Loose Head (32 page)

“Oh, you know. On the mend. At times he seems the Bernie of old. But it’s going to take time. All of the press coverage isn’t helping.”

“And how’s Jane?” I asked quietly, taking her hand.

“Muddled, Dex, to be honest.” She gave me a tremulous smile. “I love you – I’m clear on that. But you saw Bernie the other night. He was going to... Dex, I just don’t know what to do anymore.”

I’d be the first to tell you that I’m a mess, romantically – unable to commit unreservedly, distant, wary, emotionally stunted. But now, for once in my life, I knew I had to consign caution to the crapper. I took Jane’s other hand, and pulled her around to look me in the face.

“I’ll tell you what to do, then. All my life I’ve done good deeds for other people – opening doors for old ladies, punching sadistic bastards on the rugby pitch, putting criminals in prison. And what’s it got me? It seems to me that, here lately, every time I do someone a good turn, fate gives me one in the knackers. Fair enough, I’m a big boy, I can take it. But I’m through with doing the honorable thing.”

I took a deep breath. “I’ve always been honest with you, Jane. So I’m going to tell you the God’s honest truth – I love you. I love you, beyond dreaming and hope. I love the way the morning sun looks in your hair. I love the music of your laughter. I love coming home and smelling your perfume, and the delicious anticipation of knowing you’ll be waiting there for me. I love the way you reach out and touch me while we’re reading, or watching the telly, or talking. I love your tender heart, even though I know it’s the reason I’m going to lose you again.” I paused, for there were tears in her eyes now. “I am going to lose you, aren’t I?”

She threw her arms around my neck, sobbing like Eve as the gates of paradise closed behind her, hot tears soaking my shirt. I just held her, and stroked her lovely curly hair, knowing in my too-weary heart that it was, in all likelihood, for the very last time. Finally she drew back, that heartbreak face red, tear-tracked and swollen. All she could do was nod mutely.

“Why?” I asked. “I’ve waited so long for you, Jane. Can’t you find a little pity for me as well?”

“You’re the strong one, Dex! You saw what Bernie did the other night. His only brother has disowned him – saw the report on the news and called to say he never wanted to see Bernie again. He’s the only family Bernie’s got! If I leave him now, he’ll be all alone! I’m afraid he’ll kill himself – maybe not with a bullet to the head, but more slowly, with drink! I just can’t have that on my conscience. I’ve got to get him settled first. Then I can come back to you.”

“Jane,” I said, as gently as I could. “If someone’s going to kill themselves with drink, there’s nothing you can do. They have to want to live!”

”I know,” she said fiercely. “I know that’s true, Dex! But I can’t give him another reason to want to die!”

There was a weighty sense of finality about that. Still, I had to try. I had to. “I need you too,” I said. “For 15 years I’ve been waiting for you to come to your senses. I know it’s pathetic, but since the night we met here, in this bar, I’ve never loved anyone but you. I’m begging you. Don’t go.”

She kissed me then, tenderly, and with such emotion, that I dared to dream, for one brief moment, that hope, true love and passion had triumphed over guilt, and fate, and the weary weight of obligation. And then she put her hands on my biceps, and pushed herself away.

“I’m so sorry, Dex. I just can’t leave him. Not now.” And then fell the heaviest blow of all. “We’re emigrating to New Zealand. To get away from the paparazzi – they’ve been so horrible.”

“New Zealand,” I murmured, like a man in a dream.

She rose. “I’ll call you when I get settled. And some day, some day soon...”

I rose too. “You’ll love New Zealand. It’s green, and quiet, with lots of exotic flowers. You’ll be right at home, there. Goodbye, my love.” And then I left, before I could wound her further.

Chapter 28

And so the Hastewicke Gentlemen, the only rugby club I’d ever known, were no more. And Jane was gone as well, far away and over the sea, never to return.  I contemplated a future without either of the great loves of my life, and realized, with sudden chilling clarity, what a cold and monochromatic place the world could be.

The long night, alone in my flat, loomed before me. I started to ring Brian, out of habit, then remembered and clicked off the phone. Instead I stirred up a bite to eat. But the food tasted like jersey-fabric; I should know. I went to my bookshelves, took down
The Pickwick Papers
, but even the droll adventures of Sam Weller, Mr. Snodgrass, Mr. Winkle and the Fat Boy failed to cheer me.

I suddenly remembered it was music night at my local pub, the Old White Beare. Perhaps a pint, and an hour or so of merry tunes, would set me right. I slipped on a leather jacket and wandered down.

The Beare was crowded tonight; I squeezed in at the bar and ordered Sam Smith’s from the oak. The comforting hiss of the hand-pump was barely audible over the raucous growl of an old Pogues tune, emanating from the tiny bandstand in the corner. Celtic tonight, it would appear. The song ended, and most of the band left the stage. A single musician remained, seated on a stool, head bowed over his instrument. Suddenly the haunting moan of the Uilleann bagpipes, so much sweeter than their Highland counterparts, wafted over the room, keening of unsustainable grief and bitter loss, in perfect harmony with my own bleak mood.

Then the piper raised his head, eyes closed, lost in his wordless tale of heart-squeezing melancholy. It was Mick Ryan, Artemis Paul’s onetime leg-breaker, the bellows strapped to his arm, playing the pipes with great concentration. Then his eyes opened, and he noticed me, and nodded. When the lament mourned eerily to a close, the band took a break, and he wandered over.

“Great tune. Stood the hairs up on the back of my neck.”

“Thanks. It’s one I wrote. Is that for me?” He indicated the second pint at my elbow. I nodded. “Cheers. It’s thirsty work.”

“I’ve heard the Irish pipes are the hardest instrument to learn in all of music. Is that true?”

Mick shrugged. “I’ve practiced every day for the past 20 years. Another 20, and I might scratch the surface of what they can give me.”

Mick set down his pint, shot me a speculative glance. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, as if unsure how to proceed. “Listen, I just wanted to tell you something. I’m not gay.”

“I know. Never thought you were. Never thought it mattered. We all do what we have to do to survive.”

He gave a satisfied nod; that cleared that up, then. “You still playin’?”

“What, rugby? Not lately.” And, with nothing better to do, I wasted fifteen minutes of his time, and told him the whole sordid tale. “And so the Hastewicke Gentlemen are now but a memory. I know one thing for sure. If I ever play again, I’ll be a lot better-behaved on tour.”

“Nah.” He grinned. “You won’t. That’s the glory of the game, isn’t it? It’s all about trust. After all, if you can’t trust your rugby mates, who can you trust?”

Mick signaled the barman for two more of the same. “Why not join us, then?”

“Who? Your band?”

“Christ no – I’ve heard you sing at drink-ups. The London Celtic Gentlemen, of course. Our open-side flanker’s just about ready to hang it up – got two bad knees and a hietal hernia. Not worth a damn on the pitch, really, but we keep him around for his fine tenor voice. You should hear him sing ‘The Balls of O’Leary.’ Bring tears to your eyes.”

“Open side, you say.” I said, and suddenly, just a pixel at a time, some of the old color crept back into the world. “I’ve always played blind-side.”

“That’s my position,” he grinned. “But we’d have a hell of a pack, with you on the other side. Graeme, the hooker, used to play for Wasps, and Tynan was a second-row at Bath in the ‘90s. Anyway, think about it – we practice Tuesdays and Thursdays in Spitalfields. Whitechapel Road – ya can’t miss it.” And with a nod, he returned to his music.

The London Celtic. It had a comfortable ring to it. Then I thought of Jane, wherever she was, and drank a silent toast. And then I turned to go. On. To go on. And knew Mick Ryan had just saved me, once again.

# # #

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

About the Author

For more than 20 years,
Jeff Keithly
toured the world as a member of the Portland Pigs Rugby Club and, later, the Portland Old Boars. His love for the game of rugby, and the globe-spanning friendships acquired during decades of rugby touring, inspired him to write
Loose Head
.

Mr. Keithly is a full-time technical communications expert and travel writer whose work has taken him to Europe, Australia, Tasmania and the Tahitian islands of Bora Bora and Le Taha’a. He is married, with two daughters and a stepson. A native of the Pacific Northwest, he has forsaken their gloomy and inclement forests for the tropical island of Maui.

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:

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