“I’m only saying. Laura’s gynecologist is a man and I think it’s a funny job. Looking at unspeakables all day. A fourteen-year-old boy might think it was fun, but I couldn’t be up to it. I was never a big fan of looking at women’s unspeakables.”
“Am I right in thinking that you’re a psychiatrist, Alice?” asked Ruth, and my ex-wife shook her head.
“No,” she said. “I’m nothing of the sort. What made you think that?”
“But you’re a doctor, that’s right, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes. A Doctor of Letters. I teach Literature in Trinity College. I’m not a medical doctor.”
“Oh, I thought you were a psychiatrist.”
“No,” said Alice, shaking her head.
“I actually considered cardiology for a while myself,” said Peter. “As my specialty, I mean.”
“Oh, are you a doctor?” I asked, turning to him.
“No,” he said, frowning. “I work in construction. Why would you think that?”
I stared at him. I had no answer.
“Peter and I actually met in a hospital,” said Ruth. “Not the most romantic place in the world, I suppose. He was a porter and I was in to have my appendix out.”
“I wheeled her down to the operating theater,” said Peter. “And I thought there was something very attractive about her as she lay there under the sheet. After they put her under, I stayed to watch the operation. When they took the sheet off her, I took a look at her body and said to myself, That’s the woman I’m going to marry.”
“Right,” I said, telling myself not to look at Alice in case her expression would make me laugh.
“And how about you two?” asked Ruth, and now we did exchange a look. “How did you two meet?”
“We’d known each other since we were children,” I said.
“Well, not quite,” said Alice. “We met when we were children. Once. When I ran screaming out of Cyril’s house. And we didn’t even meet then, to be honest. Cyril just saw me, that’s all.”
“Why did you do that?” asked Peter. “Did he do something to upset you?”
“No, his mother frightened me. It was the only time I ever met her, which is unfortunate because she ended up being my particular field of study. Cyril’s mother was a brilliant novelist, you see.”
“Adoptive mother,” I said.
“But anyway, we met again when we were a little older.”
“Alice’s brother was a friend of mine,” I said carefully.
“Is this the brother who helped out with Liam?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Alice. “I only had one.”
“This’d be the lad who died over there in America, would it?” asked Peter, and Alice turned to him and gave a brisk nod. He’d obviously heard the full story.
“Christ, you haven’t had an easy time of it either, have you?” he asked, laughing a little. “You got it on both sides.”
“Got what?” asked Alice coldly.
“Well, you know, your brother and your…” He nodded toward me. “Your husband here. Your ex-husband, I mean.”
“Got what though?” she repeated. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t mind Peter,” said Ruth, reaching across and placing her hand on Alice’s, somewhere between a caress and a slap. “He thinks before he speaks.”
“I’m in trouble again,” said Peter, looking at me with a grin, and I began to wonder whether he was trying to be offensive or was simply an idiot. There was another extended silence and I glanced down at his book.
“What’s that like?” I asked, nodding at the John Grisham.
“It’s not bad,” he said. “Your people read a lot, don’t they?”
“My people?”
“Your people.”
“Irish people, do you mean? Sorry, I thought you were Irish too.”
“I am,” he said blankly.
“Oh right,” I said. “Did you mean gay homosexuals?”
“Isn’t it awful how that word has been co-opted to pursue the liberal agenda?” asked Ruth. “I blame Boy George.”
“Yes,” said Peter. “That’s what I meant.”
“Right,” I said. “Well, I suppose some do. And some don’t. Like anyone else.”
“Here,” said Peter, leaning forward and grinning at me. “Bertie or John Major? Which one would you rather have as your boyfriend? Or would it be Clinton? I bet it would be Clinton! I’m right, amn’t I?”
“I’m not really looking for a boyfriend,” I said. “And if I was, it wouldn’t be one of them.”
“It always makes me laugh when fellas use that word,” said Ruth, and true to her word she started laughing. “Boyfriend!”
“It’ll be something new for you, all the same,” said Peter. “A baby, I mean.”
“It will,” I agreed.
“The traditional family.”
“Whatever that is,” I said.
“Ah, you know what it is,” said Peter. “A mammy and a daddy and a few kids. Look, Cyril, don’t get me wrong, I don’t have anything against your lot. I’m not prejudiced at all.”
“He’s not,” agreed Ruth. “He’s never been prejudiced. Sure he had a whole load of darkies working for him back in the eighties before it was even fashionable. And he paid them almost as much as he paid the Irish workers. We even had one in the house once.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “For dinner,” she added. “I didn’t mind.”
“True enough,” said Peter proudly. “I’m a friend to every man, black, white or yellow, gay, straight or homosexual. Live and let live, that’s my motto. Although I have to admit that lads like you baffle me.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“It’s hard to explain. I just never understood how you can do the things you do. I couldn’t do it.”
“I don’t suppose anyone would want you to,” I said.
“Oh I wouldn’t say that,” said Alice, poking me in the ribs. “Peter’s a good-looking man for his age. I’d say they’d be lining up. You have the look of Bertie Ahern, if you ask me.”
“He looks nothing like Bertie,” said Ruth wistfully.
“Thank you, Alice,” said Peter, pleased by the compliment.
“You don’t have any gay children yourselves then?” I asked, and they sat bolt upright in shock, the pair of them, as if I’d taken out a stick and started to beat one or the other of them senseless with it.
“We do not,” they said together.
“We wouldn’t be the sort,” added Ruth.
“What sort is that?” I asked.
“It’s just not the way I was brought up. Or the way Peter was brought up,” she said.
“But your son Joseph makes lovely roast potatoes, is that right?”
“What has that got to do with anything?”
“Nothing. I was just saying. I’m getting hungry, that’s all.”
“Can I ask you,” said Ruth leaning forward. “Do you have a…what do you call it…a partner?”
I shook my head. “No,” I said. “No, I don’t.”
“Have you always been alone?”
“No,” I said. “There was someone. Once. A long time ago. But he died.”
“Do you mind if I ask you, was it AIDS?”
I rolled my eyes. “No,” I said. “He was murdered.”
“Murdered?” asked Peter.
“Yes. By a group of thugs.”
“Sure that’s even worse.”
“Is it?” asked Alice. “How so?”
“Well, maybe not worse, but no one asks to be murdered, do they?”
“No one asks to get AIDS,” I said.
“Well, maybe no one specifically asks for it, but if you’re going to ride your bicycle on the wrong side of the street, you can expect to get knocked over, am I right?”