Paul Murray - An Evening of Long Goodbyes

‘Bark!’ he said, as we hit the motorway and picked up speed.

‘What’s he sayin, Charlie?’

‘He’s saying, “Forward, friends! Don’t fall behind!”’

‘Bark!’

‘That’s right, old chap,’ I laughed, rubbing his chin. ‘That’s right —’

All the excitement must have overtired me, because I nodded off on the way. I was having the strangest dream, in which we were all buried in a terrible avalanche: but then I woke up to find we had stopped outside the old house, and that the avalanche was nothing more than the rumbling of Frank’s stomach.

I don’t know who Mother was expecting at that late hour, but she seemed surprised when she answered the door and found me there: in fact she turned quite pale, and her glass slipped out of her hand, sending sherry all over the floor.

‘I’m perfectly all right, leave it be , Charles,’ she recovered herself. ‘I wasn’t expecting any more guests, that’s all. Didn’t I tell you eight sharp? And honestly, is that what passes for a clean shirt with you these days?’

I began to explain about the rent and the race, but Mother cut me off. ‘Charles,’ she said, peering downwards, ‘there appears to be something dripping on my foot.’

‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you — Mother, I’d like to introduce the newest member of the, the gang — An Evening of Long Goodbyes.’

‘You’re not planning to bring it inside, I hope.’

‘Well, yes, it’s a sort of a bon voyage gift for Bel, you see.’

‘Charles, if you think I’m going to let you take in some flea-ridden stray to die on my parquet when there are guests in the house…’

‘It’s not going to die . It’s just had a couple of knocks, that’s all. Give it some food and it’ll be right as rain — won’t you, old fellow?’

Mother sighed heavily and straightened up. Muffled sounds of merriment drifted past her from inside. ‘Where’s Patsy?’ she said. Raising her lorgnette, she stared into the shadows, then turned back to me. ‘Charles,’ she said sotto voce , ‘that is not Patsy Olé.’

‘No Mother, it’s Frank, you remember Frank —’

‘Not the boy from the cloakroom?’

‘Yes, yes, that’s him.’

The ends of her mouth took another turn south. ‘I know several people who would be very interested to hear his thoughts vis-à—vis the whereabouts of their handbags.’

‘Oh, that’s just silly,’ I objected. ‘Frank’s straight as a die. Why, just look at him…’

We considered Frank once more where he waited by the van. He waggled his fingers at us and grimaced horribly.

‘I promise I’ll keep an eye on him…’

There was a faint whistling sound as Mother exhaled through her nose. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘But if there is so much as a hint of trouble…’ She let the threat hang unstated in the air. ‘And take that thing in by the kitchen.’

I wasn’t sure whether she meant Frank or the dog, but I didn’t press her. I gave Frank the nod: he lurched over and, picking up the stricken greyhound at either end, we navigated around the soggy garden.

Rococo Christmas decorations hung in the windows, and every light in the house was on, throwing buttery light over the grass and the leafless trees of the orchard; the bottle-green Mercedes sat proudly in front of the garage, like a mountain lion surveying its kingdom. From outside, the kitchen resembled a Greek funeral: black-clad caterers were rushing everywhere, carrying dishes and dropping pots into quivering mounds of soapsuds. No one paid any attention to us or to our strange cargo — not until we found Mrs P, fiddling about in the alcove by the refrigerator.

‘Master Charles!’ she cried, throwing her arms around me. ‘You have a face again! Your beautiful face!’ And then she caught sight of the dog. ‘Ay, Master Charles, you have run him over with the car?’

‘No,’ I said, annoyed. ‘It’s a bon voyage gift for Bel.’

She said something in Bosnian and Zoran, the round-headed son, came over and began pressing the dog’s ribs with his fingers.

‘I am thinking this dog is how you say a goner?’

‘He’s not a goner. I wish people would stop saying things like that, you’re upsetting him,’ although admittedly An Evening of Long Goodbyes wasn’t looking his best, lying there on the floor not moving. ‘He’s had a couple of knocks, that’s all. He just needs some food, and… what are you doing?’ Zoran had attached a thin metal clamp to the dog’s side and was rattling about in a case of sinister-looking instruments.

‘It’s all right,’ Mrs P whispered in my ear. ‘He is trained as a doctor.’

This was news to me, as all I had ever seen him do was drink beer and play the trumpet badly; and An Evening of Long Goodbyes didn’t appear too keen on those needles that were materialising out of the case. Still, Zoran seemed to know what he was about and, on consideration, it was probably better that the dog was patched up a bit before we surprised Bel with it.

‘Charlie…’ a feeble hand clawed at my sleeve.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, man, don’t be so melodramatic — Mrs P, I don’t suppose there’s any dinner left? Frank’s feeling a bit…’

Mrs P was doubtful, but said she would forage about and see what she could do. In the meantime, she directed us to clean ourselves up and join the others inside.

‘Here, Charlie, how come Mrs P isn’t invited to the party?’ Frank asked as we came down the hall.

‘Well she’s… well I mean it’s not that she’s not invited , as such. She prefers to stay behind the scenes at these things. Hates extravagance, you know.’

‘Oh right. I was just wonderin what was she cryin about.’

‘Was she crying?’

‘Yeah, when we came in.’

‘Probably chopping onions or something. Or maybe she’s upset about Bel. She’s very maternal, you know, cooks generally are.’

Individual voices could be heard as we approached the dining-room, Niall O’Boyle’s pre-eminent among them: ‘… new alloys we’re using mean that when you drop it down the toilet, for example, it won’t break, and if you stand on it — go ahead, stand on it — see? That’s the future of communications you’re standing on there. Or even, say, if you threw it against a wall…’ We pushed open the door to enter a seraglio of hushed lights and the most breathtaking golds and reds.

‘Good Lord!’ I said, taking Frank’s arm. ‘Isn’t this wonderful? I say, duck —’

‘What?’ Frank said, as Niall O’Boyle’s phone came whizzing through the air to catch him square on the temple, and he toppled to the floor like a felled tree. Two dozen pairs of eyes lit on us, and at the head of the table Niall O’Boyle and Harry, the phone-thrower, stood guiltily agape. Mother looked balefully at me. Hastily I picked the phone up and displayed its flashing screen. ‘Still working, ladies and gentlemen.’ Everyone exhaled a happy sigh of relief and resumed their chattering.

‘I was just trying to demonstrate,’ Niall O’Boyle blustered.

‘He’ll be all right,’ Mother assured him, drawing him back to his seat. ‘Bel, darling, get him some ice or something, will you?

Bel rose reluctantly from the far side, the warm glow of the candelabra catching in a slender gold necklace around her neck. She was also dressed in black. She came round and knelt down beside Frank, who was writhing about with his eyes closed, babbling incoherently. ‘Where have you been?’ she said. ‘What have you done to him?’

‘I haven’t done anything to him,’ I said. ‘It’s been rather an exacting day, that’s all.’