The Living (9 page)

I came in as he was righting the chair, and he gave me a distinctly sheepish look. He picked up from his desk a device about the size of a grill handle, black, with a few buttons and a cord connecting it to the back of the computer. ‘I got a loan of this yoke from John Lawless, and I can't get it to work at all.' Now he looked helpless.

‘What is it?'

‘It's a scanner, would you believe. You're supposed to be able to scan in text. I keep getting what looks like the text, but I can't select it. It's as though it's a picture of the text, not the text itself. Does that make any sense to you?'

‘Can I help?'

‘God, I hope so. I haven't the time to go typing out Eddie's entire manuscript, as well as everything else.'

I thought about asking him why he didn't just scan it in on the photocopier, but I suspected that would make matters worse. George and the photocopier had a rocky relationship at the best of times. Instead I said, ‘Let me have a look at it.' I came round and sat in George's chair, taking the scanner from him. He handed it to me as though it were made of eggshell, and gave a tiny whimper as I tried pressing some buttons. After a few moments, with his
permission, I went online and found the manual. Changing scanning mode was predictably straightforward, but George reacted as though I'd rewritten the laws of physics.

‘Lord bless us and save us!' he exclaimed, as the first paragraph of Eddie MacDevitt's manuscript, in fully editable text, appeared on his screen.

‘There you go.'

I stood up from his desk and was just about to leave his office when he coughed and said, ‘Cate? I've a feeling you'd be a lot quicker at this than I would. What do you think?'

‘Would you like me to do the scanning for you?'

The look he gave me was of pure relief.

I finished scanning the manuscript quite quickly, sitting in George's office while he used Paula's desk. He wouldn't risk putting it on to any machine other than his own. ‘Not every word comes through perfectly,' I told him. ‘It'll need to be checked.'

‘Oh, listen,' he said, ‘this is only step one. We've a long way to go.'

I smiled. He'd said
we
.

The next day he called me in again and showed me a second copy of the manuscript, thick with red marks. ‘This is how I've been whiling away the long evenings,' he said. ‘These edits all need to be keyed in.' He paused and looked up. ‘Will you do that for me?' It was as though he were asking me a personal favour – as though he weren't my employer.

For a moment, I hesitated. Now that George was taking me into his confidence, perhaps I should take him into mine and tell
him about the men in the dark car. But then he might change his mind. If the men in the car were about anything, they were about the Belfast gig, weren't they? That's what I'd decided. I didn't need to turn down this professional opportunity on the basis of a handful of quite possibly random encounters.

‘Of course I will,' I said firmly.

I
MARCHED TOWARDS THE
bus stop that Friday evening, clasping the fat leather handles of the laptop's case, humming a passage from
Chichester Psalms
and feeling unusually pleased with myself. It was exciting, I found, to be doing a job I cared about. I detected none of the background resentment I'd always felt while temping, which I'd assumed was intrinsic to the working experience. Perhaps I was turning into some kind of
motivated professional
. How strange.

The evening was pleasant – just a hint of dusk on the fringes of the sky. Trees rustled in a fickle breeze, letting go of a few leaves every so often, delicately, like an exhalation. The leaves were already huddling in heaps against the kerb, stirred by little gusts.

I was still humming the Bernstein as I stood in the shower later on, soaping vigorously. Matthew and I were going to see a French film at the Irish Film Institute. A proper date, which might make up for the strangeness of this week. We'd barely spoken since the funeral. One phone call to arrange tonight, and that was all. He hadn't been at choir yesterday.

I dressed quickly and put some soup on the stove and bread in
the toaster, then came back into the sitting room and set a place for myself at the table. The ash tree's black fingers quivered in the light from the street lamps, and I endured a rush of fear, a feeling almost like vertigo, that Matthew wouldn't come to the cinema, that he'd stand me up, that I was deluding myself about the importance of our connection. We hadn't had what people call The Talk. I'd decided to be comfortable with that, but just now doubt washed through me, leaving an unpleasant aftertaste.

What, after all, did I know about him? I was in uncharted territory – no points of reference, and other than Carmina Urbana, no friends in common to flesh out my picture of him. And he was so private – always staying at my flat, never inviting me back to his or taking the lifts I offered him, saying little about his personal life, his family, what he did when I wasn't there.

I got to the Irish Film Institute at five past eight and couldn't see him. I checked the bar, the shop. He wasn't usually late for things. In fact, he'd teased me about my own unpunctuality – and I'd noticed myself trying harder to be on time for him. Was this his idea of making a point?

I paced the lobby, trying to reason myself out of this angry impatience. It wasn't his fault, I told myself. The only reason I was reacting like this was because I'd been letting myself fret about our relationship. He'd be along in a minute.

Fifteen minutes later, my rationality was wearing thin, and the film was about to start. I texted him: ‘Buying tix', and went to the desk to do so. Added to the impatience, and the guilt for feeling
it, was now my irritation that I'd been the one to pay for our tickets. We'd fallen into some baldly chauvinistic habits, Matthew and I, and I didn't like it.

‘Hello, there, sorry to keep you waiting,' he said, at my elbow. I turned a little too quickly; he must have seen the seething emotions on my face. ‘What's the matter?'

‘Mr Punctuality shrugs off his own lateness,' I said, feeling weak. He raised his eyebrows and stood still, staring me down. I wilted. ‘Don't worry about it. It's no problem.'

‘Good.' Brisk. We headed for the cinema door.

I weathered the sting as best I could. As we neared the door I said, ‘What kept you, anyway?' I wondered why I couldn't leave it alone.

He gave a short sigh. ‘I just got caught up in what I was doing. Doesn't that ever happen to you?'

‘Sure,' I said.

‘Oh, damn.' He took out his buzzing phone and looked at the screen. ‘Sorry, I have to take this.'

I stood to one side and let the people behind us pass ahead. Matthew had stepped a few feet away and was stooping over his phone, blocking his other ear with his free hand. I couldn't see his face or hear what he was saying. Beyond the door, I could hear music.

At last Matthew came back. ‘Got the tickets? Come on.' He guided me into the dimness of the auditorium.

‘Who was that on the phone?' I whispered, as a trailer ended.

‘No one of consequence,' he said. Conversation over. He leaned his head back against the plush seat and closed his eyes.

I watched him, wondering what he was feeling. I wanted to press a button, get a readout. Send in my spies. I searched out his hand, and he returned my conciliatory squeeze.

After the film Matthew seemed more himself, though still reserved. We had a glass of wine in the cinema bar and talked companionably enough about the film, about other French films we'd seen, about our favourite films. I relaxed gradually, realizing as I did just how tense I'd been all evening.

I put on my middle-aged voice. ‘How was your day, dear?'

His face softened. ‘Oh, the usual. You know: the lonely life of the scholar. Meeting with my supervisor. Cups of coffee in the arts block. Sincere intentions to go to the library, suppressed. What about you?'

‘Pretty good, actually,' I said. I wanted to be open with him. Make a real connection. ‘You know what? I am working on the MacDevitt memoir after all.'

He took a sip of wine and blinked at me lazily. ‘Really? How did that come about?'

I told him about Paula's departure, George's ineptitude, my moment of glory with the hand-held scanner. He laughed at that. ‘So what's the book like?'

‘It's, oh, I don't know. It's a bit frustrating, to be honest. I mean, I've only done, like, two and a half chapters, but so far it's just a load of meandering anecdotes, in this really roundabout
style that doesn't ever say anything straight out. I don't know who'll read it, frankly.'

‘Well, frankly, I probably will. It's pretty relevant to my research.' He leaned a little closer. ‘I don't suppose you could slip me an advance copy?'

I shook my head. ‘No way. Not a chance.'

‘Oh well. Worth a try.'

I wished I hadn't mentioned MacDevitt. ‘How's your research going, anyway?' I asked.

‘Oh … so-so.'

‘What is it you're trying to find out about that guy you told me about – the one who was sacked by Harold Wilson?'

‘You remembered that?'

I shrugged. ‘It stuck in my mind.'

‘You really want to know?'

I nodded.

‘All right, then, I'm trying to prove that this man was having unauthorized talks with Republican groups in the seventies, around the time the IRA mainland campaign was kicking off.'

Mainland
. A flash of irritation, but I let it pass. ‘Sounds exciting.'

He looked at me and paused before he spoke. ‘Not really, I'm afraid. At least, I suppose it's exciting in the abstract, but in practice it's just a whole lot of tedious sifting through civil service archives looking for scraps of evidence. Which mostly isn't there. It's incredibly frustrating.'

‘I take it you can't ask the man himself?'

‘He died in 1999.' Matthew sighed. ‘The only concrete thing I've got so far is an expenses claim with a train ticket to Blackpool, on a trip where he was only supposed to be going as far as Preston.'

‘Preston,' I said. ‘Blackpool. They sound like places from a book. Where is Blackpool?'

‘You don't know where Blackpool is?' His tone was gently mocking.

I bristled. ‘Well, why should I?'

‘Well, I don't know – did you do geography at school?'

‘Yes, of course. I got an A in the Junior Cert, I'll have you know.'

‘So, do you know where Nice is? Or Naples?'

‘Yeah, more or less,' I conceded.

‘But not Blackpool. What about, say, Birmingham? Or Bristol, where I'm from. Do you know where that is?' He seemed almost excited to be uncovering the extent of my ignorance.

‘No.' I was sullen now. ‘OK, look, we didn't do it. We skipped the chapter on British geography.'

‘Seriously?'

‘Yes. There wasn't time to cover the whole course, so the teacher decided to skip some of it. Perfectly normal. Did you learn Irish geography? Do you know where Castlebar is?'

‘County Mayo. Sorry. But you're right. I didn't learn that at school.'

There was an awkward silence, broken by me, unbending, trying to rebuild the bridge. ‘We went camping near Nice once. It was loads of fun – big campsites with scads of other Irish kids to play with.'

‘We went to Brittany for a week when I was nine. It rained solidly, as I remember. We spent the entire week indoors playing cards. I think we went to the beach once, but it was horrible. We never went abroad as a family again.'

‘Except to Dublin,' I said. ‘Hello, independent state?'

Matthew looked blank.

‘When we met you said you'd come here a few years ago on a family holiday.' I tried to keep my tone easy, hold back the tide of annoyance that boiled up from somewhere deep. So fucking typical English, that blind spot about Ireland. ‘Foreign country since 1921, as it happens.'

‘Cate.' Matthew spoke carefully. ‘I'm studying Irish history. I have heard of the Treaty of Independence. I just forgot about the Dublin holiday. It's in a completely different category in my memory, because I was already an adult by then.' He reached over and laid a hand on my arm. ‘All right?'

The tide ebbed, leaving me limp. ‘Sorry,' I said. ‘Yeah, I'm a bit touchy, I suppose. Years of habit. Family tradition. Whatever.'

‘No kidding.' He laughed suddenly. ‘I suppose I shouldn't mention all the visits to my mother's cousins in County Antrim, then?'

‘What with the whole “abroad” bit? No. You'd better not.' I took a drink, looked away, around the room, then turned back to him. ‘Or actually, do. You went when you were a kid?' I was struck by the notion of Matthew as a little boy.

‘That's right – we used to go nearly every summer when I was
in primary school. It was a farm, and the kids were around the same age as us. Loads of fun. Then later my sister and I went over on our own.'

Oh, so he had a sister? This felt too much like an interview. I waited for him to elaborate further, but he didn't.

‘What were you like when you were a kid?' I asked, conceding again.

‘What's any kid like? What were you like when you were a kid?'

‘I suppose I was … shy. I read a lot. I was a good girl at school.'

So we talked about school. I ended up telling a string of anecdotes about things I'd almost forgotten – like the craze for collecting fancy notepaper and smelly rubbers. I'd been massively proud of my fancy notepaper collection, even if it was never as good as Denise's.

‘You know, my dad might've made some of that,' Matthew put in. ‘That's what he did – his company. He's retired now. He used to manufacture paper goods. Exercise books, envelopes, printer paper, all that sort of thing. The novelty stationery market was pretty lucrative.'