He was heavily involved with straight shots of paddy and Guinness chasers when Mick finally arrived and sidled up next to him. Conor slid the bottle over without looking. Mick did a couple in quickly, hands trembling and spilling from the need of it.
"How'd you find me?"
"Who knows? You ask and you ask again."
"Why didn't you mind your own fucking business?"
"Sorry," Conor said, getting off the stool. “Help yourself to the bottle."
Mick grabbed his arm. "Don't go."
They sat without words through half the bottle. "I made the junior team all right," he said. "I was on my way, Conor, on my way. They was looking me over real close to move me up to the big club. Things was never so grand. I was making over a quid in the yard's farrier shop, my pockets jingling and on the way up to the big club. Oh, shit, what's the use."
Conor's hand felt warm on his shoulder and the memory of the two of them playing for the Bogsiders and the glory of it filled his mind. He turned his eyes from the back-bar mirror to avoid sight of himself.
"I was rooming with Elva and her old widow mom. That's the granny you saw there. Fourth game, maybe it was the fifth. I don't remember. I . . . I recall Doxie O'Brien watching my every move because they were going to move me up."
"What happened?" Conor said.
"Knee. You could hear it pop all over the stadium. The pain was so brutal I was screaming like a baby all the way to the hospital. They cut me up something fierce. I got myself into a real head beetler laying there day and night knowing I'd never play again and then I got the idea they was going to take my leg off. It was because of the fucking pain, you see, my head was playing tricks. So I jumped the hospital."
"You must have been behind the door when God passed out brains," Conor grunted.
"It was the pain. Elva and her old mom were wonderful to me. They was dead poor but they saw to it I was liquored up so I could bear it. After a time some of the pain went . . . I always got some of it, you know, but . . . it's pretty butchered up down there. Yourself, Conor?"
"I've been around."
"Aye, there was a rumor that you'd left Derry."
"Aye."
"Still a football man?"
"Aye, I'm in Belfast for a time. I'm working out with the Boilermakers."
"Then you've met Doxie O'Brien?"
"I have."
"Being a Catholic like us, I went to see him about getting my job back in the farrier shop. He done me a good turn, that Doxie. It's okay to work over there so long's you're on the club but Mary save your balls if you're not. Even becoming a cripple playing for their bloody team didn't make no difference. You know what it can be like working in a forge filled with hot metal if they don't like you."
Mick rolled up his sleeve, showing a ghastly burn scar. "Got one on my back, too. White-hot rivet was dropped on me from a drydock scaffold."
"For God's sake, Mick, there are hundreds of blacksmith shops in Belfast."
Tears welled in Mick's eyes and he shook so badly Conor had to pour his drink. "I know. I was fired from half of them. I never got off this shit. When Elva's mom got her first stroke, I felt I had to take care of them."
"What's wrong with your wife?" Conor asked.
"She's been a hackler in the linen mills since she was twelve years old. You ought to see these fucking mills here. Some of them are half as big as Bogside. The windows are all hot with steam from the engine shutting out the light and they work barefoot on the wet floors twelve hours at a crack . . . First the noise gets them, softens their minds and they never hear so well again. Then the damp creeps into their joints and gnarls them. And after a time the lungs are shot from flax dust. Two of her sisters were hacklers before her. They were done in before they reached thirty. All the hacklers stay drunk in order to keep working."
Conor called for another bottle and tapped his fist on the bar in broken rhythm. "Can you bring yourself around, Mick? I'll help you."
Conor's offer did little to stir him. It was all gone. "If I burned you for a fool," he said, "I'd have wise ashes. You saw us. We'll not last long enough to grow a decent beard." Then Mick broke into a fit of laughter that pleaded for Conor not to pursue bottomed-out hopes any further. "Tell me, Conor Larkin, how is your rugby game?"
"Good enough for a few seasons."
"Juniors, is it?"
"I'll be with the big club by the time of the Midlands tour."
For the first time, Mick's face opened brightly. "The tour!" he said, as though he had just seen the Virgin Mary. "Oh, I hear it's grand! Get to wear a team jacket, eh, and Sir Frederick puts you up in first-rate digs and there's a baron of beef at the table every night and all the paddy and Guinness you can swizzle, and I hear himself comes over, and you get to travel in a private car and himself always puts down twenty with a bookmaker for the team to split if they win. By Jaysus, the tour itself! That's the one thing I regret. I'd have given it all for one season of the tour."
"Yeah," Conor whispered, and slipped from the stool.
Mick held up his hand, refusing the desperately needed money. "Don't look me up any more, Conor," he said, "just don't look me up. I've a job delivering coal for a relative of Elva's. It doesn't pay much, but, on the Other hand, we don't need much."
"So long, Mick," Conor said.
"So long, Conor."
CHAPTER TEN
Their Sunday trip up Belfast Lough ended lovely in the hushed elegance of the Old Inn in Crawfordsburn, a generations-old, low-roofed beam and brick pub. They sipped aperitifs on the veranda by a garden wild with the full bloom of Ulster roses as he placed the dinner order.
The little maitre d' nodded with approval or consulted with concern over each course, then bowed. "Thank you, sir, very good, sir. Your table should be ready in a few moments, sir."
Shelley MacLeod was stunning. She worked for a haute couture establishment and knew how to make the best of it. She had emerged from the tiny dressing room down at the beach in the best Cinderella tradition. Matching greens of silk to the delicacy of her own complexion and with just the proper décolletage and cleavage. The two of them, side by side, had all but silenced the place when they entered. Conor found himself staring at her as he had done all day and a number of times before that, as well.
"Sure, you're spoiling the devil out of me, Conor Larkin," she said.
"Sure you can't spoil diamonds," he answered.
Shelley had lapsed now and again into long, uncomfortable silences during the day, unlike the other times. Now she was downright nervous and wanted to light a cigarette but kept her hands in her lap. A renewal of the fire just inside the veranda set her profile aflickering. Another grand day of it. The lovely instant when she flung open the door, picnic basket in hand, and change of clothes in a suitcase beside her, faces all beaming, sighing with relief at the sight of each other, the festive train ride up to Helen's Bay, the choppy sail on that choppy lough, the band concert at Bangor and now the glorious topper and a slow tired trip back to Belfast. There had been a rush of such days, yet something was dreadfully missing. They were getting in close to each other, so comfortable, so filled with endless talk. Lord knew she didn't want to run him off but if there was a dark side to him she was going to rind out before it went any further.
Conor sensed her unmistakable vibrations and went into a silence of his own. They pecked at their drinks until she set hers down with deliberation.
"Conor," she said abruptly.
"Aye."
"There's something wrong between us. It's showing up more strongly each time."
"Like what?"
"Like hugs and kisses and rolling in the grass. Obviously, I'm terribly taken with you. We've been out together fifteen times or more in a month but I don't understand this subtle brushing up against each other and your long hungry looks. Why haven't you tried to make love to me, man?"
"I have tried, at least within myself. I can't say for sure what's holding me back. Maybe I don't want to be just an
other Shankill tough."
"You know damned well there's a difference," she answered.
"Let me tell you something; you're an awesome woman. For one thing, you're the most beautiful thing I've ever laid eyes on."
"Come now, Conor, I can't believe that . . . of all the places you've been and all the things you've done and all the women you must have loved."
He held his glass up in the direction of the waiter, who fetched it for a refill. "Don't let my good looks deceive you," he laughed with a touch of self-debasement. "We're a backward lot, you know. Some of the men in my village didn't marry until they were over fifty. Some never married. Some never loved. We've a different set of priorities imposed on us, I guess. I'm a strange Irishman, all right, because I do prefer women to drink. On the other hand, enough of the old traditions have rubbed off on me."
She didn't have to ask him if he'd ever been in love; she knew, and she knew lads like him, no matter what their outward manliness, they froze up in the face of it.
Conor was so damned beautiful, she thought, as he went into that hidden part of his mind to find some scrapings to throw out. He lifted his head a bit sadly. "When I was a young lad I saw a beautiful lady one day. She was a Countess and I wanted to hate her for who she was but it was quite impossible. I'd see her from time to time, always looking through the hedge. One day I became her friend. She was my secret idea of what was perfect in a woman. So, wherever I roamed and whenever I looked into a woman's eyes, I had to compare and I'd never let anyone hold a candle to the Countess. Shelley, the Countess can't hold a candle to you and I don't quite know what to do about it or if I can even handle it."
"I'm not porcelain, Conor," she whispered, "under this silk I'm just a Belfast girl."
As they studied each other, Conor Larkin found himself backing away from a woman for the first time in his life. Having his defenses cracked, he was in disarray.
"I swear to God I think I'm scared, Shelley. If I take you, it's going to be different. I'm afraid we can't stop on the surface. I'm afraid I'll want to reach inside you and devour you. I've avoided that so goddam long, I'm not sure . . ."
"As far as you and I are concerned," she said bluntly, you're fighting no one except yourself."
"Look, lass," he said in sudden defense, "there are things you don't know about me."
"And there are things you don't know about me," she retorted. Shelley dropped the game. There was no fear, no pride, no poking sentiment. Her green eyes all but blazed as she leaned close and put her hand on his. "You told me you sailed around the world seeking. Did you seek something alive and breathing or was it only a game locked up in your mind?"
Conor shook his head. "I told you our priorities are scrambled," he said shakily. "Can you believe that all that searching out there never included a woman?"
"Reach for me, Conor," she said.
"I want to."
"Let me put it to you straight and simple. I've had too many bad times in my life. I've not been face to face with a man like you and I don't intend to let it slip away by being coy. I want to grab and hold on, only to see if there's something different in this world and if there's a little of it for us."
Conor lifted her hand to his lips and brushed her fingertips. They straightened up as the maitre d' returned and nodded. He slipped Shelley's dolman over her shoulder. They followed into the paneled hunting room, rich in pewter.
*
The train back to Belfast was excruciating, for there had been born a physical desire over which Conor was no longer master. He had been rudely jolted from his aloofness in that high and exalted place where he placed himself over the games played by the weak and the mealy. He had been too strong for such nonsense. When a man believes that in himself and is rudely shown otherwise, the impact of it is so much more devastating.
His arm was about Shelley as she lay against him all sleepy and cuddly and her fingers gently played with his shirt. So many others had tried but the man had always been in control of himself.
The feel of her skin was overwhelming and the passion in her eyes flushed him with sensations. He shut his own eyes and laid his head against the cool window, allowing the jerky movement of the train to tap it. Outwardly, they seemed to be sweetly tired and still but her deepening breath was returned by his own until the unison of their rise and fall fell into lovers' rhythm. They tightened their closeness to one another. He fingered her downy hair, did a feathery tracing of her neck, felt the prints of his fingers on her eyelashes.
The train slowed. They separated and corrected their dress. He looked through the window and was hit with a chill of countering confusion as it passed the Weed Ship & Iron Works slowly.
"Belfast! Belfast! Queen's Quay Station! End of the line!"
Weary picnickers debarked.
The hansom cab made up a deadened Shankill Road. Their breasts pounded. It turned into the wee streets of attached houses where a few late lovers lingered in doorways. All else was gone.
Shelley trembled the door open, seized his hand and drew him into the vestibule. They exploded into one another's arms. It was there! Fast, wild, total.
"Conor," she managed, "take me somewhere."
He was halfway through the door with her in tow when an awful reality battered its way through their euphoria. The hour was deadly late and the only place was his own room, which was strewn with diagrams, maps and papers of the shipyard and locomotive works.
He got hold of himself, taking her in his arms tightly. "God, I almost forgot. I've a pal up from Dublin crashing at my digs. We'll have to wait till tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," she gasped, "will it be tomorrow?"
"Aye, tomorrow."
*
Something had been happening in pieces since he'd met Shelley, now it crashed down. He didn't like the moment he left her. He didn't like the walk from Tobergill Road to the Ardoyne. He reached his room, taking the stairs very slowly. Loneliness had never bothered him. A book and later a book and a bottle were all he had ever needed. His own thoughts kept him company best. Tonight, loneliness had become an enemy. He stared at the bed. It was empty. Conor craved her.
The power of his fall had been swift, consuming and total.
He had allowed Shelley to invade his thoughts for days, take his mind away from his work. She inundated those hidden domains now. He tugged off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and tapped the once endless reservoir of will power and discipline. At his desk he spread his maps and plans and concentrated with all his ability.
What would Shelley's body look like?
He shoved the papers back angrily and paced, ending up at the kitchenette cabinet, and pulled the plug from a bottle of paddy.
How would her breasts feel? How would they react to his kiss?
Conor flung himself on the bed. In a moment he was writhing uncomfortably. His mind drifted to other beds in other places. He felt a tinge of kinship for all the women who had lain down beside him who had loved him without his true return of that love. How many times had he feigned false sympathy over their tears and wished all along they'd get up and go home? When did it start? Almost from the first day. On the mornings he awoke knowing he would see her, it was a day of flight.
"Shit!"
He spun off the bed and returned to his desk with renewed determination. That blurred vision of the Countess Caroline came to him. It was always blurred, for she was, in truth, the fairy princess, the illusion of convenience. He had deliberately designated the unattainable as his ideal. If I ever find a woman like that, then I'll go for her. That was the game. That was the fraud. He knew he never would find her so he was safe. Now Shelley MacLeod had obliterated his ancient defense and had reduced him to just a man like all other men with the same bloody weaknesses he deplored.
Tomorrow she will be naked on that bed. I'll explore her, I'll know her, I'll mouth her and fondle every inch of her. I'll cover her.
As if his own disgust with himself were not enough, the stupidity of it made it worse
. He was in the Brotherhood, he belonged to the Brotherhood, and that kind of oil and water could not mix.
Shelley, lying there, looking to him . . . those eyes . . .
He'd thought of making love to women, of course. There had been long voyages without port. He even needed a woman from time to time. A romance was nice if that was in store but he'd settle for less if it wasn't. There was never an affair he hadn't controlled or walked away from with a second thought. He had never thought of one particular woman, much less longed for her. He could hurt her badly. Funny, he never thought much about hurting the others. He had been brutal in asking them to do combat with his unattainable ghost.
Shelley, Shelley, what loveliness, too lovely to hurt . . .
He was annoyed by the sudden introduction to his own human frailties, wracked by the conflict of the Brotherhood, unnerved to realize he might need the strength of another person. Playing a game that it might happen to him someday, he never really thought it would. And now his thoughts returned to her and to downright lust. As the hours of night passed, one thing emerged for certain: nothing would keep him from his rendezvous with her the next day.
Once that thought settled in as truth, he began to like the idea and he began to enjoy, rather than resist, the strange range of sensations. Dawn found Conor exhausted but blissful. His capitulation to her now found him counting the hours until he would bring her here.
He continued to poke through his drawings and papers. Long Dan would be in Belfast soon and Conor wanted very much to have an answer for him. Suddenly he found himself riveted to a diagram of the tender car which he had looked at a thousand times before. Something was different! In a golden instant he saw the answer to the puzzle with total clarity. He glared, bleary-eyed, and gasped in disbelief. It was so simple! So bloody simple! Perhaps it was his foggy state of mind. He ran to the sink, pumped it with water and soaked his head to clear it, then dug out every drawing with the tender car in it. Yes, it was true!
"God, that's it!" he cried. "That's it! I've found it! I've found it! I've found it!"