—Some sort of hole to be filled, he said. —No – that sounds wrong. I don’t mean it crudely.
—Okay.
—An emptiness or something, he said. —Four wasted decades.
—You’re joking.
He shook his head. The grin – the fun in his eyes as he looked over his lenses – was gone.
—Just because you saw her?
I watched his face as he pushed back words that wouldn’t do.
—No, he said, finally. —Not just that.
He was trying to put the words together, the right words in good order; I could see him doing it. He wanted to hear himself say exactly what had happened, what he’d thought – how he’d felt.
—If –, he started. —If I’d seen her – just seen her. It would have been nothing. Just nice – or –. Nice to have seen that she was still around and looking so well, you know. But that’s all. I think. I’d have texted you – for example. That kind of reaction. If I’d seen her from the car, say. Or if she was in here and we saw her leaving. A bit of a buzz – but nothing. I wouldn’t have dashed after her. Or, even if she saw us and came over to say hello, that would have been it. But.
He picked up his knife and fork and cut at a piece of his peri peri chicken.
—That wasn’t how it was, he said.
I expected him to fill his mouth and keep me waiting while he chewed. But he didn’t. He wasn’t entertaining himself now, or me. He was trying to understand. He was trying to be me, on the other side of the table, listening to his story, his version of events – the only version – for the first time. I’d been over for a few days between Christmas and New Year’s, six months before – but he hadn’t mentioned anything then. When I’d asked him how things were – and I’m sure I did ask him – he’d answered, ‘Grand.’ And nothing more. It was the response I always had ready too when I came over to Dublin. I’m grand. We’re grand. Everything’s grand. He must have left Trish by then; he must have walked out of the house.
He was listening, examining his own words.
—She expected me to be there, he said. —And I was expecting her.
—Is that true? I asked.
I believed what he was telling me. I could see that he was pushing aside other possibilities, resisting the urge to add or amuse.
—Which? he asked back.
This time he put the chicken into his mouth.
—That you expected her, I said. —Is that actually true? Is that how you felt?
He swallowed.
—Yeah.
—Then, I said. —There? In the school.
—Yes, he said. —Definitely.
—Your long lost love suddenly appeared in front of you, I said.
—No, he said.
I was there to listen, not to cross-examine him. I was there so he could see me listening. He hadn’t noticed my sarcasm, or he hadn’t cared. And, immediately, I was glad. I didn’t want to hear it either.
—That wasn’t it, he said. —It wasn’t like that. I’d imagine that would be huge. A heart thing, you know. Thump, thump. Like terror. When you think there’s someone following you. To mug you. Did that ever happen you?
I nodded.
—You were mugged?
—No, I said. —I thought you meant the feeling, when you know you’ve a heart in your chest. Pumping away. It happened to us, remember?
—I do, yeah, he said. —Near Fairview.
—Yep.
—I’ll never forget it.
—No.
—The fuckers.
—Yep.
—But, anyway, he said. —This wasn’t that – when I met her. It wasn’t like that at all.
There is a reason why men don’t talk about their feelings. It’s not just that it’s difficult, or embarrassing. It’s almost impossible. The words aren’t really there.
—That – you know – that ‘Oh Jaysis’ feeling, he said.
—It wasn’t like that. It was calm.
—Calm?
—Yeah, he said. —I think. It’s a year ago. But, yeah – I think that’s how it was.
—Well, it hasn’t been that calm since, I said. —Judging by what you’ve been telling me.
—No, he agreed. —That’s true.
He cut more chicken.
—It’s not a mid-life thing either, he said. —So don’t even mention it. I’m fuckin’ sick of it.
—I don’t go in for that shite, I told him.
‘Shite’, ‘grand’, ‘Jaysis’ – I packed the words with my clothes and toothbrush when I was coming to Dublin for a few days.
—I didn’t fall for some young one, he said.
—I know that, I said. —I was there when she was a young one, remember.
—Yeah, sorry. I think –. I don’t know.
—Don’t know what?
—I think it might have been easier if she had been a young one. If I’d made an eejit of myself running after someone half my age.
—With your dick in your hand.
—That’s exactly –, he started.
He was whispering now, leaning over his plate.
—You’ve no idea how many times I’ve had to listen to that phrase in the last twelve fuckin’ months.
He gave me four different voices.
—With your dick in your hand, with your dick in your hand, with your dick in your hand, with your fucking dick in your hands.
—Was Trish the last one? I asked.
—No, he said. —No. That was my son. Gareth. Trish was the first. And the second.
He laughed first, and I followed.
—Hang on, he said.
He put the chicken into his mouth. He looked at me, raised his eyebrows as he chewed. He was pale – a mid-winter face in very hot weather. He looked like he was starving. My own plate was empty. I remember looking down at it and being surprised. I’d eaten the salmon, the broccoli – I must have; I remember ordering them – but I’d tasted nothing.
He rested his fork on the side of his plate.
—I think they’d have understood, he said. —It would have made sense. If I’d been caught with a younger woman. Or even a neighbour, you know. The mad one next door.