The Living (6 page)

‘Great flat – so central,' I said to Linda. I heard myself deliver the line, like someone years older and several notches more sophisticated.

‘Well, this is it. Couldn't be better, really. Anyway, help yourself to drinks! Nibbles!' She waved me to a table on which bowls of snacks and a large selection of bottles were arrayed. I poured a glass of fizzy orange, which messed with my chronology again, making me feel simultaneously too old and too young.

Over by the fireplace I saw Tom and Diane. I started towards them, and Tom spotted me. ‘The bould Mizz Houlihan herself!
Ave
, Cate-o!' he exclaimed, with a florid beam. He was at his most ebullient, clearly in all-out party mode. He put an arm round me. ‘And how's my favourite alto?'

‘You're such an uncle, Tom,' I said, giving him a gentle dig in the ribs and nodding a greeting at Diane.

‘You hear that, Diane? Cate has me down as avuncular.'

‘Course you are, Tom,' said Diane. ‘You are the
quintessential
uncle.'

‘I'm not, actually. My sister is a bit old for kids at this stage. I'm a father, mind you. Will that do?'

I did my best to mask my surprise, but Tom was plainly on to
me. ‘I am. I've two teenage sons. I don't see much of them these days.' He sighed brightly and squared his shoulders. ‘Come here, you were saying,' he prompted Diane.

‘Oh yes, well, I sent the list of names off to Belfast last week, and they've given us the go-ahead, so we're all set.'

‘And tell me, our Mr Taylor is definitely doing that gig, isn't he?'

‘He is indeed,' said Diane. ‘No offence to your good self, Tom, but we need him!'

‘Oh, I concur,' said Tom. He looked around. ‘Where is he anyway?' He raised his glass. ‘I'm allowing myself one ogle per drink.'

Diane giggled. ‘Tom, you're shameless.'

‘I am,' he agreed. ‘Honestly, you'd think I was single, the way I go on.' He sighed. ‘In any case, the gentleman in question appears regrettably straight.' He smirked at me. I gave him a glare.

The two of them began to talk about music. I couldn't listen. Matthew was
here
– somewhere in this flat. I finished my drink and excused myself, moving back out to the hallway like a tiger on the prowl. What I'd do when I found him, I wasn't quite sure.

There weren't many places he could be, and my first guess proved correct. A splinter group had formed in the quieter environs of the spare bedroom. Val was in a low chair by the bed, where Joan and a few other choir people had pushed the coats back to make space to sit. Matthew and Linda stood under the blazing light bulb, drinks in hand.

The women seemed to be discussing the flat. Matthew looked on, his face thoughtful, difficult to read. He looked …

He looked
fucking gorgeous
, in point of fact. I kept a grip on myself and made an inoffensive remark about this being the chill-out room.

‘Yeah,' said Linda. ‘It's a nice little room, isn't it? We might make it into a study, we were thinking.' She looked past me, to where Donal had just come in. ‘Hello, Mr Breen.'

Donal had a bottle in each hand. ‘Hello, there, Missus. Top-up for anyone?' He poured wine into the proffered glasses.

Linda said, ‘The landlord keeps calling me Mrs Breen.' She added airquotes. ‘I can't be doing with that at all. Donal thinks it's sweet.'

‘Well, I do,' said Donal, mock-aggrieved.

‘It's a load of shite,' said Linda. She took a long swallow of her wine. ‘“Mrs Donal Breen” – I mean, I love you and all, Donal, but for fuck's sake. I'm Linda Muldoon. It'd be like putting on a new face, or something. I couldn't do it.'

‘Ah, you'd get used to it,' Donal said.

‘Well, why don't you change yours then?'

‘Because it's not – I'd be – I don't know, I just wouldn't.'

‘Well, don't expect
me
to, then.' She turned to me. ‘Would you?'

I hesitated. ‘It hasn't arisen.'

‘Yeah,' Linda said, draining her glass and holding it out for Donal to fill up. ‘First catch your man.'

Talk turned to the Belfast gig. Mircea the Romanian bass said,
‘Yes, but what is the gig exactly? I mean, what is the event?'

Joan explained, ‘It's a European peace summit – they've invited the Turks and the Greeks and the Cypriots, and I think a big name may put in an appearance. Not Clinton or Blair, I can't remember who they said it was. Anyway, we're singing at a sort of gala evening on the Saturday. They've got three choirs lined up to do that Daintree piece – London, Belfast and us – voices from all three communities, peace and harmony and all that jazz.' Joan paused for a drink of beer and looked down for a moment before going on. ‘And by the way, to be blunt, they will probably run a background check on all of us. The audience is going to be full of government ministers and diplomats from all over the place.'

‘Hang on, though,' put in Val. ‘That doesn't make any sense. Why would they waste their time investigating Carmina Urbana when they can just use someone like the National Chamber Choir – people who do this kind of gig all the time and already have whatever clearance they need?'

‘They could do that,' said Joan. She looked uncomfortable. ‘But …'

‘Oh!' said Val. ‘It's the Diane connection, isn't it?'

‘I suspect it is,' said Joan. ‘What's the Diane connection?' asked Mircea.

Joan lowered her voice and leaned forward, glancing from face to face. ‘It's not something she advertises, particularly, but Diane is the daughter of Jennifer Mallon, if you remember.'

I didn't. Or, wait, a faint memory stirred. A name to bring
out when you needed to end an argument – ironclad, irrefutable.
Jennifer Mallon
: I could hear it in Mum's voice.

Beside me, Matthew spoke for the first time, ‘Wasn't she … shot by a British soldier some time in the early eighties?' He'd spoken as softly as Joan had.

Joan nodded.

Val said, ‘It was one of those totally awful, unnecessary tragedies – I remember hearing about it at school. She was driving her baby daughter to visit her dying husband in hospital – I know, you couldn't make it up – and she got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Young soldier panicked. Shot her and she crashed the car.'

Mircea said, ‘Wow. And Diane was her baby?'

Joan nodded. ‘The father died of cancer a few months later. Diane grew up with her aunt and uncle in Kildare, I think.'

Val said, ‘So it's like this big symbolic deal to have Diane's choir singing at a peace event. I'd say the Brits are super-sensitive about it.' She looked awkwardly at Matthew.

‘So we ought to be, by the sound of it,' he said.

There was a silence, broken by Val standing up. ‘Joan, you'll have another of these lads?' She offered to take Joan's empty beer bottle.

‘Very much so, my dear,' said Joan.

Linda flopped down on to Val's vacated chair and leaned over to talk to Joan and the others on the bed. Matthew and I remained standing. I could feel the heat of him, his beauty, snaking around me like a fog.

He turned towards me. ‘Did I read something about your employer in the newspaper?'

Really, Matthew, you want to talk about work,
again
? Oh, well, better than nothing. I'd have to be careful not to overstep George's boundaries this time, though. I said, ‘You mean the MacDevitt thing?'

‘Yes, that's right. The Laochra na Saoirse memoir.'

I couldn't help smiling.

He hesitated. ‘What? Did I say that wrong?'

‘No, it was lovely,' I said. ‘You have no idea how completely bizarre it is to hear Irish spoken in an English accent.'

‘Well, how do you say it?'

I channelled my Leaving Cert Irish teacher and delivered the phrase in its full rolling, guttural glory. ‘Actually,' I confessed, ‘that's not how I say it. But it's how a native speaker would say it. More or less.'

‘OK, and what did I say?'

We'd turned now to face each other, standing close enough that if I moved my hand carelessly it would brush his sleeve. ‘It was more …
lake-ra na sair-sha
.' I caricatured him, exaggerating his crisp diction.

He sniffed. ‘Fine, I'll just refer to them as the Heroes of Freedom, then, shall I?'

‘Grand, so,' I said. ‘But come here, how do you even know about them? I barely do. We didn't learn about them at school.'

‘It's my field,' he said simply.

Val was back with Joan's beer. ‘What's your field?' she asked. ‘History, isn't it?'

I put a tiny bit more space between me and Matthew, in case she'd notice.

‘That's right,' Matthew said. ‘Republicanism, really. Tell me, Val, have you heard of Laochra na Saoirse?'

‘Weren't they one of those People's Front of Judea-style factions in the seventies?'

‘Exactly.'

Val said, ‘Ha.
So
different from nowadays. We've really moved on.'

They chatted easily about politics, while I struggled against the feeling that they were the grown-ups and I was the child. I had nothing to add to their discussion.

‘I'm going to see if anyone's dancing,' I said suddenly, and headed back to the sitting room.

Several people were, to some nineties Britpop thing – bouncing and twisting in the centre of the floor. I joined in for a while, then got myself some water and stood by the window. The lower sash was closed over the tops of several carrier bags containing beer, which had been left outside on the fire escape to keep them cool. Rain had collected in the plastic crevices, working its way in under the sash.

I danced some more after I finished my water, then stopped to rest again. Somebody put on Lady Gaga, and suddenly the dancers were a bristling throng, all leaping and posing and roaring along
with the lyrics. I saw the group from the spare bedroom come streaming in, Val dragging a reluctant Matthew by the hand. They joined in on the outskirts with an improvised Gaga-esque dance, in which their attempts to cast Matthew as the Lady herself fell flat. He was not playing ball.

As the next song began Joan arrived beside me, puffing. ‘Oh, good lord, I'm too old for this. Time for some sustenance.' She raised the window and bent over to retrieve another beer from her stash. Matthew emerged from the dancing mass and came towards us, a particle reaching escape velocity.

‘You've got the right idea, Joan,' said Matthew, reaching out the window to get a beer of his own. ‘You want one, Cate?' He was panting slightly, and the whisper of his breath was thrilling.

‘No thanks,' I said, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘I'm driving, I'm afraid.'

‘Ah, yes, you are, aren't you?' said Joan. ‘Now, feel free to say no, but would there be any chance of a lift home when you're going?'

‘Sure,' I said, ‘no problem.' I checked the time: it was nearly midnight. ‘I'd be thinking of heading off fairly soon, actually – would that be all right?'

‘Absolutely,' said Joan. She gave me a sympathetic look. ‘It's not so much fun when everyone's pissed, is it? I'll just go and find out if Val wants to come too.'

Matthew and I went on watching the dancing. I got the impression he was working up to something. ‘Look, um, again, feel free to say no … but is there any chance I could have a lift too?'

‘Sure,' I said, my voice sounding squeaky and unprepared. I realized that I didn't know where he lived (yet), and also that I'd drive him to Shankill or bloody Swords if he asked me to.

There was a brief pause, while Matthew registered the fact that I hadn't asked him where he was going before agreeing to take him there – I could see the realization move across his face like a searchlight – and then he said, ‘Thanks. You're a star,' and blinked a few times. He took a long swallow from his can, and I watched his throat work as he threw his head back, the skin stretched across his smooth Adam's apple. I gazed at the point where the flesh curved and disappeared into its cave of dark fabric. My lips would fit that curve beautifully – the thought set off a cluster of sparks from my belly to my knees.

I said, ‘I'll just go and see if Joan's ready.'

He lifted his drink. ‘Fine, I'll finish this, then – see you in a minute.'

I picked my way between the dancers and found Joan in the hall with Tom. She had her coat half on and was still holding her drink. ‘Nearly finished!'

‘Don't worry,' I said. ‘We have to wait for Matthew.'

This raised a few eyebrows. Tom let out a noise like a surprised siren. ‘The bould Matthew, no less!' he said. ‘I'll drink to that!' He proceeded to do so, clinking his bottle with a flourish against Joan's.

‘It's not what you're thinking,' I said. ‘He just asked for a lift, that's all.'

‘So your intentions are entirely honourable, young lady,' said Tom gravely.

‘Entirely.'

I went to the spare bedroom to retrieve my coat. Val was sitting in the low chair again, joint in hand, garlanded in sweet smoke. There were three or four others kneeling on the floor at her feet, like acolytes. I knew none of them.

When I got back Matthew was just emerging from the sitting room with Donal. Joan hastily drained her bottle. Tom turned to Matthew, and I could see he was on the point of embarking on an innuendo. I seized him for a goodbye hug, which took him off guard a little, bid goodbye to Donal, and hustled Joan and Matthew out the door.

Outside, the wind blew fine rain into our faces. I led the way round the corner to the car and unlocked it. Matthew and Joan came after me, arm in arm – Joan was the more unsteady on her feet. There was a brief dispute on the kerb about who should have the honour of ceding the front seat, which Matthew lost. Joan climbed into the back.