Life Drawing for Beginners (9 page)

But there were five more Tuesday evenings to go. Who knew what might happen in five evenings?

The mechanic took Irene’s business card from his wallet and looked at it.
Personal trainer
, he read.
All levels covered from beginner to advanced. Fully personalized fitness programs to tone and strengthen.
And below, a mobile telephone number and an email address.

He could see her in a leotard, or sweatpants and a T-shirt maybe. No high heels in the gym, a pair of runners. She wouldn’t look bad in those either. A bit older than him, but in good nick—and game for a bit of fun, he was sure.

The toaster popped and he slid the card back and spread the warm slices with butter and gooseberry jam. The kettle boiled and he poured water onto the tea bag in his mug and added two spoons of sugar and a generous amount of milk. Using the bread board as a tray, he brought his supper into the sitting room and pressed “play” on the DVD remote control, and
Reservoir Dogs
came out of its freeze and swung back into action.

He ate his toast and watched the characters on the screen, and he thought about ringing the number on the little white card and booking a free trial with the personal trainer. He had tracksuit bottoms somewhere, they’d do if they didn’t have paint on them, and if his wife hadn’t thrown them out. His runners were a bit ancient, but he wasn’t getting a new pair for just one session in a gym.

He lifted his mug and drank the hot, sweet, milky tea. He could use a bit of exercise, he wasn’t doing anything wrong. He’d stayed late on Tuesday to finish off her car. It was just a little thank-you she was offering, along with the
€
50. Fifty euro—she must be loaded.

And if she came on to him, and if he took her up on it, and if nobody got hurt in the process, where was the harm?

He heard his wife’s key in the door and he took his feet off the coffee table.

C
an I go to Eoin’s house to play? He says I can go.”

James regarded his daughter over his not-very-good cheeseburger. “We’ll see. Are you going to eat those chips, or just play with them?”

She bit the top off a skinny chip. “He lives with his granny and granddad.”

“Who does?”

“Eoin.”

“Oh.”

“And his dad is in heaven.”

“Ah.” James lifted the lid on his burger and sniffed the bright orange slice of cheese. It smelled of nothing. “That’s a pity. So his mum brings him to school.”

“Yeah.”

Charlie never talked about Frances now, never mentioned her at all. James remembered the incessant questions, right after it happened:
Where’s Mummy? Why isn’t she coming back? Where did she go? Why is she taking such a long time?
He remembered not knowing what to say, how he’d wanted to be honest with her. But how could he be honest, how could you explain “disappeared” to a four-year-old?

He tried to recall when the questions had finally stopped, when she’d given up trying to get answers. He wondered if she remembered her mother at all now, if she recalled her face, or her voice, or her smell. Two years in the life of a six-year-old would, he supposed, be long enough to banish a whole lot of memories.

“She has purple boots.”

“Who?”

“Eoin’s mum.”

James smiled. “Has she? Maybe she’s a witch.”

Charlie threw him a pitying look. “She’s not a witch, she works in a shop.”

“Maybe they sell magic spells.”

“
Daddy
.”

He heard voices and looked across at the counter. The girl who’d served them was in conversation with a man who’d just appeared, and who seemed to be taking over from her. James caught his eye and nodded at him. The man nodded back, giving a brief grin, but James wasn’t sure if he remembered him.

“Do you know that man?” Charlie asked.

“I do,” James told her. “He goes to my drawing class.”

Charlie studied him. “Is he your friend?”

“He is. He’s very good at drawing.”

What had surprised James was how much he’d enjoyed the class. Oh, not that he’d produced a single worthy specimen—his efforts had been laughable, although the teacher had done her best to be encouraging. He seemed to remember her talking about the energy of his drawings, which he suspected was the kind of phrase people used when there was absolutely nothing positive to say.

But the clean smell of the paper, the tiny scratching sounds of his pencil, the squeak of the charcoal, the comforting squidgy feel of his putty rubber, the peaceful atmosphere in the room as everybody worked—all this he’d found wonderfully soothing. In fact, when the teacher had announced a break, he hadn’t been able to believe that they were halfway through.

Not that it had started off well. Her late arrival had been annoying—​was she going to make a habit of this, were they going to be twiddling their thumbs every Tuesday waiting for her? James had found himself obliged to make some effort at conversation with the Pole, who sat next to him. Thankfully, the man’s broken English meant that they were limited to the smallest of small talk.

But when she’d eventually shown up, the teacher’s obvious discomfiture aroused his sympathy—they could hardly blame her for a moped breakdown. All things considered, the evening had been much more pleasant than James had anticipated.

He’d still kept his distance from the others—although he couldn’t avoid the odd glance at the Polish man’s work, and he’d registered the much more accomplished drawings there. He’d also noted the nervousness of the model—you could hardly miss it, she’d looked like she was about to throw up. Clearly her first time, poor thing.

He had to admit that it felt good to be in the company of others who made no demands on him. It was the first step he’d taken towards having a social life in two years, and while he recognized the need to be part of society again, if only for Charlie’s sake, he was wary at every turn.

He was glad now he hadn’t signed up for French. In a language class there’d be conversations to be had, and probably other oral exercises to tackle. Inevitably, attention would have been focused on James from time to time—​whereas in the drawing class he could work away on his own, with little need for conversation for the whole two hours.

The rest of them probably thought he was antisocial, which didn’t bother him half as much as it probably should have. Over the past two years, he’d become adept at dismissing other people’s opinions. When anonymous letter writers had sent him messages that were soaked in hate, when whispered conversations had stopped abruptly every time he walked into a shop, when people he’d known all his life had crossed the street to avoid him, he’d learned quickly enough to ignore it all, and he now realized how much it had hardened him.

“Finished,” Charlie announced, pushing three chicken nuggets under her serviette.

“I saw that.”

“What?” Smiling, not at all disconcerted. He was far too soft on her. “What, Daddy?”

“Wrap them up,” he told her, “and we’ll bring them home to Monster.”

Monster was Eunice and Gerry’s aptly named black cat. He carried out regular forays of the neighborhood gardens, demolishing birds and mice alike. Maybe a few pieces of processed chicken would get a stay of execution for the thrushes.

“When can I go to Eoin’s house?” Charlie asked again as she bundled the nuggets into a clumsy parcel, and James knew the subject would have to be faced sooner or later.

“When I meet his mum,” he answered, getting up. “Here, give me your schoolbag.”

As they were leaving he caught the Polish man’s eye again, and nodded a farewell. The Pole raised a hand before turning back to the giggling teenage girls in school uniforms who were placing their order.

Someone who looked like him would have no problem getting women—​and being foreign probably added to his attraction. Looked like he had to fight them off.

James wondered sometimes if he’d ever have another relationship, if Frances would be replaced in time. Would he ever be able to get past what had happened, would he find the courage to try again with someone else? Although, with his history, he couldn’t imagine any woman wanting to get involved with him.

He shepherded his daughter from the café, holding the door open for a young woman and a little boy who were just coming in. It was beginning to rain.

Carmel stood to one side, pretending to read the menu, until the schoolgirls had finished flirting with the man behind the counter. When they’d gone she walked up to him and said, “Large chip.” As he ladled the chips into a cardboard box she counted out the amount from the coins she’d been given at the bus station.

“Can I have a burger?” Barry asked. It sounded like “bugguh” when he said it.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“The chips’ll be enough, you’ll be full after them.”

She handed the man her heap of coins, waiting for his sigh of impatience at all the copper, but he simply counted them into the various compartments of his cash register. When he had finished, Carmel said, “There’s a sign in the window: ‘Help Wanted.’”

“Okay,” he replied, reaching under the counter and pulling out an application form. She liked that he was polite, that he didn’t look at her the way most people did, as if she had no right to ask.

He passed the form across the counter. “You fill this, please. You need pen?”

Carmel looked at the form, and then back at him. “Can’t I jus’ talk to the manager?”

“No, sorry—manager is gone home now. She will come back tomorrow.”

She. Carmel imagined a woman in high heels and red lipstick who’d dismiss her before she opened her mouth. “Will you hang on to the chips?” she asked the man, taking the form and folding it. “I’m just going into the toilets.”

“Of course.”

In the toilets she put the form in the bin and washed Barry’s face and hands, using soap from the dispenser, and ran wet fingers through his hair.

“Do you have to wee?” she asked him, and he shook his head. She washed her own hair with a sachet of shampoo from the euro shop and rinsed it as best she could under the tap. She held her head under the hand dryer until Barry whimpered that he was hungry.

When they went back outside she saw the man looking at her damp hair, but he said nothing. She took the chips from him and sat with Barry at a table by the wall. Her hair smelled of oranges, but she could feel that the shampoo wasn’t rinsed out properly. It would look greasy when it dried.

“I’m thirsty,” Barry said, and she returned to the counter.

“Can I get some water?” she asked. “Jus’ from the tap.”

The foreign man filled a big paper cup and handed it to her. Back at the table she ate a chip as slowly as she could, her stomach growling, and counted the money she’d left, and got
€
4.27. They’d go to Dunnes and she’d get another bag of the mandarin oranges if they were still on special offer for
€
1.50, and a pack of Fig Rolls, which they both liked.

She tried to give Barry fruit every few days but it was dear in most places, and Lidl was far for him to walk to, so they only got there about once a week. They needed toothpaste too, but she’d get that in the euro shop when the older woman who saw nothing was on duty.

She thought of how her grandmother would feel if she knew Carmel was begging, and lifting things she couldn’t afford to pay for. The thought of her grandmother made her want to cry. She rubbed her face hard until the feeling went away.

“My legs are tired,” Barry said.

“I know, but you’re sitting down now so they’ll get a rest.”

She glanced around the room. Only three other tables were occupied. The window to the left of them was spotted with rain. Most people would have finished work by now and would be on their way home, planning what to cook for dinner, and what to do for the rest of the evening.

Warm clean houses with televisions and hot running water, and families who were happy together. She felt a piercing loneliness for what she’d lost, and for what she’d never had.

She knew the odds were stacked sky-high against her. The chances of anyone giving her a job without an application form filled out were next to nil. But she still looked, she kept on asking wherever she went, hoping for some kind of miracle to get her out of this nightmare, to keep her from being sucked back into the much worse place she’d been when she’d met Ethan.

Coming off drugs as soon as she realized she was pregnant had been hard, it had nearly killed her, but she’d done it. She was ashamed that she’d turned to dealing, ashamed that she’d survived at the expense of others, but she couldn’t see a different way out. And if they hadn’t gotten the stuff from her, they’d have gone somewhere else.

She’d never pushed it on anyone, she’d just sold it when she was asked. She hadn’t charged over the odds, she’d been charitable where she could, but still she’d been a drug dealer, she’d paid for Barry’s nappies and food by feeding the habits of addicts, and that was something she’d have to live with.

And then Ethan had died, and she’d almost gone back then, she’d almost given everything up. She would have, if she hadn’t had Barry.

And realizing in the past few months that he’d soon be old enough to understand how his mother made her living, she’d decided to get out. That hadn’t been easy either, there had been plenty of inducements to stay, and it would be a lie to say she hadn’t been tempted.

But in the end Barry had made up her mind for her again—​and because there’d been no question of her going back to her own family, not when Granny wasn’t there anymore, she’d taken her courage in both hands and gone to see Ethan’s father.

She’d known there wouldn’t be a welcome for her—Ethan had rarely mentioned his family, but the little he’d said had been enough. Carmel had had a fair idea of how his father would be with them, and she hadn’t been wrong.

The way he’d looked at them that first time, as if he was afraid of catching whatever they had. She supposed she couldn’t blame him, the state of them. A smell off them too, she could get it herself. And it was only her word about Barry belonging to Ethan, so why would he believe her? She should have known it wouldn’t do any good going back to him a second time.

And now they were sleeping in the old shed she’d discovered at the back of a house that was boarded up, in a street full of people you didn’t want to look at you, and she was scrounging money from strangers and stealing what she had to, to survive.

And winter was coming. She sank her head into her hands, weary of trying to go on.

“Mammy.”

She looked up.

“I have to do wee.”

She got to her feet. “Come on.” She took his half-eaten chips to the counter. “Can you mind these?” she asked the man. “He needs the toilet again.”

They had over two hours to kill before it would be dark enough for them to sneak into the shed. They’d have to make the chips last. And maybe the rain would stop, maybe they’d at least get that.

Irene walked into the kitchen, causing her daughter and the au pair to look up simultaneously. Passing the table on her way to the fridge she saw, in no particular order, a jam jar of muddy-colored liquid, a large page sitting on an opened newspaper and smeared with puddles of colors, two vivid red splotches on the table to the left of the newspaper, various opened pots of poster paints, and a scattering of brushes.

She decided to concentrate on the red spills. “Pilar, please wipe that paint off the table before it dries in.”

A beat passed, not unnoticed by Irene, before the au pair got to her feet. As she reached for the dishcloth that dangled from the tap mixer Irene added sharply, “Not that—please use damp kitchen paper. The dishcloth is only for washing up.” How many times did the woman have to be told?

“Sorry,” Pilar muttered, reaching for a paper towel.

“Irene,” Emily said, “look at my picture.”

Irene took a can of Diet Coke from the fridge before turning to regard the mess of watery colors running into each other. No outline that she could see, nothing remotely recognizable. Should three-year-olds not be a little more accomplished? Surely they should make a stab at drawing objects, rather than just slathering colored water on a page?