Joseph O'Neill - The Breezes

She looked at me, clearly upset. ‘I know, it’s terrible,’ I said. I sighed. ‘He’s not taking it well, you know. It’s knocked the stuffing out of him.’

‘Johnny,’ Angela said. ‘Johnny, I …’ She reached across the table and took my hands in hers.

A bleeping noise suddenly emanated from under the table. Angela reached down and retrieved a mobile telephone from her briefcase. She spoke briefly with the caller, then said, ‘I have to go, my love.’ She rose to her feet.

I said, ‘But we haven’t finished our food.’

I stood up and followed her to the till. Once outside in the sunshine, we kissed, and it was wonderful to feel her ribcage pressed against mine and her moist, giving mouth. I held her by the waist and said, ‘We’re all right, aren’t we?’ She blinked affirmatively. ‘When are we seeing each other again? Does it have to be Monday? Can’t it be sooner?’

‘I’m supposed to be in Waterville for the rest of the week,’ she said. ‘But I’ll try,’ she said. ‘I’ll call you, darling.’

I walked her back to her office and watched her disappear through the massive revolving door. I caught a bus home, feeling a little better about things. Then I thought, how come she never told me she had a mobile phone? Why don’t I have the number?

I became aware of a needling pain behind my right eyeball.

The bus reached my stop. I alighted and walked heavily home. Peace and quiet. That was what I needed now. Rest.

Rosie was back. She was sitting in the squalor, smoking a cigarette. She had kicked off her shoes but, this detail apart, she was in full uniform — hat, scarf and all. Steve was in the kitchen.

I remained standing on the threshold of the sitting-room. I toed aside some pieces of smashed crockery. ‘Well?’ I said. ‘What are you going to do about this?’ I kicked at a paperback, sending it fluttering against the wall.

‘I’ll clear it up,’ Rosie said flatly. She switched on the television and stared intently at the images of an afternoon game show.

‘Well, just do it soon,’ I said. I made sure, by the tone of my voice, that she understood that I was serious.

At this point, a choice of action presented itself. I could either go to my bedroom and slam the door behind me in my displeasure; or, having said my piece, I could be amicable and try to foster an atmosphere of goodwill, love and harmony — what is sometimes known as a family atmosphere. I had a headache. I chose concord.

‘So, what’s new?’ I said.

Rosie changed channels with a jab of her thumb.

I restrained myself by walking through to the kitchen. ‘How’s our hero?’ I said, switching on the kettle.

‘OK,’ Steve replied, mumbling. He pointed questioningly to his mouth, which was full of cheese and bread.

‘That’s OK,’ I said, ‘help yourself.’ I opened the refrigerator. A segment of beef tomato, raspberry jam, margarine. No milk. I rose tiredly. Steve yes, milk no. In the chaos of the universe, certain things remained fixed.

I abandoned any thought of making myself a coffee and a sandwich and headed for my room. Just as I was about to exit, I turned and said to Rosie, who had not moved from her seat, ‘So when are you going to start? Are you just going to sit there while the rest of us have to put up with this —’ I shouted the word — ‘this shit ?’ I scooped up half of a plate with my foot and with a swing of the leg sent it flying against the wall, where it broke into still smaller pieces. ‘Just who the fuck do you think you are?’ I shouted.

Rosie stood up. ‘How dare you? I clean this place up every time I come home. You and him just sit here all day doing nothing. I’m always clearing up after you, always.’ Her voice grew high-pitched. ‘You should be clearing this up, it’s about bloody time that you did something for me for a change.’

I was not going to take this. I picked up a hard green apple from the fruitbowl and hurled it as hard as I could two feet or so wide of her head at the far wall. With a splat, half of the apple disintegrated, leaving a wet patch and debris on the wallpaper. Steve took cover behind the opened door of the fridge. ‘Do you think you can fuck up the whole flat and expect us to say nothing about it? You fucking terrorize us with your fucking moods, you smash up these plates given to the both of us by Pa, plates which I fucking own, and you don’t give a shit! You just do it without a fucking thought for anyone else! Well, here,’ I shouted, grabbing a framed photograph belonging to her which had remained on the bookcase, ‘here, I don’t give a shit either.’ I stamped repeatedly on the photograph, pulverizing the glass and wrecking the snapshot of a suntanned Rosie on holiday in Spain.

‘Stop it,’ she said, ‘stop it, Johnny.’

I kicked the photograph aside. I was close to tears myself. I said, ‘Rosie, this is the kind of crap which you put us through the whole time. Look, just look at what you’ve done: you’ve completely wrecked the flat! I mean, are you crazy or what? Maybe you should see a doctor, I don’t know. Do you think this is normal? What’s the matter with you?’ There was a quaver in my voice. Rosie was hunched forward on the edge of the sofa, sniffing and pointing her face at her toes. Had her hair been long it would have fallen before her face, but now that hiding-place was gone. ‘You can’t go on like this,’ I continued, speaking more gently. ‘You’ve got to start giving some thought to what other people are going through. You’re not the only one with problems. Everybody’s got problems. Look at Pa: did you know that he’s been fired?’ Rosie stiffened. ‘That’s right, Pa’s been fired,’ I said. ‘At this moment he’s lying in bed with the curtains drawn, and you don’t even know about it.’ My voice was hoarse. ‘Oh, yes; and Merv Rasmussen has died.’

I went to my room and dropped face-down on the bed.

That was at four in the afternoon. When I awoke, still in my clothes, it was seven in the evening and the window was a faint pink rectangle. My headache had gone and the house was quiet. I moved slightly, turned the pillow over to its cool side and closed my eyes again.

The telephone began ringing. I tensed. I was not going to answer it because it had to be Devonshire. I could picture him at the other end of the line, the brutal contours of the blazer, the fury mounting each time a bleep of the call went unanswered by me, a pipsqueak whom he had done such a great favour.

Nobody picked up the phone. The ringing stopped as the answering machine was activated. I got out of bed and went to play the message. ‘This is Whelan,’ the voice said, ‘of Whelan Lock & Key. I’m ringing to say that I can come round this Saturday, if you like. Thank you.’

A shriek of laughter came from Rosie’s room. The door crashed open and my sister stumbled out, still laughing dementedly. A rolled-up sock flew at her from the bedroom, flung by her boyfriend in a parody of violence. Rosie was clutching a copy of the Crier and pointing convulsively at the photograph of Steve. Unbalanced in her merriment, she plunged on to the sofa and smothered her gleeful screams into the cushions. I started grinning, too, because Rosie’s laughter is air scooped from the lungs and expelled in the purest, most infectious note of hilarity, and also because the sight of her animated is always in itself a relief and a joy.

‘Look,’ she said, her eyes wet, ‘look.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I thought you knew. It’s wonderful, isn’t it?’

She could barely speak. ‘Man of the Month,’ she whispered, shuddering with mirth, ‘Man of the Month.’

Steve came in, tucking his shirt into his trousers and sheepishly smiling. Rosie pointed at him, uttered the words ‘Man of the Month’, and started shrieking all over again. Her haircut wasn’t bad at all, I thought, once you got used to it.