Кен Бруен - A Fifth of Bruen - Early Fiction of Ken Bruen

“Sweetheart,” he croaked, “could we mebbe go some place else.”

She stood and gave him an icy look.

“Go!.. the only place I’m go-ing is back to work,” and swept out before he could reply.

“Bye honey bunch,” he whispered.

The loud voices of the crowd beat against his heart. A guffaw from the navvy as he headed away. Jack took the seat and quoted H. L. Mencken,

“Love is what makes a goddess out of an ordinary girl.”

He wanted to cry

to cry out.

Instead, he lifted the sandwich and began to chew. A piece of limp lettuce floated to his lap.

“Not bad,” he said... not bad at all. A single tear slipped down his cheek and splashed gently in the un-touched vermouth.

He sipped that and added,

“She’s right you know, it definitely needs something, it needs a bitterness right enough... I’ll call her later, she’d appreciate a call... I will, I’ll do that... that’s the best thing...”

His daughter, wounded... stared at the soggy cornflakes. Pain writ full on her face. Tom sipped his tea and tried not to notice how old she looked. She was thirty-nine and had come home “for a few days.”

That was three weeks ago.

If only he could grab her pain, he’d hug it to himself as he’d never hugged her. A teacher, she made him feel un-learnt.

“Did you ever hear of Tennessee Williams?”

He hadn’t.

“Am... I’m not sure.”

She smiled and quoted “‘Happiness is insensitivity’... what do you think?”

He thought she made the tea too weak. But never, he’d never tell her. When Mary was alive, the girl seemed happy. After... well... things died in little places you’d never even been aware about. His own daughter had never used a term of parental address with him. No one else seemed to notice. One weak day, he’d said it to Mary and heard the faint whine in his own voice. Mary answered,

“Don’t be an eejit.”

The girl’s sense of humour baffled him. At dinner yesterday she said, “Life’s a bitch but I don’t have to be one.”

Her marriage had failed. What a description, he thought, as if you could re-take it like a driving test... and they sure didn’t give any lessons for it, all those came after.

She’d only talked the one time about it; she’d begun “At the table, Rob leant over and punched me in the face.”

Tom was frozen. Rage and hurt assaulted his very heart. He managed to ask, foolishly, “what did you do sweetheart?”

“Do?... I fell off the chair, that’s what I did. But the food must have been good, he carried on eating.”

Tom tried to unclench his fists without the bones cracking.

She continued, “Rob was very proud of a butcher’s cleaver he’d got on the cheap.

“A big ugly-looking instrument. At four in the morning, he was snoring loudly. I rested the blade of the cleaver lightly on his Adam’s apple... and I waited. The steel was cold as ice. His eyes opened and do you know... he said nothing. I had his full concentration. I guess a blade will do that, get your attention I mean.”

Tom was horrified, he said,

“Did... did you do anything darling?”

A laugh she gave chilled him.

“I said... ‘next time.’”

Tom thought he’d brew more tea... toast too, a fresh batch. As he buttered it she said,

“Will you butter a slice for me?”

“I will, honey bunch.”

“When I was little, you always buttered Mummy’s toast. I thought — when I marry, I’ll marry a man who’d do that.

“What I did was... I met Rob... and the rest is... as they say... Grief or should that be brief?”

“You’ll meet someone else love, you’re young yet.”

“You never did.”

He chewed the toast and tried not to crunch it. She was the very beat of his heart. What else is there... he didn’t know or want to know.

“I’m leaving today.”

“Ah no... sweetheart... why?”

“Because I’m in your way... don’t fret, it’s not your fault.

“You’re a solitary man but there’s not a breath of loneliness about you. I always liked that.”

After she’d packed, she came and pecked him on the cheek.

The kiss burned there like afterglow. She looked at him and said,

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything darling,”... God forgive him, he thought it was money.”

“You never use my name... you call me darling sweetheart honey bunch. Anything but my name. I wonder why that is Daddy.”

He was speechless. She smiled and said,

“Now don’t you start worrying about that. You’re not to make a big deal out of it. So you won’t. Promise me... Daddy, will you promise me that?”

“So...” he said, “... are you some kind of alcoholic or what?”

Amy nearly fell off the chair. This balding fat man with perspiration on his upper lip... how dare he! Before she could reply, he leaned under the table, pinched her knew and roared “Just kidding... lighten up Ann... or should I say... drink up,” and he actually guffawed. Not a pleasant sound.

“Amy, it’s Amy.”

“What... are you sure... well of course you are. I could have sworn the form said Ann.”

The form in question was supplied by The Zodiac Dating Service. For fifty guineas they found your “star mate” and guaranteed “future happiness.” It was written in the stars. This was Amy’s third star mate. The other two burned out in jig-time. The guineas tag was supposed to suggest class and old fashioned romance. Smelled of a con, thought Amy. This third and final star was named Oliver. Amy saw he’d been more than liberal in his vital statistics. He’d chopped a good fifteen years from his age and maybe two stone from his weight. Obviously he’d shrunk two inches since posting his form.

She’d been a touch free in her own vitals. Amy was 5’2”, currently permed blonde, plump and forty-nine years old. Her form said thirty-nine, 5’4” and, she blushed at the thought of it... SVELTE. Not quite sure exactly what that meant, she hoped it suggested mystery and allure. A bad moment now as she wondered if it was some awful code for kinky. Would he want to tie her up and smear her with garlic... or was that treacle. She’d read somewhere about roses and maple syrup.

Amy was single. Funny she thought how that description seemed to diminished a woman. A single man had charm. The term “splinter” was a mental mugging (to her). It reeked of desperation. Over twenty years she’d achieved the position of Head of The Typing Pool with a large insurance company. These past few months she’d begun to lose it. Lack of companionship was her own verdict. “Drink,” said the pool.

“O.K.,” she said... and said aloud at the bus stop. Talking to herself on the streets was a whole new terror. It crept up gradually. So I take a few drinks... a few tots of gin at night. Mother’s ruin, he Mother said. To balance her talking to herself she’d purchased a dog. A Yorkshire Terrier and terror she was. Sherry she called the pup and was stunned at her love for it.

The pup wreaked early havoc and chewed furniture or shoes with equal abandon. But the welcome... ah. Returning from work, Sherry went into paroxysms of delight at her key in the door. Amy was made to feel the very centre of another living creature’s existence. Dizzy stuff. Perhaps she was, and it warmed a heart that cold had roughened for too many years. Amy’s flat was almost in Notting Hill Gate. She told people she lived in Holland Park. Not that a soul seemed to care if she lived in Hackney.

She’d managed to ration the gin and didn’t drink every evening. Well, not Sundays. Oliver! When she’d received details on him she felt lucky. Third time blessed and all of that. An accountant... probably drove a Bentley and had a little weekend place. He’d be sensitive but strong. Not above whacking the thugs at Notting Hill, but saddened by the homeless too. A rugby player, he’d write concise sonnets in secret. With deep understanding, only Amy would ever see them.