‘Isn’t that what we’re doing now?’
His father paused. ‘It is, but we’re Charlie’s friends,’ he said, frowning. ‘He can’t count on everyone else around here to be his friend.’
‘He can’t control it, so he should forget about it,’ Mark said, and his father looked at him as though what he was saying was madness.
‘And of course he’ll never get married now, and there’s an awful lot to worry about, you know, when you have a son that way.’
‘Like what?’ Mark said, knowing the answer.
‘Like. .’ His father stopped.
‘Like AIDS, you mean,’ Mark said, and his father clicked his tongue.
‘Would you shut up about AIDS,’ he said, under his breath. ‘I don’t want that fucker Keogh knowing Charlie’s business.’
‘You’re the only one thinks it’s Charlie’s business,’ Mark said. ‘There’s no reason why Brian McCabe would get AIDS, any more than I’d get it or anyone else would.’ From the way his father started beside him, Mark could tell that he had provided him with cold comfort. ‘And there’s no reason why he shouldn’t have as good a life as anyone can have. He can’t get married, I’ll grant you, but not everybody wants to get married. And anyway, that might change. For Brian, I mean. In a few years, he might be able.’
His father said nothing. A conversation about gay marriage was hardly what he had had in mind when he had come into Mark’s room and invited him to Keogh’s. Then again, it was not something Mark himself had had in mind. It was time to change the subject. He lifted his pint. ‘So Charlie shouldn’t be worrying himself. Let’s leave it at that. Brian always seems happy to me.’
Tom was still quiet. ‘Do you know him well?’ he said eventually.
‘I see him around here the odd time.’
‘You never see him out and about in Dublin?’
‘No, you needn’t be worrying,’ Mark said drily. ‘I never see him out and about in Dublin.’
‘I’m only asking.’
‘Yeah,’ Mark said.
They were silent for a long moment, during which Mark wondered what, after all, it would be like to be with Brian McCabe. Because the more he thought about it, the more he reckoned McCabe probably was into him. It could be worse.
McCabe was a good-looking guy. If it had to be someone, if it had to be some guy, he wouldn’t mind it being McCabe.
‘There’s the farm, too, of course,’ Tom said, his voice stronger, surer now. ‘Charlie’s getting to the stage where he could do with his son to help him. Not much chance of that buck coming down and putting on his wellingtons.’
Mark felt his jaw clamp. He had walked into it. ‘Ah, for fuck’s sake,’ he said, loudly enough for the three or four drinkers in the bar to look up and take notice. ‘Don’t start.’
‘I’m only saying it’s hard on Charlie.’
‘Charlie seems to manage well enough by himself.’
‘Ah, you think that.’
Mark sighed. This was going exactly where he had suspected it would go. And there was a long way to go yet. They always stayed until closing time on these nights in Keogh’s. He could try to shut the conversation down, or he could face up to it. It was probably time he told his father a few things. It was time he spoke to him directly. He cleared his throat. ‘Charlie’s son has his own life, and his own career, and I’m sure Charlie is glad about that,’ he said.
‘Ah, he is, he is, of course he is,’ Tom said. ‘Apart from the worry of the other thing.’
‘So why would he want his son to give his own life up to run a farm of less than sixty acres?’
‘He could run the farm and still have his own life. The farm wouldn’t stop him.’
Mark snorted. ‘Brian McCabe is a software engineer in one of the biggest companies in the world. He lives in an apartment on one of the most expensive streets in the city. He goes to New York and London and God knows where else several times a year. He eats in the best restaurants and drinks in the best bars.’
‘I thought you said you didn’t see him in Dublin?’
‘I don’t.’ Mark sighed. ‘I’m just saying, that’s the kind of lifestyle you can expect someone like him to be having.’
‘Because he’s queer?’
‘Because he’s rich.’
‘Ah,’ Tom shrugged.
‘And so, tell me, how would a life like that be compatible with running a farm like Charlie’s? How would he do both at once? Spend every weekend to his oxters in cowshit, is that it?’
‘There wouldn’t be any need of that.’
‘So how?’
‘There’s ways.’
Mark laughed. ‘Tell me the ways. Go on. I’m interested.’ At this, he saw, his father himself grew interested.
He turned to face Mark. ‘There’s jobs around here too, you know,’ he said.
‘Not jobs that Brian McCabe would want,’ Mark said slowly. ‘Not jobs that anyone, really, would want.’
His father was unruffled. ‘Athlone or Sligo, then,’ he said. ‘There’s everything there — they’ve factories, businesses, universities, the whole lot. A man could easily be living down here and doing whatever he wanted to do with the time he wasn’t at work.’
‘It’s not the same.’
‘How is it not?’
‘It’s just not.’
‘And that’s a great answer,’ his father said, a line he had been using on Mark since he was a child. He was on his feet and heading for the toilet before Mark could reply.
‘Two more, Mark?’ said Paddy Keogh, who had, Mark realized, been standing close enough to hear the last few minutes of the exchange. Charlie McCabe had a gay son now, whether he liked it or not.
‘Two more, please,’ said Mark.
‘That’s the stuff,’ said Keogh, with a slow smile. ‘But if I’m not mistaken, it’s your father’s round.’
Chapter Eight
On warm summer evenings a crowd always surrounded the pub on the corner of South Anne Street, not trying to get in, but taking pleasure in being outside, drinks in hand, soaking up the last of the sun. Suit jackets were shrugged off, ties were loosened, the work day done, the night stretching out ahead. The atmosphere was at its most elated on Fridays, when a communal sense of liberation descended, so that proximity could lead to banter, and banter could lead to bed, but evenings like this were so rare in Dublin — so balmy, so beautiful, the low sunlight burnishing the deep red brick of the buildings — that a weekday could seem like a Friday, and nobody would say a thing to shatter the illusion.
Inside it was cool and dim, and few of the tables were occupied. The pub was made up of several small rooms, and a rickety staircase, lined with old photographs of writers and musicians, led to more narrow rooms and a second bar. Mark moved through them quickly, his gaze taking in every table. Several of the drinkers looked at him, out of boredom or curiosity, as he passed. She was not upstairs. He checked downstairs again, stuck his head into the snug at the front of the pub. He had to elbow through an animated throng at the door, and then he saw her. She was in a skirt, and heels, and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She was talking to some guy who hadn’t taken off his jacket or his tie. She looked up and saw Mark, and she excused herself from the gathering and came towards him, smiling, the beginnings of a blush spreading on her face.
She leaned in for a kiss, not on the lips but on the cheek; he was thankful he’d figured that out in time.
‘So you’re good for another winter?’ she said.
He didn’t have a clue what she was on about, but he wasn’t going to let her see that: he’d muddle through it, whatever it was. He didn’t want his first sober words to her to suggest that either she was making no sense or that he was a bit slow. ‘Yeah,’ he said enthusiastically.