Andrew Fox - Over Our Heads

‘And what did she say about you staying?’

‘What do you think?’

They entered the college through the wrought-iron gate on Westland Row. Ronan led the way past the stone steps and oak doors of the Physiology and Zoology buildings. In a green space bordered by apple blossoms, two bearded boys were throwing a frisbee. Nearby a cluster of students in dark gowns led their families to the deck of the cricket pavilion. The girls wore clicking heels. The boys slouched with their hands in their pockets. The parents linked arms.

‘Do you have to pick up your gown and all?’

‘Yeah.’ Ronan drained his coffee cup and threw it, hit a metal bin with a clang from ten feet. ‘But I have one reserved.’

On the tree-shaded benches by the cricket pitch, tourists in windcheaters huddled over maps. Martin and Ronan passed beneath the granite edifice and gothic windows of the Old Library building and continued on into Front Square, where Martin savoured the sensation of well-tended grass, white-columned buildings and glinting cobblestones. He reached out and ruffled Ronan’s hair, at once regretting it as his fingers caught.

‘You need a haircut.’

‘I know. I meant to get one but I ran out of time.’

‘Do you have time now?’

‘I suppose. Do you know somewhere close?’

The barbershop Martin used was in a basement room of gilt mirrors and soft leather couches. It smelled of scalp and shaving foam. There was only one other customer in the place.

‘This one, Keith,’ Martin told the barber as Ronan climbed into the chair.

Keith nodded and tied the cape around Ronan’s shoulders. ‘How do you want it, so?’

In the mirror Ronan’s eyes met Martin’s for a moment. ‘Short,’ he said. ‘I suppose something clean and … something short.’

The electric shears buzzed as Keith went to work, dropping lengths of hair over Ronan’s shoulders to the floor. The barber filled a water bottle and sprayed the top, then sliced in with a long-bladed scissors. When he was done, Martin felt as though he could make out more clearly some of his own features in the boy’s reflection. Ronan had his father’s chin, his father’s nose, his father’s eyebrows framing Anne’s dark eyes.

‘Cheers, Keith,’ Martin said as he paid.

‘See you again.’

They stepped out into the light. Grafton Street was getting busy. Ronan checked his phone and nodded in the direction of the college.

‘Look, I’d better get going.’

‘Exam hall, right?’

‘You know where that is?’

‘I’ll find it.’

Ronan tilted his head and squinted up at his father. ‘Look, will you sit with her?’

‘I imagine so.’

‘Good.’ Ronan nodded.

‘Here, do you need some money?’

‘You’re grand.’

‘Just let me buy you a few scoops later.’

Martin took a hundred-euro note from his wallet. Ronan’s eyes widened. He laughed.

‘How much do you think I can drink?’

‘Go on, I said. Just take it.’

Ronan eyed the money. ‘Thanks. And for the couch. And the coffee.’

‘Listen —’

Ronan tugged at his lapels. ‘And the lend of the suit.’

‘Of course, my pleasure but —’

‘And the haircut.’

‘Any time.’

‘I suppose I’ll look good in the photos for you now.’

Ronan made to go but Martin took his hand. In an hour they would be together again but they would not be alone. With the hair gone, Martin could see more clearly the angular set of Ronan’s jaw, the hard lines of his cheekbones, the height of his forehead. He had small ears, a small mouth, lines already at the corners of those dark eyes. His Adam’s apple, nicked from shaving, seemed enormous. The suit fitted him poorly but still he looked great. He was a man, entirely himself. Martin couldn’t keep from blurting out:

‘We don’t look that alike, you know.’

Ronan frowned. ‘I know.’

‘No,’ Martin said. ‘I mean, I feel that sometimes we do … But a lot of the time … It’s not there is what I mean. Sometimes I don’t see it.’

‘Yeah.’ Ronan looked away over his shoulder.

‘I used to think you looked more like your mother.’

‘No, not really.’

‘No, you’re right, not really.’

A liveried doorman smiled as he admitted Martin to what Anne called the Temple of Mammon: a high-ceilinged lobby with marble floors and brass fixtures. Martin asked a girl promoting store credit cards where he could find the watches and followed her directions across the lobby and down the stairs. He paused at the near end of an L-shaped counter and bent to peer in at a selection of women’s watches, studying their jewelled faces and imagining how the blue felt of the boxes might feel against his fingers. Without realizing, he had begun to slide back into the past as he had sworn that morning he would not. He stopped himself, moved away from the women’s section and along the length of the counter to the far end, where the men’s watches were housed. His preference was for a very simple gold piece with a notched face and a dark brown strap, but he knew it wasn’t right. The right one was a chunky steel affair with a clever-looking double clasp and a square face with no marks at all for the numbers.

Emerging into Grafton Street, Martin spotted Brian Glennan struggling towards him through the afternoon crowd. Brian was a balding, gangly man who stood at a great height that made his approach visible over long distances.

‘Martin!’ Brian shouted, jumping and waving. He fought through a gap in the throng and stumbled to Martin’s side. ‘Jesus, that’s mental.’

Brian wore his fighter pilot’s leather jacket and a pair of sunglasses that Martin had heard him refer to as his ‘fuck-me shades’.

‘How are you doing, Brian? You’re looking fit.’

‘Ah.’ Brian shook his head. ‘Fit to drop is more like. Sure, you know yourself. Ours is not to wonder why.’ He lit a cigarette.

‘How’s Trisha?’ Martin said.

‘Still chugging along, more’s the pity. But she’s talking to me again, small mercies.’ Brian lowered his sunglasses on his long nose. ‘So, what’re you up to? Shopping? Anything good?’

Martin held up the carrier bag. ‘Graduation present. It’s Ronan’s conferrals today.’

‘Oh, yeah? Nice. Congratulations. I went to Audrey’s one last week.’

‘And how was it?’

‘Ah, I don’t know. It was a graduation. Everyone wore hats.’

They stepped out of the doorway and walked together for a moment before stopping at the entrance to a cigar shop on College Green.

‘And how about herself?’ Brian said. ‘Are you nervous about … ?’

‘Having to talk to her?’

‘Right.’

‘Ah, it’s not about us, you know? It’s his day, after all. I think it’s the least we can do. I reckon we’ll survive.’

The corners of Brian’s mouth turned down and his lower lip protruded. ‘Fair enough, so,’ he said. ‘That’s a beautiful and mysterious woman. Who knows how these things’ll turn out?’

‘Sure.’

‘Well … Right you are. I’ll love you and leave you, then.’

‘Take care, Brian.’

‘I can but try.’ Brian moved away, his head bobbing again in retreat above the crowd.

On the steps in front of the exam hall, Martin felt a tap on his shoulder and discovered that he had strayed into someone else’s photograph. He stepped out of the way only to find himself blocking another shot — another patient, adult kid standing between mother and grandmother, and father frowning at him from behind the camera. Martin made his apologies and retreated out of frame. He straightened his tie, looked out across the crowded square and allowed his eyes to skip from group to group. In the distance a girl carrying a heavy book bag was giving directions to a tourist. Martin followed her pointing arm to the corner of the grey dormitories and then travelled their line into a sky impossibly blue.