“This is a surprise,” I said, doing my best to sound friendly. “I didn’t expect to run into you here.”
“Me neither,” said Liam. “I didn’t think you’d be interested in football.”
“Sure everyone is interested in it right now, aren’t they?” I said. “You’re considered a traitor if you go into work and can’t discuss every tackle that you saw on TV the night before.”
He took a sip from his pint as he looked up at the screen. “Jimmy, this is Cyril,” he said after a moment to his friend, who was about the same age as him—twenty—but larger, a big bear of a lad who I could imagine charging down the rugby field at Donnybrook with a look of pure determination on his face and sinking ten pints of Guinness in Kielys afterward without blinking an eye. “He’s my…” He seemed to struggle for the word even though there was only one legitimate way to finish the sentence. “He’s my father,” he conceded finally.
“Your oul’ lad?” said Jimmy, clinking his glass against mine and looking at me with genuine delight on his face. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Woodbead.”
“Actually, it’s Avery,” I said. “Although please call me Cyril. No one calls me Mr. Avery.”
“Cyril?” he said. “You don’t meet many of them anymore. That’s one of the old names, is it?”
“I suppose so,” I said. “I’m ancient.”
“How old are you?”
“Forty-nine.”
“Jesus, that’s mad.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I can’t even imagine being that old. Is that why you have the crutch? Have the oul’ knees gone?”
“Shut up, Jimmy,” said Liam.
“Here, Liam,” said Jimmy, giving his friend a dig in the ribs. “Your da’s the same age as my ma. Are you married, Cyril, or are you on the market? My oul’ wan broke up with her fella about a month ago and she’s been a fuckin’ nightmare to live with ever since. Any interest in taking her out for a night on the town? An oul’ pizza and a few beers, something like that? She doesn’t take much lookin’ after.”
“Probably not,” I said.
“Why not?” he asked, looking offended. “She’s still a good-lookin’ woman, you know. For an oul’ wan.”
“I’m sure she is, but I don’t think we’d be right for each other.”
“Do you just go for the young ones, is that it? Fair fucks to you if you can still manage to pull them.”
“He’s not interested in women,” said Liam.
“How can he not be interested in women?” he asked. “He’s still alive, isn’t he? He’s got a pulse? The oul’ knees might be gone, but the oul’ jackanory still works, doesn’t it?”
“He’s not interested in women,” repeated Liam. “Any women. Think about it.”
He thought about it.
“You don’t mean he’s a queer, do you?” He looked across at me and held his hands in the air. “No offense meant, Cyril,” he added.
“None taken.”
“I have no problem with the gay lads. Let them all be gay, that’s what I say. All the more moths for me.”
I laughed and took a drink from my pint. Even Liam turned around with a half-smile on his face, which was about all I ever got from him.
“There’s a fella lives three doors down from me,” continued Jimmy. “He’s one of your lot. Alan Delaney’s his name. Do you know him?”
“I don’t,” I said.
“Tall fella. Dark hair. Has a gammy eye.”
“No, doesn’t ring a bell,” I said. “But we don’t all gather together for conventions, you know.”
“Why not? Would that not be a good way to meet someone?”
I thought about it; it wasn’t the stupidest idea I’d ever heard.
“Nice fella, this Alan lad,” he continued. “A bit of a player too. You never know who you’re gonna see coming in and out of his front door in the morning. What sort of fellas do you like, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I’m not really looking for anyone at the moment,” I told him. “I’m happy in my own company.”
“Ah that can’t be right. You’re old but you’re not that old. Would you like me to introduce you to Alan?”
I looked across at Liam, hoping for a little support, but he seemed amused by both the exchange and my discomfort and happy for it to continue.
“Give us your number, Cyril,” said Jimmy. “Write it down on a beer mat there and I’ll make sure he gets it.”
“There’s really no—”
“Give us your number,” he insisted. “I’m good at this sort of thing. Matchmaking and the like.”
I took a beer mat and wrote a random number on it and handed it across; it seemed the easiest way to end this.
“Now, if you end up getting the oul’ shift off Alan Delaney, you have me to thank, Cyril,” he said, putting it in his pocket. “And you can stand me a pint another time.”
“I will so,” I said.
“So has it always been fellas for you?” he asked.
“Jesus Christ,” said Liam, shaking his head. “Is this going to go on all night?”
“I’m only asking,” said Jimmy. “I have a deep interest in human sexuality.”
“You do on your hole.”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s always been fellas.”
“Still and all, you must have been into the women once. To produce this fine figure of masculinity, I mean.”
“Just leave it, will you?” said Liam. “Watch the match.”
“It hasn’t started yet.”
“Then watch the ads and shut up.”
“Ads are for talking through, everyone knows that.” He took a breather for a minute or two, then came back with this: “So was Liam’s mother the only woman you ever did it with?”
I noticed Liam glance over, as if he was interested in the answer to this question himself.
“Yes,” I said, uncertain why I was revealing so much of myself to a perfect stranger, other than the fact that his questions seemed entirely guileless. “The only one.”
“Fuck me,” said Jimmy. “I can’t imagine that. I’m nearly at double digits.”
“Five is not nearly double digits,” said Liam.
“Fuck you!” roared Jimmy. “It’s six.”
“Blowjobs don’t count.”
“They fuckin’ do. Anyway, five is still two better than you, ya skinny fuck.”
I looked away; I wanted to know more about my son but not necessarily this much.
“So how come you two don’t have the same surname?” asked Jimmy after a pause when I managed to catch the barman’s eye and three more pints arrived at our table.
“What’s that?” I said.
“You and Liam. He’s a Woodbead and you’re an Avery. I don’t get it.”
“Oh right. Well, Liam uses his mother’s surname,” I explained.
“My uncle’s, actually,” added Liam. “My Uncle Julian was like a father to me growing up.”
I took the blow with the force with which it was intended and said nothing as Jimmy glanced back and forth between the pair of us with a wide smile, as if he couldn’t understand whether this was some form of teasing that we enjoyed or if it was something more serious.
“Was this Julian lad your brother?” asked Jimmy, looking at me.
“No,” I said. “He was Liam’s mother’s older brother. He died some years ago now.”
“Oh right,” he said, lowering his voice a little. “I’m sorry to hear that.”