On the floor are two plates, on which the remains of a hearty dinner can be discerned: potatoes, red meat, gravy, carrots—a mite heavy for June, I would have thought, but what do I know?
The woman—Maeve—now that I can make her out, is blond and rosy-cheeked, like an angel from a painting. There’s a chubby, cheruby freshness about her because she was once a farm girl. She might be living in Dublin now, but the sweet clean air of the countryside still clings to her. This woman has no fear of mud. Or cow’s udders. Or hens going into labor. (Somehow I sense that I’ve got that slightly wrong.) But this woman fears other things . . .
It’s hard to get a look at the man—Matt—because they’re interwoven so tightly; his face is almost entirely hidden. Funnily enough, they’re watching the same gardening program as Jemima one floor above them. But unlike Jemima, they appear to think it’s a marvelous piece of televisual entertainment.
Unexpectedly, I sense the presence of another man here. It’s faint but it’s enough to send me scooting round the place to check it out. Like the other three flats in the building, there are two bedrooms, but here only one functions as an actual bedroom. The other, the smaller of the two rooms, has been turned into a home-office-cum-skip—a desk and a computer and abandoned sporting goods (walking poles, badminton racquets, riding boots, that type of thing), but nothing on which a person could sleep.
I sniff around a bit more. Two matching Podge and Rodge cups in the kitchen, two matching Tigger cereal bowls, two matching every-things. Whatever this extra male presence is, he doesn’t live here. And from the wild, overgrown state of the back garden that you can see from the bedroom window, he doesn’t cut the grass either. Back in the living room, I move up close to the angelic Maeve, to introduce myself—being friendly—but she starts flapping her arms, like someone swimming on dry land, disentangling herself from Matt. She breaks free of him and sits bolt upright. The blood has drained from her face and her mouth has opened into a big silent O.
Matt, struggling from the couch’s saggy embrace to a seated position, is equally distressed. “Maeve! Maeve. It’s only about gardening! Did they say something?” Alarm is written all over him. Now that I get a better look, I see he’s got a young, likable, confident face, and I suspect that, when he isn’t so concerned, he’s one of life’s smilers.
“No, nothing . . .” Maeve says. “Sorry, Matt, I just felt . . . no, it’s okay, I’m okay.”
They settle—a little uneasily—back into their clinging positions. But I’ve upset her. I’ve upset them both and I don’t want to do that. I’ve taken a liking to them; I’m touched by the uncommon tenderness they share.
“All right,” I said (although of course they couldn’t hear me), “I’m going.”
I sit outside on the front step, a little disconsolate. One more time I check the address: 66 Star Street, Dublin 8. A red-bricked Georgian house with a blue front door and a knocker in the shape of a banana. (One of the previous occupants was a fun-loving metal-worker. Everyone hated him.) Yes, the house is definitely red-bricked. Yes, Georgian. Yes, a blue front door. Yes, a knocker in the shape of a banana. I’m in the right place. But I hadn’t been warned that so many people live here.
Expect the unexpected, I’d been advised. But this isn’t the type of unexpected I’d expected. This is the wrong unexpected.
And there’s no one I can ask. I’ve been cut loose, like an agent in deep cover. I’ll just have to work it out for myself.
Day 61 . . .
I spent my first evening in 66 Star Street rattling from flat to flat, wondering anxiously which one was mine. Katie’s flat was empty. Shortly after my arrival her crew had departed, in a cloud of tension, to some expensive restaurant. In the flat below, while Andrei and Jan cleaned the kitchen, Lydia parked herself at the little desk wedged into a corner of their living room and spent long intense minutes surfing the net. When she went to her bedroom for a snooze and Jan and Andrei retired to their twin-bedded room to study their business management books—such good boys—I descended yet another floor, to Jemima’s. I took care to keep myself well clear of her; I didn’t want her shouting abuse at me again. But I must admit that I got great entertainment out of toying with the dog, Grudge—if that really is the creature’s name. I shimmered before him and he stared in rapt, paralyzed amazement. On the spur of the moment I decided to do a little dance and—all credit to him—his big gray head moved in perfect time with me. I undulated faster and faster and twirled above his head, and he did his best to keep up, poor eejit, until he’d mesmerized himself so much he collapsed in a giddy heap, snickering and dog-laughing away to himself. At that point, regretfully, I stopped. It wouldn’t do if he vomited.
Then, finally, I returned to Matt and Maeve. It’s where I’d wanted to be all along but, professional that I was, I’d thought I’d better explore every avenue. Well, they were explored for the moment at least so, with a clear conscience, I could rejoin the loved-up pair on their sofa.
Whatever show they’d been watching had just ended and Maeve automatically opened her arms to free Matt from her embrace. He rolled off the couch and on to the floor, then sprang to his feet, like a Secret Servicè person entering an enemy embassy. A smooth, slick routine, obviously a frequent one, and luckily the dinner plates that had been there earlier had been removed or else Matt’s nice T-shirt would have been stained with gravy.
“Tea?” Matt asked.
“Tea,” Maeve confirmed.
In the little kitchen, Matt put the kettle on and opened a cupboard and was almost brained by the avalanche of cookies and buns that poured out. He selected two packets—chocolate mini-rolls and chocolate ginger nuts, the mini-rolls were Maeve’s favorites, the ginger nuts were his—then he used both his hands to cram the remaining packets back into the cupboard and slammed the door shut very quickly before they could fall out again.
While he was waiting for the kettle to boil, he tore open the ginger nuts and absent-mindedly ate two, barely tasting them. Such a casual attitude to trans-fat and refined sugar led me to suspect that he consumed a fair amount of them, and on closer inspection I noted that he had a hint, the merest . . . oh . . . whiff of a suggestion of a tinge of tubbiness. His entire body was padded with a surplus of—honestly—no more than a millimeter of fat. I must insist that this is not a cowardly attempt to break the news that he was a fatso. His stomach was not bursting its way out of his T-shirt, and he only had the one chin and a nice strong one it was too. Yes, perhaps he could have lost a little weight, but it suited him, the way he was. If he were half a stone lighter, he might shrink into someone a little less charming; he might seem too ambitious, too efficacious, his haircut a tad too sharp.
Two spoons of sugar each in their tea and back in to Maeve. A new program had begun, another favorite of theirs from what I could gather. A cookery one this time, presented by a personable young man called Neven Maguire. They curled up next to each other and watched scallops being sautéed and drank their tea and made serious inroads into the cookies. In a spirit of inclusivity, Maeve ate one of Matt’s ginger nuts even though they were dark chocolate ones, which she didn’t like, and Matt ate one of Maeve’s mini-rolls even though they were so sweet they made the hinges of his jaws hurt. They were very, very kind to each other and, in my discombobulated state, this was soothing.
A cynical type might suggest that it was all a little too perfect. But a cynical type would be wrong. Matt and Maeve weren’t just acting the part of people who are Very Much In Love. It was the real thing because their heart vibrations were in perfect harmony.
Not everyone knows this but each human heart gives off an electric current that extends outwards from the body to a distance of ten feet. People wonder why they take instant likes or dislikes to people. They assume it’s to do with associations: if they meet a short, mono-browed woman, they remember the time that another short, mono-browed woman had helped them get their car out of a ditch and cannot help but feel warmly to this new, entirely uncon
nected, short, mono-browed woman. Or the first man who short-changed them was called Carl and from that day forth all Carls were regarded as suspect. But instant likes or dislikes are also the result of the harmony (or disharmony) of heart currents and Matt’s and Maeve’s hearts Beat As One.
The moment that Matt fell in love with Maeve . . .
That moment had been coming for quite a while, to be honest, and it finally arrived on a bone-cold March morning, roughly four and a quarter years ago, when Maeve was twenty-six and Matt was twenty-eight. They were on the Dart train, and they weren’t alone—they were with three others, two girls and a young man, all of them on their way to a one-day training course. The five of them worked at Goliath, a software multinational, where Matt headed up one of the sales teams. Matt was actually Maeve’s boss (in fact, he was also the boss of the other three people present), although he never behaved in a particularly bossy way—his style of management was to encourage and praise and he got the best out of his team because they were all—male and female—half in love with him.
The thing was that Matt wasn’t even meant to be there. He had a company car so he usually drove to his appointments (he always offered lifts to those less fortunate than him), but on this particular day his car had refused to start, so he had to bundle himself up against the elements and go on the Dart with the rest of them. Often, in the agonizing times that followed, he wondered whether, if his car hadn’t broken down, he would have crossed the line from being fond of Maeve to actually being in love with her. But the answer was, of course, yes. He and Maeve were destined for each other, something would have happened.
Matt was a city boy, born and bred in Dublin. He’d never been within a hundred yards of a cow. But Maeve had lived on a farm in Galway for the first eighteen years of her life—in fact, her nickname among her co-workers was Farmgirl. She’d recently been “down home” to help out with the calving and she was full of a life-and-death saga of a calf called Bessie who was born prematurely, then rejected by her mother. Although Matt had less than zero interest in farm stuff, he was drawn in by the story of Bessie’s struggle for survival. When Maeve got to the end of the tale and confirmed that Bessie was now “thriving,” he was surprised by how relieved he felt.
“It’s a mistake to get too attached to any of the animals?” he asked.
“A mistake is right.” Maeve sighed. “I’d a pet pig for a while. Poor Winifred. They took her away to make rashers of her. I won’t make that mistake again. Now I’ve a drake and at least the only thing he’ll die of is natural causes.”
“A drake?” Matt asked.
“A male duck.”
“I knew that.” At least, now that she’d said it, he did.
She laughed at his bluster. “Oh! You’re such a blagger.”
The three other team members stiffened slightly. Easy-going as he was, Matt was still their boss. Was it okay to call him a blagger? But Maeve’s laughter was full of affection for Matt and Matt certainly didn’t seem offended. He and Maeve were twinkling and smiling at each other. In fact, they twinkled and smiled at each other a lot . . .
“Here, I’ve a photo of him in my wallet,” Maeve said. “Roger. He’s a beauty.”
“A photo of a duck?” Matt didn’t know what to make of this; he thought it was very odd but also very funny. “This gets better and better. And he’s called Roger? Like, why Roger?”
“He looks like a Roger. No, he really does. I’ll show you.” Maeve pulled her wallet from her satchel, looking for the photo. But, in her enthusiasm, she accidentally opened her purse and, with an ominous flash of metal, a waterfall of change roared toward the floor of the Dart, coins cracking and bouncing and rolling the full length of the carriage.
All the other passengers tried to pretend that nothing had happened. Those that were hit on the foot by a coin kicked it away or flicked a quick look down just to check that it wasn’t a mouse chewing their shoe, then returned to their texting or their magazine or their grumpy introspection.
“Oh cripes!” Maeve stood up and laughed helplessly. “There goes my change for the laundrette.” As if she had a magnetic draw, all thirteen passengers raised their heads, and suddenly Matt saw the power she possessed. Not a swaggery, arrogant power, not the power granted by expensive clothes or glossy makeup—because Maeve’s jeans and Uggs and tangled curls would hardly have bouncers in nightclubs rushing to remove the red rope and usher her forward. What made Maeve so potent was that she expected the best from other people.
She never considered that the strangers around her wouldn’t want to help—and her faith was repaid. Matt watched, transfixed, as nearly everyone in the carriage dropped automatically to their knees, as if they were in the presence of an awe-inspiring deity, scrambling for any coins that they could see. Matt and the others were in there, helping, but so were Lithuanian naturopaths and Syrian kitchen porters and Filipino nurses and Irish schoolboys. They were all on the floor, gathering and walking in a low crouch, like slow-motion Cossacks. “Thank you,” Maeve said, over and over, receiving the returned coins. “Thank you, oh thank you, you’re so decent, more power to you, fair play, outstanding, God bless, thanks.”
This is the person I want to be with, Matt found himself thinking. Then he revised it. No, he thought, this is the person I want to be.
Two stops later, when Matt and his team got off, Maeve called out, “Thanks again, you were very decent,” and you could have roasted potatoes in the warmth that she left in her slipstream. Matt knew that everyone would go home that evening and relate the story. “A two-euro coin hit me on the foot and I thought, feck it, missus, you dropped the money, you get to pick it up, I mean, I’ve had a hard week, but she seemed like a nice person so I did help to pick up the money, and you know what, I’m happy that I did, I feel good about myself—”
My trip down Matt and Maeve’s memory lane is interrupted by sudden activity from two floors above and I scoot up to check it out.
Day 61 . . .
Andrei and Jan had put their textbooks away neatly and were emerging into the hall, casting fearful looks for Lydia. I was still finding it hard to tell them apart—they existed in such a fug of Lydia-fear that their vibrations were quite corrupted. I noted this much: Andrei had astonishing blue eyes which burned with the intensity of a religious zealot’s, but he was not a religious zealot. Jan also had blue eyes, but his did not burn with the intensity of a religious zealot’s. However . . . yes, however . . . he had a prayer book which he read frequently with some—yes!—zeal.
So true what they say: one really cannot judge on appearances.
They equipped themselves with beer and Pringles and took their seats in the living room for Entourage. They were mad for Entourage. It was their favorite show, one of the high points of their week. They longed to go to America and live an Entourage life, with sunshine and cars and, of course, beautiful women, but, above all else, the unbreachable walls of male solidarity.
Silent and worshipful before the television, they didn’t hear Lydia enter the room. They only knew she was there when she broke the Entourage spell by saying, “Boys, boys, why so glum?”
“What is glum?” Jan asked anxiously. Instantly, he was sorry he had spoken. Andrei’s constant advice was: Do not engage with her.
“What is glum?” Lydia considered. “Glum is unhappy, sad, downcast, low, gloomy, of little cheer.” She gazed at them with an expression that was intended to seem fond. “Homesick, that’s what Dr. Lydia has diagnosed.” In a voice dripping with insincere sympathy she asked gently, “My little dumplings, are you missing Minsk?”
Neither boy spoke. Over the past three miserable weeks, they had become familiar with this routine in which Lydia threw about city names ending in “sk.”
“Minnnssskkkk!” Lydia savored the sound. “Sssskkk? Missing it?”
When she got no response, she said in fake surprise, “Not missing it? But how unpatriotic you are.”
This was too much for Jan, who, every waking
moment he was in Ireland, yearned with desperate passion to be back home. “Irishgirl, we are not from Minsk! We are from Gdansk! Poles, not Belarussians!”
As soon as the words were uttered, Jan wanted to cut out his tongue. Lydia had broken him! Once again he had betrayed the resistance!
Deeply ashamed, he looked at Andrei. I’m sorry. I’m not as strong as you.
It’s okay, Andrei replied silently. You must not blame yourself. She could destroy even the bravest man.
(Okay, their separate identities are coming into focus for me now. Andrei—older, smarter, stronger. Jan—younger, sweeter, dafter.)
Lydia left, and after a lengthy silence Jan admitted, “I am glum.”
Several seconds elapsed before Andrei spoke. “I too am glum.”
Day 61 . . .
Back on the ground floor, it seemed that Matt and Maeve were planning to pop out for a late-night jog. In their bedroom—an Ikean wonderland, the bedside cabinets slightly off-kilter because the assembly instructions in the boxes had been in Czech and Matt said that if he had to go back to Ikea to get the English ones, he’d drive himself at high speed into a wall—they undressed, Maeve turning away from Matt as she removed her bra. Immediately, they proceeded to get dressed again, seeming to put on even more clothes than they had already been wearing. Maeve was now covered neck to ankle in gray sweats and Matt was kitted out in jocks, baggy jogging pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Then . . . bafflingly! . . . they got into bed! Why so swaddled? It was a warm night out there.
It suddenly occurred to me that perhaps they were about to play a sexy undressing game. But what was wrong with removing the clothes they’d already been wearing?
I was far from happy at the thought of witnessing whatever strange jiggery-pokery they were about to unleash but I forced myself to linger. I had no choice! It was important to get the lay of the land. Propped up on his pillow, Matt flicked his way through a car magazine, snapping the pages, hungry to see what the next contained, meanwhile on her side of the bed, Maeve read Pride and Prejudice . . . and that’s all that happened. I lingered some more, noting the hefty little pile of other Jane Austens on Maeve’s nightstand—clearly a fan. And I lingered still more, until it became clear that no sexy undressing game was about to kick off.