A stony look had settled on her wan face. Cathy took a long drag on her cigarette. Her hands were not quite steady. ‘I’m bored,’ she said, staring across the busy cafe, taking no notice of the blackboard’s long hand-written list of items fried in bacon fat.

The tone of her voice scared him. It was flat. It didn’t sound like her. Terry took her cool hands in his. ‘Look at me, girl’.

She wouldn’t meet his gaze. Instead she looked fixedly through the cafe window at the scrubby pine tree across the street, gnarled from the constant sea breezes. A good while ago, a developer with more money than taste had seeded a solitary line of ‘soft plantings’ to mark the spot where an industrial building was meant to go, but it had never been built. Few trees had survived. Now, a forest of scraggly
purple Buddleia had taken over, sprouting out of abandoned rubble sacks.

She had agreed to meet him at this bleak section of the Shore Road in Belfast where the decaying hulks of ships rested in their berths. The sea air was fresh and the mural by the Ulster Volunteer Force was done in marine paint to withstand the elements. The words, ‘Prepared for peace, ready for war’ proudly emblazoned on the estate were clearly visible from the road.

‘Bored? What are you bored of?’

‘It’s endless. I just want to slip away. I’m tired of fighting.’ she looked at him then. Her eyes seemed small in her face.

‘You aren’t alone, you know.’

‘Yeah, I know you say that, but I’ve got to do it on my own. No one else can do it for me. It’s like when you see that Samaritans sign, you know the one they put at the railway crossing?’

‘What? The one ”We’re in your corner”?’

‘Well it’s too late by then, isn’t it?’ Cathy said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Don’t be daft, Terry. If you are reading that, then you’ve already decided to walk in front of the train, haven’t you? The road to hell is paved with good intentions.’

‘Stop talking like that!’

‘So what, it’s true, isn’t it?’ She shrugged and pulled her cardigan tighter. ‘You’re one for always trying to save the world. I’m just another cause to you. You just want to be the knight in shining armour with me, don’t you? Mr. Big Man.’

‘Catch yourself on!’ Terry banged his fist on the table causing the old gent nursing his tea at the next table to scowl. ‘It’s because I care about you, you eejit!’

‘Oh, aye?’

She could infuriate him like no other. He knew it was because he was in love with her. She was so beautiful and so careless with herself. A waste of a good thing, a good person. It was wrong, he knew that. She was his cousin. His family. But his family did not marry their cousins.

***

Terry remembered one of the last times he’d seen his Nan. She’d been almost bedridden by then but he’d sat her in the chair closest to the fire. Her hands patted the coverlet over her knees as she spoke, ‘Life isn’t fair, but we all have choices. Take your man Gandhi. Now there was a fine man. He made some difficult choices. He had the courage of his convictions and he paid the ultimate price for them. Didn’t he though? Not easy. Life isn’t easy.’

He’d wondered how she could appear so calm with the troubles she’d had in her life. Her son, his Dad, had dropped dead of a heart attack on the docks and her daughter had moved to Australia chasing some boyfriend, never to be heard from again. By the time of Terry’s last visit, the arthritis made it difficult for her to walk into the village, but she’d spent a lifetime doing kind things for everyone and now people were paying her back by doing her shopping. Not her own children mind, but strangers; well, not strangers, but not family either. It was the kindness of strangers that had sustained her in her old age.

Terry had come back from England to visit her. It was always good to see her. He felt like a thirsty man at a well. No matter what madness was going on elsewhere in his life, his Nan was solid. He was going to miss her when she was gone. There was no one else like her. He felt a lump in his throat.

***

He let Cathy’s hands go. They dropped heavily by her side. She began picking at the imaginary fluff on her tights.

‘It’s been more than ten years now. Did you know that?’ said Terry.

‘Since what?’

‘Since Nan.-‘ He still could not say the word.

Cathy laughed, clumsily knocking her tea and slopping it on the table. She made no attempt to mop it up, ‘Since she died? Why, it seems like only yesterday.’

Sarcastic bitch. Look what the drugs have done to her. Terry noticed the nicotine stains on her fingers and the chipped, blood-red nail polish. Her nails used to be lovely. When he was a boy of four, Nan had remarked that they were shaped like almonds. He’d wondered what it would be like to eat one. When he bit her, he was shocked when she shrieked, then she cried. He’d only wanted a taste. He loved almonds.

Terry smiled to himself.

‘You’re sentimental, you are,’ she said, watching him.’That’s a long time ago, Nan’s death. A lot’s happened since then.’

He rolled his eyes and sighed, ‘That’s an understatement.’

The cafe windows were steamed up. Someone had wiped a section to afford a view of the street outside and the condensation dripped down in rivulets. The odour of stale oil and stewed tomatoes pervaded the air. It was oddly comforting. After Terry made the visit home he would sit on the ferry back to England and savour the familiar lingering scent. He wouldn’t wash his jumper until the smell was well and truly gone.

‘So, why did you want to see me this time? To tell me how miserable you are in England and that I should get off the junk? If life’s so great, why should I? It’s not, that’s why. What exactly do I have to look forward to here? If I get on the straight and narrow, they’ll take away my benefits. That’s what.’ She leaned in, speaking quietly, ‘I’d just have to go on the game again. How else could I make it?’ She leaned back and put her arm round the back of the seat next to her and said loudly, ‘Anyway, I’m bored. So bloody bored.’

There was the voice again, like another person was talking. Terry repressed the urge to shudder.

She glared around at the people who chanced to look up at this brusque intrusion on the enjoyment of their Ulster Fry Up.

‘Come over to England,’ he coaxed. ‘A change of scenery will do you good, so it will. It’s miserable here whether you’ve sorted yourself out or not. Even someone who had it together, would have a tough time in this place. The weather’s bad, the economy’s bad and the area’s bad. There’s nothing here for you, girl. I know people. Good people. They’d help you. I’ll help you. Let me help you.’ Terry could feel his throat tightening, his eyes watering. He coughed, to hold things back, and hastily turned away so she wouldn’t see.

‘I’ll get another pot of tea, shall I?’ she said. ‘You’re at least half tea, you are. The other half is nicotine of course,’ Terry said, adding a third teaspoon of sugar to his mug.

‘Well, you’re are at least half whiskey!’ she said laughing, ‘and the rest is sugar.’ This time the smile was in her eyes.

‘Aye, you speak the truth girl,’

*

He liked his whiskey, though his mates told him that he was mean on it. But he didn’t let it rule his life.

‘You’re like me when you drink. It’s the only way I can talk to people you see. I can’t say what I really mean unless I drink,’ Veronica, a pub regular had told him.

‘I know, I know darling. But you are so much nicer when you’re sober,’ he’d commiserated.

‘I know, it’s silly isn’t it?’ And they had hugged, drunkenly of course, swaying in the invisible wind of alcohol-induced reverie.

Terry had been told that when he was drinking at first he was huggy and then he got mean. He didn’t remember the meanness, only the reaching out to others and drinking in their sorrows; the welling of deep seated sadness, like a tsunami. And waking up the next day, usually with a raging headache and no memory at all, except for joviality and the sudden stark fear that he had been a complete bastard. The bruises on his scraped knuckles usually told the story for him.

He began the next evening’s drinking session with an apology to the long-suffering barmaid.
‘Sonya, that is not me at all. I’m not like that.’

‘I accept your apology. Don’t worry about it,’ she said.

‘But I do worry, because it’s not me at all,’ he insisted.

‘I accept your apology. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?’

‘I do worry.’

‘Don’t fucking worry. Fucking stop apologising.’

‘All right, sorry love.’ And they embraced to seal the deal.

She mumbled something under her breath.

‘What’s that darling?’ Terry asked.

‘Nothing darling,’ Sonya said, smiling and pulling his pint.

***

‘What are you up to at the minute, anyway?’ Cathy asked.

‘Ach, you know. Stuff. Protesting, as usual. Fracking, animal testing,’ Terry replied. ‘There’s a movement that’s hotting up now called Occupy, have you heard of them?’

‘Occupy? Don’t think so. What’s that?’

Terry said, ‘I must have told you the last time I was over. I’m sure I did. It’s where a bunch of people take over a place and camp there and protest what’s wrong with capitalist society.’

‘The same capitalist society that pays your wages so you can pay your rent? Fit that in around your work, do you?’

‘I have to work my arse off to pay my rent,’ he said. ‘It’s difficult to make a living wage. You know that most of all don’t you?’

‘I’ve got a mucker that makes a bomb dealing. Nothing serious, but he makes a fair bit of silver doing that.’ She bit her nails. ‘And, it’s good because of his connections, he can get special stuff cheap. Plus, I think he’s got a bit of a thing for me. He always appreciates when I make the effort to look nice for him. It’s good to keep him sweet.’

‘I’ve got news for you love, that is capitalism at work right there. It’s just not recognised by society. Well, not officially recognised by organised society.’

‘It fills a need. He doesn’t sell the hard shit, mostly weed and pills. It’s good for a girl to know a friendly pill man.’

Terry felt a stab of jealousy. ‘You sleeping with him?’

‘No. I think he’s gay. Or, maybe asexual. He’s about the only guy who hasn’t tried it on with me. Dunno why, but I’m not complaining.’

‘Yeah, why would you complain?’

‘Shut it, Terry. You are so self-righteous sometimes.’

‘Chrissake. Half the time I hear from you, it’s the bloody A & E calling to let me know you’re poorly again. Don’t have me as a contact if you don’t want to hear from me. What am I supposed to do? Say, ‘Ach, thankin’ you , tell her I hope she feels better soon?’

They sat in silence, the hissing from the water boiler punctuating their contemplation.

After a while Terry said, ‘You could be forgiven for thinking I care.’

She put her hands over his callused ones. Terry noticed hers had got scrawny, like talons. When did they get so old? She saw him looking and withdrew them. God. He could use a drink.

‘Let me ask you a question. Do you meet up with me, just to give me a hard time or what?’

Terry licked his lips and began to reply but thought better of it. In his head, he heard Nan’s voice, ‘Let her sit with it. There’s power in not saying anything sometimes you know.’

‘Aye,’ he replied, mesmerised by the small droplets of creamy milk-fat floating on the surface of his tea.

‘Aye what?’

‘Just aye,’ he said, feeling all the energy drain from him.

He was melting into the chair. The sheer hopelessness of the situation got to him then. It wouldn’t matter if he never got up from this seat again. He would just live within the steamy confines of this dismal cafe, in this dismal spot on the most beautiful green island in the world. And exist.

At least he would be with her and she would be away from all her worries and they could drink the strong tea endlessly and he would stay until they had talked through everything. Everything completely. Until everything was solved.

About E M Moxley

Eileen Moxley has been a house cleaner, waitress, wall paper stripper, newspaper delivery girl, worked in the film sales and distribution industries and for the British Trust for Conservation Volunteers, but, she likes writing the best. Once she convinced her class in High School that she wasn't in school because she was too busy being an Olympic ski jumper in Utah. It wasn't true but she did get nominated for class bull s---ter. Sadly she lost. She has an unhealthy obsession looking at the ground whilst on walks otherwise known as 'archaeology'. Eileen belongs to a knitting group and is known as the 'knit wit' or more familiarly as 'that girl that doesn't knit'; all because she knitted an awesome scarf for someone WHO LEFT IT ON A TRAIN.

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