Turbulent Priests (Dan Starkey 3) (5 page)

‘You’ve cleaned,’ she said, awestruck.

I shrugged.

She ran a finger along the arm of the settee. ‘Really cleaned,’ she said.

I shrugged again. I took Ginger from her. ‘Will I put him in his cot?’

She nodded. Smiled. Kissed me on the cheek. ‘Let’s,’ she said.

I carried him upstairs, Patricia on my heels, and entered the blue bedroom. He gurgled happily. I pulled back the blanket and set him gently down in the cot. Then I tucked him loosely in and stood back. He gurgled some more. Patricia gurgled back. I gave a little gurgle too. I surprised myself by not feeling stupid.

‘Our whole life is changed now,’ I said.

‘Are you sorry?’

I shook my head.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure.’

‘I know it’s been very difficult for you, Dan.’

‘I know I’ve been very difficult for you.’

‘But . . . you know what I mean.’

‘I know what you mean.’

I took her hand. Later I bottle-fed the baby. Patricia put her feet up. She had cabbage leaves in her bra. I didn’t ask why. I opened a bottle of wine. I cooked dinner and gave it to her on a tray.

‘What’s come over you, sweetie?’ she asked.

‘Nothing. I just love you.’

‘I love you too.’

‘Aw.’

I told her about Wrathlin.

She thought about it for maybe three minutes, not looking at me, but into her wine glass, slowly swirling the alcohol. Then she said, ‘Okay.’

‘What do you mean, “Okay”?’

‘Okay. Fair enough. All right. I agree.’ She squeezed my hand. ‘What did you expect me to say?’

‘I thought you’d tell me to fuck off.’

‘Dan . . .’

‘I thought you’d tell me to stick Wrathlin Island up my hole.’

‘Dan I . . .’

‘I’m extraordinarily happy.’

‘Good. So am I.’

We clinked glasses. ‘I’m sick of this city,’ she said. ‘That thing the other day scared the shite out of me. Maybe we’ll stay on Wrathlin for ever.’

‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, kiddo,’ I said, stroking her leg. ‘You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for.’

She shook her head. ‘I’ll be with you. I’ll be with my baby. That’s all that matters.’

‘Aw.’ I looked into her eyes. ‘Darlin’, it’s remote.’

‘And sometimes, so are you.’

As the weeks sped by, Patricia got to grips with looking after a child. I put in a couple of hours as well. I also started packing up our possessions for an extended trip to Wrathlin Island. I kept it as best I could to the absolute minimum – baby things, women’s things, men’s things.

The Cardinal had described the cottage to me as modern and fully furnished, which cut down considerably on what we’d have to haul across to the island. I phoned him and negotiated for one of the natives to provide a cot. He agreed. He was anxious that I get out there as soon as possible. He even sent me a cheque to cover our stay on the island. It was three thousand pounds for ten weeks, which was pretty good, seeing as how the last advance I’d received for a book had been thirty-six pounds and a pot of strawberry jam.

Women, they’re different to men. Say to a woman and her child, we can only take the essentials, and they’ll totally agree with you, then they come up with enough essentials to relieve Mafeking. A man, now, can travel light. A good razor. Toothbrush. Some clean T-shirts. Jeans. A portable typewriter. Paper. A Walkman. Tapes of The Clash. Van Morrison. Neil Young. Oh, and a satellite dish.

There were some big fights coming up and they were only being covered on satellite. The heavyweight division had opened up a bit in the last few months, and even Belfast’s own Fat Boy McMaster was back in the rankings. These I didn’t want to miss. It seemed unlikely that anyone on Wrathlin would know what a satellite dish was. I’d heard they’d recently celebrated Yuri Gagarin’s first circuit of the globe.

I don’t know a lot about satellite dishes. My first instinct was to cut it off the side of my house with an axe, then Sellotape it to the side of the new cottage and hope for the best. But I thought it better to find out. There was late-night
shopping down town, so I kissed Patricia and the baby goodbye and drove down to ask some advice from my friendly local dealer. He was very helpful. I nodded a lot, but most of it was beyond me.

On the way home I found myself whistling. It’s not something I do often, or well, but it seemed appropriate. Everything was going well. I stopped at the off-licence and bought some wine for Patricia and twelve Harps for myself.

I was just pulling up outside the house when I saw Tony get out of his BMW and walk up to our front door. In the porch light I saw him nervously flick at his hair, then brush some raindrops off his Barbour jacket. I cursed and drove on. I circled the block, then parked several spaces down from our house. He was inside. I rolled down the window and spat.

I had a decision to make. The rain was beginning to come down in torrents. I was dry inside the car, but it might as well have been flooding in for the way my good humour had suddenly been washed away. I thumped the wheel. I thumped it again. Keith Moon was giving drumming lessons on my heart. My place was by my wife’s side. But she would want to speak to him alone. My place was in there, defending my marriage. But Ginger was half his. I knew what I should do. I should give her the space. She’d told me she loved me. That she wanted to go to Wrathlin with me. But being suspicious was my forte, being the diligent cuckold was not. I shook my head. I opened a can of beer from the carry-out bag. She’d phoned him as soon as I left the house and he’d
raced round. Even now they’d be . . . I slapped the wheel again. This time I hit the horn. No one seemed to notice.

I finished the can in double quick time and threw it into the back. I got out of the car and walked to our gate. I stared up at the house. The curtains in the lounge were drawn. I couldn’t see any silhouettes against them.

I stood at the gate. I stared at my own house some more. I couldn’t move. I got soaked. I stood for ten minutes staring at the door and windows, daring someone to move before them, to frame themselves. But nothing.

Tony’s car was brand new. It looked sleek and cunning in the rain. I took my keys and scored a line along the driver’s side. Then it didn’t look so sleek and only half as cunning. I went back to my car and lifted out my carry-out then walked with it up the street. A couple of hundred yards up, there was a children’s playground. I took a seat on the roundabout, started drinking my beer, and thought dark thoughts.

Two hours later I slopped up the street again. I’d done a lot of thinking but come to no conclusions, apart from the one that said that I could have achieved just as much by remaining dry in the car. It was close to midnight. Tony’s car was gone. I let myself in. I shook myself like a dog. Patricia was standing in the kitchen doorway cradling Ginger.

‘Where on earth have you been?’ she demanded. Her voice was a rich cocktail of relief, anger, suspicion and concern.

‘Does it matter?’

‘Dan! Of course it matters. You’re soaked!’

I nodded. ‘And drunk.’

‘Dan . . .’

‘I saw his car, I didn’t want to int . . .’

‘Dan, I was waiting for you to come back . . .’

‘I thought I’d leave you two . . . you three alone.’

‘Dan, I wanted you to be here . . .’

‘I thought . . .’

‘Dan, you think too much, love . . .’

She ran forward and pulled me to her. We kissed.

‘You’re squashing the baby,’ I said.

She laughed, pulled back and kissed him. ‘You silly man,’ she said. Then she took me by her free hand and led me into the lounge. I squelched along. She sat me down. ‘Dan, you’re one stupid, suspicious, crazy bastard,’ she said. ‘It’s a good job I love you.’

‘A good job,’ I repeated.

‘He phoned just after you left. He asked if it was okay to call round to see the baby. I said you’d be back in an hour and asked him to wait until then. But you didn’t come.’

‘I got delayed.’

‘Tony said you called him.’

‘He would. What’d he say?’

‘He said you chastised him for not coming to see me.’ She held my gaze for a moment. She had lovely eyes. Always had. ‘He said you were quite right to have a go at him.’

‘How magmaninous of him.’ I silently mouthed the word again. ‘Magnaninus,’ I began again. ‘That was big of him.’

Her voice was softly scolding. ‘You didn’t need to call him.’

‘Yes, I did. You were pining for him.’

‘Och, Dan, when are you going to understand me? I wasn’t pining for him.’

‘You were.’

‘Dan, I . . .’

‘Okay, you weren’t. Whatever you say. I just geed him up. I thought he should come and see you.’

Patricia smiled. ‘That was magnanimous of you.’

‘Touché. Or is that touchy? It’s all a matter of syntax. Or is that signtax?’

She set the baby gently on the floor, then leant across and kissed me.

‘Thank you,’ I said. I nodded at the baby. He lay peacefully, staring up at his mother. ‘Isn’t it time we put him to bed?’

Patricia nodded. She reached down and stroked his head. He gurgled. ‘We’re going to have to think of a name for him.’

‘We had thought of one.’

‘I know, but it doesn’t seem appropriate now, somehow.’

‘I hate to say it, but . . .’

‘I know, it’s the red hair.’

We’d thought of Richard. Richard Starkey. ‘Richard doesn’t go with red hair, does it?’

She shook her head. ‘Red Richard roams round Wrathlin.’

‘Rusty Ritchie recommends rabies.’

‘No, Richard will have to go. Anything with an
r
will have
to go.’ She looked thoughtful for a few moments. ‘One letter up. Sam.’

‘Sam Starkey?’

‘Samuel Starkey. Samuel S. Starkey.’

‘S for . . .?’

‘S for . . . Steven . . .’

‘Samuel after . . .?’

‘My uncle Sammy, runs the chip shop . . .’

‘Steven for . . .?’

‘I don’t know . . . Spielberg . . .’

‘SS Starkey. Makes him sound like a ship.’

‘Well, we’re sailing to Wrathlin. Let’s sail on the SS Starkey.’

And that, as they say, was that.

About five the SS Starkey sprang a leak and began sending out an SOS. Patricia slept soundly, spooned into my stomach. I lay for a few minutes, waiting to see if the crying would subside. It became a wail. I backed out of the bed as quietly as I could. Patricia grunted something and repositioned herself. I put on my dressing gown and padded into the blue room.

My mouth was thick with drink. I drew breath through my nose as I bent into the cot, thinking that might mislead him into thinking that his stepfather wasn’t a drink-sodden fool. It didn’t. But he stopped crying almost immediately and smiled as I picked him up and held him close. It was clear that he appreciated the aroma of stale alcohol.

‘What’s wrong, wee man?’ I asked and gave him a cuddle.

‘Dying for a fuckin’ bottle, mate,’ his eyes said.

I carried him down the stairs and prepared his bottle.

While it was heating, I changed his nappy.

‘Don’t get the wrong impression,’ I told him. ‘This is your mum’s job.’

I fed him while I sat at the kitchen table. He was a warm little thing. While he eagerly sucked at the bottle I told him the things he would need to know to have any kind of a life at all: to never volunteer to do nets at school, to always be the striker. Told him that John Barnes was the best footballer ever to play for Liverpool, that George Best was the best since the beginning of time. That ‘Anarchy in the UK’, ‘God Save the Queen’ and ‘Pretty Vacant’ were the best sequence of singles ever released by a rock’n’roll band. That Sugar Ray Leonard and Muhammad Ali were the greatest boxers in the history of the sport, but that neither of them had retired when they should have. I warned him against ever perming his hair. Or wearing white socks. Of the dangers of flared trousers. Normally I would have advised him to be wary of people with red hair, but it seemed inappropriate. I told him that God probably didn’t exist, but if he did his son was unlikely to live on Wrathlin Island.

I don’t know how much of this sunk in. It would only become clear with the passage of time.

6

The
Fitzpatrick
was a converted trawler which crossed to the mainland twice a week, depending on the weather. It was just big enough to accommodate two cars and a handful of passengers. Islanders had long been campaigning for a larger vessel as an aid to kick-starting their tourist industry, but on that sun-kissed morning the need was not immediately apparent. Patricia, Stevie and I were the only passengers. We drove up from Belfast in the scattered light of dawn. As we rolled down into the harbour at Ballycastle the island was just appearing through a fine mist and we sat watching it from the quay for five minutes, just my wife, her baby, and three thousand tonnes of clothes to see us through the next ten weeks.

‘It looks so peaceful,’ Patricia said.

I nodded.

Charlie McManus was the
Fitzpatrick
’s skipper. He was a gnarled old gent with hair like an explosion in a mattress factory. He guided the Fiesta on board, secured it with lengths of chain, then circled it, shaking his head at the amount of luggage we’d managed to squeeze in.

‘Are yees opening a shop or somethin’?’ he asked. He had big, smiley eyes.

‘We’re staying in a cottage for a couple of months,’ I said. ‘I’ve some work to do.’

He looked me up and down and knew the answer before he asked the question: ‘Yer not a farmer, are ye?’

‘No. I’m writing a book. Peace and quiet and all that.’

He nodded, rubbed his chin for a moment. ‘Aye, well,’ he said, and climbed up behind the wheel to start the engine. It took a while to splutter into life.

We stood up front at first as Charlie piloted the boat out of the harbour, but as we hit the open sea a bit of a breeze began to blow up and Patricia snagged my arm and said she thought it was better that she sat with Little Stevie in the car. I’d decided to refer to him as Little Stevie. It made me think of Bruce Springsteen and took my mind off the red hair.