sat down on the floor beside my tray, stretching my legs across the corridor. ‘So what brought you to Shepherd’s Bush?’
‘Long story.’
‘Go on. I’ve got oodles of time. I’m never going back into that bar.’
He glanced at his watch, then slid off the chair and leaned his back against the opposite wall to mine. We pressed our four feet companionably together, like a pair of schoolkids at break time. He was wearing a dark suit and a sober silk tie, slightly loosened. His shoes were posh, black and polished; mine were cheap, grey and scuffed.
‘Okay then,’ he said. ‘Since you’ve asked.’ His family had existed on the west coast of Ireland forever, it seemed, farming in the ancient hills. He was eighteen when his father died of a heart attack during a bracing dip in the Atlantic. As he was the only son, his mother and five sisters—he called them ‘the coven’—expected him to run the farm and save the family fortunes. But my new friend didn’t want to be a farmer. He dreaded living and dying in that community, the latest in a perennial stream, known only as his father’s son. So he ran away to art college in Dublin—where he picked up a wife— and then to London, where she promptly left him.
‘And in London I stayed,’ he finished. ‘And here I am.’
‘What happened to the farm?’
‘Coven made a go of it. They keep goats. They make cheese.’
‘Cheese?’
‘Organic goats’ cheese. Wins awards, you can buy it in Harrods. So there you go—diversify to survive. I’ve been gone nearly half my life, but whenever I visit they blather on at me. They can’t believe I’ll not come home in the end.’
I felt his shoes pressing against mine; I was intensely aware of the contact, as though my whole nervous system was centred in the soles of my feet.
‘I’m off in five minutes,’ he said, and I felt a tug of regret.
‘Not driving, I hope?’
‘No. I left my phone somewhere, so I called a taxi on this old-fashioned tellingbone. They’ll be here at half past.’
‘Oh.’
He didn’t move. ‘Coming with me?’
I felt my eyes prickling. ‘I can’t. I’ve got to stay here and do this . . . do this . . . all this funeral thing.’
With surprising swiftness, he was at my side. ‘But will you be all right?’
There was more caring in those six words than all the tragic clawing and don’t-know-what-to-say and your-mother-was-a-wonderful-woman-who-frigging-well-lives-in-you. I was so grateful. It tipped me over the edge.
‘I’ve got no mother,’ I sobbed in panic. ‘She was a bitch. Or maybe she wasn’t. Maybe I am. Not sure.’
‘I expect you both were.’
I pressed my nose into a tissue, gulping, dimly aware that my cheeks must be traffic-light red. ‘We started fighting when I was about . . . I dunno, a day old? She said she couldn’t believe I was hers. I disappointed her every step of the way. Everything was a battlefield. Piano—I didn’t practise; friends—she banned them; meals—I wouldn’t eat them. But none of it was for me . It was all about her status as an icon of bloody womanhood. I ditched my law degree and she didn’t speak to me for a year. When I was twenty-one I got pregnant.’
‘Did you marry the father?’
‘What father?’
‘Ah.’
‘I went to the hospital on her birthday last week. Couldn’t even get that right, could I? My daughter made a beautiful card, I baked a cake, thought she’d approve of that—kissed her and I had a strep throat. It finished her off.’
He drew my hair from my face, and I felt his fingers brush my ear. Vincent Vale chose that moment to appear in the doorway. He spent most of his life prowling around on soft-soled shoes, trying to catch people out. His gaze fell on me, the murdering baggage, sobbing all over a dark stranger.
‘Not here,’ he muttered, and disappeared the way he’d come.
‘Ambiguous,’ said Drunk Man. ‘Ambiguous, I call that. What’s not here? Who’s not here? He’s not,
‘Long story.’
‘Go on. I’ve got oodles of time. I’m never going back into that bar.’
He glanced at his watch, then slid off the chair and leaned his back against the opposite wall to mine. We pressed our four feet companionably together, like a pair of schoolkids at break time. He was wearing a dark suit and a sober silk tie, slightly loosened. His shoes were posh, black and polished; mine were cheap, grey and scuffed.
‘Okay then,’ he said. ‘Since you’ve asked.’ His family had existed on the west coast of Ireland forever, it seemed, farming in the ancient hills. He was eighteen when his father died of a heart attack during a bracing dip in the Atlantic. As he was the only son, his mother and five sisters—he called them ‘the coven’—expected him to run the farm and save the family fortunes. But my new friend didn’t want to be a farmer. He dreaded living and dying in that community, the latest in a perennial stream, known only as his father’s son. So he ran away to art college in Dublin—where he picked up a wife— and then to London, where she promptly left him.
‘And in London I stayed,’ he finished. ‘And here I am.’
‘What happened to the farm?’
‘Coven made a go of it. They keep goats. They make cheese.’
‘Cheese?’
‘Organic goats’ cheese. Wins awards, you can buy it in Harrods. So there you go—diversify to survive. I’ve been gone nearly half my life, but whenever I visit they blather on at me. They can’t believe I’ll not come home in the end.’
I felt his shoes pressing against mine; I was intensely aware of the contact, as though my whole nervous system was centred in the soles of my feet.
‘I’m off in five minutes,’ he said, and I felt a tug of regret.
‘Not driving, I hope?’
‘No. I left my phone somewhere, so I called a taxi on this old-fashioned tellingbone. They’ll be here at half past.’
‘Oh.’
He didn’t move. ‘Coming with me?’
I felt my eyes prickling. ‘I can’t. I’ve got to stay here and do this . . . do this . . . all this funeral thing.’
With surprising swiftness, he was at my side. ‘But will you be all right?’
There was more caring in those six words than all the tragic clawing and don’t-know-what-to-say and your-mother-was-a-wonderful-woman-who-frigging-well-lives-in-you. I was so grateful. It tipped me over the edge.
‘I’ve got no mother,’ I sobbed in panic. ‘She was a bitch. Or maybe she wasn’t. Maybe I am. Not sure.’
‘I expect you both were.’
I pressed my nose into a tissue, gulping, dimly aware that my cheeks must be traffic-light red. ‘We started fighting when I was about . . . I dunno, a day old? She said she couldn’t believe I was hers. I disappointed her every step of the way. Everything was a battlefield. Piano—I didn’t practise; friends—she banned them; meals—I wouldn’t eat them. But none of it was for me . It was all about her status as an icon of bloody womanhood. I ditched my law degree and she didn’t speak to me for a year. When I was twenty-one I got pregnant.’
‘Did you marry the father?’
‘What father?’
‘Ah.’
‘I went to the hospital on her birthday last week. Couldn’t even get that right, could I? My daughter made a beautiful card, I baked a cake, thought she’d approve of that—kissed her and I had a strep throat. It finished her off.’
He drew my hair from my face, and I felt his fingers brush my ear. Vincent Vale chose that moment to appear in the doorway. He spent most of his life prowling around on soft-soled shoes, trying to catch people out. His gaze fell on me, the murdering baggage, sobbing all over a dark stranger.
‘Not here,’ he muttered, and disappeared the way he’d come.
‘Ambiguous,’ said Drunk Man. ‘Ambiguous, I call that. What’s not here? Who’s not here? He’s not,
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