Mr Lynch’s Holiday

29

‘Your mother would have appreciated an incline like this.’

They walked along the shaded side of the street, the sun finally weakening its grip and sliding down the sky.

As with so much his father said, Eamonn could think of no particular response.

‘Was a time she was a devil for the slopes.’

‘Right.’

‘A real terror.’

‘Because she liked hills?’

‘On her bike! She was a devil.’

‘Mom? On a bike?’

‘“Handlebars Hegarty”, that’s what we used to call her.’

‘“Handlebars Hegarty”?’

‘Back when I first knew her, she was awful windswept-looking, like she’d just stepped in from the storm. She’d be out on it any hour of the night or day, cycle back on her own from a late shift at the hospital, she would, no lights, like a bat on wheels.

‘First time she agreed to go out with me, I was stood waiting for her down at the bottom of Corporation Street. It was hellish busy. Rush hour. I was getting knocked and nudged by everyone hurrying to get home for their tea and I was cursing myself for picking such an idiot place to meet. I was looking for her face in the crowd and then suddenly I spotted it, way off in the distance. There she was, on the bike, coming down the hill towards me, and there were cars and buses and people everywhere, but to look at her you’d think she was on some quiet country lane. Floating along, she was, without a care in the world, the wind blowing her hair back, the afternoon sun on her face. Handlebars Hegarty.’

Eamonn tried and failed to conjure up a picture of it. They walked on in silence. He found stories of his parents before he was born quite fantastical, impossible to relate to the people he’d grown up with.

Laura’s parents were an open book. Their life together a never-ending panel discussion. He considered unnatural the amount they had to say to each other. Nothing escaped the searchlight of their opinion. They would talk with passion and at length about the local shops, Philip Roth, mushrooms, wheel-clamping, Neil Young, dim sum, their next-door neighbour’s recycling boxes and the mental illnesses of their friends.

His parents, in contrast, were borderline mute. Sometimes they bickered, sometimes they remarked on the obituaries, but generally they coexisted with few words.

‘Your tea is on the table.’

‘Did you get the peas?’

‘I’d say you’d need a coat.’

They chose often to communicate by proxy, with Eamonn acting as a shuttle between them.

‘If your mother wants to get to Brendan’s for lunch she’ll need to get a move on.’

‘If your father doesn’t mow the grass soon, we’ll never find the cat.’

He found it hard to imagine how they talked to each other when he wasn’t around. He wasn’t sure that they did.

As they turned the corner now, Cheryl was standing, apparently waiting for them, on the pavement. Eamonn had never seen her beyond the confines of a house or terrace before. The sight of her on the street was incongruous.

‘Hello, you two. I spotted you from afar.’

‘Is that right?’ said Dermot.

‘I was up in the bedroom, gazing out of the window, and there you suddenly were, like two handsome princes come to rescue a damsel in distress from the terrible ogre.’

‘And where is this terrible ogre?’ asked Dermot. Eamonn looked at him. It occurred to him that maybe his father had had a lifetime of this on the buses. An endless line of Cheryls charmed by his twinkling Irish eyes. He thought of skimpy polyester negligees, of Reg Varney … he made himself stop.

Cheryl waved an arm. ‘Oh, on the couch of course, empty bottles scattered around him, watching the tennis with Ian. Keep me company, won’t you, before I die of boredom.’

Dermot smiled. ‘Well, we couldn’t allow that.’

‘Come and join me on the terrace, we can ignore the tedious people inside.’

Eamonn intervened. ‘Thanks, but we’ve got dinner waiting for us back at the flat. I’ve left it in the oven cooking while we went out for a walk.’ It sounded unconvincing even to him.

‘Oh, Eamonn! Don’t be so bloody boring. Isn’t he painful, Dermot? Just one drink. An aperitif, for God’s sake. That’s only civilized. We won’t let your precious dinner burn, you old woman.’

She marched Dermot into the house. Eamonn stood on the street for a few moments before following on reluctantly.

On the roof terrace she settled Dermot in a chair and then commanded Eamonn to assist her getting drinks from the little bar they had set up there in the corner. Once out of Dermot’s earshot, she spoke sharply. ‘Well, I’ve heard about Laura. Jean let something slip to Becca. Frankly I’m a little hurt, Eamonn, that you didn’t come to Roger and me when this happened. We’re your oldest friends here.’

‘I didn’t really want to talk about it.’

‘You should have come straight over here. We wouldn’t have had to talk about it, we could have just had a drink like old times. We used to have some good nights. I don’t know what happened.’

‘No.’

‘Well. Now she’s gone, maybe we’ll see a bit more of you. You need your friends at a time like this.’

She touched his arm. ‘All I’m saying is: I’m here if you ever want to talk about it. You’re not on your own.’

He looked at her hand. Golden-brown skin, diamond rings, red fingernails. He wanted to brush it away like a mosquito. He wanted to cry.

Dermot’s voice drifted over to them. ‘Can I give you a hand?’

Eamonn pulled his arm away and walked over to join his father. Cheryl followed on with Dermot’s drink.

‘So, Dermot, you have us all in a stir.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Well, it’s been a while since we had a visitor, and with it being your first time abroad, there seems to be a sense that it’s a bit of an occasion.’

‘Oh?’ Dermot laughed. ‘Like a papal visit?’

‘Something like that. Becca in particular is very animated about it. I assume you’ve heard about the barbecue?’

Dermot and Eamonn spoke together. ‘What barbecue?’

‘Oh, my goodness, listen to you two. You sound as if I’d suggested a funeral.’

‘I don’t want anyone going to any bother for me.’

‘Becca wants to do it; you’re just an excuse. She needs something to lift her spirits. Well, don’t we all? Something to break the monotony. We haven’t had a big get-together for ages. They used to happen almost weekly. Everyone invited, a chance to catch up; but then it all started to go sour. Suddenly it was just a roomful of people moaning and drinking too much. Everyone sick of the sight of each other.’

Dermot looked unsure.

‘Oh, don’t worry, she has it all under control. Listen, I’m sorry if I spoiled the secret, maybe it was meant to be a surprise party. Don’t look so miserable, Eamonn, it’ll be a chance to put on our glad rags and forget our troubles.’

Eamonn gave a mirthless smile.

‘We’ll see if we can put some colour back in those cheeks, eh?’ She turned to Dermot. ‘After that Laura upped sticks and deserted our lovely Eamonn. How could she do that?’

Dermot glanced at his watch. ‘Oh, Eamonn, the dinner.’

Eamonn stirred. ‘Yes, the dinner. It’ll be burned.’

Cheryl stood to see them out. ‘What culinary delight is it tonight?’

‘Chicken,’ said Dermot at the same time as Eamonn said, ‘Chilli.’

Eamonn nodded. ‘Chilli con pollo. An experiment.’

Cheryl looked at Dermot. ‘Fingers crossed it’ll be burned.’

They walked back up the hill towards Eamonn’s block in silence. As they climbed the stairs Dermot asked: ‘What did Laura reckon to that one?’

‘Cheryl? OK in small doses, I suppose. Why?’

Dermot said nothing for a while and then: ‘Do any of them have any jobs?’

‘Well, Ian and Becca have their business, but I think it’s pretty much dead in the water. Laura and I did our stuff, everyone else is retired.’

Dermot headed for the kitchen. ‘I worked with a fella named Moran. He retired eighteen months before me. You wouldn’t know it though. He was always around the garage, having a chat with the lads on their break, checking out the buses when they came back in. He shouldn’t have really been there, you know, wasn’t insured to be on the premises any more, but the gaffer turned a blind eye.’ He paused. ‘Turned out he was slashing the tyres with a penknife. Never done anything like that in his life. The company didn’t press charges. His wife came down and spoke to them. That was the last we saw of him.’ He poured some baked beans in a pan. ‘It does funny things to people. Time on their hands.’