Fo’S Baby

By Ian Douglas Robertson

Fo is a successful actress and stage director with a bumpy past. She is 39 and desperate to have a child. Convinced it will come between them, Dina, her partner, does everything she can to discourage her. But Fo is not the only one who wants this child. So do her friend Brendan, her mother Goni, her mothers best friend Betsy and all the other ex-pats and oddballs that make up her Athenian circle of friends and relations. When an unlikely father presents himself, she is faced with an impossible dilemma. Give in to her maternal instinct regardless of the consequences or be destined to a life of bitter regret?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 10, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456731922

Ian Douglas Robertson

Ian Douglas Robertson read French and Spanish Language and Literature at Trinity College, Dublin. After graduating, he came to live in Greece, where he works as a teacher, actor, translator and writer. He has translated a number of academic works from Greek into English, including The History of the Olympic Games, The History of the Greek National Theatre, etc. He has also translated three novels by Nestor Matsas, one of which has been published in the US under the title Good Morning, Mr. Freud. He has also written simplified readers and plays for young learners of English, as well as a successful advanced GCE O Level textbook. He has written poetry, short stories and novels, but has yet to have a novel published. His short story Alki's Latest Joke was published in the Athens News as part of a story-writing competition. He has played a number of roles both on stage and in film, from Ernest Worthing to Sir Andrew Aquecheek. He is currently negotiating to play Torvald in A Doll's House, which will be one of the first web films to be produced in Greece. His tastes in literature, as in life, are eclectic. Above all, he loves the magic of a good story well told. As a child brought up in Ireland, he listened enraptured to such stories told by some of a dying breed of great storytellers.

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Fo’s Baby

by Ian Douglas Robertson

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© 2011 Ian Douglas Robertson. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 3/8/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4567-3192-2 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-3193-9 (dj)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-3194-6 (sc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011901193

Printed in the United States of America

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In every real man a child is hidden that wants to play

– Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900)

Fo

Yes, I suppose in my twenties, it was all about my career, proving myself to myself, and to Dad, and fulfilling all those dreams Mum had forsaken for a flawed marriage. I saw having children as a chore I could put off ad infinitum, like changing the washer on a dripping tap. Then, as my thirties flew away, it began to bother me like a fly that won’t go away. Only when I entered my fortieth year, did I become aware that my breeding years were nearly over. Suddenly, having a baby became an obsession that consumed me, body and soul.

After that, everything, including my career, faded into insignificance.

God knows, I tried to fight it. Yes, with logic, and Dina’s inexorable ‘sensibleness’. There were times when I really thought our combined forces could vanquish my implacable longing, especially when Dina brought in her leftwing feminist reserves, who despise the notion that a woman’s raison d’être should be defined by her ability to produce babies.

It’s true I was infatuated by a selfish whim. And there was a strong possibility I was suffering from the frustrated-middleclass-housewife syndrome. With my career in the doldrums, I had fallen back on childbearing to appease the frustration of professional stagnation. However, giving my condition a title didn’t make it any easier to bear.

Perhaps Dina was right, perhaps my obsession did stem from something much deeper, something psychological, existential, even. Was I seeking distraction from the unresolved issues of my past? God knows, there were plenty of them. But tracking them down would have required months of groping in the penumbra of my half-forgotten and rejected life. Who knows what demons might have been roused from their benign slumber.

I had no illusions about the hardships involved in single parenthood. Life below the poverty line would have been an inevitable consequence, not to mention having to rely on friends to help me out with the baby. Yet, logic was no match for my body. So safe and so uninspiring, logic is a device we make use of in order to avoid taking action we instinctively know is right. Maybe I did need to see a shrink, to delve into my past and come face to face with my demons, but there was something dispiritingly negative in Dina’s rationality, and her insistence on blaming our parents for everything. So, I rejected her steady voice for the croaking one in my head that kept telling me what I wanted to hear. Call it instinct, hormones, conditioned response - yes, I too had my dolls – the fear perhaps, nay, the panic, of failing to seize my last chance to produce life. Dina was right about one thing. I did want to be God, just once, before it was too late.

I changed. I became selfish, introspective and irritable, quite horrible, in fact, but somehow I didn’t care. I behaved like a spoilt child who believes her wish should be everyone else’s command. It says a lot for Dina that she stuck by me, pampering my every whim, while trying to make me see reason. But with every passing day, my genetic expiry date was coming closer and my obsession growing stronger. I was an aging chicken without a cock to fertilise my eggs. That, as you know only too well, was the root of all my troubles.

Dina

I know you’ve never seen eye to eye, Brendan, about Fo’s baby. No, don’t use your Irish Blarney on me. I know you felt I should have been more supportive. But it was easy for you sitting on the sidelines. You weren’t going to be an Othermother, a Non-Biological Mum, or whatever they like to call it. Society doesn’t even have a name for what I would become if she managed to produce a child. Yes, I was afraid. Afraid of it coming between us. Afraid of not loving it in the way Fo would. Perhaps deep down I wanted it to be my baby and not hers. Who knows? I don’t really want to go into all that now. Why not? Work it out for yourself. What does it matter anyway? Just write another novel. What? You plan to make this into a novel? A work of faction? And we are your faction, I suppose.

Why do you want to write a book about Fo’s baby? Well, be careful it doesn’t turn into a soppy romantic piece. Lesbian sacrifices everything to satisfy her maternal instinct. What a load of crap! Yes, we all have it, I suppose, but it can be overcome, repressed, sublimated or just plain lived with. No, there are thousands of women who have never had children. It’s nothing to do with instinct, anyway. Social convention has placed women in a mould. And we’re conditioned to feel guilty if we don’t settle into it. No, I wasn’t able to convince Fo, but she can be amazingly stubborn, as you know.

If you want my side of the story, you’ll have to put up with the way I tell it. Okay? Yes, you can record it if you want. At least, then you won’t distort my words, as no doubt you’d love to do.

Where should I begin? In the Stone Age? All right. Well, here goes. My parents christened me Constantina, after my father’s mother. It’s a Greek tradition. Yes, well, you know that. But my grandmother was a witch. Every time she saw a child she would shake her hard knotty old stick in the air and scream abuse at them. Mother said she went mad after my grandfather died. But it upset me that we shared the same name, so I decided I’d change it as soon as something better turned up. I didn’t have to wait long. When I went to school, everybody started calling me Dina and it stuck.

*

I got out of Greece as soon as I was allowed to have my own passport. I headed straight for London, the Capital of Freedom, where I could be myself at last.

I returned intermittently to reassure them I was still alive. Then, after 12 wonderful years discovering myself I came back to Greece for good. Why? As much as I wanted to disown my family, I couldn’t. I felt I owed them. What? I don’t know. The pressure was phenomenal, from my brother and sister in particular, who I found out afterwards were only carrying out Mother’s orders. They were good children! And, of course, those heart-rending letters. Yes, you’re no doubt surprised to hear I have a heart. ‘We’re worried about you. Why don’t you visit us more often?’ I hated the claustrophobia of the village, with its narrow streets and narrow minds. Sometimes I had the feeling that some disease had atrophied their minds. How I escaped the epidemic, I don’t know? But there was always the danger that the virus was just dormant, waiting to infect me.

‘You’ll be the death of us. When are you going to get married and have a child? Your father and I are not going to live forever you know,’ and all that crap. As the unmarried daughter in the family, I knew where my duty lay.

And that was the crux of it. All they wanted to do was get me wrapped up in a pretty parcel, tied in pink ribbon, with a thank-you note for the unfortunate male who saved me from a fate worse than death, spinsterhood. Once that was done, they could die ‘with a clean face’, as the Greeks say.

So, they got me back to Greece, and then brainwashed me. First, they made me feel guilty for spending twelve prodigal years abroad. Then, they filled my head with bourgeois crap about a woman only being completely fulfilled if she has a husband and children. By the end of it all, I was almost convinced I’d end my days a bitter old woman like my grandmother if I didn’t go along with the myth; marry, have children and live happily ever after. So, I told them if they could find me a husband, I’d go along with it. Of course, even then I had rejected the myth and was thinking of doing the only thing that made sense to me: marry, divorce and live happily ever after.

By then, of course, I had already met Fo.

Brendan

I suppose I deserve to have a place in this story, though my role, as Dina said, was somewhat peripheral. However, I must take the credit, or blame, for some of the events described herein.

At the time it seemed I’d known Fo all my life, even though I had only known her for about a year. I met her at the laiki, the street market, where they sell fresh fruit and vegetables. I go five minutes before the stalls are taken down, when they sell everything off half price. Fo and I bumped into each other as we were walking along the street. I’m not sure how, considering that the place was practically deserted. Fate, I suppose. We were both laden down with bags of fruit and veg, and no doubt had things of great moment on our minds.

I, for example, was endeavouring to work out if the one-legged beggar on the pavement under the mulberry tree was doing the Long John Silver act or whether he was a bona fide amputee. By the time I’d come to the conclusion that he was probably a genuine peg leg, I’d already collided with Fo.

I said, Jesus, I’m a real eejit, or words to that effect in Greek.

Don’t worry. My fault too, she replied in similar vein.

Then I saw that a bunch of tomatoes and a peach had jumped for freedom and were hotfooting it down the hill towards Dionysou Street. I abandoned my load and went tearing off after them. On the brow of the hill I bagged a tomato. A couple of strides later I nabbed the peach. Then, after a short sprint I stopped another dead in its tracks. I looked around for the rest of the fleeing tomatoes, but I reckoned they weren’t going to get far. A fate worse than death was waiting for them in Ermou Street. Fat-bellied souvlaki makers were sharpening their long knives waiting to scalp the next tomato that came along.

Anyway, I made my way back up the hill, cradling the captured peach and tomatoes in the baggy part of my T-shirt, hoping the fine lady wouldn’t see the words Fuck off! written on the front. Not very subtle, but one of my students gave it to me. He said he thought it’d suit me. Anyway, Fo was too busy laughing her head off at Yours Truly’s display of Monty Python burlesque to read the literature on the front of my T-shirt.

You shouldn’t have bothered. It was only a bit of old fruit and veg, she said in English. I suppose it wasn’t all that hard to guess I wasn’t Greek.

Look, I’m really sorry. This peach is a bit bruised. And a couple of tomatoes got away.

I gave her back what fruit I’d recovered and offered her mine by way of compensation, but she wouldn’t take it.

In that case, give me that big bag of yours and let me carry it a bit of the way. If you trust me not to hurl the contents down the hill, that is.

*

Well, I was attracted to her from the word go. She looked mature but young at heart. I liked that. She looked Greek but there was something Irish about her, which I liked too. As it happens, I was right on both counts. Then I found out she lived almost next door and so we trudged home together lugging our bags of overripe fruit and veg. After that, it was, ‘Come for a drink’ and the rest is history.

Goni

Do you really think this is a good idea, Brendan? What if it gets published? I know, but some people might still be able to guess who we are. I’d prefer to keep my personal life private. Well, as long as you let me read it before it’s published. All right, I’ll just talk and you stop if I waffle on too much.

Life is a funny thing. You never know how it’s going to turn out. Perhaps our divorce did have something to do with it. A lot of people from broken homes lose their faith in marriage, but I don’t think it was that. It had more to do with her relationship with that horrible carpenter Arty. I don’t know what she saw in him. He was so…unrefined. Every second word that came out of his mouth was f…. I shudder just to think of him. And then the abortion. Oh, you didn’t know about that. I think she felt awfully guilty about it. You know how pro-life she is. But I think she did the right thing. He would have made her life hell.

Ultimately we ourselves are responsible for what we make of our life. We can blame a thousand things for what we are, our genes, our parents, circumstances, but we have to make the most of what we’re given. I’m sure that if three people were given the same life, one would make a mess of it, the second a success of it and the third turn it into a masterpiece. Although we don’t realize it, we create the circumstances of our lives by the choices we make. There are no chance victims.

Dina

Fo and I used to bump into each other on and off the stage of a little theatre tucked away on the edge of the West End, where Fo had a part in a new play. I liked her from the first. She wasn’t like most actors, who look through the stagehands as if they were sheets of glass.

One day she said to me, You’re Greek, aren’t you? No sixth sense. I thought you were Czech. Then I heard you talking and I recognised the accent.

Is it so obvious?

No, you speak English beautifully. You should hear my Greek.

What? You know Greek?

My mother’s Greek.

She reminded me of the goddess Athina. Maybe it was her mass of curly black hair and her alabaster face and the strong features. Maybe I was nostalgic for home, or maybe we were just meant for each other.

*

She was involved with this guy Arty at the time, a stage carpenter I knew. He fancied himself as a set designer, but he lacked any real artistic talent. He liked to paint backdrops and stuff like that, but they were too precious and gaudy for my liking. He was strictly a hammer and nail bloke.

One day Fo said to me, I’m pregnant.

She didn’t seem too upset, but I said, Oh Christ. What a pain!

She looked shocked, as if I’d assumed she was going to have an abortion.

What do you mean?

Well, it’s kind of going to screw up your acting career if you keep it, isn’t it?

She said, We’re going to get married, as if that made all the difference.

I suppose this naivety of hers was something that endeared me to her. She was like a mountain flower, a purple cyclamen, which had pushed its way up through the pavement of a busy city. I was so afraid she was going to get trodden on.

*

I was in charge of props and scenery. So, I could watch her for hours as she rehearsed. The director was madly in love with her and all the other actors adored her, but they knew she was having an affair with Arty so it was strictly ‘hands off’. Arty wasn’t one to take too kindly to competitors.

When she wasn’t on stage we shared cups of coffee and I studied her face until I had memorised every freckle and line. I fell in love with every part of her; her crystal clear voice, her gliding straight-backed movements, her glowing expressive face, and her curving sensuous body. Fo used to go in for browns and greys and heavy materials, the kind of stuff that’d make me look like a Russian peasant, but gave her style and elegance.

*

At first, I thought maybe she fancied me but then I realised she only wanted to talk about Arty. He and I had worked a lot together, so she probably thought I knew him better than anyone did.

As we were sipping our coffee backstage during a rehearsal break, she said, I’m desperately in love with Arty. She made it sound more like a burden than a blessing.

I said, That’s great without much enthusiasm.

You don’t like him.

To be quite frank, no.

He may seem a bit rough around the edges but once you get to know him, I think…

I do know him. I said no more for fear of hurting Fo, but he had a reputation for being a typical m.c.p.

He wasn’t even good-looking but he was so cocksure and flirted with anything in knickers. He wasn’t against feeling you up either, if he got the chance. He’d cup his hands over your boobs and go Honk! Honk! He tried it on with me once, but he soon found out I was a Russian peasant in more than just looks. He was limping for two weeks after that.

As she sipped her coffee she said, I don’t think he loves me as much as I love him.

Well, if you want my opinion. I think you’re too good for him.

She looked at me appalled.

No. He’s very talented. He could have a brilliant career in theatre design, if he really tried.

I didn’t want to contradict her, so I left it at that. I had to set up the stage for the evening performance, anyway.

*

One day I asked her to tell me more about her actor-playwright father and actress mother. She told me how her mother had given up a brilliant career in Athens to come to London to be with her father. It sounded like the stuff of a romantic novel. I knew there must be a catch somewhere. My parents were just boring provincial schoolteachers, who met in the staff-room, liked each other, got married and lived boring uneventful live thereafter. Perhaps that’s all they wanted out of life.

*

At night I dreamt of making love to her, and during the day I just wanted to be near her. I got to the theatre early and stayed on till late, on the pretext of tidying up or hammering in a few nails, just to be near her. Some people must have thought I’d gone bonkers. I had a reputation in the trade for being a bit of a troublemaker. A bolshie. ‘The card-carrying Greek dyke’ they probably called me. So, what was I doing working twelve hours a day without demanding overtime pay or making noisy protests to the Union?

And yet she never knew how I felt about her. As far as she was concerned I was just a nice Greek girl being friendly.

*

Then I lost her. The play ran into a brick wall. The reviews had been lousy and audiences were dwindling. We all knew that the show had to come to an end sooner or later. Yet, somehow I had imagined life going on like that indefinitely.

When Fo came to say goodbye we were already in the throes of dismantling the set. I had a pair of pliers in one hand, a hammer over my left shoulder, sweat pouring off me and my hair in a tangle. How could I say goodbye in that state? Without so much as a kiss or a hug, we just smiled at each other and said, See you round. I remember standing helplessly watching her back exit the half-light of the stage, and then being struck by the unbearable thought that she was going out of my life forever.

I didn’t know where she lived. I hadn’t even taken down her phone number. Crazy! For a moment I nearly abandoned everything and ran after her. But I didn’t. I felt as if my innards had been sucked out by a giant vacuum cleaner. I wanted to collapse on the stage and scream myself senseless until they brought her back to me. I didn’t, of course. I just took it out on the scenery and the rest of the crew instead.

I suppose I could have found her address, but I didn’t. I thought, ‘She’s straight, in love and about to have a child. What’s the point?’ Maybe I just couldn’t face the prospect of her rejecting me.

*

But I couldn’t get over her. I started writing about her in a diary, something I’d never done before, ever, with anyone. I told her about my one-night stands, how none of them satisfied me, because all I wanted was her. I made up childish scenarios; Dina rescues Fo from blazing building and jumps with Fo into safety net ten floors below; Dina saves Fo from the clutches of rapists with her lightning Tae Kwon Do kicks; or simply, Dina meets Fo in street and they realise at once that they have always been meant for each other.

*

When the longing became unbearable, I went by the theatre to try and salvage some of the energy she had radiated into the walls. The manager was usually around and he let me in. Perhaps he thought I was involved in the next show. He never asked.

I just sat where we used to sit and pretended that she was there with me.

I went a number of times, until one day I realised I’d used up all her energy.

*

Then, out of the blue, I saw her at the back of a crowd in Covent Garden watching a magician pull doves out of silk handkerchiefs. She seemed to be alone and lonely. She had a vacant air about her, as if the performance had only half her attention.

I watched her for some time. She was thin and sickly and appeared very nervous, jumpy somehow. I imagined the scene I had played out over and over in my mind and was about to throw my arms around her, when I suddenly realised she didn’t remember who I was.

I said, Fo, it’s me. Don’t you remember?

Then it all came back to her and we kissed like old friends. It was the most wonderful day of my life. We went to a teashop off Oxford Street and sat over cups of coffee like the old days. She told me all about her life, how she had split up with Arty, how she was alone. It was when she told me about the abortion that she broke down.

*

I took her back to my place and gave her Greek coffee and brandy. I made no declarations of love, just held her in my arms and let her cry. I kissed her and we spoke Greek. That comforted her. It reminded her of her mother I think.

*

After that we saw each other now and then. Not as much as I would have liked, but enough to keep me happy. She was trying to forget Arty and the abortion.

I still didn’t tell her how madly in love with her I was.

*

Then, I met her in a bar off the West End, intimate with a woman called Stephanie, who’d been doing the rounds of theatre bars and young actresses for years. I could’ve kicked myself. All those years wasted and now it was too late.

When we kissed, Stephanie was a bit put out, and I was glad.

Dina, where have you been? Fo said. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. Why haven’t you replied to my messages?

Shit! I knew I should have had that bleeding phone fixed.

I was out of town working on a film set. And the fucking answering machine’s on the blink.

I’m between plays and I just thought we could do some things together, and I could practise my Greek. Oh, by the way, do you know Stephanie?

I gave Stephanie a tired look.

Yeah, we’ve seen each other around.

We hadn’t actually been to bed together, but it was through no lack of trying on her part. As a rule, I don’t go in for jaded old things that put green streaks in their hair and fancy they’re one of the witches in Macbeth.

Stephanie gave me a knowing smile.

So, are you free at all these days? Fo said. There are some new plays on I’d like to see. Shall we go together?

Why was this happening, now?

I can’t, I said. I waved my plane ticket in the air. I’m off to Greece.

You’re off to Greece. You lucky thing! Fo said. I wish I was coming with you.

I wish you were too, I said to myself.

Aloud I said, I’m not so sure how lucky I am. My parents have summoned me there. I’ve been enjoying life too much.

I haven’t been to Greece for years.

Why don’t you come then?

It was a long shot and I knew it. And I couldn’t exactly see myself turning up in a remote village in the Peloponnese with my girlfriend in tow. It wouldn’t have helped along my parents’ plans to sell their prodigal daughter off to the highest bidder.

I’d love to, Dina, but I auditioned for a new play last week and I’ve got to stick around just in case.

Another time then. Look. I’d best be going. You’re busy, and anyway… Got to be at the airport early. Morning flight. And I still have to say goodbye to some old friends.

Stephanie’s smoke-dried voice broke the spell between Fo and me.

You mean you’re clearing off back to Greece, Dina. For good?

Probably.

We’ll miss you.

I felt like saying, I bet you will, Stephanie, darling!

But I said, Yeah. The fun’s over. I’ve got to do my duty.

It can’t be all that bad. The sun and the sea.

And the husband and the parents-in-law and the kids and the nappies.

Oh, it’s as bad as that is it? said Stephanie with a sneer. Don’t envy you, Dearie.

So that’s how it ended.

*

Until we met in Greece two years later and fell in love all over again. Only this time it was mutual.

And life was sheer bliss, even better than London …

*

… until Fo got the idea that she wanted to have a baby.

Brendan

As for myself, I suppose I’m your classical loser. The guy who thought he’d save the world from greed and corruption by opting out of the rat race. I was a sixties’ teenager. I got into the hippy thing in a big way. Flower power and all that shit. Did the whole trip and never regretted it. At least I think I’ve never regretted it.

I must have been going through a mid-life crisis at the time. I’d never questioned life before. Never questioned my life before. I used to believe in it. I used to believe in myself. Now all I saw in the mirror, when the stubble started to itch, was this old joker that reminded me of Da. I kept on seeing his little mannerisms and the hairs growing out of the same orifices and the skin folding and wrinkling in the same places. I hate shaving, like he did, but I had to, to maintain a semblance of respectability. Now that it’d become fashionable to have a week’s growth, I shave daily, in a futile fight to keep off the years.

I never thought the day would come when I’d say, ‘What’s the point of it all?’ There I was forty-five years on, living in 20 uneven, asymmetrical square metres, among cast-off pieces of furniture gleaned from the pavements of Athens, asking myself what the whole point of it all was. Not that I had anything against the furniture. I loved it. It was such a motley, heterogeneous assembly of junk. Like myself, an inimitable hotchpotch of people and cultures. Nothing matches, in colour or style. I had bits from every decade of the 20th century. God, I had some frightful stuff from the 30’s, imitation Louis XV. You’d be surprised what the Athenians throw out. The consumer society par excellence. A couch starts to wobble and it’s out the bloody window before you can say Aristotle Onassis. All the better for yours truly. My bed was worth a fucking fortune, wrought iron and brass knobs, all in tiptop condition except one, which had a dent the size of a pea in it. It was my only heirloom.

The mattress was a bit lumpy and dipped in the middle, which was okay when I had the bed to myself. It was a pain in the arse when Pam decided to do me the honours. We always ended up rolling into the Grand Canyon, as she called it. It didn’t bother me. In those days I slept like a baby on clouds of sheep’s wool, but Pam had a conscience, even then.

So, when I rolled into the Grand Canyon on my fluffy cloud I hit severe turbulence. First, she let out a few epithets not fit for the ears of a god-fearing Christian like myself and then she started bouncing up and down as if the bed had been invaded by an army of ants. I eventually realised the turbulence was on earth and not in heaven, and leant over to turn on the light. I focused my vision on a Viking monster, her flaming red hair bristling about her head, eyes flinging arrows and a hand that looked like an axe about to hit yours truly straight between the eyes.

I don’t want to sleep in this goddam bed again. I don’t want to rub against your bony, sweaty body ever again in my whole life. Is that understood?

I said, What are you raving about, woman?

This bloody bed. It should have been thrown out years ago.

It was. That’s why it’s here.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, Brendan. Can’t you even find a decent mattress?

I’m looking very hard. It’s number one on my priorities. The problem is getting there before the gypsies. They have a fierce eye for anything any way decent.

I meant buy one, you half-baked idiot.

Come on now, Pam. Mind the language. It’s only a matter of time before I fall over the springiest mattress you’ve ever been laid on.

Well, this is the last time I sleep with you on this mattress.

Is that a threat?

Yes.

I finally managed to calm her down with promises of a new mattress and a whole new life, but I think she was more interested in the new mattress.

She was always saying she would’t sleep with me again, but she always did in the end. She would ring up from God knows where and tell me she was coming over. I didn’t ask where she’d been or how long she was planning to stay. We had one of those ‘free’, ‘no-strings-attached’ relationships, which basically meant we got together when neither of us could find a better fuck.

I kept an eye open for a better mattress, but there was a bit of an economic crisis on at the time and Athenians were hanging on to their any-way-decent mattresses.

*

I was saying, ‘What’s the point of it all?’ To be or not to be. To battle with adversary just for the sake of surviving. For what? We’re all going to bite the dust one day. So why not sooner than later and avoid the suspense.

I’ve contemplated suicide. Not very seriously. More as a way of cheering myself up than anything else. It’s an option I was keeping open for when I was in the right frame of mind. The idea of death can be exquisite. The ultimate fix. To float off on a perfect high into Never Never Land. A glorious oblivion.

My father did away with himself in the end, blew his fucking brains out with a shotgun he used to frighten pigeons with. Never killed one, mind you, a pigeon, I mean. He always aimed wide, just in case he’d hit one by mistake. He didn’t miss his own head, though. Aimed a bit wide, as always, but he would have considered it one of his best shots. And it was, considering the manoeuvres he had to make; placing the barrel to the head, stretching the length of the gun, finding the trigger with the index finger while holding it steady with the other hand and then applying enough pressure to detonate the gun. Bang!

Not a pretty sight. Bridie found him lying in the garden; half his head scattered over the lawn. I’m glad I didn’t have to pick up the pieces. The day before the funeral, when I was surveying the scene, I found a bit of his skull among the roses, a triangular, slightly curved piece of bone, smeared with blood that was gone hard and black. I still carry it around with me for good luck. It hasn’t brought me much yet.

The funny thing was he always thought he was such a tidy man. Always liked to have things filed and in order. Well, his final clearing-away was certainly the messiest. We had the fucking Gárda crawling all over us for weeks, in search of motives for murder. And then the bloody priests were tut-tutting about how he had committed a mortal sin. I said it was mortal all right.

Anyway, we found a priest to do the burial, glued Da’s head back together after a fashion, without the triangular bit I’d kept as a souvenir, and laid him to rest in a bit of consecrated ground on the farm, one of those bits of land he’d dedicated to nature.

It was a quiet funeral. Most people couldn’t see their way to forgiving him for taking his own life. Maybe they were just envious of his courage.

Oh, Da and I had our differences all right.

One winter dusk, as we stood knee-deep in mud after five weeks of non-stop rain, he said, What do you say, Brendan?

Fuck it, I replied. We communicated on a fairly basic level.

We stood there side by side contemplating the heap of sugar beet that couldn’t be shifted because the tractor kept sinking into the mud.

We’ll have to go at it by hand, he said.

The rain was beginning to pelt down again.

You and whose army?

It was going on for the end of the beet harvest and most of the crop was still lying there in the field, the leaves dying back and rotting around the beet.

"Are you suggesting we just leave it there to rot?’

I am, I said.

And so we did, or nearly. We had a couple of fine days before the sugar factory closed and we got half the crop off, hardly enough to pay for all the work that had been put into the seed, the sowing, the weeding, etc.

He called me a good-for-nothing layabout, but he admired me for sticking to my guns and never asking for a penny. That’s one of my principles. Neither a borrower nor a lender. The truth is I’ve never been in a position to be the second, but the first I’ve stuck to, through thick and thin.

Da owed me nothing. He may have thought I owed him. I don’t know. I suppose not taking over the farm was a disappointment to him. It was to Ma. Mind you, Bridie does a much better job, with Pat the Plodder by her side, working all the hours that God gives her.

I gave it a shot. I worked on the farm for a year or two after College, but my heart wasn’t in it. My life became so fucking predictable. I could see it all mapped out ahead of me till the day I died. The annual and daily routine repeated endlessly. I’d marry Una Doyle from next door, have a houseload of kids, work my butt off to give them a decent education and then we’d get old and one of the houseload would take over and…. What was the bloody point?

Apart from that, the weather was enough to make a saint suicidal. Skies like endless grey deserts weighed down on me until I felt I’d suffocate unless I got out. So, I told the old lad that I needed to get away for a while and find myself. He could see I wasn’t happy. He wasn’t happy himself. Never had been, but he was too much a man of duty to clear out.

Ma was still alive then, before the cancer got her. She couldn’t understand why I wanted to go off to foreign parts, where people spoke ‘quare’ and ate frogs’ legs and horses, God forgive them. The only foreign place a decent Catholic would want to go was Lourdes or the Vatican.

What do you want to go gallivanting around the world for? Isn’t there enough to do here in Ireland?

I explained to her that it was just a break, to get a bit of sun and culture outside the land of Saints and Scholars. She couldn’t see how any foreign culture could be better than the Irish.

Ireland has the richest culture in the world. Don’t we have James Joyce and your man, what’s his name? The fellow who wrote the play about God.

Samuel Beckett?

The very same. A good Catholic, to boot.