Dublin 4 (21 page)

‘The place is great. Thank you for the flowers and the card.’

‘Wait till you see what we’re going to have tonight – you’ll think you’re in a first class hotel.’

‘I’m cured, you know that.’

‘Of course I do. You’re very strong and you’ve got a terrific life ahead of you, we all have.’

His voice definitely sounded as if he had a cold, but maybe he was crying – she wouldn’t mention it in case it was crying and it upset him that she noticed.

‘The kids will be in any minute, you’ll have plenty of company.’

‘I’m fine, I’m fine. You’re very good to ring. I thought you couldn’t make calls there.’ She had told him that the organisation expressly forbade private calls in or out. She had said this to stop him ringing when he was drunk.

‘Oh, I sneaked one because today is special,’ she said.

‘I’ll soon have you out of that place, never fear,’ he said.

She remembered suddenly how much he hated her being the breadwinner.

‘That’s great,’ she said. ‘See you very soon.’ She hung up. He sounded grand. Please, please God may it be all right. There was a man in RTE who hadn’t touched a drop in twenty years, he told her. A lovely man, great fun, very successful, and yet he said he was a desperate tearaway when he was a young
fellow. Maybe Gerry would be like him. She must believe. She must have faith in him. Otherwise the cure wouldn’t work.

*   *   *

Paul came home first. He shuffled a bit when he saw his father sitting reading the
Evening Press
in the big armchair. It wasn’t just six weeks since he had seen such a scene, it was much longer; Dad hadn’t been round much for ages.

He put down his books on the table.

‘You’re back, isn’t that great?’ he said.

Gerry stood up and went and put both hands on his son’s shoulders. ‘Paul, will you forgive me?’ he asked, looking straight into the boy’s eyes.

Paul squirmed, and flushed. He had never been so embarrassed. What was Dad saying these awful corny lines for? It was worse than some awful old film on the television. Would he forgive him? It was yucky.

‘Sure, Dad,’ he said, wriggling away from the hands. ‘Did you get the bus home?’

‘No, seriously, I have been very anxious to say this to you for a few weeks, and I’m glad to have a chance before there’s anyone else here.’

‘Dad, it doesn’t matter. Aren’t you fine now, isn’t that all that counts?’

‘No, of course it isn’t. There’s no point in having a son unless you can talk to him. I just want to say
that for too long this house hasn’t been my responsibility. I was like someone who ran away, but I’m back, and it will all be like it was when you were a baby and don’t remember … but this time you’re grown up.’

‘Yes,’ said Paul, bewildered.

‘And if I make rules and regulations about homework and helping in the house, I’m not going to expect you to take them meekly. You can say to me, what kind of sod are you to be ordering us about, where were you when I needed you? I’ll listen to you, Paul, and I’ll answer. Together we’ll make this a proper family.’

‘I wouldn’t say things like that. I’m glad you’re home, Dad, and that it’s cured, the illness bit, honestly.’

‘Good boy.’ His father took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. ‘You’re a very good boy. Thank you.’

Paul’s heart sank. Poor old Dad wasn’t in good shape at all, maybe his mind had gone in that place, talking all this sentimental crap, and tears in his eyes. Oh shit, now he couldn’t ask to go over to Andy’s house. It would cause a major upheaval and maybe his father would burst into tears. God, wasn’t it depressing.

*   *   *

Helen went into the presbytery on her way home in order to speak to Father Vincent.

‘Is anything wrong?’ The priest immediately assumed the worst.

‘No, Mummy keeps saying there’s no crisis, so it must all be fine, but I came to ask if you’d call in tonight on some excuse. If you could make up some reason why you had to call …’

‘No, child, your father’s coming home tonight, I don’t want to intrude on the family, you’ll all want to be together. Not tonight, I’ll call in again sometime, maybe in a day or two.’

‘I think it would be better if you came in now, at the beginning, honestly.’

The priest was anxious to do the best thing but didn’t know what it was. ‘Tell me, Helen, what would I say, what would I do? Why would I be a help? If you could explain that to me then I would, of course.’

Helen was thoughtful for a moment. ‘It’s hard to say, Father Vincent, but I’m thinking of other times. Things were never so bad when you were there, they used to put on a bit of manners in front of you, you know, Mummy and Daddy, they wouldn’t be fighting and saying awful things to each other.’

‘Yes, but I don’t think …’

‘It mightn’t have looked great to you, but if you weren’t there, Daddy would be drinking much more and saying awful things and Mummy would be shouting at him not to upset us …’

The child looked very upset; Father Vincent spoke quickly. ‘I know, I know, and a lot of homes that sort
of thing happens in. Don’t think yours is the only one where a voice is raised, let me assure you. But you’re forgetting one thing, Helen, your father is cured. Thank God he took this cure himself. It was very hard and the hardest bit was having to admit that he couldn’t handle drink. He now has admitted this and he’s fine, he’s really fine. I’ve been to see him, you know, up in the home. I know he didn’t want you children going there, but he’s a new man, in fact he’s the old man, his old self, and there won’t be a thing to worry about.’

‘But he’s still Daddy.’

‘Yes, but he’s Daddy without drink. He’s in grand form, you’ll be delighted with him. No, I won’t come in tonight, Helen, but I’ll give a ring over the weekend and maybe call round for a few minutes.’

Helen looked mutinous. ‘I thought priests were meant to help the community. That’s what you always say when you come up to the school to talk to us.’

‘I am helping, by not poking my nose in. Believe me, I’m older than you are.’

‘That’s the thing people say when they’ve no other argument,’ Helen said.

*   *   *

Emma cycled down the road and saw Helen moodily kicking a stone.

‘Are you only coming home now?’ she asked,
annoyed that Helen hadn’t been back to welcome Gerry earlier.

‘I called in to see Father Vincent on the way,’ said Helen.

‘What about?’ Emma was alarmed.

‘Private business, you’re not to ask people what goes on between them and their confessor, it’s the secrecy of the confessional.’

‘Sorry,’ said Emma. ‘He’s not coming round here tonight by any awful chance, is he?’

Helen looked at her mother with a puzzled look. ‘No, he’s not actually.’

‘Good, I want us to be on our own today. You run ahead and say hallo to your father, I’ll be in in a moment.’

Unwillingly Helen walked on: as she turned in the gate she saw her mother take out a comb and mirror and pat her hair. How silly Mummy could be at times. What was she combing her hair for now? There was nobody at home to see her. You’d think she’d have combed it when she was in RTE where she might meet people who’d be looking at her.

*   *   *

Gerry gave Helen a hug that nearly squeezed the breath out of her.

‘You’re very grown up, you know, a real teenager,’ he said.

‘Oh Dad, it isn’t that long since you’ve seen me, it’s only a few weeks. You sound like an old sailor coming back from months abroad.’

‘That’s what I feel like, that’s exactly the way I feel – how clever of you to spot it,’ he said.

Helen and Paul exchanged fairly alarmed glances. Then they heard Mum’s bicycle clanking against the garage wall and everyone looked at the back door. She burst in through the scullery and into the kitchen. She looked flushed from riding the bicycle; she had a huge bag of groceries which she had taken from the basket. In her jeans and shirt she looked very young, Gerry thought.

They hugged each other in the kitchen, rocking backwards and forwards as if the children were not there, as if Gerry wasn’t holding a second mug of Bovril in his hand and as if Emma weren’t holding the shopping in hers.

‘Thank God, thank God,’ Gerry kept saying.

‘You’re back, you’re back again,’ Emma said over and over.

Solemn-eyed, their children looked at them from the door into the hall. Their faces seemed to say that this was almost as bad as what they had been through before.

*   *   *

The telephone rang as they were having supper. Emma, her mouth full of prawns, said she’d get it.

‘It’s probably your mother, she said she’d ring.’

‘She has,’ said Gerry.

It was Jack. He had been kept late at the shop. Mr Power had decided at the last moment that all the furniture in the show-rooms should be shifted around so that the cleaners could get at the place from a different angle. Emma spent two and a half minutes listening to a diatribe against Mr Power; she grunted and murmured soothingly. Then the tone of Jack’s voice changed, it became conspiratorial.

‘Is he home?’ he whispered.

‘Yes, thank God, he came home this afternoon. Looks as fit as a fiddle. We’ll all have to go up there and be pampered, I tell you.’ She laughed and sounded light-hearted, hoping Jack would catch her mood.

‘And is there … is there any sign of …?’

‘Oh yes, very cheerful, and he sends you his good wishes – we’re just having a welcome home supper for him actually.’ Would Jack take this heavy hint, was there the remotest chance that he might realise he had rung at a meal-time?

‘Is he listening to you, there in the room?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Well, I obviously can’t talk now. I’ll ring later, when he’s asleep maybe.’

‘Why don’t you ring in the morning, Jack, say, late morning. Saturday’s a good day, we’ll all be around then, and you could have a word with Gerry himself. Right?’

‘I’m not sure if I’ll be able to ring in the late morning.’

‘Well, sometime tomorrow …’ She looked back at Gerry and affectionately they both raised their eyes to the ceiling. ‘If only you’d get a phone, we could ring you. I hate you having to find the coins always for calls.’

‘There’s no point in paying the rental for a telephone, and they charge you any figure that comes into their heads, I tell you, for the number of calls. No, I’m better to use the coin box, it’s not far away. It’s just that there’s often a lot of kids around on a Saturday.’

‘Well, whenever you can, Jack.’

‘You’re marvellous with him, marvellous. Not many women would be able to cope like you.’

‘That’s right,’ she laughed. He was such a lonely figure she didn’t like to choke him off too quickly. ‘And how are you keeping yourself?’ she asked.

Jack told her at length: he told her that he had a bad neck which resulted from a draught that came through a door which Mr Power insisted on being open. He told her that people weren’t buying as much furniture as they used to, and that this craze for going to auctions and stripping things down was ruining the trade. She motioned to Paul, who was nearest to her, to pass her plate. She was annoyed with Jack’s timing and his insensitivity, but if she hung up she would feel guilty and she wanted to be able to relax
tonight of all nights without another problem crowding her mind.

She looked over at the table as she let Jack ramble on; they all seemed to be getting on all right. Gerry looked great, he had lost weight too. The two of them were much more like their wedding photograph than they had ever been. His jaw was leaner, his eyes were bright, he was being endlessly patient with the kids, too, which was a lot more difficult than it sounded. Helen in particular was as prickly as a hedgehog, and Paul was restless. Jack seemed to be coming to an end. He would ring tomorrow and talk to Gerry, he hoped Gerry appreciated all that she did for him, going out and earning a living, keeping the family together. If only he had had sense long ago and not put so much at risk. ‘But it’s all fine now,’ Emma said wearily. Jack agreed doubtfully and hung up.

‘Was he repenting of my wicked life?’ asked Gerry.

‘A bit,’ Emma laughed. Gerry laughed, and after a moment the children laughed too. It was the nearest to normal living they had known for about four years.

*   *   *

Gerry spent Saturday in his study. It was a four-bed-roomed house and when they had bought it they had decided at once that the master bedroom should be his study. Other men rented offices, so it made sense
that the big bedroom with the good light should be where Gerry worked. The little bathroom attached to the bedroom was turned into a darkroom. Once it had been a miracle of organisation: a huge old-fashioned chest of drawers, a lovely piece of furniture holding all his up-to-date filing system. As efficient as any steel filing cabinet, only a hundred times more attractive. The lighting was good, the walls were hung with pictures; some of a single object, like his famous picture of a diamond; some were pictures that told a success story. Gerry receiving an award here, Gerry sharing a joke there. Then there was the huge, bulging desk, full recently of bills or handouts, or refusals or rubbish, making a mockery of the filing.