Authenticity (3 page)

When he arrived at the house Liz opened the door before he had time to put his key in the lock. Her face showed surprise to see him home so early, that quickly modulated into concern when he said, ‘I feel ill. I feel wretched.’

‘You certainly look it. Do you want to go and lie down?’

He’d stumbled up the stairs to the bedroom and at once, to his own later astonishment, fell into a deep and mercifully dreamless sleep from which he awoke only at midnight, when Liz came up. And he’d gone down, in spite of her protestations, to drink and to sit in silence, to cling again to the old, familiar rituals of his life, even though he knew now that they were utterly useless. He had still barely grasped what had happened to him, but he was aware that, from here on out, things could never be the same again.

‘Cliona rang me this morning, said she was having a little get-together for the family Sunday week. She asked me to pass the invitation along.’

Roderic threw him the look of a hunted animal. “‘A little get-together.” Jesus, Dennis, those are some of the most terrifying words in the English language.’

‘I take it that means no?’

Anyone seeing Dennis and Roderic sitting drinking together at the back of the pub that early February evening could easily have surmised that they were brothers. The similarities they shared were in nuance and gesture, in the way they spoke and sat and lifted their drinks from the table rather than in any physical aspect. Roderic, considerably bigger than Dennis, was a robust, big-boned giant of a man. He was wearing a thick moss-coloured jumper that had seen better days, and he managed to look both ravaged and vital, was dark-haired and striking. Fair-haired and lightly built, Dennis was neat this evening, as ever, in his herringbone tweed jacket and tie. They were in their late forties, early fifties, and life had clearly taken its toll on both of them, in its own way.

‘Ah, you know how it is. Poor Cliona, she must be the last woman in Ireland with a heated hostess trolley.’

‘I don’t think she really expects you,’ Dennis said, ‘but she wanted you to know that you’re invited, that you’d be more than welcome to come along.’

‘I’m a heel, I know. I’ll call her myself to thank her and tell her I can’t make it. Maybe I’ll arrange to see her in town for a coffee. I like to keep in touch with the family, but it has to be one at a time. I can’t hack it in a group.’

‘I think she’s still annoyed with you about that time last September, when you forgot you’d been invited and didn’t show,’ Dennis said. To his surprise, Roderic smiled at this as though the memory gave him pleasure.

‘I did, didn’t I?’ he said. ‘I forgot. Still, I did go along for Arthur’s birthday at the end of the year, do you remember?’

‘I do indeed,’ Dennis replied, taking a long slug of his Guinness.

Immense amidst the chintz and bric-à-brac of Cliona and Arthur’s front room in Loughlinstown, Roderic had looked like a golden eagle that had landed by chance upon a suburban bird table, beside the sparrows and finches, and instead of laying waste to all around him had decided to try to fit in. He’d eaten prodigious quantities of home-made shortbread from a triple-decked cake-stand – another of Cliona’s anachronistic household items – as the conversation washed around him. Property prices, the difficulty of finding parking spaces in Dublin, political scandals, golf, the new Polo Arthur had recently acquired as a second car for Cliona’s use, and its merits compared with the Renault Clio that Maeve was thinking of buying; everyone painfully aware that Roderic had no particular opinions on any of these matters. But when Arthur finally cleared his throat and said, ‘How’s the work going, Roderic?’ he’d looked, if anything, even more ill at ease and stared at the carpet. ‘Grand, grand,’ he said, ‘the work’s going grand.’ Everyone was relieved, even Dennis, when he finally made his excuses and lumbered out.

‘I do try,’ he protested, ‘and I do like them, you know that. I’ve always been particularly fond of Arthur, and I’m even getting on fairly well with Maeve these days. Speaking of families,’ he went on, reaching for his jacket which was folded on the couch beside him, ‘this arrived last week.’ From an inside pocket he took an envelope with an Italian stamp and passed the colour photograph it contained to Dennis. As his brother studied it, Roderic sat behind his coffee cup with his arms folded, pleased by Dennis’s
admiring comments. When he handed back the photo Roderic himself looked at it for a few moments before replacing it in the envelope, and then they sat in silence for a few minutes.

‘I’m going to a concert later this evening,’ Dennis eventually remarked, ‘and I have to eat first. I wondered if you would like to come and have a plate of pasta with me, somewhere near here.’

‘Now that’s an invitation I would like to take up, but I’m afraid I can’t.’ Dennis again drank from his Guinness, leaving a pause he hoped Roderic might fill by divulging his plans for the evening. But Roderic was up to this trick.

‘What are you going to hear?’ he asked, picking up his cup in turn.

‘Beethoven Piano Concerto. The Fifth.’

‘Great stuff. You’re so well organised. Have you a season ticket again for this year?’ Dennis nodded. ‘We must arrange to go to something together soon. And I’m really sorry I can’t eat with you tonight.’

‘Another time.’

‘I’m going to have another coffee, what can I get you?’

Dennis put his spread palm over the top of his glass. ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ he said, and he watched as his brother unfurled himself from his seat and went over to the bar. Roderic never had any trouble getting served in pubs, no matter how busy, for he towered over all around him, and it was impossible for any barman not to notice him. Not that there was any difficulty today, for it was early in the week and although a few office workers, like Dennis, had filtered in for a drink, it was a quiet evening. Contented and relaxed, he gazed down the length of the long, dim room with its marble counter, its elaborate lamps and wooden fittings, and watched the smoke from someone’s cigarette twist and drift in the quiet air.

‘I like this pub,’ he said, as Roderic made his way back to the table, a cup and saucer clutched gingerly in his
big paw. ‘It’s good to be able to meet you in a place like this,’ he added carefully. ‘You’re looking ever so well these days.’

‘Aren’t I great?’ Roderic said with no discernible irony. ‘It’s three years now. I never take it for granted, Dennis, not for a minute.’

‘Nor do I.’ They had almost said too much. They fell silent as Roderic emptied two packets of sugar into his coffee. ‘Work’s going well too. Sold a painting last week, a big one. What about yourself, how’s it going in the bank?’

‘Much as ever; it’s fine.’

‘What about the hill walking, are you getting out at all these days?’

‘I’d be lost without it. I was up in Glencree on Sunday. Walk for miles then stand, just listen to the silence. Magical.’

Roderic had changed his position slightly when he sat down again, leaving Dennis a clear view of the length of the room. As they talked about his day in Wicklow, the front door of the pub opened and a young woman came in: scruffy, and wild haired. He casually watched her progress. Although there were plenty of empty places at the front and middle, she was moving down towards the corner beside the back door, where Dennis and Roderic were sitting. By the time the penny dropped, and Dennis realised what was happening, she had come up right behind Roderic who, sitting with his back to her, was oblivious to her presence until the moment she put her hand on his shoulder.

‘Julia!’

‘I came early. I didn’t expect you to be here for an hour yet, so I thought I would sit and read my book for a while. You don’t mind if I join you?’

‘Not at all, not at all,’ Roderic said. Flustered, he moved his jacket from beside Dennis to make room for her, replacing in the pocket, Dennis noticed, the letter from Italy which had remained on the table until then.

‘This is Dennis, my brother – Dennis – Julia.’

‘Roderic has told me lots about you,’ she said, a politeness Dennis couldn’t in honesty return. They shook hands and he gave her the tight little smile that was, in the circumstances, all he could manage. Julia took out her purse and dumped her velvet shoulder bag on the couch. ‘Can I get either of you a drink?’ she asked as she moved towards the bar. Roderic had barely touched his coffee, and Dennis again demurred. He was relieved when he heard her ask for a glass of Smithwicks, which was quickly served, for he didn’t know how he and Roderic could have easily filled the awkward minutes it would have taken the barman to pour a Guinness.

‘We were just talking about Wicklow,’ Roderic said when she sat down.

‘Oh really? That’s where I’m from,’ she added, addressing Dennis. ‘What were you saying about it?’ They tried to flog the conversation back into life, but without success. Subjects were raised – hill walking – concerts – Julia’s forthcoming exhibition – but they rapidly foundered on the brothers’ lack of ease. Only Julia remained calm, evidently bemused at the effect of her arrival. Eventually Dennis looked at his watch, drained his glass and said he would have to be off.

‘So that’s the famous Dennis,’ she said when they were alone. ‘He’s attractive, but I don’t think he knows it himself,’ a comment Roderic found remarkably shrewd. His brother’s habitually stern manner usually masked his looks, something people generally failed to see through until they knew him well ‘Why was he so uptight? What was all that about?’

‘Oh Dennis is Dennis, you know. It’s a long story.’

Julia turned over in her mind this not particularly illuminating response and decided not to pursue the matter for now. They relaxed into Dennis’s absence and talked about all that had happened to them in the days since they had last seen each other, Roderic’s big booming laugh occasionally causing people to turn and look at them.

After a time Julia opened her bag and took out a few sheets of paper. ‘This is the text for the catalogue,’ she said. ‘Have a look through it and tell me what you think. I hate things like this,’ she added as he smoothed out the pages on the table.

‘Everyone hates this side of it,’ Roderic replied, ‘except vain, silly people, and perhaps even some of them find it a chore.’

He picked up Julia’s curriculum vitae. He ran his eye over the list of qualifications and exhibitions. A page easily held all she had done so far.

‘Every time I look at it I think how false it is,’ she said. ‘I look between the gaps and see all the things left out: all the projects that didn’t come through, the failed exams, the rows, the relationships that didn’t work, the whole bloody lot.’

He glanced at her over the top of the page, thinking of his own CV: the long list of hard-won achievements; and its shadow side, the unspoken horrors between the lines. Julia didn’t know what it was to have broken hearts and wrecked lives, including one’s own. Poor Dennis. No wonder he was so easily spooked by anything to do with Roderic by this stage.

‘That looks fine.’ He turned his attention to the essay entitled ‘Julia Fitzpatrick: Found Objects for a New Millennium’, and started to read. He had almost finished it when he noticed that someone had come up and was standing beside them.

‘Roderic.’

‘Brendan.’

Brendan stood staring down at Roderic. He bit his lower lip, frowning slightly and nodding. ‘So how are things? Tell me everything you’ve been up to. What’s new?’

‘Things are fine,’ Roderic said evenly. Brendan didn’t respond, but continued to bite and stare and nod and frown, hoping that Roderic would be made to feel uneasy, and blurt further information into the protracted silence. Instead, he sipped his coffee and stared insolently back at Brendan.

‘Good,’ Brendan said eventually. ‘Good.’

‘Julia, do you know Brendan? Brendan Halpin, the art critic? Julia Fitzpatrick.’

Until Roderic spoke to her, Brendan had paid no attention whatsoever to Julia. He looked at her now with unfriendly curiosity, and he didn’t respond to her greeting – ‘Hello, Brendan’ – but turned back to Roderic and gave him a sly smile.

‘Julia’s in a group exhibition that opens in March,’ Roderic said. ‘Go and see it,’ and he named the gallery.

Brendan considered this information, still nodding and frowning. ‘So everything’s fine?’ he said eventually.

‘Everything’s fine.’

‘Good. Good. Well, see you around, Roderic.’ Julia was not included in this farewell, by either word or gesture. They watched him as he made his way through the pub to the front door, weaving his way between the tables.

‘I always regard meeting Brendan as a spiritual exercise,’ Roderic said, ‘and I’d advise you to do the same. He’s got a good sharp mind, but no heart. Don’t fret about his ignoring you. It’s only in the past year or so, since my star has been somewhat in the ascendant, that he’ll give me the time of day. The good thing about having been at the bottom of the heap is that you have no illusions left when you start to move up.’

He finished reading the essay and made a few suggestions, including a change of title; she thanked him for his help.

‘Do you know anything about the other artists in the show?’

‘One is a photographer, whose work I must confess I don’t like at all. She demythologises women too completely, I think.’

‘So you’d like them to be just a little bit mythologised?’ he teased her, and she smiled.

‘I’m not explaining it well. I mean, if you reduce everything to the purely physical, you’re missing the point At least, that’s my view. You’ll see what I’m getting at when you see the photos themselves. And as for the other artist, I don’t
know her work. She isn’t a painter, she makes constructions. I’ve been told that she’s good; we’ll see in due course. What are you doing for the rest of the evening?’

‘I’m heading back to the studio myself for a few hours now,’ he said, ‘I got very little done when I was over there this morning. What about you?’

‘I think I’ll sit here and read my book a while, as I didn’t get to read it earlier.’

He took her hand. ‘I’m sorry about Dennis,’ he said.

‘Put it out of your mind. There’s nothing to be sorry about.’

‘Oh but there is, Julia,’ he said, ‘that’s the problem. There’s lots and lots to be sorry about.’

As he walked towards the front door of the pub he shrugged on his jacket, almost knocking a pint glass from a table as he passed. William caught it just in time and looked up, annoyed. The person who had unwittingly almost spilt the drink was such a giant, however, with the face of a hardened drinker that he decided to let discretion be the better part of valour, and to let it pass. Martin, whose drink it actually was, hadn’t even noticed, as he yammered away. It was William who had suggested to Martin that they go for the drink that they hadn’t had on the Friday. It put off the time when he would have to go home, something which was becoming an increasing strain. He had managed to get through the weekend somehow, after that shocking Friday. Mainly, he’d stayed in bed, pleading illness, but Liz knew by Saturday that there was more to it than that. It was only a matter of time before he stopped functioning completely. She knew he was in trouble, had urged him this morning to take the day off work. ‘Why?’ he’d asked, interested to see what she would say. Perhaps she might be able to throw some light on it, but she had folded her arms and looked at him shrewdly. ‘Why don’t you tell me?’ she said. He wondered listlessly how much longer he would be able to struggle on before it all fell comprehensively apart. Today was Tuesday. He knew he wouldn’t make it to the end of the week.