Thanks.
Alison glanced at her wristwatch. And Patrick lifted his beer and swallowed most of what was left. He laid the glass on the table and said, Come on we’ll go to the arts centre and talk about Christmas Pantomimes.
Alison stared at him.
Sorry, would ye prefer to stay here? Or have ye got to go home or what?
After a few moments she answered: I wish you would calm down.
And he nodded at once. She was dead right. There was no question about that. It would have been better said when they were alone but. When it was just the two of them. Not like this, with this other bloke. It wasni the sort of statement you liked hearing about yourself in front of strangers. And Norman wasnt exactly a close friend although having said that, it should be admitted that Patrick had met a lot worse guys. His openness for a start; that was good — not being afraid to ask the awkward question. Usually only Desmond could be relied upon for that. Patrick nodded. Aye. He said, Do yous fancy another before we hit the road? Eh Norman I mean you’ve bought the last couple so it’s definitely me on the bell!
Him on the bell, said Alison. In his reckoning women dont count … And rising from her seat she had opened her handbag and she walked to the bar without another word.
Norman smiled. I like her, she’s nice.
Patrick didnt answer. Not only was Alison nice she was beautiful. She was beautiful and she was honest and gentle and truthful and she was sympathetic as well, she could listen to folk when they were down and out and didni fucking … Christ. He shook his head and shut his eyes. Then he shrugged, glanced at Norman: The guy she’s married to, he’s a bit of a dickie, to be honest; I mean I’m no being eh …
Norman nodded.
Patrick sniffed. He shouldnt have said what he had. He shouldnt have said it it was daft, totally daft. It was the kind of thing
He just shouldnt have said it.
Norman was smiling now. And he leaned his elbows on the edge of the table, glancing swiftly towards the bar, and whispering, Hey Patrick, you dont mind me asking and aw that, about Alison, I’m no being cheeky or anything
Patrick had his eyelids shut fast and there was this roaring noise like a fucking crescendo in the eardrums, an eruption or something, a cacophonic roar of the blood in the head.
He smiled. He was going to answer but Alison had returned. He smiled. He was going to say something to the guy but she had returned. She beckoned to him, at his empty pint glass: Is it beer or lager Pat or what is it?
Tomato juice.
Honestly?
Yeh, thanks. He laughed. What had he laughed at. He laughed again. Alison had returned to the bar. It was a girl serving and Alison and she were talking together. They were probably talking about — what? what would they be talking about?
He glanced at the temporary English teacher who smiled but looked away immediately. He was not at his ease with Patrick. That was for definite. It was as if he was just — as if he was maybe thinking he was not really able to say what might happen in the next couple of minutes. As if maybe he was worried Patrick might break down or something maybe and end up
not well perhaps. As if Patrick would end up not well.
Fucking not well! He was fucking not well right now. Right fucking now. He was christ almighty in fucking bad trouble. Bad trouble. What did it take! What did it fucking take! Here he was about to resign from school in order to play the pipes. Play the fucking pipes! In the name of christ. Fucking predicament and a half that was. For somebody who was supposed to be not off his head, somebody who was supposed to be not cracking up.
Alison.
My god. She was holding a circular tray with the drinks standing aboard. A smile on her face: yet downcast, in her gaze — not to be looking at one if not at the other. Being equal to the pair of them in other words, the two men.
That was typical. That was what like she was. But this type of equality, it was surely a way of sounding the death-knell. Patrick stood to his feet and saluted as she sat down; he then bowed.
Such a gentleman, she said.
Just apologising for the last faux pas.
She nodded.
Total sexism, you were dead right to pull me up for it.
I know I was.
Of course I earn more money than you.
What?
I earn more than you do.
Dont be stupid.
‘I’m no being stupid Alison; I earn more than ye; it’s to do with responsibility payments and these exam study group reports.
What?
Patrick shrugged. We’re no supposed to tell anybody.
You’re being stupid.
I’m no.
That’s unpaid work.
That’s what you think.
Alison made no response for a moment, then she said to Norman, See how rumours can start!
Norman looked from her to Patrick and back to her again, smiling.
And she said, God Pat sometimes you can be a real pain.
He grinned and raised his glass of tomato juice: Slàinte! He tasted it and grimaced.
Serve ye right, she muttered.
The temporary English teacher chuckled but became serious at once. He said, I applaud you for it. I used to drive a motor myself but I found it nearly impossible to keep off the bevy. I mean properly. At the wind-up I more or less had to chuck it all the gether, the driving I’m talking about. It was a case of either/or, the drink or the car.
Patrick gaped at him. Is that the truth?
Yeh.
For fuck sake.
It would be impossible for him! said Alison.
Ah well it isni easy, replied Norman, the temporary English teacher. He grinned and raised his tumbler. All the best, he said to the two of them before taking a drink.
Patrick watched him follow it up with a sip of his half-pint of beer. It was the action of the strong drinker, the comfortable drinker. Something Patrick was not. He wasnt a comfortable drinker; and nor was he a strong drinker — not particularly, not in comparison to others. You only had to see others to appreciate the point. Although maybe if he didni have a motor he would drink a bit more. You married? he asked Norman.
Yeh.
Patrick nodded.
And Norman frowned, then smiled.
Dont pay him any attention Norman! Where marriage is concerned Mister Doyle is inclined to get things into his head!
Aw thanks Alison thanks a lot.
Well so ye are.
Am I.
Yes! Alison chuckled and flicked her lighter at a new cigarette.
Thanks.
For god sake dont take things so seriously Pat.
Alright but I just wish you wouldni go around making explanations on my behalf I mean fuck sake it’s terrible.
Sometimes you need explanations.
Okay but you still dont need to bloody christ you know what I’m talking about! Patrick shook his head; eventually he glanced at her; she was staring at him. He muttered, Sorry.
If you would just calm down.
I know.
Alison was looking at her wristwatch. I think we better go soon, otherwise they’ll be wondering whether we’re going to turn up at all.
Patrick said nothing. There wasnt anything he wanted to say. He footered with his drink. He lifted it to his lips, returned it to the table. Norman had started talking. That was good, it was good that he was talking. And in a friendly manner he was acting as if he was including Pat in the conversation although obviously he wasnt thank christ because it was really boring — it was to do with being a teacher. And suddenly there was that awful feeling, that awful feeling; it was a feeling
what was it like it was like as if, as if, just as if things werent going aright, not going aright. It would be great being whisked straight home on a magic carpet. One of Goya’s things. But it was definitely the sort of situation, the kind that it was burdensome to remove from, to just carry on within, it was even just carrying on in the company for fuck sake that was difficult and to be able to reach freedom, to be able to get out from under this and away, away, gone, freedom, liberation, flying high in the fucking sky, away way up so high, out of reach. He raised the tomato juice to his mouth, right in front of his nose, and attempted to taste it with relish, an act of great heroerism. He grinned and said to Norman: This stuff is only palatable with vodka.