Bullfighting (11 page)

—Hello?

—Howyeh.

—Ah, William. How's everyone?

She'd tell him if he was needed for the first half of the week.

—Nothing to report. No one's dead since the last time.

He'd feel relieved, and let down. The fact was, his own job was crumbling away. There was still work – there always would be – but less of it, and less. He sold insurance, group policies, to companies, nearly all of them small, even during the boom years. SMEs, as he'd learnt to call them. Small and medium enterprises. He'd noticed it about eighteen months before: he was frightened whenever he phoned one of the men or women he'd done happy business with for years, hoping they'd answer, hoping they wouldn't. He'd put it off. He'd drive past, see if the place was still open, then park and phone. The funerals filled his week.

But there was more to it. Maybe it was his age, maybe the fact that his kids weren't kids now, that they were becoming people he used to know, like the old friends at the funerals. He wanted to be with his parents. Maybe it was because they were old, no longer growing old.

He phoned again on Wednesdays.

—I'll hand you over to your mother!

—Ah, William. How's everyone?

—Grand.

—Hazel?

—Great. She says hello.

—I've a bit of news.

—Yeah?

—Martin Ferritor. He worked with your daddy, oh, years ago. When he was with Hibernian Motors.

—I don't remember him.

—Well, he's after dying, whether you remember him or not.

It was good news; they both knew it.

—Where did he live?

—Well, when your dad knew him, he lived in Whitehall.

Whitehall was ten minutes from Bill's house.

—But he moved to Wexford, somewhere, when he retired. Is that too far?

—No, said Bill.—I should be able to manage it. I'll need to sort a few things. When?

—Friday, she said.—I have it written down. Hang on a minute.

He heard her bringing the phone into the kitchen. He knew exactly where she was.

—Whitechapel.

She was reading the name – he could tell.

—I know Whitechapel, he told her.

—
Near
Whitechapel, she said.—You have to go through Whitechapel.

—We were there years ago. Me and Hazel. With the kids.

—Oh, that's right.

—It must be ten years, he said.—It's near Gorey.

—Oh, grand, she said.—Well, anyway, the mass is at eleven. Is it too early for you?

—I'll sort something, he said.—It'll be grand.

 

—Jesus, look it, said Hazel.—I don't want to be mean. But you can't bring them to every funeral, can you?

He said nothing.

—Billy?

—No.

—It's getting a little bit weird, she said.

They were out walking. If they'd been in a film, they'd have stopped and looked at one another. But it wasn't a film; they didn't stop.

—You must be going to a funeral a week, said Hazel.

She wasn't wrong. She wasn't angry either. She was still holding his arm. She wasn't pulling him back. He wasn't trying to walk away.

—It's – I don't know, he said.—I'm a bit stuck.

—How?

—Well, I did it once or twice. Drove them, you know. And it's become a bit of a routine, like. It's expected.

—It's unreasonable.

—My fault, he said.—What can I do?

—Say no.

—I do.

He had: once. But he'd driven them to five.

—Now and again is grand, said Hazel.—It's nice. But you're not a fuckin' chauffeur. You have your own life.

But it was his life, a big part of it. Going to funerals with his parents, or just being with them. He couldn't tell her. He didn't want to. They'd have stopped walking if he'd told her that. Her grip on his arm would have tightened.

—I know, he said.

Or she'd have taken her hand off his arm. She'd have stared at him.

—I can't say no this time, he said.—I've already told them I'd bring them.

—I know you enjoy it.

—I don't.

—You do, she said.—You told us. It's obvious. And it's okay. It's lovely.

Hazel's parents were horrible. She never went near them.

—But Jesus, she said.

—I know.

—You're busy.

—I know.

—And there's another thing, she said.—I'm jealous.

—There's no need to be.

—Well, I am. You're spending more time with them than me.

Now she stopped – kind of. She hesitated.

—And that's not natural.

She was right.

—You can come with us.

—No way, she said; she laughed.—But you can drive your own car. You're not having mine.

They were walking again. She was holding his arm. She squeezed it.

—Fair enough, he said.

His own car had needed a service, new tyres. He actually needed a new car – the lad in the garage had told him. He couldn't afford one;
they
couldn't afford one. He'd tell her soon.

 

His father climbed into the front seat. Every shift and push was a decision.

—Here we go again, he said.—Poor oul' Martin.

—You're the last of that gang, said his mother, in the back.

—I am, said his father.—Literally.

She was faster, nippier, like a child with arthritis. He groaned; she didn't. The thought stung Bill: he'd be the first to go.

—The M50, said Bill.

—Grand, said his father.

They loved the new straight roads. They loved the fact that they didn't have to go through places any more.

—If we could bypass the whole bloody country we'd be sorted.

—Ah now. It's a lovely country.

—Only when you're standing on it, love.

Bill laughed. His father didn't. He groaned as he turned to look out the side window.

—Where are we now, Billy-boy?

—Past Bray, said Bill.

—Past Bray. That's great.

—Bray isn't the worst.

—That's no compliment. The worst is unbelievable.

Bill heard him turning again, adjusting himself, groaning.—Were you ever in Bundoran?

—No, said Bill.

—Don't ever go, said his father.

—I'll give it a miss.

—Do.

—I had nice Sundays in Bray, said his mother.

—It's the rest of the week I'd be worried about.

—The promenade's nice.

—Well, that's true.

—And the sea.

—The sea would be there anyway, said Bill's father.

—I knew you'd say that, said his mother.

They got to the church in plenty of time, the guts of an hour early.

—We could go have a look at Courtown.

—Then you'd lose your parking space.

They sat in the car, chatted, watched the rain spit and threaten, until more cars arrived and people got out and put on coats and jackets.

—Might as well go in.

His father was straight over to a group of people, shaking hands, laughing.

—The life and soul, said his mother. She wasn't being sarcastic.

He went with her into the church, stayed beside her on each step. The coffin was up at the front.

—God, it's dark.

—No light today at all.

They sat where they always sat, whatever church they were in, about a third of the way down, on the left side, halfway in.

—I love the smell of the polish, she whispered.

He could barely hear her. He had to lean down to get each word, to hear the full string of them. Her voice cracked on some words, whistled on others.

—The priests come and go but the women with the polish are always with us, she said.—Isn't that it?

—You're right.

—They're a disgrace.

—The women?

—The
priests
.

The hiss was louder than a shout would have been.

He was embarrassed, a child. He stopped himself from thinking: she shouldn't have opinions.

—You're right.

—Amn't I?

—Yeah.

—All those little children.

She wasn't whispering now. There weren't many in the church.

—It sickens me.

He tried to say something. He smiled at a woman three rows up who'd turned. She smiled back. A good-looking woman. Well kept. A bit heavy.

Well kept? Where had that come from? He was a child one minute, an older, much stupider man the next.

His mother was talking again.

—Your poor father.

—What?

Bill turned, to see what had happened to his father, if he'd fallen, or been drenched. But he wasn't there, at the back of the church.

—What's wrong? he asked.

—The things they did to him.

—Who?

—Are you stupid? she said.

She'd never spoken like that before, not to Bill.

—The priests!

—What about them?

She wasn't looking at him. He – now – didn't want to look at her. He thought he was going to be sick. He looked behind him again, to see if his father was there. His father would come and rescue them. But he wasn't there. Bill needed to get up, out. He'd go out and find his father.

—A terrible time they gave him, said his mother.

—Priests? said Bill.—A priest?

—Yes!

She was shouting – he thought she was. He was whispering.

—D'you want to leave? he asked.

—Why should I?

He heard feet, shoes. His father was there, making his way in, waving at someone who'd turned to look, smiling.

He sat down beside Bill.

—Here we are.

His mother leaned out a bit, so she could see past Bill.

—Is it serious out there yet?

—The rain?

—Yes.

—No, it's grand. It might stay away. Probably not, though.

Bill sat between them.

—That must be Martin's son there, said his father.—The tall lad fussing with the mass cards on the coffin.

—Martin wasn't a tall man.

—He was.

—Not that tall, said Bill's mother.

—No, said his father.—But that seems to be the way. They get taller and taller. Each generation. Look at Billy's gang. Great tall girls.

—Is that a daughter up there now?

—Or a wife.

—That hair's natural, I'd say. The colour.

—Natural or no, she's a good-looking lassie.

—Lovely, said his mother.—It's lovely to see.

The church was filling up.

—He got a good crowd, said Bill's father.

His mother sat forward. She was looking at the altar, the side opposite the coffin. A door had opened and people in front of him were beginning to stand. He saw an altar boy walk out before bodies got in the way and he stood up too. He heard his father groan as he stood. He watched his mother's hands grip the bench in front of her. He looked up, and saw the priest. He'd gone across the front of the altar and he was shaking hands with the people in the front row, the widow, the children, grandchildren. Bill looked quickly at his mother. She was fine – relaxed, curious.

The mass started and people sat. Bill tried to get rid of the terror, the fierce guilt that had a sore hold of his stomach. He glanced at his father. He looked fine, alert; he seemed to be enjoying himself. He looked at his mother. She was there again – his mother – leaning forward, watching, her lips moving very slightly. Bill sat between them, afraid to let his arms and shoulders touch either of them; the contact would push something, a button, a memory. The priest was young, in his thirties, but he went through the lines like an older man. He didn't even recite them. The voice was a drone; Bill only heard the words because he'd known them all his life. The tan was even stranger. It was dark in the church but the altar was well lit and your man, the priest, had definitely been under a lamp or had gone at himself with a can of false tan. The vestments were purple; the skin was orange.
Chasuble
. The word popped open. The name of the priest's purple cape. It had been there in Bill's head, waiting. Thirty years. Forty.
Alb
.
Stole
. He couldn't see the priest's shoes. He wondered were they proper black, hoped they weren't. He'd give the man a pair of Keds.
A priest wearing Keds. At a funeral
. He wasn't sure what Keds were. He'd heard the girls, his daughters, talking about them. Something about gay men wearing Keds. He liked the name. He'd put a pair on the priest. Orange ones, to go with the tan.

She was there again. The stranger. Her elbow went into Bill's ribs as she stood up, fell back, stood, gripped the bench, like she wanted to snap the wood, break through the back of the pew.

He was going to pull her back. He'd gently grab her, try to get her out.

Everyone else was standing now, obeying some command he'd missed.

She was growling. He could hear her, under the Apostles' Creed.
He suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died and was buried
. She growled – there were no words. There was no one looking at her yet. The bench, at her other side, was empty. There was no one right behind them. Bill was ready now to grab her arm. He looked at his father. He nudged him.