be nice.
‘I’m thinking of moving in with Peter,’ she says far too casually.
‘So what is it about fart jokes?’ he asks again, ignoring her. ‘I mean what is it about the sound of expelling air that can stop people from being interested in some of the most incredible masterpieces ever created?’
‘I take it you don’t want to talk about me moving in with Peter?’
‘You’re a child. You and Peter can move into the wendy house, which I still have in storage. I’ll set it up in the living room. It’ll be real nice and cosy.’
‘I’m eighteen. Not a child any more. I’ve lived alone away from home for two years now.’
‘One year alone. Your mother left me alone the second year to join you, remember.’
‘You and Mum met at my age.’
‘And we did not live happily ever after. Stop imitating us and write your own fairy tale.’
‘I would, if my overprotective father would stop butting in with his version of how the story should go.’ Bea sighs and steers the conversation back to safer territory. ‘Why are your students laughing at fart jokes, anyway? I thought your seminar was a one-off for postgrads who’d elected to choose your boring subject. Though why anybody would do that, is beyond me. You lecturing me on Peter is boring enough and I love him.’
Love! Ignore it and she’ll forget what she said.
‘It wouldn’t be beyond you, if you’d listen to me when I talk. Along with my postgraduate classes, I was asked to speak to first-year students throughout the year too, an agreement I may live to regret, but no matter. On to my day job and far more pressing matters, I’m planning an exhibition at the Gallery on Dutch painting in the seventeenth century. You should come see it.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Well, maybe my postgrads over the next few months will be more appreciative of my expertise.’
‘You know, your students may have laughed at the fart joke but I bet at least a quarter of them donated blood.’
‘They only did it because they heard they’d get a free KitKat afterward,’ Justin huffs, rooting through the insufficiently filled mini-bar. ‘You’re angry at me for not giving blood?’
‘I think you’re an asshole for standing up that woman.’
‘Don’t use the word “asshole”, Bea. Anyway, who told you that I stood her up?’
‘Uncle Al.’
‘Uncle Al is an asshole. And you know what else, honey? You know what the good doctor said today about donating blood?’ He struggles with opening the film on the top of a Pringles box.
‘What?’ Bea yawns.
‘That the donation is anonymous to the recipient. Hear that? Anonymous. So what’s the point in saving someone’s life if they don’t even know you’re the one who saved them?’
‘Dad!’
‘What? Come on, Bea. Lie to me and tell me you wouldn’t want a bouquet of flowers for saving someone’s life?’
Bea protests but he continues.
‘Or a little basket of those, whaddaya call ’em muffins that you like, coconut—’
‘Cinnamon,’ she laughs, finally giving in.
‘A little basket of cinnamon muffins outside your front door with a little note tucked into the basket saying, “Thanks, Bea, for saving my life. Anytime you want anything done, like your dry cleaning picked up, or your newspaper and a coffee delivered to your front door every morning, a chauffeur-driven car for your own personal use, front-row tickets to the opera …” Oh the list could go on and on.’
He gives up pulling at the film and instead picks up a corkscrew and stabs the top. ‘It could be like one of those Chinese things; you know the way someone saves your life and then you’re forever indebted to them. It could be nice having someone tailing you everyday; catching pianos flying out of windows and stopping them from landing on your head, that kind of thing.’
Bea calms herself. ‘I hope you’re joking.’
‘Yeah, of course I’m joking.’ Justin makes a face. ‘The piano would surely kill them and that would be unfair.’
He finally pulls open the Pringles lid and throws the corkscrew across the room. It hits a glass on top of the minibar and it smashes.
‘What was that?’
‘House-cleaning,’ he lies. ‘You think I’m selfish, don’t you?’
‘Dad, you uprooted your life, left a great job, nice apartment and flew thousands of miles to another country just to be near me, of course I don’t think you’re selfish.’
Justin smiles and pops a Pringle into his mouth.
‘But if you’re not joking about the muffin basket, then you’re definitely selfish. And if it was Blood For Life Week in my college, I would have taken part. But you have the opportunity to make it up to that woman.’
‘I just feel like I’m being bullied into this entire thing. I was going to get my hair cut tomorrow, not have people stab at my veins.’
‘Don’t give blood if you don’t want to, I don’t care. But remember, if you do it, a tiny little needle isn’t gonna kill you. In fact, the opposite may happen, it might save someone’s life and you never know, that person could follow you around for the rest of your life leaving muffin baskets outside your door and catching pianos before they fall on your head. Now wouldn’t that be nice?’
In a blood drive beside Trinity College’s rugby pitch, Justin tries to hide his shaking hands from Sarah, while handing over his consent form and ‘Health and Lifestyle’ questionnaire, which frankly discloses far more about him than he’d reveal on a date. She smiles encouragingly and talks him through everything as though giving blood is the most normal thing in the world.
‘Now I just need to ask you a few questions. Have you read, understood and completed the health and lifestyle questionnaire?’
Justin nods, words failing him in his clogged throat.
‘And is all the information you’ve provided true and accurate to the best of your knowledge?’
‘Why?’ he croaks. ‘Does it not look right to you? Because if it doesn’t I can always leave and come back again another time.’
She smiles at him with the same look his mother wore before tucking him into bed and turning off the light.
‘OK, we’re all set. I’m just going to do a haemoglobin test,’ she explains.
‘Does that check
