Robert Wilson - Eureka Street - A Novel of Ireland Like No Other

`I'll get a desk brought in and get you a phone and stuff.'

The telephone rang. He answered. He listened, then cupped his hand over the receiver. `You speak French?'

`Sure,' I bluffed.

`Here,' he passed the phone to me, `we've opened a chain of Irish restaurants in Paris.You can deal with this. Tell them you're the executive director or something like that.'

It took fifteen French was but a halting thing — but I worked out that jean-Paul or whoever was complaining that he had been told to put Irish lasagne on his menu and he didn't know how to make such a thing. They were opening the next day and could I please tell him the recipe.

It was a dreadful predicament. I racked my brains but I had run short on French nouns in general and French nouns describing foodstuffs in particular. The only one I could remember was pommes de terre. At least it was vaguely Irish — amazingly Irish, in fact. I gave it to jean-Paul or whatever his name was.

He was mystified. `Pasta aussi?' he enquired.

`No. Fuck it, point de pasta'

`Merde! Vraiment. Pommes de terre?'

`Absolument.'

'OK.'

I hung up. It wasn't my problem. It wasn't my idea.

I spent the rest of the day there. I didn't do any real work. I just told young Luke all about how bad my life was. It took hours. Then we talked about the ceasefire. He seemed to think that there was big money to be made if it panned out. I almost dreaded the thought.

He went home early. I hung around the office for another couple of hours. As I sat there, looking at the house that Chuckle had built, I felt real envy. He was getting everything I'd ever wanted. The great woman, the great business and now a baby.

It was my big secret. I was hilariously broody. I desperately wanted to procreate. It was a need in me that made me sweat in the middle of the night. For months I had been assailed by dreams of ready-made sons and daughters arriving on my doorstep (importantly motherless), five years old and already reading Pushkin. Roche would never constitute an adequate substitute for the beribboned marvels of my fantasies.

It was one of the reasons that I was pissed at Sarah. I couldn't live with the thought of her killing the kid.

I had one other big secret of the day. It was why I was lurking pointlessly in Chuckle's empty offices. It was why I didn't want to go home. I couldn't face telling Roche that he had to leave.

Septic called me there. He chatted tensely about nothing for a while and then tried to persuade me to go to Aoirghe's big Amnesty thing. He said if I helped him out he stood a chance. I told him I wasn't going to grease any wheels for him. I didn't lose the bap. I was actually pleased. It sounded like Septic had been invited round to Aoirghe's for the unsexy task of leaning on me. It nearly cheered me up. Septic was still my friend but it had been some years since I'd liked him.

When I could bear Chuckle's office no longer, I drove around the city for forty minutes. When I got bored with that I called in at Eureka Street and said a brief and prim hello to Chuckle's mother. Caroline Causton was there and although Peggy blushed at my arrival, the heat seemed to have gone out of our exchanges. As I sat there for half an hour, I sensed that something was going on. When I left, I had the crazy sensation that they might be sleeping together. I even shook my head to rid myself of that impossible thought. I drove around the town at slightly illegal speeds for another twenty minutes. Then I called in at Mary's bar. She wasn't there and a friend of hers who didn't like me bought me a beer. I left. I drove around some more. I went home.

Roche was watching the television that Chuckie had given me. To my surprise, he was avidly absorbed in a news special about the IRA ceasefire. We watched Mickey Moses, the Just Us spokesman, thank the brave volunteers for their efforts in the long struggle. Mickey had the kind of twitch in one of his eyes that made me feel that he was missing the sniper's scope already.

`You like to keep up with current affairs, then?'

`There's money to be made out of this,' said Roche.

`You'll go far.'

I went into the kitchen to make some coffee and feed the cat, whose dish was already piled high. Roche had cleaned up my kitchen. Many months of my household habits had dulled its sheen somewhat but now it glittered as it had when Sarah had lived there. It must have taken him ages. I felt like weeping.

`I cleaned up a bit.'

I turned round. The boy was standing near the door. There was something crucially different about him.

`Fuck,' I said. `You're all clean.'

`You're big with the personal comments, aren't you?'

`Sorry.'

Horribly, Roche seemed amazed that I had apologized. I could have sworn that his eyes watered. His voice quivered uncharacteristically. `Aye, well, don't do it again.'

I threw a plastic bag towards him. `Here, I got you some stuff. I wasn't sure about your size and they didn't seem to stock runt so it might be touch and go.'

He snickered, happier with the abuse than the apology.'You got some calls. Some woman with a funny name and an old dear called Mamie. I had a big chat with her. She said you had no folks. And there was another one I can't remember.'

I was just about to complain that he hadn't written it down when I remembered Roche's textual sensitivities. I called Mamie.

Mamie had, indeed, had a long chat with Roche. She quizzed me about what was going on. I tried to minimize my own piety but she couldn't disguise the delight in her voice. I could even hear it in the pauses when she didn't speak. She thought I'd joined their club. She thought I was repeating their benevolent pattern. For the first time since I'd met her, she told me she was proud of me.

I tried telling her that it wasn't that simple. I wanted to tell her that my largesse was temporary, that I was about to tell the kid he had to leave but I couldn't muster the courage. So I just listened to ten minutes' worth of what a lovely man I'd become. Then she told me that this thing they wanted to give me was a letter from Sarah. She'd given it to them before she left. She'd told them to give it to me when they thought I was ready. Apparently, that auspicious time had arrived.

I got her off the phone quickly after that. I found, to my annoyance, that my heart was racing and I felt nauseous. A letter from Sarah. I was furious. I didn't want any explanations from her. For the first time, I felt something other than supine longing for the woman who had left me.

This new preoccupation somehow made me feel better about telling Roche he had to go. My anger would be useful in being butch with the kid. This was a form of emotional diversion with which my cat was familiar. It was time I tried it on the higher species.

It was made more difficult by Roche suddenly walking into the kitchen, modelling his new clothes for me. In this neatly pressed, brand new costume, he looked almost ridiculous. He looked like any other kid. Only the filthy, ripped trainers on his feet gave any hint of the true urchin.

`Very nice,' I said.

He smiled almost boyishly. `Are you sure they don't make me look spazzy?'

`Spazzy?

`You know… geeky.'

I lit my last-ever cigarette. `Listen, kid. I spoke to a friend of mine today about you.'

Roche's smile shut itself down as tracelessly as a Belfast shipyard. `You want me to leave,' he stated.

`It's not like that,' I pleaded.

`Forget it. I was leaving anyway.' He stalked off to his bedroom.

I tried to follow him. `Listen, you don't have to go straight away. Stay a few days.'

He shut the door behind him. He did not reply. I knocked for a few minutes but he wouldn't talk to me or open the door. I decided to have a shower and give him time to cool down.