Jamie’s angered by my smile. He was angry anyway, insulted maybe, that’s why he told me about him and Marion. To hurt me. I’m not laughing at him, but if he remembered me the way he always knew me, inside out, better than most, he’d remember that I’m grinning at him foolishly now because I’m feeling awkward, nervous, scared by what he’s told me. But this is what happens when you come apart, the secret bits you knew about each other dissolve into nothing. Like the most important parts that made up a person are no longer relevant. The spell that was cast on us was broken when I left the island. He doesn’t remember me. Not the way he should.
She’s eight weeks pregnant, he adds, then gets into the car and drives off, leaving me standing outside the house, at the side of the road with a broad smile at a time of despair.
Twelve
The front door is unlocked as it always is. I’m greeted by a smell of damp, of moss, of burned toast, of something stale and left behind and something new and indistinguishable. There are homely scents hidden amidst the new smells, nice comforting ones. They come and go as I breathe in. I drop the bags in the hallway and hurry to the front room, the TV room, where I’m guessing Pops is waiting. The front room feels cold and dark. Pops struggles to get up from his armchair. It’s a burgundy-coloured leather chair and a footrest pops out from the bottom when you push it back. We picked out the entire suite from Corcoran’s in Killarney before I went away. A little going-away ritual, it felt like. The room still smells of new leather, which is welcoming over that stale indistinguishable smell.
Don’t get up, don’t get up, I say, going to him for a hug but he stands anyway, rises above me, a tall man, not as tall as he was, not as anything as he was, and I’m taken aback. I hide my worry in a hug, glad he can’t see my face, wondering why I couldn’t get this face right for Jamie and use the smile for now. How long is it since I’ve seen him, I try to remember. Three months, probably, much longer than I should have waited but I was holding out for Easter and couldn’t take more holidays. I should have come home a few weekends. He feels thinner in my arms, his face is narrow, gaunt, his eyes darker and hollow. His hair is orange in places but grey, a lot more grey. He hasn’t shaved and I hate to say it but something smells dirty, something stale left behind on his clothes. Or maybe that’s him, the stale thing that I left behind. Selfishly maybe, maybe not. There’s a stain on his sweater and down his trousers. Something claggy that’s gripping the material and won’t let go.
What’s wrong with the car, I ask, trying to divert my attention from his face, feeling a little stunned by his appearance.
Ah don’t mind that, he waves me away. Come and have a look, he says, leading me through to the hall, to the kitchen that looks out over fields beyond, none of the land ours but nice to look at all the same. I want to show you something, he says, struggling to unlock the back door that has never been locked. I found it here this morning, bleating away at my back door, it must have wandered away from its mother, and why isn’t this key turning for feck sake – this is, ah, it wasn’t locked that’s why, well that’s not very safe, is it, they could’ve come in through the back, the thieves and good-for-nothings, but never from the front or they’d be seen. It’s what they’re doing now, only in the back doors. Laurence had his tools stolen there last month. Silly fecker shouldn’t have had them sitting out, but they came in the back. Okay just out here, you’ll love it, Allegra, a sweet little thing.
He heads out to the garden, making a whish-a-whish-a-whish sound. He wanders around the garden whish-a-whishing while I remain on the doorstep. Even though the weather is fine, it’s clear and sunny, actual heat in the air, there’s parts of the land that are soggy and boggy all year round, where the sun never hits and the grass never grew properly and he’s slushing around in it in his old trainers, mud splashing up his calves in thick splodges, on top of the dried splodges from the last time he was out whish-a-whishing. He’s pressed two fingers of his right hand together, rubbing together, as if he has something more than thick fingers to offer. I watch him until I realise there’s a creature he’s calling and then I look around too, waiting for its appearance.
Is it a cat, I ask.
Whish-a-whish-a-whish.
Pops, is it a cat.
Come here, little one, it’s okay, don’t be scared now. Whish-a-whish-a-whish, he turns in my direction and I see his face is thunderous that it’s not going his way.