Over Our Heads

Graduation

Martin Cleary, in suit and tie, carried two takeaway coffees across the square. The morning was fresh and bright — suitably collegiate, Martin thought. The water in the canal basin shimmered as it only ever did before noon.

Ronan rose from the bench by the door of Martin’s apartment building and accepted with two hands the cup his father offered.

‘Get that down you,’ Martin said.

Ronan raised the cup to his lips. He was freshly showered but his hangover showed in red eyes half-screened by a curtain of lank hair. On his feet were a pair of motorbike boots he swore would not appear in the photographs. One of Martin’s dark suits hung loosely from his shoulders.

‘Good night, then?’

‘I think so.’

‘It was good to be able to put you up. Less so to be woken at three in the bleeding morning. Where were you?’

‘Haven’t a breeze.’

‘You drink too much.’

‘So do you.’

‘Maybe,’ Martin laughed. ‘But I’m too old to change.’

They set off together down Pearse Street, Martin leading and Ronan looking around him at the collage of broken-down pubs and new sandwich shops that made this part of Dublin.

‘Have you spoken to her yet this morning?’

‘Texted. But I’ll ring her when I leave you.’

‘Did you tell her you’d missed your bus?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And what did she say about you staying?’

‘What do you think?’

They entered the college through the wrought-iron gate on Westland Row. Ronan led the way past the stone steps and oak doors of the Physiology and Zoology buildings. In a green space bordered by apple blossoms, two bearded boys were throwing a frisbee. Nearby a cluster of students in dark gowns led their families to the deck of the cricket pavilion. The girls wore clicking heels. The boys slouched with their hands in their pockets. The parents linked arms.

‘Do you have to pick up your gown and all?’

‘Yeah.’ Ronan drained his coffee cup and threw it, hit a metal bin with a clang from ten feet. ‘But I have one reserved.’

On the tree-shaded benches by the cricket pitch, tourists in windcheaters huddled over maps. Martin and Ronan passed beneath the granite edifice and gothic windows of the Old Library building and continued on into Front Square, where Martin savoured the sensation of well-tended grass, white-columned buildings and glinting cobblestones. He reached out and ruffled Ronan’s hair, at once regretting it as his fingers caught.

‘You need a haircut.’

‘I know. I meant to get one but I ran out of time.’

‘Do you have time now?’

‘I suppose. Do you know somewhere close?’

The barbershop Martin used was in a basement room of gilt mirrors and soft leather couches. It smelled of scalp and shaving foam. There was only one other customer in the place.

‘This one, Keith,’ Martin told the barber as Ronan climbed into the chair.

Keith nodded and tied the cape around Ronan’s shoulders. ‘How do you want it, so?’

In the mirror Ronan’s eyes met Martin’s for a moment. ‘Short,’ he said. ‘I suppose something clean and … something short.’

The electric shears buzzed as Keith went to work, dropping lengths of hair over Ronan’s shoulders to the floor. The barber filled a water bottle and sprayed the top, then sliced in with a long-bladed scissors. When he was done, Martin felt as though he could make out more clearly some of his own features in the boy’s reflection. Ronan had his father’s chin, his father’s nose, his father’s eyebrows framing Anne’s dark eyes.

‘Cheers, Keith,’ Martin said as he paid.

‘See you again.’

They stepped out into the light. Grafton Street was getting busy. Ronan checked his phone and nodded in the direction of the college.

‘Look, I’d better get going.’

‘Exam hall, right?’

‘You know where that is?’

‘I’ll find it.’

Ronan tilted his head and squinted up at his father. ‘Look, will you sit with her?’

‘I imagine so.’

‘Good.’ Ronan nodded.

‘Here, do you need some money?’

‘You’re grand.’

‘Just let me buy you a few scoops later.’

Martin took a hundred-euro note from his wallet. Ronan’s eyes widened. He laughed.

‘How much do you think I can drink?’

‘Go on, I said. Just take it.’

Ronan eyed the money. ‘Thanks. And for the couch. And the coffee.’

‘Listen —’

Ronan tugged at his lapels. ‘And the lend of the suit.’

‘Of course, my pleasure but —’

‘And the haircut.’

‘Any time.’

‘I suppose I’ll look good in the photos for you now.’

Ronan made to go but Martin took his hand. In an hour they would be together again but they would not be alone. With the hair gone, Martin could see more clearly the angular set of Ronan’s jaw, the hard lines of his cheekbones, the height of his forehead. He had small ears, a small mouth, lines already at the corners of those dark eyes. His Adam’s apple, nicked from shaving, seemed enormous. The suit fitted him poorly but still he looked great. He was a man, entirely himself. Martin couldn’t keep from blurting out:

‘We don’t look that alike, you know.’

Ronan frowned. ‘I know.’

‘No,’ Martin said. ‘I mean, I feel that sometimes we do … But a lot of the time … It’s not there is what I mean. Sometimes I don’t see it.’

‘Yeah.’ Ronan looked away over his shoulder.

‘I used to think you looked more like your mother.’

‘No, not really.’

‘No, you’re right, not really.’

A liveried doorman smiled as he admitted Martin to what Anne called the Temple of Mammon: a high-ceilinged lobby with marble floors and brass fixtures. Martin asked a girl promoting store credit cards where he could find the watches and followed her directions across the lobby and down the stairs. He paused at the near end of an L-shaped counter and bent to peer in at a selection of women’s watches, studying their jewelled faces and imagining how the blue felt of the boxes might feel against his fingers. Without realizing, he had begun to slide back into the past as he had sworn that morning he would not. He stopped himself, moved away from the women’s section and along the length of the counter to the far end, where the men’s watches were housed. His preference was for a very simple gold piece with a notched face and a dark brown strap, but he knew it wasn’t right. The right one was a chunky steel affair with a clever-looking double clasp and a square face with no marks at all for the numbers.

Emerging into Grafton Street, Martin spotted Brian Glennan struggling towards him through the afternoon crowd. Brian was a balding, gangly man who stood at a great height that made his approach visible over long distances.

‘Martin!’ Brian shouted, jumping and waving. He fought through a gap in the throng and stumbled to Martin’s side. ‘Jesus, that’s mental.’

Brian wore his fighter pilot’s leather jacket and a pair of sunglasses that Martin had heard him refer to as his ‘fuck-me shades’.

‘How are you doing, Brian? You’re looking fit.’

‘Ah.’ Brian shook his head. ‘Fit to drop is more like. Sure, you know yourself. Ours is not to wonder why.’ He lit a cigarette.

‘How’s Trisha?’ Martin said.

‘Still chugging along, more’s the pity. But she’s talking to me again, small mercies.’ Brian lowered his sunglasses on his long nose. ‘So, what’re you up to? Shopping? Anything good?’

Martin held up the carrier bag. ‘Graduation present. It’s Ronan’s conferrals today.’

‘Oh, yeah? Nice. Congratulations. I went to Audrey’s one last week.’

‘And how was it?’

‘Ah, I don’t know. It was a graduation. Everyone wore hats.’

They stepped out of the doorway and walked together for a moment before stopping at the entrance to a cigar shop on College Green.

‘And how about herself?’ Brian said. ‘Are you nervous about … ?’

‘Having to talk to her?’

‘Right.’

‘Ah, it’s not about us, you know? It’s his day, after all. I think it’s the least we can do. I reckon we’ll survive.’

The corners of Brian’s mouth turned down and his lower lip protruded. ‘Fair enough, so,’ he said. ‘That’s a beautiful and mysterious woman. Who knows how these things’ll turn out?’

‘Sure.’

‘Well … Right you are. I’ll love you and leave you, then.’

‘Take care, Brian.’

‘I can but try.’ Brian moved away, his head bobbing again in retreat above the crowd.

On the steps in front of the exam hall, Martin felt a tap on his shoulder and discovered that he had strayed into someone else’s photograph. He stepped out of the way only to find himself blocking another shot — another patient, adult kid standing between mother and grandmother, and father frowning at him from behind the camera. Martin made his apologies and retreated out of frame. He straightened his tie, looked out across the crowded square and allowed his eyes to skip from group to group. In the distance a girl carrying a heavy book bag was giving directions to a tourist. Martin followed her pointing arm to the corner of the grey dormitories and then travelled their line into a sky impossibly blue.

He felt his heart quicken as he began to make them out. Anne was walking between Ronan and a tall blonde wearing glasses and boots, the shape of whose body was untraceable beneath her gown. Martin brushed his jacket shoulders and smoothed back his hair. When Ronan saw him he broke from his mother and the girl, ran over and bounded up the steps.

‘All right?’

‘Grand, yeah.’ Martin struggled to smile. ‘Feeling better?’

‘Much.’

‘I ran into Brian Glennan.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘He sends his congrats.’

‘Good stuff. Brian Glennan.’ Ronan grinned. ‘Is his wife fucking him again?’

‘No.’ Martin laughed. ‘No, she is not.’

Ronan looked at the bag in Martin’s hand. Now, while they were alone for a last moment, was the time to give him the watch. But Ronan turned away too quickly and reached for his mother’s hand to help her up the steps. Anne took Martin in with one quick glance and looked away towards the front of the square and the archway at the main gate.

Ronan presented the blonde. ‘Da,’ he said. ‘This is Eve. She’s in my class.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘Thank you.’ Eve’s voice was soft. She had a silver ring in her lip and wore tortoiseshell glasses. She was good-looking, small featured and clear-skinned in a way that made Martin think of kindness. She spotted what Martin assumed to be her own parents and made her excuses.

‘I’d like to say hi too,’ Ronan said. He shot Martin and Anne a cautionary glance and left his parents alone.

Anne held herself straight, her hands gripping her bag straps. Her make-up was applied expertly and sparingly and she had little jewelled touches here and there: jade earrings, an enormous amber ring on what once had been her wedding finger.

‘So, you made it in safe?’ Martin said.

‘Yes.’

‘You look well.’

‘And you too.’

‘How’ve you been?’

‘Oh, fine.’

‘And work. How’s work?’

Anne looked at him from the tops of her dark eyes. ‘Work is work. It’s grand.’

‘I’m fine by the way.’

‘You always are, aren’t you?’

After Ronan came back they took some awkward photos on the steps and then filed into the exam hall, Ronan and Eve together with Eve’s parents, Anne struggling to keep up and Martin lagging behind. The kids went off to sit with their classmates before the dais and Martin and Anne sat together in the first row of seats arranged around the periphery.

The hall smelled of age and paper, its high walls adorned with smoky oil paintings of Elizabeth I and Raleigh, and many others Martin could not make out. There were stained-glass windows near the roof and one large window at the back of the dais through which shafts of blue and pink light entered. Families chatted amongst themselves. Martin sat with the bag in his lap.

‘So,’ Anne said after a time. ‘His hair’s short.’

‘Yeah,’ Martin said. ‘You like it?’

‘It’s not bad, actually.’ Anne’s jaw muscles were working. ‘And you let him sleep on the couch, then?’

‘Yeah. It was no trouble.’

She snorted. ‘I wouldn’t expect it to be. But the couch? On the night of his graduation?’

‘It’s a one-bed apartment. Where would you like me —’

‘Well, I wouldn’t know how big it is.’

Martin swallowed hard and said, ‘Listen. Let’s not do this.’

‘What?’

‘Let’s —’

‘Yes?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Fine. That’s absolutely fine.’

After a while, a door opened at the top of the room and a procession of academics began. They crossed the dais with heads bowed, shuffling in long robes. The Dean of School took the podium. He was middle-aged, vaguely Scandinavian-looking, and wore a furred hood, a green sash and a pair of stylish, thick-framed glasses high on his nose. The watch would suit him, Martin thought.

Once the Dean had made his opening remarks, the department secretary began the long roll-call of names. Martin’s eyes wandered around the hall before settling on the back of Eve’s head.

He decided he would try again. He pointed over and whispered to Anne, making sure of an even tone, ‘Are they —’

‘What?’

He thought of a word. ‘Involved.’

‘Ronan and Eve?’

‘Yes.’

‘He hasn’t said anything to you?’

‘No.’

‘Well, then, it’s not really my place.’

When all the names had been called and all the diplomas distributed, the Dean took the podium again. There was some cheering and some applause. Ronan and Eve leaned towards one another.

Martin bent down to be heard. ‘You did a great job on him.’

‘I know I did.’ Anne was looking straight ahead. Her eyes didn’t move.

Eve’s father was a tall, thin, gentleman-farmer type. He looked like he belonged to a golf club and could run four or five miles without losing breath. Ronan, Anne, Eve and Eve’s mother positioned themselves for more photos: beneath the Campanile; in front of the Old Library; between the stone pillars of the dining hall.

‘You must be Ronan’s father.’

‘Martin.’

‘Ken.’

The kids had their degrees now, presented as cylinders bound with blue ribbon. Eve cradled hers carefully at her chest. Ronan held his by his side like a rolled-up newspaper.

‘You look like you’re remembering the drive home from the hospital,’ Ken said.

‘Something like that. Is it that obvious?’

‘To some.’ Ken offered a cigarette. Martin shook his head. ‘I’ll tell you, though, the first time? Scariest hour and a half of my life. And we only lived forty minutes away. I crawled home. I remember every bump, every inch of that road.’ A match flared in front of Ken’s face. He puffed a ribbon of smoke and shook the match out. ‘This is your first?’

‘Only.’

‘I’ve had three go through myself already.’ Ken took his wallet from an inside pocket and opened it to show a creased picture of four little girls. The eldest was about six or seven, the youngest no more than a few months.

‘Four girls,’ Martin said.

‘Outnumbered,’ Ken winked. ‘But never outmatched.’

Eve’s mother beckoned as the others moved away.

‘So, Eve’s the baby?’ Martin said.

Ken smiled. ‘That she is.’

‘And how are they doing? The others, I mean.’

‘Some good. Some not so.’

They rounded a corner and came into a smaller, quieter square where the women and children gathered around a bench.

‘When you think about it, though,’ Ken said, ‘it’s ridiculous to expect that every one of them will just naturally be better than we are.’

‘Right.’

‘But the thing is, at the same time, it’s absolutely necessary.’

Eve’s mother handed the camera to a passing student, explained its workings and then marshalled the group. The two kids sat together on the bench while the parents stood behind them. Martin took his place between Ken and Anne. The camera flashed.

At a restaurant on Dawson Street, Martin waited with Ronan and Anne for the table she had reserved. They sat in plush armchairs in the front-of-house bar drinking complimentary cocktails.

‘So,’ Martin asked Ronan. ‘What’s next?’

Ronan set his glass down on the table and clasped his hands together between his knees. Martin admired the watch he’d managed to give while Anne was saying goodbye to Eve’s parents.

Ronan looked to his mother. She shrugged.

‘Actually, I’m thinking of taking a year off. I’m thinking of travelling a bit. Maybe Korea.’

‘Korea.’ Martin listened to his pronunciation of the word. ‘What’s in Korea?’

‘Lots of things,’ Ronan said. ‘I’m just thinking of trying it. For a while. You know, while I can.’

‘I think it’s a great idea,’ Anne said and ran a finger around the lip of her glass.

Behind the bar, a flat-screen TV showed a to-camera report from the street in front of the Mansion House. Martin found himself staring through a window at the back of his own head. He turned in his seat to look but a hostess came to tell them their table was ready. He picked up his glass, and together the Clearys stood.