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

Still warm in the belief that Roche was shacked up round my place, Matt and Mamie were flushed with pleasure to see me. They stood, arm in arm, beholding the philanthropic marvel I had become.They wittered on for ten minutes about how proud they were.

`The kid's gone,' I muttered.

`What?'

`He's left. He left a fortnight ago. He only stayed one night.!

`Where is he now?' asked Mamie sharply.

'I don't know'

`Have you looked?' said Matt.

`Yes, I've looked.' My voice had grown edgy.

Mamie turned on her heel and walked into the kitchen.

`She'll get us some coffee,' Matt mumbled feebly.

I followed Mamie. I tried to explain to her the advice that even Slat had given me. Neither of these generous old folk could properly understand why I might come under sexual suspicion when harbouring a homeless twelve-year-old boy. That idea revolted them but I persuaded them that that was the way it was. I failed to mention that Roche had walked off with all my new electrical goods.

It took some time to persuade Matt and Mamie to talk about something else.

`You could have sent him to us,' Mamie suggested.

'I thought you said you'd been forcibly retired from the kindness business.'

`We have. We could have looked, after him unofficially for a while.'

'I'm sorry, Mamie. I should have thought of that.'

`Yes. You should have.' She turned to Matt. `You better get him his letter, then.'

Matt sloped off like an uneasy pooch.

In the meantime, Mamie told me some secrets. She'd been sick. I knew this. Matt had already told me he'd been worried for a while but that the doctors had finally said she was OK. Mamie told me that, at the height of their anxiety, they had discussed the possibility of her dying. Matt had freaked out, apparently. He had raged and broken furniture (that, I wished I'd seen). He had told her that he couldn't live without her, and if he thought she was going to die, he would kill himself first. Even I could see that this was not very supportive.

Mamie had always been the strong partner but she told me that there was no way she was going to let him die first. The thought of a future without Matt bled her of all her courage and stubbornness. She would make sure she would be the first to go. It might be cowardly, she admitted, but it was the way it was going to be.

Matt came back. I'd never envied anyone as much as I envied Matt and Mamie.

'Here you go' Matt handed me the red envelope while looking suspiciously at Mamie. It was Sarah's style. She'd always used fancy stationery. I decided, as my hand first touched it, that I didn't necessarily have to read it straight away. I was sure it was just another recipe for what the trouble with me was. So many people had told me recently that I didn't need any textual confirmation.

'I'm sorry we didn't give it to you before,' Matt said.'Sarah asked us to wait.'

'I understand,' I lied.

I spent an hour in the city centre buying things I didn't need. What with Belfast being such a small town, I bumped into about forty people I knew. I chatted long each time. I encountered Rajinder with his new girlfriend, Rachel. It was good to see him but after a few minutes I was uneasy. I drew him aside and whispered,'Is she Jewish?'

'Yeah,' he said.

'Aren't you a Muslim?'

'Yeah, but I'm Sunni'

I smiled kindly. 'Yeah, Rajinder your disposition is very pleasant but you're still a Muslim.'

'No, no. I mean I'm a Sunni Muslim. We're more moderate'

'I knew that,' I muttered quickly.

There'd been a couple of ceasefires and suddenly Belfast was the city of love. Muslim and Jew at it like rabbits. By all accounts Rachel's and Rajinder's parents had yet to call their own ceasefire but Rachel and Rajinder didn't care.

I met a dozen more folk I knew. Some I liked nearly as much as young Rajinder. I'd never been so glad of casual street encounters. I'd always responded well to kindness but that evening I'd have licked your hand for a gentle word.

I still felt like shit, though. So it was with joy that, on my way back to my car, I saw someone who was doing worse than me.

Surrounded by what looked like a foreign film crew at the rails beside the City Hall, I could see the unmistakable figure of Ripley Bogle, tramp, waster, tosspot, holding forth to some journalists. I hiked across the road to see what was going on. I sidled up close and could hear Bogle spouting on in French to the interviewer. The cameraman moved in tight and I saw my indigent ex-schoolmate pull an urbane expression and deliver his final bon mot.

The director made a signal and the camera crew dispersed. Bogle shook hands with the producer and the interviewer, and pocketed an envelope obviously stuffed with cash. I waited until the French guys had moved off a little and then I approached old Bogle there. He spotted me and smiled in surprise. `Jake Jackson?'

'(a va?'

He laughed and shook my hand. `I can hardly believe it,' he said.

He looked dreadful. In the midst of the ample evening sunshine and all the summer greenery of the trees around us, he looked wintry and decayed. He'd always been the good-looking type, but he was as faded and grimy as an old photograph, white face and bloodless lips. I felt a sudden shock of grief, as though someone had died.

`Jesus, man, you look like shit,' I said, tactfully.

`Thank you.'

`Sorry.'

He stuffed the envelope into his pocket and made to move on.

I changed the subject.'What was that with the telly people?'

'Peace dividend. Lots of foreign TV crews and I'm the only polyglot clochard in town. I turn an honest and superbly educated dollar. I've gotta meet a German crew in a few minutes. Gotta go.'

He tried to walk off. I put my hand on his chest, arresting his progress.'Look, I said I was sorry for what I said:

'Yeah, forget it.'

I offered him a cigarette. He accepted. We ignited manfully, leant our backs against the rails and watched a series of heartbreaking women dawdle past.

'You like the way you live?' I asked him.

'What do you think?'

'How long has it been like this?'

'Decades'

'Why do you live this way if you don't like it?'

'I have a problem.'

'What's that?'

'I don't have enough money.'

'Jesus, you went to Cambridge, you'd get a job with your eyes closed'

He smiled.'Look at me,' he said.'Would you give me a job?'

'Wouldn't take much to clean you up.'

'It would take more than I've got.'

I tore a piece off my cigarette packet and scribbled a telephone number on it. I handed it to him.

'What's this?' muttered Bogle, perplexed.

'You know the thing about depending on the kindness of strangers?'

'If you say so.'

I tapped the piece of paper I'd given him.'Call these people. He's called Matt. She's called Mamie. You've got something they need.'

He looked at me strangely. 'I remember. Your foster-folks, right?'

`Your long-term recall's still firing, then.' I tried to move off.

Bogle put his hand on my chest. His face was animated, somehow younger. I had a sudden memory of what he used to be. `Why are you doing this?'

I laughed. `You're frightening, Bogle.You're very expensively educated. It's spooky to see all that going down the plug.You're a symptom of the grand malaise in our society.' I removed his hand from my chest. `You scare the piss out of me,' I added.

He laughed appreciatively. His teeth were still good and he looked momentarily healthy and almost winsome.'Are you sure it's not just because you're a soppy old fucker? You were always a soppy old fucker at school.'

I patted his hand away.'I'm hard,' I replied.'I'm a very tough individual.'

I walked on, reasonlessly elated. I had no idea whether he would get in touch with Matt and Mamie. I thought it was more unlikely than likely. I didn't imagine I'd done anything to patch up that spectacularly damaged life. But the trees were bright in the sun and the women were pretty and half dressed and I was stubbornly jubilant.