Page 12 of The Start of the Story
‘You don’t mind being so isolated?’ It was the first thing Connor had said in miles. Perhaps he felt he’d said too much earlier. I could only hope that tact and shame were beginning to creep into his make-up.
‘No.’ I steered into my parking spot. Then, feeling that maybe a degree of rapprochement might be called for before we spent an evening together in chilly silence, ‘And there are always the ducks.’
We got out of the car, into the cool and the quiet. There was no sound apart from the plop and gurgle of the river, and a distant wind running its way through the reeds, as though searching for something.
‘They’re not exactly popping round for a drink and a bowl of peanuts though, are they?’ Connor, too, was keeping it light. I felt my shoulders drop a little and realised I’d been tensing myself against a continuation of his questioning about my life choices.
‘They sit outside the window in the morning waiting for toast,’ I pointed out. ‘And things can get quite heated if there isn’t enough to go round.’
‘Like our old neighbours in Dublin. You should have heard the rows when the sherry ran out.’
That made me smile and the smile made me loosen up sufficiently when I unlocked the front door to offer to put the kettle on and make some tea. ‘What about food? Have you eaten?’
‘I’m a history professor. I’m lucky to catch the last pack of sandwiches in the shop down on campus. I’ve had a few biscuits, in the meeting.’
‘How are you still standing?’
‘I had toast.’ He pointed at my toaster. ‘This morning. You made me toast, remember?’
The kitchen light came on, bright and invasive. ‘I was going to make a stir-fry,’ I said. ‘Would you like some?’ Then I wanted to bite my tongue again. It wasn’t my fault that he didn’t feed himself properly – I’d had a fair few of those meetings myself, the ones that went on for hours and ended with you feeling so wrung out that you could barely sip a Cup-A-Soup afterwards. I’d had evenings where I went to bed with a bowl of cereal and realised I’d had nothing else since breakfast.
Connor was watching me under the unforgiving glare of the fluorescent bulb. I knew it washed out my skin and made me look pasty and couldn’t work out why it didn’t do the same to him. Probably because there wasn’t enough skin showing between the barely shaved cheeks and the flopping hair and the coat collar, I decided.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘Show me where the stuff is, andI’llcook. You sit yourself down, you look a wee bit…’ He tailed off.
‘Frazzled,’ I supplied. ‘I look frazzled. It’s how I end every day.’ I waved a hand to indicate the fridge, where all the stir-fry ingredients lived, and he bent to open the door and investigate.
‘Ah, I didn’t like to say,’ his voice came muffled from inside the fridge. ‘Chicken, veg and some sauce, that right?’
‘There’s some noodles in the cupboard.’ I leaned back in the kitchen chair and closed my eyes, only to jerk back upright with my eyes pinging open like untethered blinds. ‘Can you cook? I don’t want you setting my kitchen on fire and ruining practically the only food I’ve got in.’
A snort. ‘Course I can cook. Mam was away at conferences more often than not, and Da thinks cooking is making a cup of tea, so the lads and I learned defensive cookery at an early age.’ A moment’s fumbling later and ingredients began to hit the counter. ‘Except young Eamonn, of course.’
‘The priest,’ I said, wanting to show that I had, at least, listened to him.
‘That’s your man. I think he has parishioners bringing him hot meals most days. Like offerings.’ The wok hung from a rail above the worktop, and Connor unhooked it deftly and swung it onto the stove. ‘Why don’t you leave me to this and you go and have a shower or get changed or whatever it is you do when you get in. I’ll earn my keep here.’
How long had it been since someone had cooked for me? I asked myself the question as I wandered out of the kitchen and up the stairs without even raising the energy for arguing. A long time. Alongtime. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been able to shower with the smell of cooking wafting up the stairs and the sound of dishes clanking, a voice singing and muttering in the kitchen below and lights randomly going on and off as someone moved from room to room.
For a moment I tasted memory. A cup of tea brought in bed. A fried breakfast before a winter walk. Home baking.How long?
I knew how long, of course. I knew, almost to the day. And sometimes that time felt like a lifetime, and sometimes only yesterday.
When I got back to the kitchen the air was full of the blue haze of hot oil and the smell of soy sauce. Connor had opened the window and the chill of the intruding breeze contrasted with the heat of the cooker so sharply that I half feared it would snow on the table.
‘Good timing. You look brighter.’ Connor plonked two plates on the table, without ceremony. Veg and noodles flopped over the edges and a piece of pak choi left the launch pad to fly onto the floor.
‘Presentation from the University Canteen school of cookery?’ I asked, but I half smiled as I said it.
‘Ah, when you’ve four starving brothers sitting waiting with their napkins tucked in and their forks raised in a threatening fashion, you care more about getting it onto the table than Instagram.’ He sat opposite me, fork already in hand.
The food was good. I’d been half afraid that Connor’s idea of ‘cooking’ might have involved burning everything to a uniform ‘hard brown and crispy’, but he’d got it just right.
‘Garlic salt,’ he said, pausing from his eating like a starving peasant. ‘It’s the secret to everything. Apart from Victoria sponge.’
‘I didn’t even know Ihadgarlic salt.’ I was eating in a more decorous fashion. ‘But you’re right. It’s good.’
‘I’m softening you up. In case I have to stay longer than intended.’ He gulped down the last forkful. ‘I had a quick look around properties to rent between meetings, and there’s not much about.’
