Dublin 4 (22 page)

He had sighed when he saw it, but Emma had been beside him.

‘Tell me what you want except a couple of black plastic sacks to get rid of the rubbish,’ she had said.

‘And a bottle of Paddy to get rid of the pain of looking at it,’ he had said.

‘You poor old divil, it’s not that bad is it?’ she said lightly.

‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m only being dramatic. I’ll need a dozen plastic bags.’

‘Don’t throw everything out,’ she said, alarmed.

‘I’ll throw a lot out, love, I have to start again from scratch, you know that.’

‘You did it once, you’ll do it again,’ she said and went downstairs.

*   *   *

Gerry made himself four big, sweeping categories: Real Rubbish; Browsing Through Later Rubbish; For the Filing Cabinet; and Contacts for the New Life.

Almost everything seemed to fit into those; he was pleased with himself and even hummed as the marathon sorting work went on.

Emma heard him as she made the beds and she paused and remembered. Remembered what it used to be like, a cheerful confident Gerry, whistling and humming in his study, then running lightly down the stairs and into his car off to another job. In those days there was a big pad beside the phone where she put down the time the person called, their name, their business. She had always sounded so efficient and helpful; clients had often asked was she Mr Moore’s partner and she would laugh and say a very permanent partner – they had found that entertaining. For months, years, the phone had hardly rung for Gerry, except a call from Des Kelly or a complaint from his brother Jack, or a list of complaints about something from his mother. Should she dare to believe that things were ever going to be normal again? Was it tempting fate to believe that he might really stay off the drink and build his business up? She didn’t know. She had nobody to ask, really. She couldn’t go to Al Anon and discuss it with other wives and families, because that somehow wasn’t fair. It would be different if
Gerry had joined Alcoholics Anonymous; then she would be able to join something that went hand in hand with it, but no. Gerry didn’t want to go to some room every week and hear a lot of bores standing up and saying, ‘I’m Tadgh, I’m an alcoholic.’ No, the course was the modern way of dealing with things and he had done that and been cured.

She sighed; why was she blaming him? He had done it his way and he had done it. For six weeks in that home he had become stronger and more determined. For two days now at home he was managing. She must stop fearing and suspecting and dreading, dreading things like the first phone call from Des Kelly, the first row, the first disappointment. Would he have the strength to go on being sunny after all these?

*   *   *

Gerry had tucked three bags of Real Rubbish into the garage, all neatly tied at the neck. He insisted that Emma come up and admire what he had done. The room still looked very much of a shambles to her, but he seemed to see some order in it, so she enthused. He had found three cheques as well – out of date, but they could be re-dated. They totalled over £200.00. He was very pleased with himself for finding them and said that it called for a dinner out.

‘Are you sure they weren’t re-issued already? One’s three years old.’ Emma wished she hadn’t said it. It sounded grudging. She spoke on quickly. ‘If they have been, so what? You’re quite right, where will we go?’

He suggested a restaurant which was also a pub. She kept the smile on her face unchanged. There was going to be a lot of this kind of thing, she’d better learn to get used to it. Just because Gerry Moore had to cut alcohol out of his life, it seemed a vain hope that the rest of Ireland would decide to stop selling it, serving it and advertising it.

‘I’d love that,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘I’ll wash my hair in honour of it.’

Des Kelly rang a bit later.

‘How are you, old son?’ he asked.

‘Ready for the Olympics,’ Gerry said proudly.

‘Do they include a few jars of orange juice, or is that more than flesh and blood could stand?’

‘Oh, this flesh and blood can stand anything, but not tonight – I’m taking Emma out to a slap-up meal to say thank you.’

‘Thank you?’

‘For holding the fort and all while I was above in the place.’

‘Oh yes, of course, of course …’

‘But tomorrow, Des, as usual. Twelve thirty?’

‘Great stuff. Are you sure you won’t …’

‘I’m sure, I’m sure. Tell me about yourself – what have you been doing?’

Des told him about a script which he had sweated blood on which was refused by a jumped-up person who knew nothing, and he told him about one that had gone well and got a few nice write-ups in the paper.

‘Oh yeah, I remember that, that was before I went in,’ Gerry said.

‘Was it? Maybe it was. The time gets confused. Well, what else? The same as usual. I’ve missed you, old son, I really have. There’s not much of a laugh around. I tried leaving Madigan’s and I went to McCloskey’s and I went down to the Baggot Street area for a bit, Waterloo House, Searson’s, Mooney’s, but there was no one to talk to. I’m glad you’re out.’

‘So am I.’

‘Were they desperate to you in there?’

‘Not at all, they were fine, it was up to me. If I didn’t want to go along with any of it I didn’t have to.’

‘Well, that’s good.’

‘And you can relax, I’m not going to be producing leaflets at you and telling you that you should cut it down a bit.’ Gerry laughed as he said it. Des laughed too, with some relief.

‘Thanks be to God. See you tomorrow, old son, and enjoy the second honeymoon night out.’

Gerry wished that he had found cheques for two thousand, not two hundred, then he would have taken Emma on a second honeymoon. Maybe when
he got himself set up again he’d be able to do that. He’d think about it. It would be great to be out with a villa hired for two weeks in one of these places like Lanzarotte. There was a fellow in the nursing home who had bought a house there with a whole group of other Irish people, like a little complex of them out there. They made their own fun, they brought out a ton of duty-free – well, forget that side of it, but there were marvellous beaches and great weather even in winter. He went back to his sorting. It was the section on contacts that was giving him most trouble. A lot of agencies seemed to have changed, merged with others or gone out of business. A lot of new names. A lot of bad blood with some of the old names – work promised and not done, work done but not accepted. Jesus, it might be easier starting afresh in another country. Australia? This place was a village, what one knew at lunch time everyone else knew at tea time. Still, nobody had said it was going to be easy.

*   *   *

Gerry was in very low form by the time it came to dress up for going out. The children were out of the house: Paul was with Andy as usual and Helen had gone to a tennis lesson. She had asked that morning at breakfast if the household budget would cover tennis lessons. She didn’t really mind if it didn’t, and she wasn’t going to be a strain on people, but if the
money was there she would like to join the group. Gerry had insisted she join, and said that he would get her a new racquet if she showed any promise. She had departed in high spirits and would stay and have tea with one of her friends who lived near the courts.

Emma was fixing her newly washed hair; she sat in a slip at the dressing table and watched Gerry come in. At first she had thought he might want them to go to bed. They hadn’t made love last night, just lay side by side holding hands until he drifted off to sleep. This seemed like a good time. But no, that was the last thing on his mind so she was glad he hadn’t really attended to her slightly flirtatious remarks. It didn’t seem so much of a rejection if he hadn’t heard what she had said. His brow looked dark.

‘It will be nice to go out, I’m really looking forward to it.’

‘Don’t rub it in. I
know
you haven’t been out for a long time,’ he said.

She bit back the aggrieved retort. ‘What will you have, do you think?’ she said, searching desperately for some uncontroversial side to it all.

‘How the hell do I know until I see the menu? I don’t have radar eyes. I’m not inspired by the Holy Ghost to know what’s going to be served.’

She laughed. She felt like throwing the brush and every single thing on the dressing table at him. She felt like telling him what to do with his dinner
invitation – an invitation she would have to pay for anyway until those out-of-date cheques were cleared – if they ever were. She felt like saying the house had been a peaceful and better place while he was in the nursing home. But she managed to say, ‘I know. Deep down I’m just a glutton, I expect. Don’t mind me.’

He was shaving at the small handbasin in their bedroom. His eyes caught hers and he smiled. ‘You’re too good for me.’

‘No I’m not, I’m what you deserve,’ she said lightly.

In the car he took her hand.

‘Sorry,’ he said.

‘Don’t mind about it,’ she said.

‘The night just seemed hard ahead of us, no wine with the dinner and all.’

‘I know,’ she said sympathetically.

‘But you’re to have wine, you must, otherwise the whole thing’s a nonsense.’

‘You know I don’t mind one way or the other. You know I can easily have a Perrier water.’

‘Part of the fact of being cured is not to mind other people. It was just that I got a bit low there, inside, in the house, I don’t know. I’m fine now.’

‘Of course you are, and I’ll certainly have a glass or two if it doesn’t annoy you.’ She put the key into the ignition and drove off.

Technically he was allowed to drive again now, but
he hadn’t reapplied, or whatever you were meant to do. And in the last few months he wouldn’t have been able to drive. She had offered him the keys as they came to the car and he had shaken his head.

In the bar, as they looked at their menus, they met a couple they hadn’t seen for a while. Emma saw the wife nudge her husband and point over at them. After what looked a careful scrutiny he came over.

‘Gerry Moore, I haven’t seen you looking so respectable for years. And Emma …’ They greeted him with little jokes and little laughs; both of them patted their flatter stomachs while the man said they must have been at a health farm, they looked so well. Emma said she owed hers to her bicycle and Gerry said that, alas, he owed his to laying off the booze. It was like the first hurdle in an obstacle race. Emma knew from the whispers between the couple that there would be many more. The news would get around, people would come to inspect, to see if it was true. Gerry Moore, that poor old soak, back to his former self, you never saw anything like it, doesn’t touch a drop now, made a fortune last year, back on top as a photographer, you never saw anything like him and the wife. Please. Please, God. Please let it happen.

*   *   *

Father Vincent called around on Saturday night and knocked for a long time at the door. The car was gone, Emma’s bicycle was there, and there was no
reply. He assumed they must all be out at some family gathering. But that child had seemed so white and worried, he hoped that Gerry hadn’t broken out immediately and been taken back into the home. He debated with himself for a long time about whether to leave a note or not. In the end he decided against it. Suppose poor Gerry had broken out and been taken back in, it would be a sick sort of thing to leave a welcome home card. Father Vincent wished, as he often did, that he had second sight.

Paul came home from Andy’s and turned on the television. Helen came in shortly afterwards; they sat with peanut butter sandwiches and glasses of milk and watched happily. They heard voices, and a key turn in the lock.

‘Oh Lord,’ said Paul, ‘I’d forgotten
he
was back, pick up the glass, Helen, give me those plates. We’re meant to be running a tidy ship here!’ Helen laughed at the imitation of her father’s voice, but she looked out into the hall anxiously to make sure that Daddy wasn’t drunk.

*   *   *

It was very expensive having Gerry home. Emma realised this, but couldn’t quite think why. She realised that he wasn’t spending any money on drink; apart from that one Saturday night out they didn’t entertain people. Gerry bought no clothes or household things. Why then was her money not
stretching as far as it used to? A lot of it might be on stationery and stamps. Gerry was as good as his word about writing to people with ideas – just bright, cheery letters which said, without having to spell it out, I’m back, I’m cured and I’m still a great photographer. Then he liked to cook new things, things that he wouldn’t associate with alcohol. Together they had spent a great deal of money on curry ingredients, but then he had tired of it, and said it wasn’t worth all the trouble – they could slip out and buy a good curry if they needed one. She didn’t grudge it, but she had been so used to accounting for every penny carefully, putting this little bit there towards the electricity, this towards the gas, and that towards the phone. She didn’t know what she was going to do when the next bills came in. And talking of bills, what the phone bill was going to be like made her feel weak around the legs.

Gerry had been talking to somebody in Limerick for nearly fifteen minutes one night, and he mentioned calls to Manchester and London. She had said nothing; she just prayed that the rewards and results of all these phone calls might be felt by the time the telephone bill came in.