Life Drawing for Beginners Page 19

  She crossed the street, the rain still pelting down. Already her shoes were soaked, and the hem of her skirt was sticking unpleasantly to her legs. She longed for a hot bath, and tried to imagine lying in the scented water, her hair spread out like a halo around her head.

  Maybe Ethan’s father would let her have a bath this evening, after Barry had gone to bed. Maybe she’d swipe a bottle of bath stuff in the euro shop, just in case. And she could let her hair get as wet as it wanted, and dry it with the hair dryer afterwards.

  A woman came towards her in a motorized wheelchair. Carmel stepped off the path to avoid her, almost colliding with a cyclist who swore loudly before swerving around her and cycling on.

  She pulled her jacket more tightly closed and plodded on, tears running freely down her face, not caring who saw. Knowing none of them would give a damn.

  —————

  From behind the vertical blinds of the gym’s floor-to-ceiling windows Irene watched the mechanic locking his car and jogging through the rain towards the front door, holding a sports bag over his head. While she waited for him to make his way to her she drank water and gathered her hair into a pink elastic loop.

  The gym was almost empty, the afternoon members mostly gone home, the evening crowd not yet arrived. A man jogged steadily on one of the treadmills and two women worked their way around the circuit of resistance machines. A bank of televisions high on one wall displayed frighteningly thin models sauntering along a catwalk as music pumped from speakers on the ceiling.

  The door opened and he appeared. He wore navy tracksuit bottoms and a blue T-shirt, and sneakers that had definitely seen better days. Irene walked across to him, her hand out.

  “Hello there. You made it.” She pretended to think. “It’s…Ger, isn’t it?”

  He shook her hand, his grip firm. “That’s right.” No sign of discomfiture. “Go easy on me.”

  She smiled. “Not a chance.”

  She’d forgotten how dark his eyes were, how solidly built he was. The T-shirt strained across his chest. He was slightly shorter than Martin, but just as broad. “Let’s see what you’re made of,” she said, leading him towards the bicycles.

  He was strong, but not terribly fit. As Irene guided him through the workings of the various machines a sweat broke out on his forehead, and the fabric of his T-shirt began to darken, but he didn’t protest. He was pushing himself, trying to impress her with his strength and stamina, but most of her male clients did that.

  Towards the end of the session the last of the other gym users left the room, and they were alone. “You’ll be rushing home after this,” Irene said as he replaced the weights he’d been using for the bench presses.

  “I have a late job on,” he said, his back to her.

  Expected home for his dinner, the wife slaving over a hot stove for him. Irene led him to the final station and demonstrated the correct rowing position. “Back straight,” she ordered. “Bend from the hips.”

  He straddled the machine and put his feet into the stirrups and began to row. “Keep your back straight,” she repeated.

  He was nothing to her, he was just her way of coping. Any man would do—any man had done in the past—but he was here now. If he asked, she’d accept.

  He finished rowing and sat, breathing heavily. Irene tore paper towels from the roll by the water station and handed them to him, and he wiped the sweat from his face and behind his neck.

  “Well done,” she said. “You put up a brave fight.”

  He got to his feet. “That was good,” he said, still panting. “You’re good at this.”

  “I like to see people working up a sweat,” she said.

  “We might do it again sometime.” He ran a hand through his damp hair. His face was flushed, and it suited him. “When you’re not working.”

  “Sure,” she said. “You have my number.”

  —————

  Barry sat hunched on a chair behind the counter, book clutched in his arms, an occasional dry sob lifting his thin shoulders. Whenever the shop door opened he looked at the floor and made no response if any of the customers spoke to him.

  Michael had ignored the earlier tears, preoccupied as he was with the normal Monday-morning chores, and also reluctant to unnerve the child any further. Maybe never separated from the mother before; not surprising that he was upset now, if that was the case.

  When the tears had turned finally to sniffles Michael had pulled out his handkerchief. Barry had flinched at his approach.

  “Just wiping your face, that’s all,” Michael had told him, in as gentle a voice as he could muster. “Just mopping you up before you turn into a puddle.” He’d put a hand under the boy’s chin and repaired the damage as best he could, and Barry had looked steadfastly over Michael’s shoulder and endured it.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” Michael had continued in the same low, even voice. “I’m just a bit grumpy sometimes, that’s all.” He’d been struck by a sudden inspiration. “I’m a bit like Eeyore, you know, the donkey in Winnie-the-Pooh?”

  Barry’s eyes had jumped to Michael’s face for a second, and slid away again.

  “Eeyore is a bit grumpy sometimes, isn’t he?”

  No response; but at least the tears had stopped. Michael had returned the handkerchief to his pocket. “Why don’t you have a look at Winnie-the-Pooh?”

  But Barry had pressed the book to his chest and made no effort to open it, and Michael had given up. He’d told anyone who asked that he was looking after the child for a friend, and thankfully, nobody had pursued it.

  Now, at half past ten, it was still raining heavily. Barry yawned and shifted slightly in his chair. Michael decided to give it another go.

  “This is my shop,” he said. Leaning against the counter, a good six feet away.

  No response.

  “It’s a good shop, isn’t it?”

  Nothing.

  Michael indicated the tank by the wall that housed a dozen or so goldfish. “See the fish swimming around? They’re called goldfish, because they’re sort of gold in color.”

  The boy turned towards the tank and regarded its occupants solemnly, his thumb drifting to his mouth.

  “Have you any more story books?” Michael asked.

  He shook his head slowly.

  Michael went into the back room and brought out his rucksack. He set it on the counter and pulled out a book.

  “See this?” he asked, holding it up. “It’s about a train.”

  Barry let his thumb slide out of his mouth. “Thomas the Tank Engine.” A tiny whisper.

  Michael looked at him in surprise. “You know it?”

  A small nod. “I seen him.”

  “Where?”

  “On telly.”

  Michael laid the book on the shelf next to the boy. “You could look at the pictures if you like.” He walked off and stood by the tins of cat food for a minute or so. When he returned, Barry was turning the pages.

  It was what anyone would do. Children needed stimulation if they were to grow up with any bit of intelligence. Michael would have done the same for any child, particularly one as silent as this boy. It was unnatural for children to be that quiet.

  He watched the white head bent over the book. He heard the small rustle as the pages were turned, and the shallow, rapid breathing. He thought there was something heartbreaking about the vulnerability of small children. Whatever tomfoolery the girl might be up to, her son was wholly innocent.

  The shop door opened again and he turned his head towards it.

  —————

  “Come on in,” the mechanic called.

  His wife walked into the bathroom. “What are you up to? Didn’t you have a shower at the gym?”

  “Yeah,” he said, “but it was a bit rushed.” He swirled a hand through the foamy water. “I could do with some company in here.”

  She smiled. “I don’t need a bath, I’m not dirty.”

  “’Course you are,” he sai
d. “You’re the dirtiest girl I know. Come on in, there’s loads of room.”

  She giggled. “Go on then.” She pulled her dress over her head and laid it on the stool.

  “Keep going,” he said.

  She undid her bra and dropped it on the floor.

  “More.”

  She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and pushed them over her hips and let them fall. “Here I come,” she said, stepping over the side and lowering herself into the water.

  “See?” He squirted shower gel into his palm. “Jesus, you’re filthy,” he said, massaging it into her thighs. “I’ll have to give you a good scrub.”

  “Wow.” She closed her eyes and lay back. “You weren’t kidding about a workout making you more energetic.”

  “Baby,” he said softly, inching his way upwards, “you have no idea.”

  —————

  “Teeth, love,” Pauline said, and Kevin took his toothbrush from its mug and waited while she ran a line of paste onto the bristles. He wore the blue pajamas he’d always worn—or rather, the latest version of the only shade and style he would tolerate.

  He spat into the sink, and Pauline handed him a glass of water. His teeth were cream in color, and in perfect condition. In his entire life he’d never needed a single filling, despite the chocolate and sweets he ate whenever he got a chance. He’d gone through adolescence without a spot, his hair had never been greasy.

  You had to wonder about a God who paired such a perfect body with a damaged mind. Was it supposed to be compensation, or the cruelest of jokes?

  She waited while he took off his slippers and climbed into bed, and then she tucked the blankets up to his chin. He’d never been a fan of duvets; he preferred something that could be wrapped snugly around him.

  “Can we go to the lake tomorrow?” he asked as she smoothed the sheet. Since he’d learned to swim as a teenager the lake was one of his favorite places. Pauline had taken him there several times over the summer, usually bringing a picnic and spending the whole day.

  “Well, the forecast isn’t great for the next few days,” Pauline answered, “but if it picks up again we’ll go. You’d like another swim before the winter, would you?”

  “Yeah.” He loved the water, he was like a fish in it. “If it’s not too cold.”

  “We’ll see.” She bent and kissed his cheek. “Good night, love, sleep well.”

  She left his night-light on and padded downstairs. In the kitchen she made a cup of tea and took two Jaffa Cakes out of their pack to go with it. She brought them into the sitting room and raised the volume on Fair City before taking her knitting from the basket at her feet. She didn’t really follow Fair City, she didn’t follow any of the soaps, but she liked the sound of it while she knit.

  She’d be finished with the front of the sweater by the end of the week, and then it was just the sleeves and the neckband, and putting it all together. She had plenty of time, his birthday wasn’t for another three weeks. Forty-one, could you believe it? And her heading towards sixty-six in February, and eligible for the free travel.

  They’d make good use of the free travel. Kevin loved the train. They could go to Dublin to see the zoo and the wax museum. Or Galway, and transfer to the Salthill bus for him to have a swim. Next summer they could do all that.

  But the free travel was the only good thing Pauline could see about getting older. When she thought of the future it was with huge anxiety. What would become of Kevin when she wasn’t around to look after him anymore?

  She couldn’t expect her sister to take him in. Sue had her own responsibilities, with a father-in-law down the road who was becoming more dependent on them every year and a daughter who’d just taken herself and her three small children out of an abusive marriage.

  Where would Kevin end up, what alternative was there for him but a home where he would probably be left sitting in an armchair for hours every day, and given pills if he made a fuss? Pauline couldn’t bear the thought. Her needles clacked as she worked along the row, the pale blue wool unraveling jerkily from its ball as it was gathered up.

  She tried to banish the gloomy thoughts. She’d go on for years yet, she was as healthy as a horse. And by the time Kevin was eventually left alone, there might be some kind of nice sheltered accommodation for him, with enough supervision to keep him safe.

  When the ads came on she put down her needles and dipped one of the biscuits into her tea. She wouldn’t worry. It might never happen.

  Tuesday

  There was a large brown envelope sitting on the hall tiles when Michael came downstairs. He picked it up and turned it over—and realized, by the complete absence of return address, no indication anywhere of the sender’s identity, that it must be the paternity test kit. At least they were quick.

  He pushed a finger under the flap and slid it across. Inside he found an information sheet, a return envelope, and three smaller envelopes, each a different pastel color and each containing two cotton swabs colored to match their envelopes.

  He scanned the information sheet rapidly and saw that it repeated what he’d already learned on the website. He pushed everything back into the big envelope and brought it into the kitchen while he made the porridge.

  When the other two came down he waited until they were sitting at the table.

  “That test came,” he said, watching her face.

  She looked unconcerned. “So what have we to do?”

  “It’s just swabs,” he said. “Like cotton wool buds, like things people clean their ears with.”

  “What do you do with them?”

  “You rub them on the inside of your mouth. We’ll do it this evening.”

  She poured milk on their porridge. “Okay.”

  Michael turned to look out the window. A weak sun shone, hardly there at all, but a vast improvement on yesterday morning’s rain.

  He began to make the sandwiches. “I’ll take the boy,” he said, spreading butter thinly. “It’s better for him than dragging him around the streets all day. You can come and get him at lunchtime.”

  “Okay,” she repeated. Michael turned and saw that Barry was poking at his porridge and not looking unduly concerned at the thought of spending more time in the shop.

  Today he’d show him Where the Wild Things Are. That had been one of Valerie’s favorites. He’d read it to the boy. Children needed to be read to.

  —————

  “I’m lookin’ for work,” she said. Aware of how she must appear, although she’d put on a bit of lipstick from the samples in Boots and combed her hair outside the door.

  The man behind the newsagent’s counter barely glanced at her. “Nothing at the moment.”

  “Any jobs goin’?” she asked in the stationery shop next to the newsagent’s.

  “No.” The girl, younger than herself, was filing her nails. A white powdery film sat on the pages of the magazine that was open in her lap.

  “Can you ask your boss?”

  The girl gave Carmel an icy look. “He’s my father,” she said. “There’s no jobs.”

  “I’m lookin’ for work,” she said to the woman behind the ticket desk at the cinema.

  “Well, don’t look at me,” the woman said. “Manager comes on duty in the evenings. Next.”

  “I need a job,” she said in a pub.

  The barman looked her up and down. “Have you worked behind a bar before?”

  “No, but I—”

  “Can you pull a pint?”

  “No, but—”

  “Sorry.” He didn’t look sorry.

  “I’m a quick learner,” she said.

  “I’ll bet you are,” he said, his eyes on the front of her blouse.

  Carmel turned and walked out.

  —————

  Irene picked up her phone. “Yes.”

  “It’s Ger,” he said. “I was at the gym yesterday.”

  She said nothing. He was keen.

  “I was wondering if you�
��re free some evening this week.”

  “Friday,” she said. Martin got home at six on Fridays. “Seven o’clock,” she said. “Where?”

  “You could come to the garage. There’s a room.”

  The garage: Talk about slumming it. But the notion was mildly exciting.

  “Make sure you have a shower before I get there,” she said, and hung up.

  —————

  “When you’re drawing hands,” Audrey said, “map in the overall shape first, like you do for the short poses, then find the line of the knuckles, using your pencil to give you the angle like I showed you last week, and from there draw in the fingers, noting their relationship to one another, which one is longest, et cetera. It might be helpful to think in terms of fingerless gloves.”

  Hard to believe this was the third class, they were halfway through the course. The weeks were dashing by, and still she felt that she hardly knew any of them. Of course it was hard to get to know someone while the class was going on, when she was the teacher and trying to spread herself evenly among the five of them.

  And it wasn’t as if she could launch into a conversation when they were all trying to concentrate on their drawing—which was what they’d paid her for, after all.

  So getting to know them was confined to break time, and then it depended largely on who happened to be standing nearby when she filled her cup and moved out of the queue. Up to this, the only people she’d spoken to properly had been Jackie and Meg, and all she really knew about Meg was that she ran her own playschool.

  The fact was, all of them were still practically strangers to her—and of her five students, James Sullivan remained the most unknown quantity. He was quiet, but it was more than that. For whatever reason, he didn’t seem in the least interested in getting to know anyone. Look how he kept disappearing at break time, and he barely opened his mouth the rest of the time. Shame, really, given that he’d been her only hope among the males—not that the choice had been exactly wide.