‘I couldn’t believe it Tabitha,’ said Christy, ‘when I heard. Not one of them, I thought to meself. That right shower with their shiny cars and shiny heads and shiny suits, doing nothing for the working man or woman.’
‘Michael isn’t that bad,’ I said, compelled to defend Michael. I didn’t want him to think I had married some right-wing lunatic. Michael was a moderate. And a good person. ‘Actually, he was against the bowls club closing.’
‘I saw your mam at the protest,’ he said, letting Michael go. ‘She’s a mighty woman, isn’t she?’
I nodded. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’
‘And your daughter? Rose of summer… what age is she now?’
‘She’s doing her Leaving. Working hard you know. A bit stressed but…’
‘You were just the same, working hard, a good brain, all that,’ he said, taking the lid off the teapot and pouring in more hot water from the kettle.
‘Was I?’ I couldn’t remember being like that, but I was touched by how he remembered me. We chatted for a long time, about Christy’s coming and goings, my life at the school. I told him about Rosie and about Nora. We talked about films we’d seen and books read. It was like the old days. And then, a noise upstairs.
‘Dad?’ Red’s voice from above our heads caused beads of sweat to ping all over me, fear and excitement and delight at his imminence.
‘Down here! With a special visitor.’ Christy winked at me, indulgently.
‘Oh yes?’
Footsteps coming down the steps into the kitchen … and there was Red.
‘Hello Tab,’ he said, looking a little taken aback, as though he’d forgotten all about Christy’s invitation to me. ‘I thought Dad meant the writers’ group. I was hoping to hear a bit of Heaney…’
‘Well, maybe Tabitha will oblige, said Christy. ‘Tea Red?’ He filled the kettle. ‘What will you give us, Tabitha?’
‘Oh God,’ I said. ‘You’re not going to make me recite something…’ Christy had a terrible habit of forcing people to do things, be someone they didn’t quite think they were. And when you’d done it, you realised that you were better for it. But today, with sweat prickling my back and my mouth dry, and brain gone, I knew I wouldn’t be able to rise to the challenge. ‘What about some Pam Ayres,’ I said. ‘O I Wish I’d Looked After Me Teeth?’
Red laughed but Christy said, ‘and what’s so funny. Poetry is poetry. Don’t tell me Redmond Power that you are a poetry snob. We don’t allow them in this house, do we Tabitha?’
I shook my head and winked at Red. ‘No, Christy, no we don’t.’ Red was smiling broadly. It was like the old days. ‘It’s just like the old days,’ said Christy.
‘I was just thinking that,’ said Red, glancing at me. Me too. Me too, I thought. ‘How are you feeling, Dad?’ he said. ‘Did the poetry group tire you out?’
‘Not at all. Strong as an ox I am.’
‘Dad, you had a stroke six months ago. You have to face your own…’
‘Decrepitude.’
‘No,’ said Red, but he was smiling. ‘Limitations. We all have them.’
‘Limitations are all in the mind. So, I need a stick but that’s not going to stop me. And if you have an active mind, you’re more than halfway there.’
‘I was asking Tabitha about the bowls club,’ went on Christy. ‘It was quite the blow for us oldies when it closed. But I know it hasn’t got anything to do with her. But we still haven’t found a place to convene. I suppose that’s why we enjoy the writer’s group so much. Oldies United.’ He chuckled.
‘The last thing Tab needs is you banging on about things. Anyway, it’s not good for you, getting excited. And you should stop watching the news.’ He turned to me, making proper eye contact for the first time. ‘He just shouts at it. Thought he was going to have another stroke last night.’
‘It’s keeping me going,’ said Christy. ‘I’d go to an early grave watching Cash in the Attic or Pointless.’
I shouldn’t have come, I thought, suddenly, a wave of nostalgia washing over me, and loss, loss for the person I once was. And by coming here I was trying to recapture. But it had been a mistake. You don’t just drop in on your old life and you can’t just be the person you once were.
‘I’d better go,’ I said, standing up. ‘I’ll be back in to see you, okay, Christy?’
‘But you’ve just got here,’ said Christy. ‘Stay for some more of Peggy’s cake. You can have an even bigger slice this time.’
‘No, I’ve got to go. But I’ll come back.’
‘Promise?’
I nodded.
‘Well, then, I’ll see you out.’ Christy began to stand up. ‘And you’ll take some of the cake, won’t you? She’ll be delighted when I tell her that a slice went to Michael Fogarty’s home. She’ll like that, she will.’ He chuckled again. Peggy obviously wasn’t someone Michael could rely on for her vote.
‘Sorry,’ mouthed Red as Christy wrapped up a large slice in greaseproof paper.
‘Michael’s more of a Mr Kipling man,’ I said. ‘He’s suspicious of home-made.’ We all laughed, and I thought how a receptive audience always made disloyalty easier.
‘You haven’t changed, Tabitha,’ said Christy, passing me the package. ‘Not one little bit. Still got that beautiful smile.’
‘I’ll see her out, Dad,’ said Red. ‘You stay there, you have enough going up and down as it is.’
As he followed me up the stairs, his body close behind mine, the closest we had been, physically, for years and I could feel this magnetic tug that in a moment I would turn around mid-step and we would touch as though some kind of bodily memory compelled me to. At the front door, I stood aside while he opened it.
‘He’s looking well,’ I said.
‘When I first got home, he wasn’t his usual self. Tired, thin, that kind of thing. He was doing strange things. In hospital, I found him reading a copy of the Daily Mail.’
‘That must have been quite a shock. Which was worse, hearing he’d had a stroke or seeing him reading the Daily Mail?’
‘The Daily Mail, obviously. I mean for a life-long, actual card-carrying socialist, a man who writes poems about the unequal tax systems of this country and wrote an epic poem based on a night in an A&E department, to see him reading a right-wing paper was the far bigger scare.’ And he grinned right at me. And for a moment there was Red again. My Red. ‘But I think it did him the power of good. Like electric shock treatment. He had to get well. Put the world to rights again. Write his poems. Give out about things.’
‘I hope he’s onto more edifying newspapers these days.’
‘Yes, it’s grand. The doctor prescribed him a combination of the Irish Times and the Guardian, so he’s on the road to making a full recovery.’
‘Let me know if Christy wants a copy of the New Statesman. I hear it’s like EPO for socialists.’ I was rewarded with that grin again, the one that brought me right back to a different age. ‘He must be happy you’re back?’
He nodded. ‘Yeah and I’m glad to be back. Didn’t think I would be. But it’s good to be home.’
‘So, what did you miss?’ I knew I was stalling, not wanting to say goodbye. ‘When you were away?’
‘Barry’s tea. That was my number one. And proper chocolate. Irish Cadbury’s. A nice quiet pub. With no television on and an auld fella at the bar.’ He smiled. ‘The usual expat longings. And having a laugh.’
‘Have you not laughed in all the time you’ve been away?’ I said, pretending to be shocked.
‘There’s a particular way of having fun that we Irish do. I missed it.’ We made eye contact for a moment but he looked away, quickly.
‘So…’ I said. ‘Nice seeing you both together.’
‘And you, Tab. It’s nice seeing you.’
I walked down the path to my car feeling a sense of emptiness that I hadn’t felt in years.
Before
Christy was standing there on the doorstep when I opened the door. ‘Are ye all right? Red was waiting…’ His face changed as he looked at me. ’What’s wrong?’ he said. ‘We’re all fierce worried about you.’
‘Nothing’s wrong,’ I said. ‘Nothing. I just want…’ What did I want? Just to be on my own. It seemed like the only thing that might keep me going was if I just didn’t see anyone. ‘Tell Red I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘But I don’t want to see him.’