He walked along Wicklow Street and then turned into Grafton Street. He would need to think about accepting the offer to become a High Court judge. If he waited, there could be a change of government, and he would not be offered a seat on the bench again until Fianna Fail returned to power. But maybe it was too easy to make the move. He went into the Eblana Bookshop and browsed for a while, looked at the new books on the table, but bought nothing and went out into the street.
He did not want to go back to the flat. At first he did not know why, but as he walked through the Green he realized that he did not relish a night in Dublin with his aunt and uncle. He looked forward to seeing them, but he knew he would not be able to meet them without thinking about his father and about being a child in their house. They would treat him as they did when he was a child, they would smile at him and approve of him as they did when he came to their house with his father. He was happier with his law books and his days in court, away from all that had happened, or in the flat with Carmel, making plans to buy a house, knowing that their first baby would come soon, knowing that they could go to bed later and make love.
He sat down on a seat in the Green. He had his briefcase with him. He took The Irish Times out and began to read the news on the front page. The Green was quiet except for the hush of traffic in the distance and the rustle of leaves in the light wind. If someone came and sat on the bench with him he would leave, he knew, but people passed by without paying him any attention. Eventually, he folded the newspaper and put it back into his briefcase.
* * *
Carmel was in the small kitchen when he came up the stairs.
“I rang them,” she said. “I think that they’re delighted we’re taking them out.”
“They come to Dublin twice a year. I saw them when they came up a few years ago,” he said.
“I booked a table in the Russell for eight o’clock,” she said.
He had a bath and changed his clothes. He stood at the window looking down into the empty street as Carmel sat sewing a button on to a blouse. The closer the time came to go to the hotel and meet his aunt and uncle for dinner, the less comfortable he became.
“How do you feel?” he asked Carmel.
“I feel fine,” she said. “I’m looking forward to going out.”
“Do you want a drink?”
“Now?”
“Yes, a gin and tonic or something,” he said.
“No, I won’t,” she said. “You have one.”
He went into the kitchen, poured a measure of gin into a glass and added tonic and ice.
“Are you in court in the morning?” she asked.
“Yes, I am.”
“We mustn’t stay out too late then.”
They walked into Stephen’s Green and along the paths to the artificial lake. They were in good time and could afford to walk slowly.
“Did you tell them that you were pregnant?” he asked.
“No, and I don’t think they noticed.”
They waited in the bar of the hotel. When Aunt Margaret and Uncle Tom came in they seemed shy, looking around the bar as they spoke and uncertain about whether they would have a drink or not. They mentioned several times that they hoped they were not disturbing Eamon and Carmel or putting them out in any way.
Eamon often came here with colleagues and clients. He knew the head waiter and was pleased now to be led to a table with his aunt and uncle.
“We haven’t been in here for years,” Aunt Margaret said when they had settled at the table. The restaurant was half full, but as they were looking at the menu people came and sat at the tables around them. They talked about home and the price Eamon could expect for his father’s house which he was about to sell.
“You’ll get a good price for it,” his uncle said. “There are plenty of people coming back from England.”
His aunt told them about two sisters who had come back from America after fifty years. They had never been home in all that time and came down the Island Road in search of people who would remember them. Hardly anyone remembered them, she said, all their family had left as well, there was no one belonging to them living in the town, but she remembered them well, remembered them leaving as soon as the Great War was over, as soon as you could leave. They had never married, she said, but worked for a rich family and were getting ready to retire. They were talking, she said, about retiring to Enniscorthy, but she didn’t suppose that they would, since they knew nobody.
The main courses came and as they were eating Carmel said in a low voice to Aunt Margaret: “Don’t look now, but over there beside the window to the left, there’s Charlie Haughey. I don’t know who it is that’s with him, but maybe Eamon will know.”
Aunt Margaret continued eating as though she had not heard and then stealthily turned her eyes over to the window and took in the scene.
“You can look now, Tom,” she said. “It’s all right.”
Eamon and his Uncle Tom looked at the same time.
“He often eats in here. A lot of the young ministers and Fianna Fail men come in here,” Eamon said.
“So I’ve heard. But it’s great seeing him all the same,” his uncle said.
“We’ve something to tell them when we go home,” his Aunt Margaret said. “Who’s that with him?”
Eamon looked over.
“I don’t recognize him,” he said.
“Your father would have loved this,” his aunt said.
As they ordered dessert Eamon caught Haughey’s eyes. He saw him nodding to his companion and then rising and walking over to their table. Eamon stood up. The waiter waited to take his order.
“I’ll have the trifle,” he said as Haughey slapped him on the back and made him sit down.
“Mr. Redmond,” he said, and then looked at the others, greeting them with a brief nod, before Eamon introduced them.
“This,” he said, “is the Minister for Finance. My uncle has been in Fianna Fail in Enniscorthy all his life,” he said, turning to Haughey.
“You’re up for a brief stay? Well, this is a good hotel,” Haughey said.
“Oh, we’re not staying here,” Aunt Margaret said. Haughey looked at her sharply, his clear blue eyes holding her gaze.
“Will we hold the two seats in Wexford?” he asked Uncle Tom.
“It’ll be hard without Dr. Ryan, but we’ll do it.”
“It would be good to select someone from the constituency, someone with a hurling background,” Haughey said.
“It’ll be someone local. I can guarantee you that.”
“Otherwise we could run this man here,” Haughey said, putting his hand on Eamon’s shoulder. “But we’ve other things in mind for him.” He smiled and then became serious again.
“Wexford is a great county,” he said.
“Will you come down yourself during the campaign?” Uncle Tom asked.
“All the ministers are very busy,” Aunt Margaret said. “It’s hard for them to go everywhere.”
“I’ll do my best,” Haughey said. “It’s very good to meet you, anyway. And enjoy your meal.” He addressed this to Carmel and gave her a small bow before walking away.
No one spoke for a while as the waiter came with their desserts.
“I didn’t know you knew him,” Aunt Margaret said.
“I drafted some stuff for him when he was Minister for Justice. He’s very able. He has a great way of getting things done,” Eamon said.
“He’s a great man,” his uncle said.
“What do you think of him, Carmel?” Aunt Margaret asked.
“He has a way of looking at you as though he knows something about you,” she said.
“You’re right about that,” Aunt Margaret said. “I nearly died when I told him we weren’t staying here and he looked at me. I didn’t want him to think we were staying here and then find out that we weren’t.”
When he had finished his cup of coffee Eamon went to the toilet. Haughey’s table was empty. As he opened the toilet door, Haughe
y was coming out. Haughey gave him a mock punch in the chest and grinned.
“You’re for the bench,” Haughey said.
Eamon said nothing but held his stare.
“Will you take it if you’re offered it?” Haughey asked.
“I will,” Eamon said.
“I’ll see you soon,” Haughey said. “It’s good to see you again.”
* * *
They had more coffee and then Eamon and his uncle had brandies. Eamon paid the bill despite the protests of his aunt and uncle. It was almost eleven o’clock when they walked out of the dining room. They stood in the hall, Eamon and Carmel insisting on walking with them to George’s Street, but Uncle Tom and Aunt Margaret adamant that they could walk alone.
As they spoke Eamon glanced into the bar and his Aunt Margaret turned and looked as well. Haughey was still in the hotel, standing in the bar with a glass in his hand, talking to a man who had his back to them. Beside him, on his left, was another minister.
“Are they here every night like this?” Aunt Margaret asked him.
“I don’t know. I don’t imagine so,” he said. He watched his aunt examine his face carefully as though she doubted what he was saying.
* * *
They walked slowly back along Stephen’s Green, standing to watch as a demolition squad worked on one of the red-brick Victorian buildings near the corner with Earlsfort Terrace.
“I hope they’re not going to put up one of those terrible glass contraptions,” Carmel said.
In the flat they sat together on the old sofa and held hands.
“That was a nice evening,” Carmel said, “I hope they enjoyed it. Your Aunt Margaret is very alert.”
He went to the window as a car started up in the street and then made tea while Carmel sat with her feet up. There was no sound from the street, not even when he opened the long window of the living room. They sipped the tea without saying anything.
“Can you feel the child moving?” she asked and caught his hand, holding it to her tummy. He could feel some vague motion, something alive. He took his hand away.
“Don’t you like touching it?” she asked. “Does it make you uncomfortable?”
“No, it doesn’t. I just can’t believe it,” he said.
They went into the bedroom together. Carmel had already turned on the lamp beside the bed and drawn the curtains. They undressed slowly without speaking. When he turned she was naked, her breasts heavy over the round bulge of her belly. He went over to her and held her. He could feel the blood throbbing in the veins of her neck. He held her against him, kept his hands on the soft, fine skin of her back.
They moved over to the bed and pulled back the blankets and lay down without covering themselves. He played with her tongue, closed his eyes and kissed her as softly as he could. But he still did not touch her breasts or her belly. She ran her hand down his chest as they lay on their sides facing each other, and then put her hand on his groin and his thighs. He could feel his own breath coming faster and when he put his ear against her neck he could feel her blood throbbing.
Her breasts were firm as he put his hands under them and held them. He knelt up and kissed her nipples and then lowered himself in the bed and put his face against her belly. He fondled the taut skin and pressed his fingers against the hardness. He closed his eyes and began to run his tongue along her roundness, aware now of the warm, sweet smell of her vagina. She caught her breath when he put his finger into her. He sat up and held her in his arms. She kissed him. His penis was hard and when she spread her legs out he knelt in front of her and slowly guided his penis into her while she held him by the shoulders. At first he thought that he was going to ejaculate immediately, but he relaxed his body and waited. He could feel her tightness around him and he shivered as though he was elsewhere, not in a room with her but in another world. He found her lips again and her warm tongue. He was worried about pushing in too hard, but she seemed to want him to come into her as far as he could.
When he had ejaculated he lay beside her, his hand on her back, holding her close to him. He smiled. Her temples were damp with sweat. She pulled a sheet over them.
“I feel very close to you sometimes,” she said.
“It’s good being together, isn’t it?” he said.
“Sometimes you become very distant,” she said. Her voice was low. She held him closer now.
“Sometimes I’m not sure that you want me here at all,” she continued.
He had not been listening to her carefully; he had been thinking about something else. But now he noticed a tone he had never heard before.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said.
“You seem so far away,” she said.
“All the time?” he asked.
“No, just sometimes. I feel . . .” she stopped. “I don’t know how to say it.”
They remained in each other’s arms with the sheet over them. Carmel sat up and pulled a blanket over the sheet.
“I’m getting cold,” she said.
He said nothing.
“Are you not happy here?” he asked.
“I find you very distant sometimes. Cold maybe.”
“Cold?”
“Sometimes when I feel very warmly about you. Maybe I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all day and I want to hug you when you come in, I find you don’t want that, I feel that you resent me coming close to you.”
“That’s not true,” he said.
“I need to talk to you about it. You’ve got to help me talk to you. You must know what I’m talking about.”
“Can I think about it? Can we talk about it again?”
“Eamon, it’s very hard for me to bring this up. I won’t feel comfortable raising it again. I need to know something of how you feel and I need to talk to you.”
“Can we do it again?”
“If you want to.”
“I thought you were happy.”
“I’ll be happier when I talk to you about this.”
* * *
When he came back from the courts the following day, she had the table set with a special tablecloth they had received as a wedding present. There was a bottle of wine on the table. It struck him that he had some work to do on the case and he would need to spend at least two hours in the spare room going through his notes and the submission he intended to make. Carmel was wearing lipstick and make-up and there was a strange, sweet smell in the room he had never noticed before.
He kissed her and dropped his briefcase into the spare room.
“What’s the smell?” he asked.
“Perfume.”
“And what’s the occasion?” he smiled.
She did not reply, but went into the kitchen.
“Dinner will be ready soon. Do you want a drink?”
“I’ve got some work to do,” he said. “Will we be having dinner immediately?”
She came out of the kitchen and looked at him. She was wearing an apron.
“Do you have much work to do?”
“It’ll take me a while.”
“Dinner will be ready in about half an hour.”
“Will you call me then when it’s ready.”
He went into the room and took out his papers. The case was becoming more difficult as the days went by, the judges more receptive to the plaintiff and more interested in the American precedents than in the precedents from the House of Lords. He would need to be very careful or the state could lose the case, indeed he felt in the attitude of the judges that the state had lost already. He would be interested to read their arguments.
He began to go through the papers; he took down a casebook of American law and checked through the index. He was still in his suit from the courts. He wondered why he had not changed. And then he realized that he did not want to eat with Carmel, that their conversation from the previous night had unsettled him. He stood up and looked around the small room, moved across to the door and opened it. Carmel was sitting on the sofa near the window. At f
irst she did not notice him. She seemed preoccupied, drawn. She looked over and saw him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can do the work just as easily in the morning. I was dreading talking to you about how we’re getting on.”
“Yes, I know,” she said. “I was wondering what I was going to have to do.” She smiled.
He sat down, then, and had a drink. He told her about the case and she nodded, listening attentively.
“It’s really hard for me to talk,” he said.
“Wait until we’ve eaten.”
She had made a special casserole with new potatoes, the first of the year’s crop. She opened a bottle of wine.
“They say that pregnant women are not meant to drink,” she said. “But I’m just going to have one glass.”
A few times when the wine had run low in his glass she filled it up again. He felt close to her, as though they had conspired in something together.
“I feel sometimes that you are very distant from me,” she said. She made it sound like an ordinary remark.
“I know what you’re talking about,” he said. “Just now, in the room, I was doing that. It’s taking me a while to get used to you.” He sipped his wine.
“You know, when either of your parents are mentioned you become strange. I don’t know if you know that but your whole body changes. I feel there’s a sort of pain in you, I feel it even now that I’ve mentioned your father and mother.”
“My mother died when I was a baby.”
“How do you feel about that?”
He was silent, sipped his wine; then he looked out of the window and back to Carmel who was still watching him.
“She is just someone who wasn’t there.”
“And your father?”
“We managed together, I suppose. It must have been hard for him.”
“And for you?”
“It’s hard to talk about it. It made me very self-sufficient. I can look after myself.”