Eggshell Days Page 9

  Without consultation, the two brothers turned on their heels at exactly the same time, and walked into the bar they always went to first, an establishment which brewed its own porter on the premises. It used to be one of those pubs you would go into only if you were looking for a fight.

  An open iron staircase linked the three floors, beyond which you could now see the brewing chamber with its huge copper vats, pipes and wheels. Niall sniffed the mildly hop-flavored air appreciatively and tried to ignore the glittering brass bar counter. It was far too clean for his taste.

  “Two pints of Guinness Extra-cold and two Powers chasers, please,” he said to the black-haired, black-clad, black-eyed bar girl. When she turned her back, he asked Cathal, “Is she someone we went to school with?”

  “Maybe the daughter of someone we went to school with, ye bloody eejit!”

  It was Niall’s eternal problem. He still thought he was twenty-one. Cathal, on the other hand, sometimes felt like an old old man. It was something to do with which side of forty they each lay. The whiskies went down in one synchronized move, even before the Guinness had settled in the drip tray.

  “Didn’t even touch the sides,” said Cathal. “Another two, please, sweetheart. So come on, then, who made you put yer sweater on in such a hurry?”

  Niall didn’t answer. Instead, he raised his eyebrows and downed the second chaser in one as well. “W’d ye feck off.”

  Their lads’ laugh trailed away as they watched the last milky swirl of the agitated Guinness settle to its velvety black. In a minute, they would relax enough to talk properly. The banter was wearing as thin as their hair, but they would always want to go through the motions. It was what they did.

  “C’mon, tell me.” Cathal tried again. “How’s it going in Cornwall? Is it everything you hoped it would be?”

  “Yeah, it’s great,” Niall said, lighting up and concentrating on the first draw. “Ah, that’s good.”

  “Well, go on, gobshite.”

  “That’s it. It’s great.”

  “Is that all you’ve got to tell me? It’s great?”

  “Well, it’s early days but y’know.” If Cathal had asked him yesterday, it would have been easier.

  “No, I don’t know. You look bloody terrible.”

  “Thanks for that.” Niall flicked ash into an ashtray and reached for his glass.

  “The move isn’t irreversible, is it? I mean, y’know, if it’s clearly a mistake and all that.”

  “Who said anything about a mistake? No, it’s good, really, it’s great.”

  “Is it like the back of beyond there or what?”

  “You should come over, see for yerself.”

  “Yeah, I could do with a break, but I was thinking Goa, really.”

  “Ah. Goa it is not.”

  “It’s been pissin’ it down here for weeks, too.”

  “Can’t help you there. We’ve hardly seen the rain. Cornwall’s practically tropical.”

  “Fantastic. So go on, how’s PopCork Online? Still raking it in without the team?”

  “Ticking over. I’ll go back to it properly after another fortnight, but I want to concentrate on the move for a bit. The household needs to bed itself down.” Niall tried to let his bad choice of words wash over him, but the silence got the better of him. “I don’t really look terrible, do I?”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “I was only coming to see you. I didn’t think I needed a tie or anything.”

  “A wash would have been enough.”

  “I am washed.”

  “Well, you look bloody awful,” Cathal repeated with concern.

  “Sorry.”

  There was a silence which was neither sullen nor awkward. Niall understood his brother’s need to get rid of some excess paternal sentiment.

  “Heard from the boys?”

  “Not much. I got a nice card from Billy the other day, but I’ve not seen them for six months, y’know.”

  “I thought they were coming over at Easter.”

  “Well, they were, until Christine’s mother changed her mind and went over there instead, one of those last-minute things her family is so bloody good at. I tried to get a flight, but there wasn’t a seat to be had by then.”

  “Where did you go, then? Mum was at Maeve’s.”

  “I stayed on my own in the flat.”

  “What did ye do that for?”

  “I wanted to.”

  “You’re jokin.” Does Mum know?”

  “No, and you’re not going to tell her, either.”

  “You should go and see the boys yerself.”

  “I haven’t been asked.”

  “You don’t need a feckin’ invitation. Ask yerself.”

  Cathal knew he probably should, but his need, his desire, stopped just a little short. He didn’t know why. It wasn’t lack of love, it was more a self-fulfilling disappointment with himself. I have disappointed, I am disappointing, I will disappoint. There was a brilliant father inside him wrestling to get out, he just needed to put on a bit more muscle.

  “No. I’ll wait for them to ask me. It’s better coming from them.”

  “Ye might have a long wait. Think what you were like at ten.”

  “It’s too long ago for me to even try.”

  “Thirty years.”

  “Thirty-one, actually.”

  “Oh, well then.”

  “Did ye know it was Dad’s birthday yesterday?” Cathal had spent all day thinking about it.

  Niall had remembered on the plane, when he saw the date on the Irish Times. “I realized this afternoon. Did you see Mum?”

  “Yes. She was all right. A bit quiet maybe, but all right.”

  “Good. I must get to her tomorrow.”

  “She’s doing us lunch before the funeral.”

  “What, to line our stomachs?”

  “I’m sure. Now, c’mon,” Cathal said, repositioning the spotlight. “You’re feelin’ either really bad or really good about something, I can tell. You’re being too attentive.”

  “You’re full of shite. I’m fine.”

  “I’m not and you’re not. C’mon.”

  “No, it’s nothing, honest.” Niall had decided on the plane to shelve what had happened, box it up, padlock it, shove it away in the aisle of his mind that didn’t deal with things. If Emmy could do the same, they’d be okay.

  “So how about you tell me the bits that don’t involve women.”

  “You’re a bastard.” Niall laughed with a great gush of relief. “It’s got nothing to do with women.”

  “I’m a bastard and you’re a liar,” Cathal said. It was the second time that day that Niall had been called such a name.

  * * *

  Emmy had no idea what was and what wasn’t the truth anymore. In fact, she had lost the ability to judge anything. Whether she was behaving normally, whether any other member of the household had any idea what had gone on in their absence that morning or not, whether what had happened was a good or a bad development, an inevitability or a mistake.

  “Oh dear,” she muttered out loud, not that it mattered what she chose to mutter since there was no one around to hear her. The curtainless kitchen with its skeletal shelving and doorless units was like the Marie Celeste.

  Sita, Jonathan and the children were in various permutations of their beds, Kat was back in London (well, of course she was), and Niall was in Ireland, damn him. Which left her staring at the same mess she’d been staring at this morning. Before “it” had happened.

  Supper bowls lay puddled with olive oil and tomato, the radio was still burbling on, a heap of Maya’s clothes in a washing basket sat at the end of the table. In the bedrooms, the smell of sleep hovered and duvets lay warm and crumpled. Twelve hours had made all and no difference.

  “Leave it, I’ll do it, you go,” Emmy had urged Sita after breakfast that morning, perhaps a little too keenly, in retrospect. “I’ve got to hang around and wait for the plumber, anyway. Go on, disappear, flee,
shoo. Take Maya.”

  But she hadn’t done it. She’d left the milk and the cereal flakes hardening round the rims of the bowls, she’d left the toast crumbs on the Aga plate and the half-drunk cups of coffee and she—they—had done something else instead, almost as soon as backs were turned.

  Leaning against the dresser with the taste of his lips still on hers, it was difficult to make sense of it all. Panic and relief wrestled for position inside her like ferrets in a sack. How could we cross the one boundary that defined our world? Thank God we did. Which way do we go to get back? Maybe we don’t need to get back.

  The truth was that it had been on the cards from the word go, and today they had both played their joker. A kiss. A near miss. They had stopped just in time.

  Niall would be drinking with his brother by now, any residual wistfulness blown right away with his first chaser. Emmy had seen the signs of recovery before he’d even finished his cigarette.

  “We’re not to lose the plot over this,” he’d said as they sat shaking at the kitchen table, twisting each other’s fingers in their own. “We’ll box it up, okay? Keep it safely locked somewhere special. We’ll be fine. Nothing’s changed.”

  “Sure, yes, of course, that’s right,” Emmy had lied through her teeth, taking a Camel for herself. The box, the box, the bloody box. Nothing’s changed. How impossible a concept was that? Every single thing was now another color. And yet, at the same time, it was all still exactly the same.

  She poured herself a glass of water and looked up at the exposed patch of ceiling where the plaster had fallen off. “The world isn’t going to fall on our heads,” he’d said—but that was because it already had.

  Well, if she did have to put it away in a box like Niall said, it might as well be neatly folded. In a few days’ time, she knew, he would walk back in as if nothing had happened and she needed to be ready for him to do that.

  She walked back to the chair by the Aga, her hand clamped over her mouth. Was she stifling a smile or a scream? My God. Do I regret it? When had the hints of sexual tension started? From the first weekend? From the train crash, even? Was this the end of their perfect post-termination affair?

  Which link mattered? she wondered, and then she imagined for a split second that she heard the others shouting, “The milk tanker!” from another room. She laughed. The whole thing was a disaster. She was right. She was mad. But she was happy.

  In retrospect, the writing on the wall had turned to frantic, uncontrollable scribbles at breakfast. It was the “Oh, we’re going to be alone” moment that confirmed it, followed by a flicker of eye contact, one unnecessary hand on a shoulder in passing, a superfluous flattering remark. And that had been it. Smack bang snog. His tongue was in her mouth the moment the sound of Jonathan’s wheels on the gravel had faded to silence.

  “Hi,” he said, putting his hands on her upper arms.

  She’d been wearing an old red cotton vest with no bra, a soft gray sweater with unraveling cuffs, an ancient denim skirt and sheepskin boots. She might as well have completed the look with a tea cozy on her head but then he’d not exactly been dressed to seduce, either, in that stinky tweedy roll-neck thing.

  “Hi.” Well, what else was there to say?

  “You look nice.”

  “Thank you. I’ve been up since six, perfecting the look.”

  “Emmy?” His hands were still on her arms.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve got a confession to make.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re not allowed to be cross.”

  “I won’t be.”

  “Well, it’s like this. I’ve been wanting to kiss you.”

  Her heart must have stopped, just for a second. “I wouldn’t. I’ll taste of Marmite.”

  “Is that a promise?” He took her face in his hands. “Can I, Emmy?”

  “Yes,” she said, although it came out as a hoarse whisper.

  He brought her to his mouth as if he was going to drink her. “God, I’d forgotten how good Marmite tastes.” His hands were in her unbrushed hair, his lips all over her unwashed face.

  “Liar.”

  They kissed necks, cheeks, hair, lips and tongues, then she pushed her hips forward, just a little. He stopped first, though.

  “Emmy, what are we doing?” he asked into her neck.

  “Being stupid.”

  “How stupid?”

  “Don’t care.”

  He hitched her skirt up in response. “Oh God, Emmy.”

  “I know.” So the two of them hadn’t died then.

  Up against the dresser, she’d wrapped one booted leg round him. She could feel him against the thin cotton of her pants. Then suddenly he looked right at her, cupped her face again and said something completely at odds with the urgency that had overtaken them both.

  “This is our last chance to stop.”

  “No.”

  “Yes, we should, but it’s too late,” he said. “It’s too late.”

  When he said that, did he mean too late for him or too late for them? She’d not responded to it, anyway, because it was too late for her by then. She’d allowed him to touch her in a way he hadn’t touched her since before the abortion. She’d let him back in again in a way she had never meant to.

  But they had stopped, just short of going the whole way, and somehow, after one of them had moved away and the other had made a joke and the sexual energy had dispersed into the air like kettle steam, they had calmed down and talked. They’d spluttered with laughter and disbelief at their moment of madness and Emmy felt like telling him that love had just swallowed her whole. They’d wrapped hands and fingers, kissed cheeks and locked eyes. But then he’d done the plot-losing locked-box speech, and the moment had passed, like a burst of summer sunshine in a long wet winter.

  “Nothing will change,” he kept saying, as if the more he said it, the more it might actually be the truth.

  “No, it’s always been like this,” she’d said as casually as she could. “Thirteen years, if you count it from—”

  “God help me, I was counting it from Maya.”

  Emmy didn’t want Maya to come into it. “It’s no good appealing to God now, you bad Catholic boy.”

  “Well, if I only sin once every thirteen years, I should be okay.”

  So he saw it as a one-off, clearly. Something to be moved on from. Did she? Emmy walked away from the window and realized she was going to be glued to the spot for a long time yet. Would he tell his brother? Should she send him a text message and ask him not to? Would Cathal’s knowledge matter, anyway?

  * * *

  What Cathal did and didn’t know would turn out to be crucial, but for now, he was happy to know only what his brother was prepared to tell him.

  The girl who had served them their first drinks suddenly appeared the other side of the bar. She had apparently been cloned three times, and all four of her stepped up onto a raised platform which a minute ago had been covered in drinkers.

  “Oh shite, it’s the feckin’ Corrs,” someone shouted, not noticing four male musicians following her, carrying a drum, a flute, a fiddle and a squeezebox. All eight members of the band were in head-to-toe black.

  “It’s worse than that, it’s Riverdance,” Cathal shouted to Niall over the noise. “I saw them last week—they’re not even dire. C’mon, let’s go.”

  Outside, they crossed the street and headed for the bar that they always, for no good reason, went to second. It was much more self-consciously cool, trying as hard as it could to be Continental, but at least there wasn’t going to be any clog dancing, and they could talk in normal voices. The music was piped jazz, and the space round the kidney-shaped chrome bar was empty. A black, domed ceiling was pierced with hundreds of tiny star lights which, if you had had enough to drink and were on your back, looked exactly like a night sky. They ordered two bottles of Coors Lite at Cathal’s suggestion.

  “I can’t drink Guinness in the quantity I used to. It fills me up
.”

  “That would be just the ten, then?”

  “About that,” Cathal said. They weren’t entirely joking. In their youth, they regularly drank up to fifteen, and then went on to shorts. “You know the drink we should be drinking now?”

  “Horlicks?” said Niall.

  “And you can feck off. No, vodka and Red Bull. That’s what they all drink these days. We’ll give it a go later, for that fat bastard Kieran Kennedy.”

  “What, you want to die as well, do you?”

  “No, but I want to be still pissed when I say goodbye to the old gobshite tomorrow. It wouldn’t be right to do such a thing sober. Now, come on, talk to me. Tell me what you’ve done.”

  “Ye’d make a terrible priest, Cathal.”

  “That’s the nicest thing ye’ve ever said to me.”

  “But I’ll tell ye anyway.”

  “No no, only if ye want to. If it’ll make ye feel better.”

  “I’m not feeling bad in the first place.”

  “Y’are.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Y’are.”

  “Okay. I am.”

  “I know y’are. But why?”

  Niall bit his lip and then spoke. “Emmy and I crossed a line this morning.” He stopped and stared into his pint.

  Cathal looked at him expectantly. “And?”

  “Oh, y’know.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Ah, I don’t know, either. It was the first time we’d found ourselves alone together since moving down and you know what it’s like. Sometimes it feels right, y’know, I mean, not just right, but more than that, almost kind of predestined. But then we also know we can’t go back there again, and yet sometimes it just feels, sort of, you know, stupid not to. That’s all.”

  “What’s all? It doesn’t sound like a ‘that’s all’ situation to me.”

  “It just felt … well … things got … We had … It went … Oh, well, ye know.”

  “You and Emmy had sex?”

  “No.”

  “What then?”

  “We kissed.”

  “Where?”

  “In the kitchen. What do you want to know that for?”

  There was a barely perceptible silence before Cathal composed a reaction. Was he supposed to be shocked? He presumed, like everyone else, that his brother and Emmy had the kind of relationship where a kiss in the kitchen might or might not happen, depending on the opportunities available to them, and that Maya was a possible product of one of those opportunities reaching its natural end.