Read Online The Living by Léan Cullinan - Free Book Online

watched my hands as they lifted the kettle and grasped the tap. Matthew was at the kitchen door when I turned from the sink, leaning his face against the door jamb, four fingers curled round below, almost to the wall. It was such a tactile pose, it sent further tremors through my system. I took a gulp of air.
    â€˜Where’s your bathroom?’ Matthew said. His speaking voice was exquisite, soft and light, like feathers brushing my skin.
    â€˜Other door,’ I said, gesturing with my free hand. ‘Through the bedroom. Sorry about the mess.’ I turned back to set the kettle going.
    Having put out mugs and teabags and spoons, I went and arranged myself on the sofa, leaving plenty of room to one side. From the kitchen I could hear the small, deliberate whisper of the kettle as it began its long climb towards boiling point.
    Matthew came back and sat down, right in the middle of the available space.
    â€˜So,’ he said, ‘have you managed to sneak a peek at that Republican memoir, then?’
    Oh, for fuck’s sake! Everyone, it seemed, wanted to hear all about how central I was to the production of this one bloody book. Dad, Mícheál, and now Matthew. How tragic to be such a disappointment to them. I swallowed my frustration with difficulty. ‘I told you,’ I said. ‘I’m only a serf. George won’t let me near that project.’
    â€˜So what does he let you near, then?’
    â€˜Well, actually, in fairness, I have started copyediting. I’m working on a set of proceedings from an indescribably glamorous conference about fisheries.’
    â€˜Gosh, how magical.’
    I caught his eye, and we looked straight at each other for just a little longer than was strictly necessary.
    â€˜This George Sweeney’s a bit of a control freak, then, is he?’
    I allowed myself a disloyal laugh. ‘You’ve met him, have you?’
    â€˜Not yet,’ said Matthew, and we had another of those looks.
    The kettle switch snapped off just then, sending me springing to make the tea.
    â€˜Milk and sugar?’
    â€˜Just milk, please.’
    I tried to focus on the task at hand. Pour, stir, squeeze teabags and dump in sink, plop and cloud of milk, deep breath, careful walk back to the sofa. ‘Sir’s tea.’
    â€˜Thank you, Madam.’ He smiled as he took his mug, a warm, open smile that bolstered my hopes.
    As I sat down, Matthew said, ‘He’s quite the Irish nationalist himself, though, isn’t he?’
    â€˜George? Um … yes, I suppose so.’ Presumably he was, if the allegations in the newspaper had been true. ‘You wouldn’t really know from talking to him. Why do you ask?’
    â€˜I was wondering if he’d be worth interviewing for my research.’
    â€˜Oh, right,’ I said. I did not want to talk about his research.‘Something about the Republican movement, isn’t it?’
    â€˜Yes,’ said Matthew. ‘Basically, I’ve come to answer the Irish Question.’
    â€˜Oh?’ I said, feeling more than a hint of annoyance now. ‘And tell me, what is the answer to the Irish Question?’
    â€˜Blowed if I know. My supervisor says I’m such a lazy English wastrel I’ll never solve the riddle. But the authorities – by whom I mean Sellar and Yeatman – are fairly clear that every time Gladstone came close to discovering the answer, the Irish secretly changed the Question.’
    I frowned. ‘What are you on about?’
    â€˜Sorry – historian joke. Never mind.’ He took a sip of tea. ‘It’s a book.’
    I decided to drop it, and tried to think of some other conversational direction to take. I drew a blank. ‘So, what exactly are you researching?’
    â€˜Well, if you really want to know, at the moment I’m looking at the career of a civil servant who was sacked by Harold Wilson in 1976.’ He spoke with exaggerated