Liz Nugent - Lying in Wait

I answered her questions courteously but a heat was rising within me. It seems that even though Bridget had never directly mentioned it, she too had defined me by my weight. She was supposed to care for me. She acted like she was in love with me. Yes, I had been obese when she first met me, but it was the primary thing her family knew about me. I felt shame. And also malice. Bridget was no oil painting. She was no Karen.

When Mr Gough came home at seven thirty on the dot, the meal was served. This was a traditional home. Mr Gough looked me up and down, shook my hand vigorously, then stared at his shoes and said very little. A white tablecloth now covered the kitchen table.

‘We only have tablecloths at Christmas!’ exclaimed Josie, and then ‘Oww!’ as she was kicked under the table.

For the first time in months, I was absolutely ravenous. I ate everything that was offered. When I was offered second helpings I ate those too, and third and fourth helpings. Mr Gough paid attention now as the last scoop of mashed potato was dolloped on to my plate and Mrs Gough got up to fry me an extra cod fillet. I pretended not to notice their astonishment. For dessert, I ate half a chocolate Swiss roll while the family shared the other half, and after all the plates were cleared away and tea was offered again, I enquired if there were any biscuits. Maureen was sent to the shop to buy some. Even Josie was shocked into silence. Now Bridget could talk about her fat boyfriend.

The chatter was inane. What did I like to watch on television, which newspaper did I read, which sport did I follow or play? All my answers were at odds with the family. The visit was not going well. The television was turned on to the Nine O’Clock News to avoid further embarrassing conversation. Certain parts of Ulster were still saying no to the Anglo-Irish Agreement. Prince Andrew had married a fat girl in England, and Chris de Burgh’s ‘Lady in Red’ had broken some records. ‘And some record players,’ I laughed, but they looked baffled and didn’t get the joke. After the news, Mrs Gough indicated that it was time for the rosary and the whole family got to their knees, clutching sets of rosary beads. Not wanting me to feel left out, Mr Gough handed me a ‘spare’ set made of dark wood. I mumbled the prayers along with the rest of the family, but I made it obvious that I was not accustomed to this ritual. Even when my father was alive, there had been no religiosity in our family outside of Sunday Mass. Ironically, I had no recollection of my father ever having gone to Confession. He, who had the most to confess.

In that moment, reminded of my dad, I compared my murdering, dishonest family to Bridget’s, and instead of feeling superior I realized they were sweet and innocent, this family who prayed on their knees together, who welcomed a stranger into their home. I felt bad for how I had behaved, how little effort I had made. Bridget caught my eye and I flashed her a genuine smile.

When everyone retired to bed, we were left alone momentarily. ‘Don’t be long, now!’ called Mrs Gough from the stairs, obviously terrified of what we might get up to if left unsupervised.

Bridget threw another sod of turf into the fireplace.

‘Laurence, why… why were you like that with them? Why couldn’t you just play along? Don’t you want them to like you?’

‘Bridget—’

‘No, stop, why did you eat like that? I’ve never seen you eat that much before. Why did you do that? Didn’t you see that there wasn’t enough food left for my dad? I don’t understand.’ She was tearful now.

How could I explain this meanness that was inside me? That I had taken revenge on her for saying that I had been fat, for having a normal family, for not being Karen? Why was I so spiteful towards this girl who had done nothing bad to me, had been nothing but kind?

I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I… I love you. I wanted them to love you too.’

Poor Bridget. She loved me. Her good eye pierced me. I reached out and smoothed her hair and kissed her on the mouth.

‘Tomorrow, I’ll try harder. I promise.’

I did not sleep well that night in Bridget’s childhood bedroom. I worried about when I would get to slip away and post the letter by myself. My stomach was queasy and the eiderdown was lumpy in places. Maureen had since occupied the room, but it was clear that this was a family who had never known privilege or wealth. The furnishings were cheap and the new curtains thin. Everything in the room was functional, no room for decoration apart from a solitary snow globe atop a bookshelf, a gift from some Christmas past perhaps, and a few obligatory holy pictures. There were no radiators in this room, but it was directly above the front room so the residual heat from the fireplace downstairs took the bite from the chilled air, and Mrs Gough had thoughtfully provided a hot-water bottle. They had done everything to make me feel comfortable. I resolved to be a better boyfriend the next day.

Saturday started well. Mrs Gough piled my plate high with bacon and sausages for breakfast, but I quelled my appetite with two pints of water and didn’t gorge myself like I had the previous evening. Bridget chatted about her new friend Karen and showed her mother some of the photos she had taken of her.

‘Well, isn’t she just a smashing-looking girl? That’s good enough for a magazine, isn’t it, Maureen?’

Indeed it was. It hadn’t even been one of the posed shots, but it was the best of them. It was a close-up shot of Karen sitting on the blanket in Stephen’s Green, unscrewing the cap of the flask. She had been laughing at something I’d said. Her beautiful hair contrasted with the spring green of the trees behind her, and she looked entirely natural and without blemish. It had been just before the detective’s interruption. Bridget thought that she had lost one of the prints a week or two earlier. It was in a hole in the wall behind my writing desk at Avalon.

Mr Gough asked politely what our plans were for the day. Bridget said we were going to watch Josie play a camogie match and then visit her grandfather in a nursing home on the outskirts of town. I smiled broadly, as if there were nothing I would rather do. I could feel them all warming to me. It didn’t take much. They were inclined to be generous and forgiving, but I realized that I wouldn’t easily get a chance to run to a postbox on my own.

On the sidelines of a camogie pitch in the drizzle, I struggled to keep warm. The game was, as all sports are to me, unremarkable. Sweaty, red-faced, aggressive teenagers wielding sticks and running around in the mud. Afterwards, we took Josie to a café.

‘You were the best, wasn’t she, Laurence?’

‘You were,’ I agreed.

‘Are you going to eat that much again tonight, because Mam has to go to the shops again if you do?’

‘Josie!’

‘I’m only asking.’

‘No, I don’t know what happened to me last night. I have a metabolism disorder, I think.’

‘Meta… what?’

‘Josie, now please leave Laurence alone.’

I made up some semi-truthful story about my body being unable to process quantities, which meant that sometimes I was ravenously hungry, but assured her that it didn’t happen often.

‘God, you must be mortified that it happened on your first night here. Don’t worry, I’ll explain it to Mam later. She was just worried that the housekeeping money wouldn’t last the week.’

‘I really am sorry about that.’

Bridget was grateful.

Later, she and I walked half an hour out towards the Roscommon road to see her granddad, passing two postboxes on the way. I dared not stop. It was a grim place, a state-owned nursing home. Bridget’s grandfather sat in a high-backed chair among all the other shells who had once been people. Bridget took photos of the liver spots on his hand and of the adjacent tea trolley. Granddad didn’t know who Bridget was, but Bridget talked patiently to him, answering his endlessly repeated questions: ‘Are you Peter? Where’s Daddy? Are we going home now? Where’s Peter?’