Moving On

Eugene

Eugene

‘I’D LIKE TO brING A FRIEND FOR CHRISTMAS,’ JULIET said on the phone. ‘Her parents live in Spain, but she’d prefer to stay in Ireland. Would that be OK?’

‘Of course it would. Grace is going to London again, so you can take her room. You’ll have the twin beds and the ensuite.’

‘That would be great, thanks, Mum. We’ll travel with Granddad.’

Rosie was as fair as Juliet was dark, hair cut to frame her small face, eyes blue as cornflowers, a lilting Cork accent in her speech. She brought Ellen a poinsettia, and a delicate angel bauble for the Christmas tree that she’d made as part of her ceramics course.

She gravitated towards Frankie, grown fat and content on Ellen’s leftovers. She placed her on her lap and the cat made no objection, although Grace’s was usually the only lap she’d tolerate.

‘Mum’s Spanish,’ she told Ellen over dinner. ‘They spend winters there: she hates the cold.’

‘And you weren’t tempted to get a burst of December sun?’

‘Not really – I like Christmas in Ireland.’

Two days after Christmas, Juliet asked Ellen to go for a walk.

‘Just the two of us,’ she said. ‘Rosie wants to watch Willy Wonka. ’ And arm-in-arm with her mother, the two of them swaddled in hats and scarves, she told Ellen that she liked girls. That she liked Rosie in particular.

Ellen was astonished. She’d had no inkling, none at all. Had there been clues she hadn’t picked up on? Juliet hadn’t had boyfriends, but neither had she herself at that age.

‘You think you’re gay?’

‘I know I am.’

‘You’re young,’ Ellen said. ‘At your age I hadn’t a—’

‘Mum,’ Juliet interrupted gently. ‘I’ve known for years, and so has Rosie. You might think we’re too young, but could we just see where it goes? Would you be OK with that?’

‘Whatever makes you happy, sweetheart. That’s all I ever wanted, for you and Grace to be happy.’

Juliet squeezed her mother’s arm. ‘Rosie makes me happy.’

‘And have you told your father how you feel?’

‘Not yet.’ She looked at Ellen. ‘Would you tell him, Mum?’

‘ . . . I will.’

She wondered how that conversation would go. It wasn’t something she and Leo had ever discussed – she supposed they’d always assumed their kids would be the same as them.

To Ellen, love was love, whatever form it took – but she couldn’t say she wasn’t worried. What about other people? What about those who couldn’t countenance the thought of a same-sex relationship? What if Juliet and Rosie suffered as a result?

Again, it was something she couldn’t protect her daughter from, much as she would want to. She would have to accept the path Juliet was on, or was trying out, or whatever, and hope for the best.

Leo took the news equably. ‘Let’s wait and see,’ he said. ‘She’s young. She might be experimenting.’

‘Maybe so.’ But she’d seen the way Juliet and Rosie were together, and she was glad her daughter had love in her life, even if it wasn’t the love her mother had anticipated for her.

And what about her own situation?

She enjoyed living in Galway, with its strong arts culture and vibrant community spirit, but while she knew a good share of people here – neighbours, parents of the girls’ friends, librarians and others she encountered routinely – she couldn’t say she was close to anyone, male or female, and romance had been a stranger since her return to Ireland. Next July she’d turn forty-five: was that it? Was that side of her life over? The thought was disheartening.

Two weeks later, the doorbell rang. It was mid-morning and she was alone in the house, Juliet, Rosie and her father having returned to Dublin, and Grace at school. Ellen opened the door to a man she’d never met.

‘Eugene?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Thank you for coming.’

He was scruffy, his jeans bagging and stained, his shirt collar fraying. He could do with a shave and a haircut, and with reducing the gut that strained his shirt buttons. She’d got his name from a noticeboard in the supermarket. Plumbing services, no job too small.

The open neck of his shirt revealed curling hairs. There was a scatter of grey in the dark hair on his head. His eyes were between green and brown. He smelt of the cream she’d rubbed on an aching shoulder last year. His bootlaces were undone. He was her age, or close to it. If he were a character in a film, or in one of her books, he’d be the bit of rough with a heart of gold who died tragically towards the end.

He shut off the water under the sink and took apart the dripping kitchen tap. ‘The seal is gone,’ he pronounced. ‘I have one in the van.’

Afterwards he cleaned his hands with washing-up liquid while she made tea. He stirred in three heaped spoons of sugar and told her of a married son in Canada and an unmarried daughter in Dublin. He didn’t mention a partner, but she got the sense he was alone. My son, he said, not our son.

She put Ginger Nut biscuits on a plate. She told him she wrote books. He said the only thing he read was the racing section in the paper. ‘I should be ashamed of myself,’ he said, clearly not.

She enjoyed him. ‘Do you win?’

‘Fifty-fifty. I don’t go mad, but I get a kick out of the flutter. So,’ he said, helping himself to more from the teapot, ‘what’s your guilty secret?’

She thought. ‘I have an occasional glass of wine in the evenings.’

He guffawed, dunking a biscuit into his tea. ‘Come on, you can do better than that.’ He put the entire biscuit into his mouth.

She couldn’t – could she? She thought harder. ‘Sometimes I stay in my pyjamas all day,’ she said. ‘Would that be classed as a guilty secret?’

‘Only,’ he said, taking another biscuit, ‘if there’s someone with you.’ Holding her gaze, dipping another biscuit blind into his mug, moving it up and down slowly in the hot liquid. The hint of a smile on his face.

Good God. Was he flirting? She laughed. ‘You’re an awful man,’ she said.

‘Ah no,’ he said. ‘I’m a good man. I’m a very good man.’

There was a new feeling in the room, a tension that wasn’t unpleasant. She felt an inner tingling, a stirring of something long dormant. ‘Are you married?’ she asked.

‘Nope. She got sense and left me years ago. I’m footloose and fancy-free.’ He looked at his watch. ‘And I have a bit of time before I need to be at my next job.’

He didn’t ask if she was married. He didn’t care. She left the kitchen and he followed her upstairs, and in her room he unbuttoned and unzipped her, the feel of his rough hands on her bare skin making her tremble with desire.

There were no niceties, no kisses, no soft touches. He teased her, bringing her to the edge and drawing back, making her wait, making the end, when it came, intense enough for her to cry out.

Afterwards he pulled up the jeans he hadn’t waited to take off fully. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘that was unexpected.’ Pushing feet back into the boots he’d kicked off. ‘Must be my lucky day.’

Downstairs she felt the after-throb of her orgasm. ‘Twenty euro,’ he said, and she wanted to pay more, just a call-out charge would be more than that, but didn’t say it in case he laughed at her.

After he left she showered, filled with growing disbelief. How could she have let it happen? Was he in the habit of targeting lonely women? Was she just another one?

They hadn’t used contraception. She could be pregnant. The thought was shocking until she calculated, and realised it was a safe time of the month. Then she thought about sexually transmitted diseases, and put condoms on her shopping list, just in case.

Condoms, in case a man she’d only just met, but had already had sex with, showed up again. What on earth was happening to her?

Two weeks later he phoned. ‘How’s that tap behaving itself?’

The sound of his voice, the easygoing way he said the words, made desire rise shockingly in her, and sent caution flying out the window.

‘You might need to have another look.’

‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

She brushed her teeth and changed into her prettiest underwear, and a dress that didn’t need much undoing. She let him in. He wasn’t impressed with the condom, but he went along with it. They did it on the landing, the carpet chafing her buttocks, her dress bunched above her breasts. He ripped a seam of her knickers pulling them off.

Every so often he rang. From the random nature of the calls, she figured it was probably when he was already on a job in the area. If she gave him the go-ahead he called around. He parked his van on the next road, so the neighbours wouldn’t guess what she and the plumber were up to.

She bought the kind of underwear that made her feel sexy: bits of lace, stuff he could see through. It was always intense with him, always animal in nature. He wasn’t tender or affectionate. She didn’t want him to be.

They were hurting nobody. It pushed the loneliness away for a while. It made her feel alive.