In Pieces (20 page)

‘Yeah, sounds cool. I'll get it this time.'

‘Be quick, they're about to kick off.'

‘Like the wind, man. I don't want to miss a minute of this great cultural-religious experience.'

‘You scoff.'

‘Moi?' Ricky raised his eyebrows and flashed a Venice Beach smile.

‘Yeah, you,' called Si after his new friend. Ricky was already halfway to the bar and may not have heard him.

~

All the Sleeper's preconceptions of Michael Andrews were wrong. For a start he was younger than his wife, often wore jeans to work, stood five foot eight in his stockinged feet and rarely carried a briefcase. He laughed a lot, mostly at his wife's comments, and drank a good deal more than he laughed. Englishmen weren't meant to be like this.

The Andrews family welcomed their lodger as if he was a younger brother. The rent was a nominal one hundred pounds a month.

‘We prefer to let the room to someone we like than leave it empty. The money's not important,' Michael told him.

The Sleeper couldn't understand how they could like him without knowing him. When he asked, Michael laughed. ‘Greta told me I'd like you, and I trust her judgement implicitly. She tells me the Irish have a gift for character insight.'

‘Oh?'

‘Yes, apparently it dates from the time of the druids.'

The Sleeper smiled uncertainly. Was this a joke at his expense? English humour was something he'd yet to get to grips with.

After that, he didn't see that much of Michael, who was away during the day. Since the Sleeper didn't have a job, he kept Greta company or minded the two children when she went out. In the evenings he went to Eamon's pub or to the cinema in Notting Hill Gate and tried to give the Andrews couple some space. They seemed happy, but occasionally when he came home late at night, he heard them arguing in the front room. When that happened he just went straight upstairs to bed.

The Sleeper listened to the news and read the newspapers—normally
The Irish Times
. But even that was disappointing, as it was totally biased in favour of the Irish government. Bruton's election victory filled him with deep depression, not because he cared for either party, but because he could see that the Irish political system was in the pocket of the English, no matter who was Taoiseach.

Time passed but the freezing, miserable weather continued. He stayed in more often in the evenings and waited for a sign of change. But neither on the news nor in any other way could he detect a weakening of the cease-fire. Even the bomb scares seemed to send the wrong message— many commentators thought they were carried out by a small fringe group without the means to pull off a significant terrorist attack. For all the Sleeper knew they were right. But the worst thing about being stuck in limbo out of contact was that he no longer knew if he wanted to be involved in the action or not.

Since moving to Westbourne Park, he was less lonely. He spent the day chatting with Greta, and she inspired new sensations—not always comfortable ones.

He also got to know a few English people. Jo who ran the newspaper shop was from Yorkshire and spoke with an accent that was hard to decipher. But he was a good man.

So was Lenny, the tramp who sat on the bench just along from the Andrews' house. Often the Sleeper would spend a couple of hours in the afternoon talking to Lenny about his travels. The tramp even reckoned he'd been to the Sleeper's hometown. But the way he described it didn't seem right at all. He was probably lying half the time, but the Sleeper enjoyed his company anyway.

Lenny's favourite topic of conversation was the English Government and how it did nothing for the homeless. ‘Not that it'll change if the other bloody lot get in. They're just as bad. Bloody toffee-nosed lot they are…' And he was off. Sometimes seemingly for up to an hour without drawing breath. But listening to Lenny was stimulating: it helped fuel his hatred of the English political class.

Michael Andrews also helped strengthen this conviction. Not that the Sleeper had anything against him personally, just that he was always so cheerful and successful, and when he was around, Greta talked less to the Sleeper and more to her husband. The Sleeper took to leaving the room soon after Michael entered in the evenings. Of course, he was polite and subtle about it, but his landlord's presence was irritating. To be sure, he realised that as a guest in the house he shouldn't do anything to upset Michael. The time for revenge on Michael and his kind would come later.

~

The church clock struck three. ‘Sun's nearly over the yard-arm…'

‘Say what?'

‘I said,' enunciated the tramp carefully, ‘that it's time for a drink.'

‘Ah, you eejit. I thought that's what you meant.' The Sleeper cracked up laughing. Lenny was a laugh a minute, he really was. He'd already had a skinful long before the sun got anywhere near the yardarm. ‘I thought the yardarm was like when the sun sets?'

Lenny pondered this. ‘Sometimes it is,' he conceded. ‘But on other occasions, it isn't.' He nodded sagely to himself, and his matted silver hair swung back and forth in front of his ruddy cheeks.

The Sleeper watched the old man, fascinated. He particularly marvelled at the network of minuscule blood vessels spreading just below the transparent skin covering the nose.

‘Will you get away,' he exclaimed at Lenny's sophistry. ‘I never knew that. And when would it not be?'

‘Not be what?'

‘Over the yard-arm?'

‘Are you still prattling on about that? The young today…'

The Sleeper bit his bottom lip to control the giggles threatening to overtake him.

‘And you needn't laugh, you cheeky blighter.'

‘Lenny, I wasn't laughing, I promise you.'

The tramp harrumphed and shifted in his overcoat. He wrapped it tightly around him, and then leaned over and peered into the Victoria Wine carrier at his feet. After snuffling about for a while, he straightened up brandishing triumphantly a can of extra strong lager. ‘I knew I had one somewhere in there.' Lenny pulled back the ring and took a swig. ‘So, young lad, you can stop staring at me and tell me why you're not at school.'

‘Lenny, I've told you a thousand times. I don't go to school. I'm twenty years old.'

‘When I was twenty I went to school.'

‘Get away! Nobody goes to school that old.'

‘Well, I did. But things were better then. It was a different country.'

The Sleeper cut him off before he could get started on one of his nostalgic reveries, which inevitably involved a good deal of racist diatribe against the ‘immigrants that took all our jobs and homes away.' Not that they'd taken Lenny's away, mind. As the Sleeper had found out after a bit of probing, Lenny had been married for fifteen years. The couple was childless and began to blame each other. Eventually, the marriage broke down in acrimony, and Lenny walked out—‘I just woke up one morning and said to myself I've had enough. So I packed my rucksack, left the wife snoring and muttering her crazy dreams, and hit the road.' He'd not only abandoned his wife and home, but also his job as a warehouse foreman. When the Sleeper had asked him if he regretted the loss of family, comfort and a secure future, Lenny challenged him. ‘I don't know who you are, young lad, to be asking me that. I can't exactly see you in a good job, now, can I?'

‘Yeah, yeah. I've told you… I'm looking for the right job to come up.' The Sleeper deployed his usual cover story. A job in the advertising industry. It had almost gone wrong with Michael, who'd offered to use his contacts in the business world to sort out an interview. The Sleeper had quickly had to insist that he was grateful but was determined to do it by himself. Since then neither Greta nor Michael had pursued the question of employment, just an occasional throwaway line about how was the job-hunting going. After all, they figured, if he paid the rent and he was a nice kid, what business was it of theirs? And it was useful to have him round the house to help out with the children when Greta was really busy.

Lenny drew heavily on his can. The sucking noises gradually came to an end and he scrunched it up. ‘That was good,' he sighed contentedly. He stood up stiffly and walked, as he always did, to the corner along from his bench, where he carefully dropped the ruined can into the bin. ‘Doing my bit for the environment, you see.'

The Sleeper smiled. ‘Good on you, Lenny.'

‘Not that I'm one of those Greens, mind you, cause I'm not. Bunch of namby pamby lefty farts they are. As much use as a pork pie at a Jewish wedding…'

The Sleeper waited for him to calm down. Eventually, the time seemed opportune to sound out Lenny about what had been bothering him. ‘Lenny?'

‘Yes.'

‘Can I ask you a question?'

‘Of course you can. What else have I lived all these years for? But to be a font of wisdom, a Tiresean oracle for today's blind youth, a rudder for their foundering bark…'

‘Yeah, that's great Lenny. I'm really grateful and all that,' the Sleeper hurried on. Sweet Mary, when Lenny got going, there was no stopping the man. Talk about blarney. ‘You see, I've got this problem bugging me…'

‘Go on, I'm all ears.'

The Sleeper couldn't help glancing idly at the two mauled protrusions on his friend's head. They looked like they'd been through the wars. One even had a chunk missing; he was a real alley cat, was our man Lenny.

‘Right. Well, do you think it's right to fall in love with a married woman?'

‘I'm not a priest,' growled Lenny. ‘If you want confession then just go up the road there. I'm sure the father would be glad to hear your story.'

‘No, just hold on, right? I've not done anything. I'm just asking you a question, what if? You see what I mean?'

‘Mmmm. Well, get on with it then.'

‘So I'm asking you. Do you think it's all right?'

‘To fall in love with a married woman? Is that what you're saying?'

‘Yeah.'

‘I guess it depends what you mean by love.'

‘What?'

‘Well, love can mean many things. Do you mean, is it all right to admire and worship a married woman? If so, then no problem. There's no law against unrequited love; in fact, society used to be based on it, and it inspired some of the most exquisite literature.'

‘Did it really?' The Sleeper sat up with hope sparkling in his eyes.

‘Yes. About six hundred years ago.'

‘Oh.' He sank back dejected.

Lenny pursued his theme. ‘But I suspect what you mean is—is it acceptable to covet her? Or do you really mean,' Lenny stared sternly at the Sleeper, ‘is it okay to screw her?'

The younger man blushed. ‘I don't know, Lenny. I mean, it'd be nice… But I'm just worried that I might be falling in love with this wonderful lady who's married. And I don't know what to do about it.'

‘Well, in all honesty, I can't really advise you. I can tell you it's morally wrong to commit adultery, and I can say that in some countries you would be risking your life to muck about with a married woman. But since the laws of this land offer no guidance, and even the Church doesn't seem to know its own mind these days, I can't really tell you whether it's
right
or not. I guess what I'm really saying is, don't do anything in a hurry, and if in the end your dick rules your higher self, then don't get caught.'

The Sleeper stared at the piece of dirty pavement between his feet. This wasn't getting him anywhere. He might as well head back to the house and leave Lenny to his drinking. ‘Thanks, Lenny, you've been great.'

‘Any time, young man. Come by soon and we'll have another little chat. Nothing I enjoy more than setting the world to rights. And if I can help out my fellow man in the process, then all the better.'

‘Yeah, thanks. I'll be seeing you around, then.'

‘Goodbye.' Lenny seemed to swell with innate dignity. He stretched his arms and puffed out his chest like a robin, then he hunched over his plastic bag again in search of sustenance. The Sleeper turned disconsolately on his heel and walked off down All Saints Road towards home.

~

Brenda was serving behind the bar, as usual. She didn't mind really. As jobs went it was okay and the crowd at The Feathers were a good bunch on the whole.

She realised she'd been lucky to have got her job back so easily after that poxy PR agency kicked her out. Just because she wouldn't sleep with her director.

Everyone had laughed when she'd threatened to sue for sexual harassment. ‘You've been watching too many films, love… You'd have no chance of proving anything.' And they'd been right. So, yeah, she was quite lucky that The Feathers had taken her back.

Lunchtime had been quite busy. Apart from Patrick, who always came in for a half of stout just before his lunch, most of the lunchtime drinkers worked in the area. They didn't really overlap with the evening crowd.

Brenda preferred the latter, and had got to know them much better than the besuited lunchtimers. One or two she had got to know too well, like Jimmy. The memory brought back a painful ache in her lower stomach, like the beginning of the curse. It had probably been for the best that Jimmy had moved away when he did, and the last few times he'd been in with his friend Si, she'd got on much better with him. Water under the bridge…

Brenda liked Si more now. She'd been a bit hard on him in the past. He was always polite to her and took an interest in what she thought about things. He never seemed to mind listening to her blabbing away, which was good because she recognised that some people found her constant chatter irritating. Not Si. In this and so many other things he was very different from Jimmy.

It was hard to see why they were such good friends. They were very different, after all, and didn't seem to have that much in common. She thought they'd been at school together, but was that enough to sustain a friendship ten years later? With blokes it probably was. They had very different friendships from most girls, who tended to hang around in small posses with ever-shifting permutations of best friends within the group; you never knew who was slagging you off behind your back. But guys were different.