Monday

They ate their porridge as silently as ever. After making the lunchtime sandwiches Michael stood by the window and considered the sudden change in the weather that had caused the heavens to open. The garden was saturated—it must have been raining for most of the night. What was he to do? He could hardly throw them out in this rain, but he was equally determined not to leave them in the house all day on their own.

He turned and regarded the boy, his porridge half eaten, a dribble of milk at the corner of his mouth. He wondered what on earth he’d do with him in the pet shop. A small child would be bored to death. Still, it looked like he had little choice.

“He can come to the shop with me until it clears up,” he said to the girl. “You can call and collect him.” Let her sort herself out, she was old enough.

Before she could respond, Barry pulled at her sleeve and she leaned and put her ear to his mouth. He whispered something and she whispered back, and he shook his head vehemently. She whispered again, and again he shook his head.

Michael waited, his arms folded. Of course the boy didn’t want to spend the day with a grumpy old man: What child in his right mind would? He waited to see if she managed to persuade him.

She lifted her head eventually. “Can he bring his book with him?”

“Yes.” The more distractions he had, the better.

“An’ can I call in at lunchtime an’ see him?” she asked. “If it’s still rainin’, I mean.”

“You can.” Hopefully the rain would have stopped long before lunchtime. “We leave in ten minutes,” he told her, assuming she’d want to go as far as the shop with them. Assuming that the boy would insist on it.

Upstairs he pulled a suitcase from the top of his wardrobe and rummaged through the children’s books that were piled in there. He hadn’t looked at them in years, not since his children had stopped demanding bedtime stories. He pulled out half a dozen and packed them in the small rucksack that usually held just his lunch. He brushed his teeth and went downstairs.

They were sitting where he’d left them, the boy’s face turned into his mother’s chest. Michael added the three wrapped sandwiches to his rucksack. In the hall he took a black umbrella from the hall stand and handed it to the girl. She accepted it wordlessly.

“Don’t lose it,” he warned, taking his golf umbrella from its hook. The three of them walked out and Michael unfurled the big blue-and-green umbrella over them. A gift, his bank had called it, rather than something that Michael had paid for several times over in bank charges.

As they turned onto the path outside, one of Michael’s neighbors emerged from her house two doors up. Michael nodded as she passed them, noting the curious glance she threw at his companions. Let her think what she liked. They made their way along the wet streets and he wondered, with a mixture of apprehension and irritation, how the morning would go.

—————

Dear Mama and Papa, Zarek wrote. He stopped and stuck the end of his pen into his mouth. Writing his weekly letter home—​phone calls were for special occasions—was a task that he approached with mixed emotions.

The weather here has been unusually fine until today, he wrote. Now it is raining heavily, and the sky is full of cloud.

He had the apartment to himself on weekday mornings, with Pilar and Anton both gone to work. The café didn’t open until eleven, and some days Zarek’s shift didn’t begin until well after that. He relished the peace of the empty apartment.

The café was busy last week. The good weather brought many people into town. This week will be quieter, I think.

As he wrote, he imagined his mother coming out to the hall in her dressing gown, sliding open his envelope and pulling out the sheets and unfolding them. He saw her tucking the bank draft into her pocket as she called to Zarek’s father that there was a letter from Ireland.

I have bought my plane ticket for Christmas. I will see you all, God willing, on December the twenty-third, and I will stay for five days.

He missed Poland deeply. He missed the different smells and tastes and sights, the different quality of the air. He missed his family and friends—and of course he missed being surrounded by his own language, where he could speak without struggling to be understood.

I was glad to hear about the new bookshelves. I look forward to seeing them when I am home.

That was what his €150 had bought. He was happy it was something that everyone would benefit from, but sorry that they hadn’t chosen something more frivolous than a bookcase, like a gas barbecue that would keep his father happily occupied, or one of those garden seats on a swing that his parents could enjoy on fine evenings.

Pilar and Anton are both well. Pilar found a €5 note on the street a few days ago and she bought a coffee cake, which we all shared. It was good, but of course not as good as your poppy seed cake, Mama.

The previous evening Anton had cooked a fish dish that was halfway between a soup and a stew, which he said was a specialty of Brittany. He was the first Frenchman Zarek had ever met, and in addition to producing delicious meals he played guitar and sang mournful French songs, and the words sounded like they’d been soaked in honey.

I was glad to get the photo of Beata’s new hairstyle. The shorter length suits her, I think.

Zarek finished the letter and added the bank draft. He made no mention of the art classes. It was the smaller by far of the two secrets he kept from his parents, and it caused him a lot less torment than the greater one.

—————

As they approached the pet shop Carmel recalled their last visit there. Ethan’s father threatening to call the police, reducing her to tears as she and Barry had left. She’d called him a bastard—​did he remember? She glanced at him but he appeared to have nothing more on his mind than getting in from the rain.

He took a bunch of keys from the front pocket of his rucksack and turned to her. “We’re going in the back way,” he said. “We’ll see you later.”

Telling her to get lost. She crouched and gave Barry a quick hug. Immediately his bottom lip began to quiver.

“I’ll be back soon, promise,” she whispered. “I’ll bring you a surprise, like I said. Be a good boy, okay? An’ don’t forget to say if you have to make a wee, don’t wet your new pants, okay?”

She turned and left them before Barry had a chance to protest. How would they be, the two of them together without her? As she made her way to the main road she struggled to open the umbrella Ethan’s father had given her, her eyes swimming with sudden tears. She blinked them away and stood at the edge of the path and waited for a break in the traffic. This was the first time she and Barry would be parted for longer than a few minutes since he’d been born.

She crossed the street, the rain still pelting down. Already her shoes were soaked, and the hem of her skirt was sticking unpleasantly to her legs. She longed for a hot bath, and tried to imagine lying in the scented water, her hair spread out like a halo around her head.

Maybe Ethan’s father would let her have a bath this evening, after Barry had gone to bed. Maybe she’d swipe a bottle of bath stuff in the euro shop, just in case. And she could let her hair get as wet as it wanted, and dry it with the hair dryer afterwards.

A woman came towards her in a motorized wheelchair. Carmel stepped off the path to avoid her, almost colliding with a cyclist who swore loudly before swerving around her and cycling on.

She pulled her jacket more tightly closed and plodded on, tears running freely down her face, not caring who saw. Knowing none of them would give a damn.

—————

From behind the vertical blinds of the gym’s floor-to-ceiling windows Irene watched the mechanic locking his car and jogging through the rain towards the front door, holding a sports bag over his head. While she waited for him to make his way to her she drank water and gathered her hair into a pink elastic loop.

The gym was almost empty, the afternoon members mostly gone home, the evening crowd not yet arrived. A man jogged steadily on one of the treadmills and two women worked their way around the circuit of resistance machines. A bank of televisions high on one wall displayed frighteningly thin models sauntering along a catwalk as music pumped from speakers on the ceiling.

The door opened and he appeared. He wore navy tracksuit bottoms and a blue T-shirt, and sneakers that had definitely seen better days. Irene walked across to him, her hand out.

“Hello there. You made it.” She pretended to think. “It’s…Ger, isn’t it?”

He shook her hand, his grip firm. “That’s right.” No sign of discomfiture. “Go easy on me.”

She smiled. “Not a chance.”

She’d forgotten how dark his eyes were, how solidly built he was. The T-shirt strained across his chest. He was slightly shorter than Martin, but just as broad. “Let’s see what you’re made of,” she said, leading him towards the bicycles.

He was strong, but not terribly fit. As Irene guided him through the workings of the various machines a sweat broke out on his forehead, and the fabric of his T-shirt began to darken, but he didn’t protest. He was pushing himself, trying to impress her with his strength and stamina, but most of her male clients did that.

Towards the end of the session the last of the other gym users left the room, and they were alone. “You’ll be rushing home after this,” Irene said as he replaced the weights he’d been using for the bench presses.

“I have a late job on,” he said, his back to her.

Expected home for his dinner, the wife slaving over a hot stove for him. Irene led him to the final station and demonstrated the correct rowing position. “Back straight,” she ordered. “Bend from the hips.”

He straddled the machine and put his feet into the stirrups and began to row. “Keep your back straight,” she repeated.

He was nothing to her, he was just her way of coping. Any man would do—any man had done in the past—but he was here now. If he asked, she’d accept.

He finished rowing and sat, breathing heavily. Irene tore paper towels from the roll by the water station and handed them to him, and he wiped the sweat from his face and behind his neck.

“Well done,” she said. “You put up a brave fight.”

He got to his feet. “That was good,” he said, still panting. “You’re good at this.”

“I like to see people working up a sweat,” she said.

“We might do it again sometime.” He ran a hand through his damp hair. His face was flushed, and it suited him. “When you’re not working.”

“Sure,” she said. “You have my number.”

—————

Barry sat hunched on a chair behind the counter, book clutched in his arms, an occasional dry sob lifting his thin shoulders. Whenever the shop door opened he looked at the floor and made no response if any of the customers spoke to him.

Michael had ignored the earlier tears, preoccupied as he was with the normal Monday-morning chores, and also reluctant to unnerve the child any further. Maybe never separated from the mother before; not surprising that he was upset now, if that was the case.

When the tears had turned finally to sniffles Michael had pulled out his handkerchief. Barry had flinched at his approach.

“Just wiping your face, that’s all,” Michael had told him, in as gentle a voice as he could muster. “Just mopping you up before you turn into a puddle.” He’d put a hand under the boy’s chin and repaired the damage as best he could, and Barry had looked steadfastly over Michael’s shoulder and endured it.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Michael had continued in the same low, even voice. “I’m just a bit grumpy sometimes, that’s all.” He’d been struck by a sudden inspiration. “I’m a bit like Eeyore, you know, the donkey in Winnie-the-Pooh?”

Barry’s eyes had jumped to Michael’s face for a second, and slid away again.

“Eeyore is a bit grumpy sometimes, isn’t he?”

No response; but at least the tears had stopped. Michael had returned the handkerchief to his pocket. “Why don’t you have a look at Winnie-the-Pooh?”

But Barry had pressed the book to his chest and made no effort to open it, and Michael had given up. He’d told anyone who asked that he was looking after the child for a friend, and thankfully, nobody had pursued it.

Now, at half past ten, it was still raining heavily. Barry yawned and shifted slightly in his chair. Michael decided to give it another go.

“This is my shop,” he said. Leaning against the counter, a good six feet away.

No response.

“It’s a good shop, isn’t it?”

Nothing.

Michael indicated the tank by the wall that housed a dozen or so goldfish. “See the fish swimming around? They’re called goldfish, because they’re sort of gold in color.”

The boy turned towards the tank and regarded its occupants solemnly, his thumb drifting to his mouth.

“Have you any more story books?” Michael asked.

He shook his head slowly.

Michael went into the back room and brought out his rucksack. He set it on the counter and pulled out a book.

“See this?” he asked, holding it up. “It’s about a train.”

Barry let his thumb slide out of his mouth. “Thomas the Tank Engine.” A tiny whisper.

Michael looked at him in surprise. “You know it?”

A small nod. “I seen him.”

“Where?”

“On telly.”

Michael laid the book on the shelf next to the boy. “You could look at the pictures if you like.” He walked off and stood by the tins of cat food for a minute or so. When he returned, Barry was turning the pages.

It was what anyone would do. Children needed stimulation if they were to grow up with any bit of intelligence. Michael would have done the same for any child, particularly one as silent as this boy. It was unnatural for children to be that quiet.

He watched the white head bent over the book. He heard the small rustle as the pages were turned, and the shallow, rapid breathing. He thought there was something heartbreaking about the vulnerability of small children. Whatever tomfoolery the girl might be up to, her son was wholly innocent.

The shop door opened again and he turned his head towards it.

—————

“Come on in,” the mechanic called.

His wife walked into the bathroom. “What are you up to? Didn’t you have a shower at the gym?”

“Yeah,” he said, “but it was a bit rushed.” He swirled a hand through the foamy water. “I could do with some company in here.”

She smiled. “I don’t need a bath, I’m not dirty.”

“’Course you are,” he said. “You’re the dirtiest girl I know. Come on in, there’s loads of room.”

She giggled. “Go on then.” She pulled her dress over her head and laid it on the stool.

“Keep going,” he said.

She undid her bra and dropped it on the floor.

“More.”

She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and pushed them over her hips and let them fall. “Here I come,” she said, stepping over the side and lowering herself into the water.

“See?” He squirted shower gel into his palm. “Jesus, you’re filthy,” he said, massaging it into her thighs. “I’ll have to give you a good scrub.”

“Wow.” She closed her eyes and lay back. “You weren’t kidding about a workout making you more energetic.”

“Baby,” he said softly, inching his way upwards, “you have no idea.”

—————

“Teeth, love,” Pauline said, and Kevin took his toothbrush from its mug and waited while she ran a line of paste onto the bristles. He wore the blue pajamas he’d always worn—or rather, the latest version of the only shade and style he would tolerate.

He spat into the sink, and Pauline handed him a glass of water. His teeth were cream in color, and in perfect condition. In his entire life he’d never needed a single filling, despite the chocolate and sweets he ate whenever he got a chance. He’d gone through adolescence without a spot, his hair had never been greasy.

You had to wonder about a God who paired such a perfect body with a damaged mind. Was it supposed to be compensation, or the cruelest of jokes?

She waited while he took off his slippers and climbed into bed, and then she tucked the blankets up to his chin. He’d never been a fan of duvets; he preferred something that could be wrapped snugly around him.

“Can we go to the lake tomorrow?” he asked as she smoothed the sheet. Since he’d learned to swim as a teenager the lake was one of his favorite places. Pauline had taken him there several times over the summer, usually bringing a picnic and spending the whole day.

“Well, the forecast isn’t great for the next few days,” Pauline answered, “but if it picks up again we’ll go. You’d like another swim before the winter, would you?”

“Yeah.” He loved the water, he was like a fish in it. “If it’s not too cold.”

“We’ll see.” She bent and kissed his cheek. “Good night, love, sleep well.”

She left his night-light on and padded downstairs. In the kitchen she made a cup of tea and took two Jaffa Cakes out of their pack to go with it. She brought them into the sitting room and raised the volume on Fair City before taking her knitting from the basket at her feet. She didn’t really follow Fair City, she didn’t follow any of the soaps, but she liked the sound of it while she knit.

She’d be finished with the front of the sweater by the end of the week, and then it was just the sleeves and the neckband, and putting it all together. She had plenty of time, his birthday wasn’t for another three weeks. Forty-one, could you believe it? And her heading towards sixty-six in February, and eligible for the free travel.

They’d make good use of the free travel. Kevin loved the train. They could go to Dublin to see the zoo and the wax museum. Or Galway, and transfer to the Salthill bus for him to have a swim. Next summer they could do all that.

But the free travel was the only good thing Pauline could see about getting older. When she thought of the future it was with huge anxiety. What would become of Kevin when she wasn’t around to look after him anymore?

She couldn’t expect her sister to take him in. Sue had her own responsibilities, with a father-in-law down the road who was becoming more dependent on them every year and a daughter who’d just taken herself and her three small children out of an abusive marriage.

Where would Kevin end up, what alternative was there for him but a home where he would probably be left sitting in an armchair for hours every day, and given pills if he made a fuss? Pauline couldn’t bear the thought. Her needles clacked as she worked along the row, the pale blue wool unraveling jerkily from its ball as it was gathered up.

She tried to banish the gloomy thoughts. She’d go on for years yet, she was as healthy as a horse. And by the time Kevin was eventually left alone, there might be some kind of nice sheltered accommodation for him, with enough supervision to keep him safe.

When the ads came on she put down her needles and dipped one of the biscuits into her tea. She wouldn’t worry. It might never happen.