He sat up straight. He smiled – he grinned. He became himself.
—D’you know what we were watching? he said.
—What?
—The Affair.
—Really?
—Can you fuckin’ believe it? You’ve seen it, yeah?
—No.
—Watch it, he said. —It’s brilliant. Filthy. The first series, anyway. We were watching the second series.
—What episode?
He laughed.
—Four.
He shrugged.
—I don’t know, he said. —But it might have been four.
—And she was Jessica.
—Yeah.
—Did the name ring a bell?
—Yeah, he said. —It did.
—You remembered she was called Jessica?
—Are we in a police station again, Davy? he said.
—Sorry, I said. —It’s just, I’ve no recollection of her name at all.
—But you remember it now, he said.
—Yes, I said. —Yeah, I do. At least –.
—What?
—I don’t know. I think I do. Yeah, yeah – I do remember it.
But I didn’t. Not then.
* * *
—
George smiled as if he’d been expecting us. William came out of the room in the back and gave us the half time scores. The man with the ponytail looked up from his copy of the New Statesman and stared at us.
She wasn’t there – and that was when I remembered her. I hadn’t thought of her all week but now I missed her so much I wanted to go home. There were two women and a man, three violin cases. I didn’t know if they were the same women and the same violins, but they were at the same table and under the same window. Three violins, two women, no cello.
We parked ourselves on our stools and watched George put the glasses under the Guinness taps. He put the pints on the towel to settle.
—Gentlemen, he said.
—Thanks, George.
The door swung open and he went down to meet the men who’d just walked in.
—No cello today, I said.
—No, said Joe.
I knew then that he’d noticed her too and that, like me, he was happily suffering.
—She might be in later, I said.
—Yeah.
We were sober. We hadn’t seen each other during the week. We’d met at the bus stop down from Joe’s house. We hadn’t bothered with the Dandelion Market; we’d gone straight to George’s. We hadn’t said much. We were afraid to talk, I think, afraid that we’d find the place altered, or ordinary. Not once, though, did I think of her. It was the stool, the counter, the pint in front of me, my friend beside me, the night ahead of us. But then she was there, or her absence was there, and I was devastated and so was Joe. The other women didn’t interest us. There could be no compensation. We watched them leave with their instruments. We watched the arrival of the shoppers, and the departure of the shoppers and the man with the ponytail. We got the final scores from William. We watched George at work. Joe went out to the phone box at the foot of the stairs to the Ladies, to tell his mother that he wouldn’t be home for his tea.
—Why d’you do tha’? I asked him when he got back.
—Wha’?
—Phone home.
—Just to tell her.
—Tha’ you won’t be home?
—Yeah.
—You’re never home.
This was for George. He was at the taps, filling glasses. Listening – not listening – smiling, taking orders.
—Yes, I am.
—On Saturdays, I said. —When was the last time you went home for your tea?
—A while ago.
—Months ago.
—Okay. She just likes me to phone. She likes answerin’ the phone. We’ve only had it a couple o’ years.
We were waiting. Holding our breath. Waiting for her. Praying for her. The woman I now know was called Jessica. Is called Jessica.
—Wha’ d’you think? he asked me.
I knew exactly what – who – he meant. The place was filling again. The day was over; we were sitting in the night. We were looking at women. There was always the ideal woman but there were all the other women too. We were recovering. Starting to feel the buzz of the previous week. These would be our people now and this was still our future, with or without the woman. We were laughing again, chatting. Soaking it in, soaking in it. I could feel myself melting – it was good – flowing slowly into the noise, the accents, the jokes, the stories, the geography. Listening. Hoping someone would say something to me. Male, female – a way in. The start. It was why we’d been coming into town. To make the break. To live up, somehow, to the music we loved, the books we read. To walk streets instead of roads, cross a real river, sit in the pubs that Behan and Flann O’Brien had sat in, find the women who’d see, who’d understand, who’d hold us, who’d do things to us. Who’d come up to us and start it. Let us in. Let us soar.
She was there.
I think I knew it before I saw her. But I’ve no idea why I think that. It’s a long time ago; I’m a different man. I’d forgotten she existed. Her sudden resurrection – Joe pushing back the stone – was unsettling.
She was there.
Over at the door, behind a group of men and women at the other end of the bar. She’d asked for a pint of Harp and I watched George carry it from the tap to that group and I saw her hand, her arm, her shoulder, her face, as the bodies made way and she leaned in and paid for the pint, took it and smiled at George. Then the curtain closed and she was back behind the gang. But I knew she was there before I saw that. I knew the pint that George was pouring was for her. I might have heard her voice through the other voices – although I hadn’t heard her speak the week before. But I knew the hand was hers, the arm, the shoulder. I saw the curtain open, I saw the curtain close.
We were at the wrong end of the bar.
That was what we were, it was what we did. We anticipated rejection, we guaranteed it. Outsiders – and we made sure it stayed that way. Honest, vital, yearning, pure. One woman – that woman – would see it. She’d come and take my hand.
My hand.
Our hand.
* * *
—