He wiped away the mist from the window that he might see the city. Plumes of wind-driven black smoke from some house being demolished went by. Then came a graveyard with its back to the road. Each headstone appeared like someone kneeling, head bowed. These were vexed images. He put them out of his mind. Automatically he grabbed his bag by the strap, yet he was determined not to move till the carriage emptied. He held his bag tight against his stomach, then put it down again, for he realized there was a little way to go yet and he did not want to be among those who were already on their feet, hauling bags from overhead, queueing up, as if this furtive preparation might somehow save them a few minutes later on.

He saw the lad who had called him a Taig alight. Then a group of schoolboys harassing each other climbed off. Jack stepped onto the platform, but could see no sign of Catherine. Then she appeared waving at the top of the crowded stairs that led to Botanic Avenue. It was as he had foreseen. She was perplexed and expectant and giddy. He felt immense relief seeing her there.

“Waunker,” shouted a schoolboy to another.

The other lad slung his bag onto his shoulder. “Your teacher,” he roared back, then seconds passed as he sought the most profane insult he could, “sucks cocks,” he turned to go, “in Hell!” The echo of the curse rang through the Belfast station.

23. The Irishman

23

The Irishman

“This is a nice place,” she’d say tenderly. He felt her touch the bottom of his hip. A hollow place in his chest. Places she touched were strange to him. Then his hands wandered over her, marvelling at her soft butt and stiff crotch hair. Her calves. Her breasts.

Then a strange thing would happen. Often Catherine felt him stop breathing. She’d know the tension was leaving him by the way he would grow her full length. Then his breathing would stop. Now she would become frightened. She was being left behind because she was too far outside, just looking in. She’d hold him tightly.

She’d grow inescapably tender towards him.

What he feared most was that everything might become sadly familiar. That his arms would inflate, a fever seek him out, that he’d hear someone say how such-and-such had lost its charm. That Catherine might be the sort of person who would cling steadfastly to her place of residence, wherever it be, and not let go. As her breasts brushed against him, Jack thought of home as a place frozen in the wastes. He was being lifted and transported. He believed in miracles and hated those who did not. He hated those people for whom change was not only unthinkable, but unlucky. He had seen this.