Less Than Perfect (2 page)

Josh smiled again, pointed to my empty drink, and asked with a motion of his hand if I would like another.

‘No, thanks,' I replied, and shook my head as an afterthought. ‘I'm okay for now.'

I looked at Liam, trying to avert another silence before it happened, but he was gone, back to the fold of his other friends, and Josh and I were alone. After a few long moments I realised that what I thought was silence wasn't that at all. There were voices all around me, and music belting from the speakers: Oasis, ‘Wonderwall'.

‘Have you always been deaf?' I mouthed the words slowly, and touched my ear when I said ‘deaf'. Immediately I felt embarrassed, both by my crude signing and what might be perceived as a tactless question.

‘Born that way,' he replied, again his voice thick and almost unintelligible.

It was hard for me to comprehend that he'd never heard this song, or any other song for that matter. Did Josh mind that he couldn't hear the music? Or that he couldn't hear my voice? Or the rise and fall of conversation and laughter around us, combining with the music to form a rich and varied background tapestry. I tried to shut out the noise, to imagine real, pure silence, but I couldn't. The noise was like a heartbeat, it kept the atmosphere alive, and even if it were gone the memory of it would continue to beat in my head. Maybe I would have more success at imagining real silence later on at home, when I was in bed thinking back to this moment.

His gaze was all encompassing, as though he could tell exactly what I was grappling with in my head. My eyes shied away,
dropping down to his sensual mouth, and then down again to his slender fingers. Of course, he would rely on his other senses all the more: I knew instinctively that his mouth would kiss tenderly and skilfully, and that his touch would be similarly refined and assured. By the time my eyes were drawn back to his, I had already fallen a little bit in love with my brother's friend.

I can remember the details of that night as though it was yesterday, but it was more than twelve years ago now. I remember being glad that the forecast rain had stayed away, that my ‘waterproof' fake tan would not be put to the test. I remember my mum looking mildly stressed, fussing that the guests had enough to eat and somewhere to sit, if they wished. I remember my father, his disapproval of Liam broken by spells when he tried too hard to look like he was relaxed and enjoying himself; Maeve bright-eyed and unsteady and keeping well out of Dad's line of sight; Mandy, Carly and Sinead, my closest friends, dancing and having the time of their lives, as yet unaware that I had met Josh McKinstry and seen my future in his eyes.

At the end of the night, ‘Happy Birthday' was played over the sound system and a circle formed around me. I swung from person to person, and was kissed, hugged and congratulated before being twirled to whomever was next. All the while I was aware of exactly where Josh was standing in the circle, and I counted down until, dizzy and exhilarated, I got to him. He hugged me and kissed me, his lips melting on mine and every bit as tender as I'd imagined them to be. I didn't move on to the next person in the circle. I stayed with Josh for the rest of the night and, indeed, for much of the following year.

September in Belfast was rainy, grey and disappointing. The city scared me, with its graffiti, armoured cars and simmering tension; it felt as though I was walking in on the end of an argument that could flare up again at any moment.

Despite this, or maybe because of it, I was thrilled to start university, to further my education and pave the way for my future. I wanted to get the best qualifications possible because I had already decided that I was emigrating, leaving Belfast and Ireland. I didn't plan on sticking around and being unemployed like Liam.

I had the choice of commuting with my father to the city each day or staying in student accommodation. I chose to stay at Elms Village, only a fifteen-minute walk from the university – a relaxing start and end to the day, much nicer than sitting in a confined space with my father for over an hour each way. The
Elms consisted of several beautiful red-brick buildings set amid grassy grounds. I had a wee second-floor room furnished simply with a single bed, desk and chest of drawers. It was south facing, and daylight streamed in the window even when the weather outside was dull, which was most of the time.

As I began my Bachelor of Arts in English and sociology and life as a student, Josh and I were already established as a couple. We had become very close in the space of a few months, his deafness accelerating our closeness as we bypassed the coyness and game-playing of normal early-stage relationships, developing a rapport that was intimate and mature beyond our years. I settled into the compact room at the Elms with a sense of anticipation, keenly aware that a few nights of the week Josh would visit, that we finally had somewhere to be together without watching out for my parents or his. As a couple we couldn't whisper sweet nothings – in fact any verbal communication was trying – and so our physical communication was enhanced. The slightest touch of his hand would cause me to shiver. His gaze was sometimes so profound that it was like a caress, a form of foreplay. At that stage in our relationship we weren't having sex, but we were on the verge. In the narrow single bed in my room we took our physical relationship a step further, and a step further again.

‘I love you,' he'd murmur, the words thick and garbled.

‘I love you too,' I would reply. And I did love him. Wholly, without reservation.

Always we stopped at the very brink, breathless and a little delirious, and it would take a while for my heart to slow down enough to fall asleep, my half-naked body entangled with his.
Josh liked to leave the lamp on while he slept, to read my lips if I spoke during the night, and to enable him to see around the room and reassure himself that nothing strange or untoward was happening, because of course he wouldn't be able to hear if anything moved or creaked. Initially, I found the light disconcerting and had difficulty sleeping, but I got used to it. Other things kept me awake then, mainly excitement drumming inside me. I felt like I was on the precipice of my life. In three years' time I would graduate with first class honours – nothing less would do – and then I would leave. I didn't know where I was going just yet, only that I was going. And though it was early days with Josh, I knew that he would go with me. I couldn't imagine a future without him.

My father, at his lectern preaching to his students, spoke about different kinds of ethics. There are descriptive ethics, prescriptive ethics and virtue ethics, but I won't bore you with the details. Suffice it to say that ethics can be summed up quite conveniently with the following golden, over-arching rule: do unto others what you would have them do unto you. Unfortunately, that rule was far too simplistic for the social and political environment that we lived in. If there was ever a city to fuel debate on what was right or wrong, moral or immoral, justifiable or downright unjust, Belfast would have to be it. Neighbourhoods with separating walls, thick and high, topped with barbed wire. Buildings with graffiti and murals, hatred portrayed through art. Streets with kerbstones painted in blue-white-red or green-white-orange, Royal Ulster Constabulary officers with guns held
across their bodies, and regular outbreaks of violence that were shown on the nightly news.

Dad was the king of the castle, presiding over the intolerance and hatred and violence, writing academic papers on it all and having excerpts published in the
Belfast Telegraph
, the
Independent
and, once, the
Times
. Occasionally he was on TV, usually after some atrocity or other when journalists sought him out for a comment. They filmed him with the university in the background and he always looked solemn, thoughtful and mortifyingly righteous.

At home Dad never missed an opportunity to instil his values in his children, even when we were small. Over and over again he'd test us.

‘What are our core values, Caitlin?'

‘Caring, honesty, accountability, respect for others, promise-keeping, fairness, and …' the last one always eluded me, ‘and …'

‘Pursuit of excellence,' he'd supply, looking deeply disappointed that I had forgotten.

I was only five or six when he made me learn the list. I didn't know what ‘pursuit of excellence' meant, so it wasn't surprising that I couldn't commit it to memory.

It wasn't just the list, though. Dad would look for lessons in everything I did, everywhere I went, every single day.

‘Was that very caring, Caitlin? Shouldn't you have helped your sister? Showed some compassion?'

‘Caitlin, you're distorting the truth and being deceitful.' ‘You did the wrong thing, Caitlin, and now you have to accept the consequences.'

‘You weren't thinking, Caitlin.
Think before you act.
'

Needless to say, I chose my university subjects carefully so that I wouldn't have to attend my father's lectures. Those I received at home were more than enough!

Dad said I was the wild one, the one that needed watching, reining in. The truth was that I wasn't all that wild. I pushed boundaries no more or less than most kids; I answered back, flouted a few curfews and was sometimes lured into trouble when I forgot his set of rules and values and lived for the moment instead.

One incident stands out in my memory. I was eleven, and cycling with my friend Mandy. The sky was pale blue, the sun hidden behind one of many pillowy clouds, and the Sperrin Mountains spilled into the valleys alongside the curved, sloping road. We freewheeled side by side back towards town, our hair flowing behind us, the wind biting our faces.

‘How much longer are you allowed?' asked Mandy when the road levelled out.

I didn't need to glance at my watch to know. ‘Another twenty minutes.'

‘What if I went in with you and asked?'

I pursed my lips. ‘They'd still say no.'

Mandy, with her open face and unruly hair, had tried to understand the many restrictions that bound me: mealtimes, study time, leisure time, all measured precisely, like spoonfuls of medicine. Mandy had five siblings, one of whom was a very recent addition, and her parents were too busy to worry about rules and formalities. Their disorderly house was generally a relaxed and happy place to be. If Mandy wanted to go to a friend's house, all
she had to do was ask; there was no need for a week's notice – unlike me.

‘We'd better get going, so. God forbid you should be a minute late!' Mandy was quite adept at sarcasm: she had learned it from her parents who, despite all their children and the thousands of things they had to do each day, had not lost their sense of humour. ‘Come on, I'll race you.'

Mandy darted ahead, laughing already at the unfair advantage she was taking. I lowered my head, tightened the muscles in my thighs, and drove my legs down on the pedals. It was only a matter of seconds before I sailed past her. ‘Gotcha,' I called triumphantly over my shoulder.

At that moment, I was doing a number of things that were ‘wrong'. I shouldn't have been racing. I shouldn't have taken my eyes off the road. I shouldn't have been so competitive or gleeful. Pride comes before a fall, my father would say.

My front wheel hit a pothole and the bike veered wildly. I tightened my grip on the handlebars, jerking them from side to side to keep my balance. I'd almost righted myself when Mandy, who hadn't noticed the sudden drop in speed, or the uneven terrain, careered into me. Our bikes tangled and we fell in a whirl of wheels and metal and limbs and cries of shock and pain. For a few seconds, neither of us could move or speak. Then we both tried to sit up.

‘Are ya all right?' asked Mandy.

‘Yes. Are you?'

‘Aye.'

‘Sorry,' I said, blinking back tears. ‘I should have been looking …'

‘I'm sorry too,' she said quickly. We exchanged wry, teary smiles.

A car stopped, mud splattered on its sides, a low trailer behind. The driver got out, a farmer with a cracked face and wiry hair. ‘What about youse girls? Were youse doing the Grand Prix or what?'

The farmer put the bikes in the trailer and helped us into the car. It smelled of cow manure and there was loose dirt on the floor. Mandy sat in the front and gave directions.

‘This will do,' I said when he pulled into my street.

‘Which house?'

‘We'll just get out here,' I told him.

‘Afraid of getting in trouble with your ma and da?'

‘Aye,' Mandy replied on my behalf.

We got out of the car and the farmer lifted down our bikes, with their bowed wheels and broken chains. ‘Go easy on the driving, girls – soon it'll be cars and they're a lot more deadly than bikes!'

‘We will. Thank you,' replied Mandy.

I added my thanks and watched the farmer drive away, the car's exhaust leaving a cloud of diesel fumes that caught in the back of my throat. ‘My dad's going to kill me.'

‘It was an accident,' Mandy protested.

‘He'll say it was avoidable. He'll say I was being reckless.'

‘Do you want me to come in?'

‘Nah. That'll only make it worse.'

Mandy put her hand gingerly against her side. ‘Ach, I'm sorer than what I thought at first. I'll be black and blue tomorrow.'

‘Me too.'

‘You've torn your pants.'

‘Great – that'll get me into even more trouble.' I grimaced. ‘I'd better go – I'll see you at school tomorrow.'

‘Bye. Good luck.'

Mandy limped away, wheeling her bike on its only functioning wheel. Manoeuvring my written-off bike in the opposite direction, I stopped outside our house and stood on the footpath with my torn knees and guilty face. I didn't want to go inside.

Mandy was a dot in the distance. I wished I could run after her, go back to her crowded house where the incident would be discussed openly and non-judgmentally and eventually laughed about. I wished, with a ferocity that brought a rush of blood to my face, that my family was more like hers.