daughter.
After a moment Fiona said, I knew ye were married. I knew ye were.
Well, divorced. How about you? Do you have any kids?
I knew ye were going to ask that.
Well because . . .
Because ye’re nosy.
Andy smiled.
Ye are, she said, ye pretend not to be. She removed from his chest but raised herself, closing her shirt; she sat up with her back to the bed-end, leaving an absence, he was so aware of the absence, of her absence. The warmth of her, from her. Why are ye smiling? she said.
I’m not smiling.
What are ye doing?
Not smiling. A gentleman doesnt smile at a lady.
Fiona reached her hand to the centre of his chest, twirling the hair in her fingers, then pulled out a hair. He reacted with a shriek: Jesus christ what was that! Jesus! That’s sore! That’s actually sore! It’s a sore thing to do.
I know!
I mean really.
Yes.
God.
Coward!
Coward? What do you mean coward? Andy shook his head.
I warned ye about smiling before.
Christ almighty! Pulling a hair out my chest! It was probably the only one I had too! Andy chuckled.
I dont like ye swearing.
Huh.
I dont. Sorry.
Christ almighty isnt swearing.
It’s worse than swearing.
What?
It’s a lack of respect for people’s religion. Fiona glanced at the window. Daylight now, unmistakably. She shivered.
Okay? he said.
Do ye have another duvet?
Duvet, eh, no, sorry, I dont, sorry.
Have ye a spare blanket?
No . . . what are ye cold?
Not so much cold but it’s uncomfortable with this one ye have, when it gets dragged over yer legs, the way ye’re moving about all the time.
Aw sorry I mean yeah . . . Andy got out of bed and in the lobby he found his big coat then a spare cushion from a chair. She watched his return. He passed her the coat but held onto the cushion and proceeded to plump it up for her. This is an activity known as pummelling, he said, the experts call it ‘plumping’. People plump up pillows. Nurses do it. Let him plump up your pillow, they say; plump plump.
Fiona smiled.
If it was a male nurse he would say ‘pummel’; let me pummel yer pillow. Know why? Because plump sounds gay and they wouldnt want to sound gay. I’m talking about some.
Fiona was silent.
Only some. Some dont mind at all. Male nurses I mean. Because they are nurses doesnt mean they are gay. Andy frowned. Sorry, he said. Where did all that come from! I’m not anti-gay at all, not even like the slightest slightest. Just some words are amusing. Plumping. It just sounds – I dont know – vulgar. It makes me think of fat people. Plump equals fat.
I’m plump.
Nonsense.
I am.
Nonsense.
I dont care and dont know why ye’re going on and on; fat and gay and . . . Fiona shook her head. It’s just stupid and prejudiced – fat. It’s horrible, just a horrible word.
I didnay mean it like in any sort of . . . I’m not anti-anything. I’m not.
Yer jokes dont work anyway. They dont. I’m sorry, they just dont.
Well, I’m not a comedian, that’s for sure.
Ye’re a musician. Ye’re a musician.
Whatever.
Ye are.
I’m not prejudiced anyway so just I mean like if any of my mates heard this conversation they’d be like who are we talking about here because it wouldnt be me.
Bla bla.
Andy waited by the side of the bed, aware of the cup of tea he had left there. No doubt he would kick it over before the night was over, before the morning was through, before dawn had broken, whatever time it was. But it had broken, the daylight through the window, oh god and work, work work.
The teacher returns to the room and everybody is silent and sitting with their arms folded. But it’s all a lie and the teacher knows the teacher knows the teacher always knows.
She was on her side facing away. He needed to say something. He didnt want her thinking anything bad. How come she did because he wasnt like never ever anti-fat, anti-gay, he was not anything like that, racist, that horrible bigotry horrible horrible shit. None of that. Never. He told bad jokes. He told them bad; maybe they were good till he told them, it was him, he made them bad. What else? He talked too much. That was normal he was just normal. She just
something
He needed back to bed; maybe he didnt.
THE
CARTWHEELS
OF LIFE
Kids come stoating in the door like ye werenay there. Oh fuck maybe I’ve disappeared! That was how ye felt. Ye dont know whether to laugh or get annoyed like how in my day there was a bit of respect for folk about to hit the eternity trail. Us auld-timers I’m talking about. Okay boy meets girl: I know all that, the cartwheels, jigging about in their shorts and skirts; I understand the scenario, sex everywhere and high spirits, great. One allows for that, growing up nowadays: different to the likes of us. Me I should say. I’m speaking for myself. I dont want to use the plural in that way. I’m no trying to talk for everybody and that’s how it makes it seem. If it happens it isnay intended, and if I have done it I apologise, it wasnay deliberate. I hate that kind of thing. I’m no wanting to be one of these moaning-faced old bastards that hate weans. And I’m no one. Rest assured. I’ve got grandkids, and I love them. But I’m no goni keep my mouth shut if things are wrong and nowadays they are wrong. Ye could start with the ‘us’, using the plural in that sense. That is worse than a bad habit, it is a misguided confusion and it only spreads mental disarray. ‘We’ this and ‘we’ that. Everybody is at it, from top to bottom, all as bad as one another, all falling for the propaganda. My parents were the worst, and that’s going back, my maw’s been deid thirty years. My da? well, who knows. That’s another story. But
