Authenticity Page 2

  The law firm for which William worked was in a side street off Dame Street, up near Dublin Castle, and as he approached it this morning he could smell hops from the brewery. When he stepped into the building Martin Kane was there, laughing uproariously at something the doorman Declan had just told him. ‘It’s a good one that, isn’t it?’ Declan was saying. ‘It’s a good one.’

  Speechless with mirth, Martin stepped into the lift with William. ‘Jesus, your man’s a turn,’ he said, pressing the button for their floor. ‘He’s lost in this place, he should be in the Gaiety.’

  There was a mirror in the back of the lift, and William could not but be struck by the contrast between his own face and that of his colleague. They were like the masks for comedy and tragedy, Martin relaxed and jolly, still chuckling at whatever it was Declan had said; William tense and grim, with a frown cleft deep in his forehead.

  ‘Few jars after work tonight, what do you say?’ Martin asked as the lift stopped and the doors opened.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ William replied.

  ‘No bother,’ Martin said, heading off down the corridor to his office, ‘I’ll give you a shout later in the day, see how you feel.’

  The fog that enveloped him still did not affect his capacity to work and William quickly settled down to dictate letters and read reports. No one else seemed to notice anything unusual about him today, and he was aware that his comportment and behaviour were exactly as always. But he felt distant from everyone: cut off. Sometimes it was as if there was a thick sheet of plate glass around him, sometimes it felt as though he was underwater, and was looking up through the refracted light at people who gazed down calmly at him. It was wretched. He was relieved to know that it would soon be over. At eleven o’clock there was a lull in his tasks, and on an impulse he picked up the phone, dialled the direct line to the office where Liz worked. ‘Kelly and Begley, good morning.’ Her voice was formal and crisp. He hadn’t thought through what he was going to say and so he said nothing. ‘Hello?’ she said. A pause then ‘Hello?’ again, with a note of irritation now. Then the line went dead. He imagined her sitting at her desk in her stone-coloured suit and her lipstick.

  He went for a late lunch to a sandwich bar which he liked because no one else from his office ever patronised it. The circular table at which he sat was cluttered with the debris of other people’s food: tea stains, broken crusts, pieces of bitten apple. An elderly waitress who often served him came over and began to dear away the mess.

  ‘Are you tired, love?’ she asked.

  ‘I am,’ he said. ‘I’m absolutely and completely exhausted.’

  ‘Good that it’s Friday,’ the woman said. ‘You’ll have the weekend to rest up.’

  He thought of the weekend: he saw a blank; he said nothing.

  When William went back to the office he continued to work diligently and mechanically. It was important to him that everything should be left in good order. Someone brought him a cup of coffee at three o’clock, and as he drank it he took time to look around the office. How strange it was to think that after twenty years of coming in here, day after day, he would never see the place again. On his desk there was a framed picture of Liz and the children, and taped up beside the filing cabinet were some of Gregory’s paintings. His colleagues genuinely admired the child’s work, but William knew, too, that behind his back they laughed at the photo. The only person who dared to make any comment about it was a sly temp from the North, who had worked there for a fortnight. ‘So that’s what you looked like when you were a wee fella,’ she said, pointing at Gregory in the photo on her last day with the firm, as though she hadn’t noticed the resemblance until then. He disliked displaying the photo and paintings, recognising that they were nothing more than signifiers of a conformity against which he increasingly chafed. It was like having to play golf or talk about the Six Nations. There were certain things about which you weren’t supposed, under some unspoken but iron rule, to express an interest. He remembered the insouciance with which the temp did embroidery during her tea break.

  Just at that moment, Martin’s bright face appeared around the door. ‘Are you game for a pint later?’

  ‘Think I’ll give it a miss, if that’s all right.’

  ‘Fair enough. Another time.’ William made no reply. He logged off, put his papers in his briefcase and ensured that everything in the office was in perfect order before leaving.

  After the stifling atmosphere in the office the air of the street was agreeable to him, and he stood for a moment before walking down to the river. The fine weather enhanced the classic colours of the city, the grey stone of the churches and the Four Courts, the green copper dome of Adam and Eve’s. He walked along the thronged quay in a daze, past the Ha’penny Bridge and down towards D’Olier Street, aware of the contrast between the absolute ordinariness of the day and the singular nature of what he was going to do. Or rather, what was about to be done, so passive did he feel by this stage. That was what he found so terrible about life – its brutal inevitability, while always there was the illusion of liberty, of free will. Still in a waking dream, he wandered through the city streets, not quite sure where he was going. Afterwards he would remember the oddly circuitous route he took to Stephen’s Green, going first to Merrion Square then up to Baggot Street and eventually to the place that had become, for no particular reason, his destination.

  William sat down on a bench and thought seriously about how he would proceed with the task in hand. He had no idea how long he had been there when he realised that someone was standing in front of him. He glanced up vaguely. It was a woman, and she was holding out an unlit cigarette, with a quizzical smile. Mechanically he reached into his pocket and pulled out his lighter. The woman put the cigarette in her mouth and leaned down towards the flame he offered her, cupping her hand against the breeze.

  And as he looked at her, something extraordinary happened. The fog, the dreamlike state in which he had been wrapped all day, suddenly melted away. The woman’s face: her fine skin, her Half-closed grey eyes, startled him utterly and woke him up, like the kissed princess in his daughter’s storybook. It was as though this woman was the first real person he had seen all day, the first he had seen for years. She straightened up and blew out a long column of smoke, smiled her thanks and turned away.

  The enormity of what he had been contemplating broke over him; stunned and winded him. The thought of being alone for a second longer was terrifying. ‘Excuse me.’ He heard his own voice, hesitant and trembling. The woman turned round, and he heard himself tearfully asking her to sit beside him for a moment. She stood looking at him, sizing him up. Her face was inscrutable. She was young, in her early twenties: flat shoes, big coat, dangling earrings, remarkable hair. If she said no, he did not think he would be able to bear it. But she nodded, retraced her steps and sat down beside him.

  Sitting now, past midnight, in the dimly lit drawing-room of his own home, his mind shrank from what had happened next. Thinking about it was like touching a wound, as if not just the unfelt pain of the early part of that day hit him, but of all his life. The young woman had actually seen him home and he’d meekly, gratefully gone with her. The whole day had fallen apart by that time, and with it, he realised, his life.

  When he arrived at the house Liz opened the door before he had time to put his key in the lock. Her face showed surprise to see him home so early, that quickly modulated into concern when he said, ‘I feel ill. I feel wretched.’

  ‘You certainly look it. Do you want to go and lie down?’

  He’d stumbled up the stairs to the bedroom and at once, to his own later astonishment, fell into a deep and mercifully dreamless sleep from which he awoke only at midnight, when Liz came up. And he’d gone down, in spite of her protestations, to drink and to sit in silence, to cling again to the old, familiar rituals of his life, even though he knew now that they were utterly useless. He had still barely grasped what had happened to him, but he was aware that, from here on out,
things could never be the same again.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Cliona rang me this morning, said she was having a little get-together for the family Sunday week. She asked me to pass the invitation along.’

  Roderic threw him the look of a hunted animal. “‘A little get-together.” Jesus, Dennis, those are some of the most terrifying words in the English language.’

  ‘I take it that means no?’

  Anyone seeing Dennis and Roderic sitting drinking together at the back of the pub that early February evening could easily have surmised that they were brothers. The similarities they shared were in nuance and gesture, in the way they spoke and sat and lifted their drinks from the table rather than in any physical aspect. Roderic, considerably bigger than Dennis, was a robust, big-boned giant of a man. He was wearing a thick moss-coloured jumper that had seen better days, and he managed to look both ravaged and vital, was dark-haired and striking. Fair-haired and lightly built, Dennis was neat this evening, as ever, in his herringbone tweed jacket and tie. They were in their late forties, early fifties, and life had clearly taken its toll on both of them, in its own way.

  ‘Ah, you know how it is. Poor Cliona, she must be the last woman in Ireland with a heated hostess trolley.’

  ‘I don’t think she really expects you,’ Dennis said, ‘but she wanted you to know that you’re invited, that you’d be more than welcome to come along.’

  ‘I’m a heel, I know. I’ll call her myself to thank her and tell her I can’t make it. Maybe I’ll arrange to see her in town for a coffee. I like to keep in touch with the family, but it has to be one at a time. I can’t hack it in a group.’

  ‘I think she’s still annoyed with you about that time last September, when you forgot you’d been invited and didn’t show,’ Dennis said. To his surprise, Roderic smiled at this as though the memory gave him pleasure.

  ‘I did, didn’t I?’ he said. ‘I forgot. Still, I did go along for Arthur’s birthday at the end of the year, do you remember?’

  ‘I do indeed,’ Dennis replied, taking a long slug of his Guinness.

  Immense amidst the chintz and bric-à-brac of Cliona and Arthur’s front room in Loughlinstown, Roderic had looked like a golden eagle that had landed by chance upon a suburban bird table, beside the sparrows and finches, and instead of laying waste to all around him had decided to try to fit in. He’d eaten prodigious quantities of home-made shortbread from a triple-decked cake-stand – another of Cliona’s anachronistic household items – as the conversation washed around him. Property prices, the difficulty of finding parking spaces in Dublin, political scandals, golf, the new Polo Arthur had recently acquired as a second car for Cliona’s use, and its merits compared with the Renault Clio that Maeve was thinking of buying; everyone painfully aware that Roderic had no particular opinions on any of these matters. But when Arthur finally cleared his throat and said, ‘How’s the work going, Roderic?’ he’d looked, if anything, even more ill at ease and stared at the carpet. ‘Grand, grand,’ he said, ‘the work’s going grand.’ Everyone was relieved, even Dennis, when he finally made his excuses and lumbered out.

  ‘I do try,’ he protested, ‘and I do like them, you know that. I’ve always been particularly fond of Arthur, and I’m even getting on fairly well with Maeve these days. Speaking of families,’ he went on, reaching for his jacket which was folded on the couch beside him, ‘this arrived last week.’ From an inside pocket he took an envelope with an Italian stamp and passed the colour photograph it contained to Dennis. As his brother studied it, Roderic sat behind his coffee cup with his arms folded, pleased by Dennis’s admiring comments. When he handed back the photo Roderic himself looked at it for a few moments before replacing it in the envelope, and then they sat in silence for a few minutes.

  ‘I’m going to a concert later this evening,’ Dennis eventually remarked, ‘and I have to eat first. I wondered if you would like to come and have a plate of pasta with me, somewhere near here.’

  ‘Now that’s an invitation I would like to take up, but I’m afraid I can’t.’ Dennis again drank from his Guinness, leaving a pause he hoped Roderic might fill by divulging his plans for the evening. But Roderic was up to this trick.

  ‘What are you going to hear?’ he asked, picking up his cup in turn.

  ‘Beethoven Piano Concerto. The Fifth.’

  ‘Great stuff. You’re so well organised. Have you a season ticket again for this year?’ Dennis nodded. ‘We must arrange to go to something together soon. And I’m really sorry I can’t eat with you tonight.’

  ‘Another time.’

  ‘I’m going to have another coffee, what can I get you?’

  Dennis put his spread palm over the top of his glass. ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ he said, and he watched as his brother unfurled himself from his seat and went over to the bar. Roderic never had any trouble getting served in pubs, no matter how busy, for he towered over all around him, and it was impossible for any barman not to notice him. Not that there was any difficulty today, for it was early in the week and although a few office workers, like Dennis, had filtered in for a drink, it was a quiet evening. Contented and relaxed, he gazed down the length of the long, dim room with its marble counter, its elaborate lamps and wooden fittings, and watched the smoke from someone’s cigarette twist and drift in the quiet air.

  ‘I like this pub,’ he said, as Roderic made his way back to the table, a cup and saucer clutched gingerly in his big paw. ‘It’s good to be able to meet you in a place like this,’ he added carefully. ‘You’re looking ever so well these days.’

  ‘Aren’t I great?’ Roderic said with no discernible irony. ‘It’s three years now. I never take it for granted, Dennis, not for a minute.’

  ‘Nor do I.’ They had almost said too much. They fell silent as Roderic emptied two packets of sugar into his coffee. ‘Work’s going well too. Sold a painting last week, a big one. What about yourself, how’s it going in the bank?’

  ‘Much as ever; it’s fine.’

  ‘What about the hill walking, are you getting out at all these days?’

  ‘I’d be lost without it. I was up in Glencree on Sunday. Walk for miles then stand, just listen to the silence. Magical.’

  Roderic had changed his position slightly when he sat down again, leaving Dennis a clear view of the length of the room. As they talked about his day in Wicklow, the front door of the pub opened and a young woman came in: scruffy, and wild haired. He casually watched her progress. Although there were plenty of empty places at the front and middle, she was moving down towards the corner beside the back door, where Dennis and Roderic were sitting. By the time the penny dropped, and Dennis realised what was happening, she had come up right behind Roderic who, sitting with his back to her, was oblivious to her presence until the moment she put her hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Julia!’

  ‘I came early. I didn’t expect you to be here for an hour yet, so I thought I would sit and read my book for a while. You don’t mind if I join you?’

  ‘Not at all, not at all,’ Roderic said. Flustered, he moved his jacket from beside Dennis to make room for her, replacing in the pocket, Dennis noticed, the letter from Italy which had remained on the table until then.

  ‘This is Dennis, my brother – Dennis – Julia.’

  ‘Roderic has told me lots about you,’ she said, a politeness Dennis couldn’t in honesty return. They shook hands and he gave her the tight little smile that was, in the circumstances, all he could manage. Julia took out her purse and dumped her velvet shoulder bag on the couch. ‘Can I get either of you a drink?’ she asked as she moved towards the bar. Roderic had barely touched his coffee, and Dennis again demurred. He was relieved when he heard her ask for a glass of Smithwicks, which was quickly served, for he didn’t know how he and Roderic could have easily filled the awkward minutes it would have taken the barman to pour a Guinness.

  ‘We were just talking about Wicklow,’ Roderic said when she sat down.

 
‘Oh really? That’s where I’m from,’ she added, addressing Dennis. ‘What were you saying about it?’ They tried to flog the conversation back into life, but without success. Subjects were raised – hill walking – concerts – Julia’s forthcoming exhibition – but they rapidly foundered on the brothers’ lack of ease. Only Julia remained calm, evidently bemused at the effect of her arrival. Eventually Dennis looked at his watch, drained his glass and said he would have to be off.

  ‘So that’s the famous Dennis,’ she said when they were alone. ‘He’s attractive, but I don’t think he knows it himself,’ a comment Roderic found remarkably shrewd. His brother’s habitually stern manner usually masked his looks, something people generally failed to see through until they knew him well ‘Why was he so uptight? What was all that about?’