kenny rang and asked for you to call him back. Tom
.

He hadn’t made plans with Kenny and Russell and forgotten about them, had he? Jonathan thought, frazzled, rooting in the jam-jar he kept coins in for the phone.

‘Hey, dude, were you looking for me?’ He pretended to be bright and chirpy when Kenny answered the phone.

‘Hi, Jonathan. Yes! Um . . . I was just wondering did you hear about Higgins? Did your mum call you?’ Kenny asked kindly.

‘Yeah, she did.’ Jonathan sighed heavily. ‘I’m just on my way home. I had to come back here because I forgot the frig-gin’ curtain material she’s expecting.
How did you know?’ He was surprised that his former schoolteacher would have heard about his abuser’s death. Kenny had taught the Higgins girls a long time ago.

‘Sylvia O’Connell is coming up to Dublin during the week and we always meet up when she’s in the city and she said she was going to a funeral on Monday and I asked was it
anyone I knew and she said it was Higgins. She knows his wife from playing bridge.’

‘Oh, right!’ Mrs O’Connell had taught him in third class. She and Kenny had been young teachers together and they had got on well. She had eventually become the headmistress of
the primary school and Kenny still kept in touch with her.

‘I just wanted to make sure you’re OK. Did you say you’re going home?’ Kenny asked.

‘I told Mam I’d bring her to the removal. She expects us to be at it. You know what it’s like, us being next-door neighbours and all.’

‘Jonathan, could you not make some excuse? That’s going to be hard on you. It’s OK to put yourself first in a situation like this.’ His friend sounded perturbed.

‘I
did
make an excuse, but you know, Kenny, I’m not running away from it, him, or myself any more. I’m Jonathan Harpur. Not a victim! Not a gay! I’m me, a human
being, and people can like me or lump me. And his power over me has ended. I’m not letting it continue now that he’s dead,’ Jonathan explained agitatedly.

‘Well said, buddy, well said,’ Kenny approved. ‘Stay where you are and I’ll be over in half an hour. I’m going with you.’

‘No! No! No!’ Jonathan protested. ‘I’ll be fine. I’m not putting you out and dragging you down the country on a Sunday.’

‘Harpur, do as you’re told,’ Kenny said in his best teacher’s voice. Jonathan laughed in spite of himself.

‘You’re OK, Kenny, I really appreciate your offer—’

‘Half an hour, Harpur! Have your shoes polished and your hair brushed.’ The phone went dead.

Jonathan shook his head and smiled. How lucky was he to have friends like Kenny and Hilary? Hilary had offered to get a babysitter for a couple of hours and come with him but he wouldn’t
hear of it. He knew too that if Orla had known about his history she would have offered to come with him too.

He put the kettle on to make himself a quick cup of coffee before Kenny arrived, glad that he wouldn’t have to face the ordeal alone. To have someone at his side who knew what had happened
to him and who understood his torment was a blessing Jonathan was very grateful for. He felt his spirit revive and his courage flow back. With a good friend beside him he could face what was to
come and close that horrible chapter of his life once and for all.

Half an hour later almost to the minute he said he’d be there the loud beep of Kenny’s Peugeot announced his arrival. Jonathan saw with surprise that Russell was
with him.

‘In case you have to be dragged off the coffin shouting obscenities,’ Kenny’s partner said irrepressibly when Jonathan opened the car door and carefully laid the curtain
material, which he had wrapped in drifts of tissue paper, in the back.

‘You and whose army?’ he retorted. ‘It would be the talk of the town, wouldn’t it? Pity I’ll have to behave myself. Lads, you’re very kind. Are you sure about
coming?’

‘Think where man’s glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was I had such friends.
Who said that, Harpur?’ His ex-teacher glanced over his shoulder and raised an
eyebrow.

‘Eh . . . Kavanagh . . . no . . . Yeats.’

‘Well done. Enough said. Get in the car, shut the door and sit back and relax,’ the older man instructed.

‘I never remember you being this bossy when you were teaching me,’ Jonathan remarked, stretching himself out across the seat and clipping on his seat belt.

‘Tell me about it,’ groaned Russell. ‘I live with it every day.’

‘You love being bossed about,’ Kenny retorted and they smiled at each other. Jonathan, listening to their teasing banter, wondered if he would ever be lucky enough to have a partner
of his own. One that he could be so at ease with. Someone who would know him inside out and accept him, warts and all, and vice versa. What a comfort and joy it must be to have someone to share
your life with. So far he hadn’t met anyone he could have that deep connection with, but he lived in hope. He was ever the optimist, he thought with a wry smile.

‘Son, you should have told me you were bringing friends!’ Nancy exclaimed when the three of them walked into the kitchen through the back door. She had been scraping carrots and was
caught by surprise.

‘He didn’t know, Mrs Harpur. It was a spur of the moment decision. I’m Kenny Dowling, his old—’

‘Mr Dowling! You’re welcome. I remember you well. You were very good to my boy when he was at school.’ Nancy wiped her hands on her apron and greeted him warmly.

‘And this is Russell McDowd, my—’

‘I’m a friend of Kenny and Jonathan’s. Lovely to meet you, Mrs Harpur,’ Russell interjected kindly, not sure if Jonathan’s mother was ready to hear the term
‘partner’ in relation to another man.

‘Delighted to meet you, Russell. I’m ever so pleased Jonathan is making good friends in Dublin. Now just let me do a few more spuds for a bit of mash and there’ll be
plenty
for the dinner. Jonathan, put the kettle on and make your friends a pot of tea.’ Nancy bustled around putting mugs on the table before taking a bag of potatoes out of her
small pantry.

‘Please don’t go to any trouble, Mrs Harpur,’ implored Kenny. ‘Couldn’t we go out for a meal and save you the bother?’

Jonathan laughed as he filled the kettle. ‘Kenny, you’re getting a Mammy Dinner. There’ll be no going out for a meal. You might as well save your breath to cool your
porridge.’

‘But we arrived unexpectedly, we can’t impose—’

‘Whist now like a good lad. It won’t take me a minute to peel these,’ Nancy said firmly, ignoring his protests. Russell couldn’t hide his amusement. It had been a long
time since Master Kenny Dowling had been told to whist.

The rain battered furiously against the kitchen window and a faint growl of thunder grew into a roar as it raged across the sky. The smell of the roast, and the mushy peas that simmered in the
small pot on the cooker filled the homely kitchen as the three friends sat around the table drinking tea and chatting easily with Jonathan’s mother. When the food was ready, Nancy carved the
pork while Jonathan lashed yellow globs of butter onto the carrots and the boiled potatoes, mashing the spuds into a fluffy white cloud, with a good portion of cream for added texture and flavour.
He slid the crispy golden roast potatoes out of the oven, while Nancy plated up the inviting dinner. She smiled, gratified, as the three men devoured it.

‘That was
scrumptious,
Mrs Harpur. You can’t beat a Mammy Dinner, as Jonathan calls it,’ Russell complimented her, scraping the last bit of mushy peas, mash and gravy
from the plate.

‘You need to cook proper dinners. It’s all very well going to these fancy restaurants and bistros and having your pâtés and your bruschettas and risottos and the like,
but meat, veg and potatoes is good for you,’ Nancy declared, placing a large serving of home-made apple tart and cream in front of him. ‘Eat that up now. It was very kind of you to come
and save me from myself, I’m a divil for apple pie.’

‘Me
too
!’ Kenny enthused, spooning a mouthful of feather-light pastry into his mouth. ‘Jonathan, we’ll be coming to visit more often.’ He grinned across
the table at his friend.

‘You come whenever you want. Jonathan’s pals are always welcome. Now I’m going up to get ready. I want to be at the church before the hearse arrives. We’ll meet the girls
there; they were in Galway for the weekend. I hope they’ll be back in time. Put the dishes in the dishwasher, son, before we go, so we can come back to a tidy kitchen,’ Nancy
instructed, hurrying out of the room.