Page 51 of Calling Frank O'Hare

Martin shook his head.

Frank let go of him. ‘Just give me the address, then fuck off out of my face.’

The house was on a street where only certain people lived, those that were living in sin, and those that had committed the even greater sin of marrying someone from the other side. Billy, being the product of a mixed marriage himself, had lived on a similar street to this before his ould man left. He was used to being an outsider, so it held no fear for him. It would be a new thing for Eve though.

She answered the door to him. Her hair was longer and the black eye make-up she always wore had been replaced by bright blue. She had tight jeans on and a big red jumper that hung off one shoulder. She looked so delicate. He’d gotten used to Ellen who was like an Amazonian compared to this tiny creature.

‘Billy’s not here,’ she said.

Frank was irritated that she hadn’t started with hello, or an apology for not keeping her promise about university. An apology for hooking up with Billy would have been nice too, but that was obviously too much to expect. ‘How are yer, Eve?’ He was going to take the moral high ground, even if she wasn’t.

‘I’m great. You?’

‘Sure, I’m great too.’

‘Moving on, I hear.’

‘You too, it seems.’

She shrugged. ‘Well, you know how it is.’

No, he didn’t, but he didn’t care anymore. He had Ellen and she was more than enough for him. He was only here because he wanted Billy to know he knew. He wanted to look Billy in the face and tell him he was a sneaky fucker of the highest order.

33

Face to face with a friendly foe

Frank was in full flow now. Watercolour wasn’t his favourite medium. He preferred the thickness and density of oils, or the speed of acrylic. But needs must, and he was pleased with the results. They were only sketches anyway. When he got home, he’d paint them in big bold canvases. The bigger the better.

He checked the time. Somehow he’d lost a couple of hours. Normally he’d blame it on the painting, but not this time. This time it was the past he’d got lost in. He was doing that a lot lately.

He never did hang around and wait for Billy to come home that day. He didn’t ask Eve why she hadn’t come to Birmingham, and she didn’t offer an explanation. But after that, Billy stopped coming over with Martin and Finn. It was a relief. He could stop pretending that he didn’t prefer Adrian’s company, and he could stop pretending that he was ever going to move back to Belfast.

Ellen had still been away when he’d got back after that visit, but he didn’t know that until he’d called at hers and her flatmates told him. These were the days before mobile phones made everything visible. He’d tried her parents’ London flat from a phone box three or four times, but no one had picked up. So he’d waited. Two weeks later, she’d turned up on his doorstep, looking tanned and even more beautiful. She’d been on a photo shoot in Tunisia for a magazine, and she was still high on it. By then, she’d decided modelling would be her future. She carried on doing her degree but it took second place behind modelling. Everything took second place behind modelling, including him. But that was okay with him because the absence of all the Ellen and Billy distractions, had allowed Frank to carve out a life for himself in Birmingham. And anyway, he’d always expected her to tire of him. Even now, he never really understood what she saw in him.

That time was the start of him taking painting seriously, thanks to a girlfriend of Adrian’s who got him interested in an art club. Next came a debating society. Finally, against all that he’d been taught about not sticking his head above the parapet, he became active in the students’ union. He even broke golden rule number one and got arrested for protesting. He got off with a caution. Strangely, that reignited Ellen’s passion for him. Although in hindsight, not so strange at all. Ellen did love a rebel. It was boring gits she couldn’t stand.

A piece of driftwood landed on Frank’s foot and pulled him out of his brooding. Sitting over it was a long, lean dog with a wiry coat. A lurcher, if he wasn’t mistaken. The dog whined, picked up the wood and dropped it back on Frank’s foot again.

‘I suppose, you want me to throw this?’

The dog whined again.

Frank stood up and tossed the wood towards the sea. The dog went hurtling after it at a speed only greyhounds could match. He was back in less than a minute. Frank threw it again, a bit further this time. He wondered how Fred was getting on and whether he was missing him. Did dogs miss their owners? From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a runner. A tall, slim black man was coming his way. Shit.

Still running, Doogie Chambers whistled and the dog came to his side. God, they looked good together, this long, lean man and his long, lean dog. The bastard had aged well. Doogie was the same age as Netta, so he was about five years younger than Frank, but Frank felt much, much older.

‘Sorry mate, Spike gets a bit over-friendly sometimes.’ Doogie was barely out of breath.

Frank patted the dog’s head. ‘No problem. He’s a fine looking fella.’

‘Yeah. Good company too.’ Netta had said Doogie was originally from Nottingham and he still had the accent.

‘I suppose it gets a bit quiet here.’

‘We manage. You staying at the farm?’

‘Yeah.’

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