‘Wrong city. I got away.’ There’s a sharpness that brings silence.
She thinks about his name. An English boy called David Vallely. A nice ring to it – Irish origin somewhere down the line. It occurs to her, now she thinks about it, that it’s great he’s a Brit. There may be plenty of those at Trinity but in her world he’s a stranger, an outsider. Someone with no connection to home.
They walk down the lane and turn left into Grafton Street, past the statue of Molly Malone and her cart, erected five years before and still too unblemished.
‘I wouldn’t say she’s pretty enough for Dublin’s fair city,’ he says.
‘Not just posh, but sexist too, eh?’ The accusation comes with exaggerated alarm.
‘Just an aesthetic judgement,’ he tries to assure her.
‘Course she’s not pretty. She was a street hawker and tart in an eighteenth-century, shite, British colonial town. Whaddya expect?’ She flares her nostrils at him.
They have reached the chemist and she turns in while he waits on the pavement. She feels embarrassed – although it’s only cream she’s been prescribed for a couple of spots bugging her. What’s he thinking she’s in there for?
When she walks out of the chemist the thumping has quietened and she wills herself to scrap the artifice. No need either to give him the big smile she’s suppressing, no need to encourage.
‘It’s such a great day,’ he says.
‘Yes,’ she replies absently.
‘How about a stroll?’
She hesitates, then raises an eyebrow as if to say ‘give over’. He waits silently, a plea in his eye.
‘I shouldn’t,’ she says. ‘Time to get back to the library.’
‘It’s not a prison.’
‘OK, just this once.’ Her face at last breaks into a hint of a smile.
‘Great.’ He’s the cat with the cream.
They end up in St Stephen’s Green on a bench. He raises his polystyrene cup. ‘Cheers.’ She smiles and raises hers too.
‘So,’ he continues, ‘you must be doing law.’
‘Yeah. Third year, finals coming up. I work all day and night. No distractions.’ She wants to make it harder for him. ‘And I gotta finish my dissertation.’
‘What’s it on?’
‘It’s kinda on postwar evolution in international law. I’m mainly focusing on extradition treaties.’
‘That’s amazing,’ he exclaims. ‘The thesis for my master’s—’
‘You’re doing a master’s?’ she interrupts. ‘That’s why I never saw you in the first two years.’
‘That’s right,’ he continues. ‘But here’s the thing – my specialism is the International Court of Justice in The Hague. Maybe I can help you.’
‘Or maybe I can help you,’ she retorts smartly. They beam with shared pleasure at their common interest.
‘Wouldn’t it be great if every day was like this?’ she suddenly says. ‘Look at it, leaves turning but still golden, sun shining, heat in the air. Fuck’s sake, this is Dublin in autumn.’
‘I know,’ he says.
‘There’s something unreal about it, isn’t there?’
He looks at his watch and cries out, ‘Hell, the time! I’ll be late for my supervisor.’
‘I should get back to work, too.’
They walk back to the library together. As they part, he says, ‘It was great to talk. Maybe we can do it again next week?’ She’s suddenly deflated but tries not to show it. ‘I’d say a drink tonight but there’s a friend I promised to see.’ He pauses. ‘And then I’m away for the weekend.’
‘Course you are, posh boy.’ She states it flatly. ‘Anyway, I forgot, Film Soc’s showing Battle of Algiers. Been meaning to see it since I was born.’ She hopes her recovery is swift enough to let him know they’re parting on equal terms.
‘Long live the revolution, then.’ He smiles and turns in the direction of the Law Faculty.
Did he spot her tug of disappointment when he said he was away for the weekend?
Not that she’d have been able to spare him more than an hour or two. Mrs Ryan’s staying overnight in Limerick, so away for both the Saturday and Sunday, and she’s got the kids full-on – not a weekend to look forward to. Why did she blurt out Film Soc showing Battle of Algiers? No chance of escaping to see that. Maybe Blockbuster will have a VHS. If not, she should be able to find a review of it somewhere to clue herself up.
What will he be doing? As they part at the library, she watches him until he disappears through an arch. His broad shoulders taper down to slim hips and long, floating legs. She feels she’s never seen such a perfect man’s body. The unreality of it all strikes her again with renewed force.
As the slow weekend drags on she keeps seeing his disappearing backside. It’s both a distraction and an irritant in the life she’s made herself endure. She knows the kids well enough by now but keeping them fed and entertained on the single note Mrs Ryan left is wearying. Kevin’s got a match for the under-elevens, which Roisin’s still young enough to be cajoled to watch. Brian is contemptuous of his younger brother’s sporting prowess and refuses to come, staying at home to play on his Atari. She tries to josh him into getting some fresh air but finally gives up. On their return, they pass him on a street corner slouching with his ‘gang’. She suspects he’s been smoking and hopes it’s nothing worse. It’s only a few minutes to the badlands of Sheriff Street and the kids start too early these days. She suspects there’s too much in him of what of she’s heard about his absentee father.
She manages to find a couple of hours on Saturday evening to work. Her eyes soon tire. She tries to resist slumping in front of the TV. She couldn’t get a VHS of Battle of Algiers but the student mag has a preview of it, which should give her enough to get by. She thinks of students thronging in bars, laughter, kisses, falling over drunk, falling into bed. The thought makes her sit up straight, wipe her eyes, stand up and open the front door to breathe the street air, and return to her book.
Sunday morning has Mass to fill the time and Brian isn’t yet bold enough to duck out. She dutifully accompanies the children to the altar rail to receive Communion – just a blessing for Roisin, who’s doing confirmation class this year – and senses a stroking of her hand from Father Gerry as he lays the wafer in her palm. She jerks her head up at him with a flinch of fury, but he’s gone. He’s youngish, mid-thirties, she guesses, the trendy priest of the Dublin badlands. Couldn’t be a better match for it.
The church is well stocked with young couples trailing toddlers and babies who add their music of chirping and screeching. They leave her as cold as the church itself and the dirty priests that preside over it. Not so Roisin. On the walk home, holding Maire’s hand, she’s sufficiently emboldened to ask a question that has obviously been nagging her.
‘Why don’t you have a boyfriend, Maire?’
‘How d’you know I don’t?’ she replies with a teasing smile.
‘Well, he never comes to see you.’
‘Well there you are, then, you can’t believe what you don’t see.’ The nonsensical double negative flummoxes Roisin into silence.
Mrs Ryan returns around six. She looks exhausted, her face etched with thin brushstrokes of worry. Or maybe it’s the cigarettes – as soon as she flops at the kitchen table, she lights one, inhales deeply, closes her eyes,