Part 7 (1/2)

Duncan smiled bashfully and manoeuvred the cot sideways through the front door. I thought it best not to join in the tweaking until I had figured out his s.e.xual orientation.

Patricia bustled in behind him. *It's good of you to bring it,' I mimicked behind her. *You've changed your tune.'

*I'm only being polite,' she whispered.

*You could be polite to me,' I said.

*That'll be the day,' she hissed with enough venom to suggest a nodding acquaintance with the family Viperidae.

I shrugged and followed them in. It's funny how marriage vows give you a licence to be mean to your loved ones but polite to strangers. I have always believed and practised that it should be the other way about. Indeed, that I was within my rights to tell Duncan b.l.o.o.d.y Cairns to stick his cot up his hole, as Oscar Wilde had once famously not said. But I held off. He had the flushed face and red-rimmed eyes of someone who might know where the beer was kept.

Duncan set the cot down in the bedroom, then stood back and admired it for a moment. *It was mine when I was a kid,' he said.

*Aw,' said Patricia.

He looked at Little Stevie, sleeping soundly on the bed. *Now there's a picture,' he said.

*Aye,' said Patricia.

I had done enough beating around the bush. I'd let him through my front door. I'd let him relax in his new surroundings and get to know us as friends. He'd crammed a lot into ten seconds. *Listen,' I said, *I'd offer you a drink, but there appears to be none on the island.'

*Naw,' he said with a slight shake of his head, *there's not.'

*How come?' I asked. *I saw the pub's shut on the way in.'

Patricia tutted. *You've got drink on the brain, Dan,' she scolded. *Would you like a cup of tea, Duncan?'

*If it's no trouble . . .'

*No trouble at all.'

She scooted off to the kitchen. *What's with the lack of drink, then?' I asked.

*Aye, well, Old Jack McGettigan . . . he owned the pub . . . well, he kind of got religion and decided to close it down.'

*That must have gone down well.'

*Actually, it did, mostly. The Parish Council took a vote and decided to ban the stuff entirely.'

*Jesus,' I said.

*Something like that.'

He held my eyes for a moment, then turned and walked into the kitchen.

They had tea. I had another Diet Pepsi. If I ever do write my novel I will have to put *with added Nutrasweet' on the cover.

*So who had the cottage before us?' Patricia asked, elbows on the table, fists bunched loosely beneath her chin. *They left it in a bit of a mess.'

*I know. I'm sorry a again. A couple of young bucks over from the mainland rented it out. They seemed decent enough, but . . . you know . . . they weren't. They were asked to leave.'

*They seemed to leave in a hurry,' I said.

*Yes,' he said. He nodded once, as if to signal that the subject was closed. He looked about the kitchen. So did I. It looked a good deal better since we'd worked at it. *So do you think you'll be comfortable here,' he asked, *what with the baby *n' all?'

*Of course we will,' Patricia said, and gave his arm a little squeeze.

He was pleasant. Chatty without being gossipy. Interested without delving. Informative but not revealing. He didn't raise the subject of the child Messiah. Neither did I. It could wait. Even sitting, he was tall. He'd a shock of black curly hair. It was difficult to put an age on him, with his pale unlined face, but wind-hardened skin. He said he'd been a teacher in the school for six years. He was island born, bred and b.u.t.tered. His parents were long dead and he now lived alone in a cottage at the rear of the school. The school itself wasn't much more than a room in which he taught pupils from five up to pre-teen. After that they were s.h.i.+pped off to the mainland.

*So where did you learn to be a teacher?' Patricia asked.

*Derry,' he said.

*But you came back here after you trained.'

*Yeah. That was always the plan. My dad was teacher here before me. It was kind of expected of me.'

*I think that's nice.'

*Well,' he said, and nodded once. His gaze lingered on Patricia.

My gaze often lingers on Patricia, but that is my right. I've paid the licence fee.

He turned to me. *I thought maybe you could come along and read something of what you've written to the kids,' he said.

*You think they'll be into s.e.x and drugs and rock'n'roll?'

*Oh,' he said flatly, and looked at the table.

*Dan . . .' said Patricia.

I shrugged.

*He's only teasing,' Patricia said. *You'll have to get used to his sense of humour.'

Duncan nodded slowly. His eyes returned to me. *So what are you writing?'

There are two ways to go when you get into a mood. You go with what comes naturally. Free flow. Stream of consciousness. Honesty. Say it with pa.s.sion. Stuff the consequences. Or you can be polite. Sometimes you don't know until you open your mouth.

*I'm talking to Spielberg about a screenplay.'

Patricia tutted.

*It's an examination of the drink-sodden later years of Oskar Schindler. It's called Schindler's p.i.s.sed.'

*Dan . . .'