Unravelling Oliver
Liz Nugent
For my mum, with love and gratitude
1. Oliver
I expected more of a reaction the first time I hit her. She just lay on the floor holding her jaw. Staring at me. Silent. She didn’t even seem to be surprised.
I was surprised. I hadn’t planned to do it. Usually when you hear about this kind of thing, it is the 1950s, and the husband comes home drunk to his slovenly wife from the pub and finds that his dinner is cold. On the contrary, it was 12 November 2011, a wintry Saturday evening on a south Dublin avenue, and Alice had prepared a delicious meal: lamb tagine, served on a bed of couscous, with pitta bread and a side dish of mint yoghurt. Though the lamb was a tad lukewarm by the time she presented it, I really couldn’t fault it. I had washed the meal down with two glasses of Sancerre, while Alice prepared the raspberry roulade for serving. I certainly wasn’t drunk.
But now, here she lay; the lower half of her body nearly hidden behind the legs of our mahogany dining table, her arms, head and torso curled inwards like a question mark. How had she fallen into that shape? There must have been considerable force behind my closed fist. If the glass had been in my hand, would I have stopped and put it down before I hit her? Or would I have smashed it into her face? Would it have shattered on contact and torn her pale skin? Could I have scarred her for life? It’s very hard to know. The words that come to mind are ‘circumstances beyond our control’. I emphasize the word ‘our’, because, although I should not have done it, she really should not have provoked me.
The phone rang. Maybe I should have ignored it, but it might have been important.
‘Hello?’
‘Oliver. It’s Moya. How are things?’
These rhetorical questions irritate me. ‘How are things?’, indeed.
Sorry, Moya, I’ve just punched Alice in the face and she’s lying on the floor. And we’ve had a marvellous dinner.
Of course, I didn’t say that. I made some ham-fisted attempt at an excuse and bade her farewell. I waited for the reciprocal adieu.
There was a moment’s silence and then:
‘Don’t you want to know how I am? Where I am?’
I was short and to the point. ‘No.’
Another silence. And then, whispered, ‘Oh right, OK, is Alice there?’
Go away, you stupid irritating woman.
I didn’t say that either. I told her that now was not a good time. She tried to inveigle me into a conversation, prattling about her new life in France. Even amid the turmoil, I could tell that she wanted me to be jealous. Bloody Moya. I ended the conversation politely but firmly.
I thought that the decent thing to do was for me to leave the house immediately. Not permanently, you understand. I thought there was more chance of Alice getting up off the floor if I wasn’t looming over her. I went to get my coat from its peg in the hall. It was a little difficult to do up the buttons. My hands suddenly seemed to be too large for my gloves.
Two hours later, I was on my third brandy in Nash’s. Nervously, I buttoned and unbuttoned my shirt cuffs. It is a habit from childhood, a thing I do when I am distressed. Even John-Joe commented on my rattled demeanour when he served me. Brandy would not have been my normal tipple. But I had had a shock, you see. Now I was drunk.
I wanted to phone Alice to see if she was all right, but I had left my mobile behind and I thought that perhaps borrowing somebody’s phone would make a bigger deal of the situation than it warranted. Don’t get me wrong, I knew it was serious. A significant error of judgement had been made. She should not have ended up on the floor.
I am aware that I am not the easiest of people. Alice has told me so. I have no friends, for example. I used to, many years ago, but that really didn’t work out. We drifted apart and I let them go – voluntarily, I suppose. Friends are just people who remind you of your failings. I have several acquaintances. I have no family either to speak of. Not in the sense that matters.
Over the years, Alice has never pried, has never been too curious. In fact, I would describe her as habitually obedient with just an occasional rebellion. I am not, have never been, violent.
I went to the bar and bought a packet of cigarettes. Strong ones. I was worried that my hands were still unsteady. Isn’t brandy supposed to help at a time like this? Or is that an old wives’ tale? Old wives.
Outside in the ‘beer garden’ (a yard with half a roof beside the front door), I lit my first cigarette in years. Barney Dwyer, a neighbour from the Villas, approached from the public bar. Barney spent more time in the beer garden than inside the pub.
‘Thought you were off them?’ he said.
‘I am.’
‘Jaysus,’ said he, a swagger in his voice and sucking on a Rothmans, ‘they couldn’t break me.’
Here we go. Barney prided himself on his forty-a-day habit. When the smoking ban was introduced, most of us did our best to quit. I am proud to say that I was the first to succeed. I became known as the man with a ‘will of iron’. Barney, on the other hand, made no such attempt. If Barney had never smoked, he would have started the day the ban was introduced. A contrary bugger if ever there was one. Thin head, big ears.
‘Welcome back,’ he said.
‘I’m not back, I’m just having the one. It’s been a bad day.’