going home tomorrow, and she thinks I have a job, and I want to have a job, and I don’t. And I’m dead when my mother finds out.”
He frowned. “Is your mother a very violent woman, Catherine?”
She burst out laughing. “Fuck off.”
“Will she beat you? Will she lock you in the shed?”
“Fuck off. I should have done it. I shouldn’t have put it off.”
He looked at his watch. “It’s half past two,” he said. “How many hours behind is Longford?”
She stared at him. “Oh, very funny,” she said, after a moment. “Sure you’re from Leitrim.”
He shrugged. “Leitrim’s another time zone entirely.”
“ Stop. It’s not funny.”
“Indeed it is not,” he said, and he got to his feet. “Come on,” he said, reaching a hand out to where she sat, looking up at him.
“Come on what?”
“Come on up,” he said. “There’s a phone in the hall, isn’t there?”
“I can’t call him now. ”
“Now is better than tomorrow.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s too late. It’s months too late. I’m going to have to forget about it.”
“And what? Live all summer on the proceeds of your poems? Come on.”
“No,” she protested, as he pulled her to her feet; he stepped back to make room for her, and in the next moment they were standing in the middle of the room, clasping hands. James was looking at her with an expression of resolve beneath the surface of which a fit of laughter seemed to be twitching, but he did not laugh; he did not even smile.
“Number?” he said briskly.
“It’s in my room,” she said, with an air of misery.
“Change?” he said, and he rooted in his jeans pocket. “Here you go,” he said, handing her a fifty-pence piece.
“Oh fuck, ” Catherine moaned. “I’m not even dressed.”
“It’s a phone, Catherine. Come on. We’re getting this over with, and then we’re going to drink some stolen wine.”
“Some what?”
“From the back of our Eddie’s lorry,” he said grimly, as he pushed her towards her bedroom door. “I think I earned that much. Anyway, I’m fairly sure he was stealing it in the first place.”
As she was finding the editor’s number in her address book, a new thought occurred to her. “I don’t want you standing beside me while I’m talking to him,” she shouted out to James.
He appeared at the door. “You’re terrible, Muriel,” he said, nodding towards the poster on the wardrobe.
“Seriously,” Catherine said. “You’re not standing beside me.”
“I haven’t the slightest interest in standing beside you,” he sniffed.
“And no listening at the door.”
“No listening at the door? No getting back in the door if you don’t do what you’re meant to do. Now go on.” He pointed. “And don’t come back in here without a job to your name. Do you want our poor children to starve?”
“Oh, God,” Catherine moaned through her laughter as he marched her to the outer hall. “Why did you ever have to come home?”
* * *
That night was for all of them. Amy and Lorraine came home from their exams, and they launched themselves at James, whooped and cheered and even cried because he was home, and there were moments when Catherine felt, again, like an outsider as she watched them, as she saw how easy and how happy they were with each other, but that went away; the way that James behaved towards her sent it away. That night was for all of them, cooking dinner together in the house and heading out into the night afterwards, down to Searson’s and on to O’Donoghue’s and on to dance in Rí-Rá, and stumbling, laughing, home through the streets. And the next day—Catherine postponed her journey back to Longford—was for her and James, wandering around the city, going to IMMA and St. Patrick’s Cathedral and into the gardens behind Dublin Castle, all the places she had not been to yet, all the places it had not occurred to her yet to go, and through campus, where she felt as though
He frowned. “Is your mother a very violent woman, Catherine?”
She burst out laughing. “Fuck off.”
“Will she beat you? Will she lock you in the shed?”
“Fuck off. I should have done it. I shouldn’t have put it off.”
He looked at his watch. “It’s half past two,” he said. “How many hours behind is Longford?”
She stared at him. “Oh, very funny,” she said, after a moment. “Sure you’re from Leitrim.”
He shrugged. “Leitrim’s another time zone entirely.”
“ Stop. It’s not funny.”
“Indeed it is not,” he said, and he got to his feet. “Come on,” he said, reaching a hand out to where she sat, looking up at him.
“Come on what?”
“Come on up,” he said. “There’s a phone in the hall, isn’t there?”
“I can’t call him now. ”
“Now is better than tomorrow.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s too late. It’s months too late. I’m going to have to forget about it.”
“And what? Live all summer on the proceeds of your poems? Come on.”
“No,” she protested, as he pulled her to her feet; he stepped back to make room for her, and in the next moment they were standing in the middle of the room, clasping hands. James was looking at her with an expression of resolve beneath the surface of which a fit of laughter seemed to be twitching, but he did not laugh; he did not even smile.
“Number?” he said briskly.
“It’s in my room,” she said, with an air of misery.
“Change?” he said, and he rooted in his jeans pocket. “Here you go,” he said, handing her a fifty-pence piece.
“Oh fuck, ” Catherine moaned. “I’m not even dressed.”
“It’s a phone, Catherine. Come on. We’re getting this over with, and then we’re going to drink some stolen wine.”
“Some what?”
“From the back of our Eddie’s lorry,” he said grimly, as he pushed her towards her bedroom door. “I think I earned that much. Anyway, I’m fairly sure he was stealing it in the first place.”
As she was finding the editor’s number in her address book, a new thought occurred to her. “I don’t want you standing beside me while I’m talking to him,” she shouted out to James.
He appeared at the door. “You’re terrible, Muriel,” he said, nodding towards the poster on the wardrobe.
“Seriously,” Catherine said. “You’re not standing beside me.”
“I haven’t the slightest interest in standing beside you,” he sniffed.
“And no listening at the door.”
“No listening at the door? No getting back in the door if you don’t do what you’re meant to do. Now go on.” He pointed. “And don’t come back in here without a job to your name. Do you want our poor children to starve?”
“Oh, God,” Catherine moaned through her laughter as he marched her to the outer hall. “Why did you ever have to come home?”
* * *
That night was for all of them. Amy and Lorraine came home from their exams, and they launched themselves at James, whooped and cheered and even cried because he was home, and there were moments when Catherine felt, again, like an outsider as she watched them, as she saw how easy and how happy they were with each other, but that went away; the way that James behaved towards her sent it away. That night was for all of them, cooking dinner together in the house and heading out into the night afterwards, down to Searson’s and on to O’Donoghue’s and on to dance in Rí-Rá, and stumbling, laughing, home through the streets. And the next day—Catherine postponed her journey back to Longford—was for her and James, wandering around the city, going to IMMA and St. Patrick’s Cathedral and into the gardens behind Dublin Castle, all the places she had not been to yet, all the places it had not occurred to her yet to go, and through campus, where she felt as though
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