wasn’t helping her. I was pandering to her, but what part of her—her misery or her ego—I had no way of knowing.
This proved to be true, but only after a fashion. I had reckoned without the subtlety of Chanteleer. How he could enter, and alter a life. Like a shadow, as I have said. Lurking.
At the end of a fortnight, Lootie announced, ‘I’m going out.’
‘Sure,’ I said, standing aside. This was new. She usually left the house in my absence, to go where, and to do what, I had no idea, only suspicion. But loving her as I did, I would not stand in her way.
This time, when she came home, her hair was cut in a style. Dressy, you might say. Business-like. The new Lootie was becoming.
12
A s a relationship ends, there are movements, as in a concerto. But in saying so, I suggest that I know something about music, which I don’t. So I will say, as a relationship ends there are periods of acceleration and stasis. In yobbo’s terms: fast bits and slow bits. Quiet times when it seems that all will be well, frenetic times when breath won’t come. When life is bedlam. An experience played out by mad people.
I look back now in an attempt to understand. But that doesn’t mean I find either period (the stasis or the acceleration, the fast bits or the slow bits) easy to recall, and even harder to express.
Other than to say, those last days were hell.
We sat in the living room eating takeaway. The TV was on. I put my dinner plate aside, reaching for the remote.
‘What?’ Lootie asked.
‘You tell me,’ I said.
‘About what?’
‘Oh, come on.’ I really hated this dumb-arse game.
(Maybe this was the beginning of my growth. The start of my own metamorphosis. The shedding of my monkey suit. The first attempt to stand upright. To leave my childhood behind.)
‘Lootie,’ I said, taking her hand. ‘I’m worried about you. You mope around the house, then just like that you go and change your hair. I know that you’re skipping uni. I’ve seen the warning notice on your desk. What’s going on?’
‘Don’t you like my hair?’ She pulled away. (More dum-barse games.)
‘I love your hair. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying something’s going on…’
‘The notice from uni is bullshit,’ she said, banging her plate on the table. Readying for a barney, I expect. ‘And I am going. This week at least. I’m seeing a counsellor.’
‘For what?’
‘Because I want to change my degree.’
‘What?’
‘Relax,’ she said. ‘I’m not dropping out. I’m thinking of dropping Education. That’s all.’
‘That’s all? That’s all you ever wanted. To be a teacher. What’s gone wrong?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Evidently.’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you. I woke up to myself. I thought that I would be good with kids, but I wasn’t. I’m thinking of doing Librarianship. Okay?’ She reached for the remote but I beat her to it.
‘No,’ I said, ‘let’s talk for a bit.’ She groaned. ‘Who told you that you were no good with kids?’
‘I worked it out.’
‘Was it because of that episode with Chanteleer?’
‘It had nothing to do with Sebastian.’
I took the plunge. ‘That’s not what I heard.’
‘Oh?’
‘Rory’s mother is a cleaner at St Xavier’s. He told me.’
She laughed. ‘And you believe that loser?’
I looked at her, lost for words.
She grabbed the remote and turned the TV up.
I went into the garden.
A few days later I came home very tired. ‘I’ve got something to show you,’ Lootie said, excited. ‘Wait.’ She pushed me onto the sofa and ran up to the bedroom, leaving me nonplussed. I heard rustling and a few minutes later she came down the stairs wearing a red dress, crêpe de Chine , low cut, expensive, sexy.
‘Lootie!’ I gasped. She looked great.
Standing on the bottom step, she sashayed this way and that, beaming. ‘You like?’
‘I do,’ I said, attempting to grab her. ‘Come here. I’ll show you
This proved to be true, but only after a fashion. I had reckoned without the subtlety of Chanteleer. How he could enter, and alter a life. Like a shadow, as I have said. Lurking.
At the end of a fortnight, Lootie announced, ‘I’m going out.’
‘Sure,’ I said, standing aside. This was new. She usually left the house in my absence, to go where, and to do what, I had no idea, only suspicion. But loving her as I did, I would not stand in her way.
This time, when she came home, her hair was cut in a style. Dressy, you might say. Business-like. The new Lootie was becoming.
12
A s a relationship ends, there are movements, as in a concerto. But in saying so, I suggest that I know something about music, which I don’t. So I will say, as a relationship ends there are periods of acceleration and stasis. In yobbo’s terms: fast bits and slow bits. Quiet times when it seems that all will be well, frenetic times when breath won’t come. When life is bedlam. An experience played out by mad people.
I look back now in an attempt to understand. But that doesn’t mean I find either period (the stasis or the acceleration, the fast bits or the slow bits) easy to recall, and even harder to express.
Other than to say, those last days were hell.
We sat in the living room eating takeaway. The TV was on. I put my dinner plate aside, reaching for the remote.
‘What?’ Lootie asked.
‘You tell me,’ I said.
‘About what?’
‘Oh, come on.’ I really hated this dumb-arse game.
(Maybe this was the beginning of my growth. The start of my own metamorphosis. The shedding of my monkey suit. The first attempt to stand upright. To leave my childhood behind.)
‘Lootie,’ I said, taking her hand. ‘I’m worried about you. You mope around the house, then just like that you go and change your hair. I know that you’re skipping uni. I’ve seen the warning notice on your desk. What’s going on?’
‘Don’t you like my hair?’ She pulled away. (More dum-barse games.)
‘I love your hair. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying something’s going on…’
‘The notice from uni is bullshit,’ she said, banging her plate on the table. Readying for a barney, I expect. ‘And I am going. This week at least. I’m seeing a counsellor.’
‘For what?’
‘Because I want to change my degree.’
‘What?’
‘Relax,’ she said. ‘I’m not dropping out. I’m thinking of dropping Education. That’s all.’
‘That’s all? That’s all you ever wanted. To be a teacher. What’s gone wrong?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Evidently.’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you. I woke up to myself. I thought that I would be good with kids, but I wasn’t. I’m thinking of doing Librarianship. Okay?’ She reached for the remote but I beat her to it.
‘No,’ I said, ‘let’s talk for a bit.’ She groaned. ‘Who told you that you were no good with kids?’
‘I worked it out.’
‘Was it because of that episode with Chanteleer?’
‘It had nothing to do with Sebastian.’
I took the plunge. ‘That’s not what I heard.’
‘Oh?’
‘Rory’s mother is a cleaner at St Xavier’s. He told me.’
She laughed. ‘And you believe that loser?’
I looked at her, lost for words.
She grabbed the remote and turned the TV up.
I went into the garden.
A few days later I came home very tired. ‘I’ve got something to show you,’ Lootie said, excited. ‘Wait.’ She pushed me onto the sofa and ran up to the bedroom, leaving me nonplussed. I heard rustling and a few minutes later she came down the stairs wearing a red dress, crêpe de Chine , low cut, expensive, sexy.
‘Lootie!’ I gasped. She looked great.
Standing on the bottom step, she sashayed this way and that, beaming. ‘You like?’
‘I do,’ I said, attempting to grab her. ‘Come here. I’ll show you
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