Beautiful World, Where Are You(68)

And to the east, up through the gates, the old rectory, blue as milk. Inside, four bodies

sleeping, waking, sleeping again. On their sides, or lying on their backs, with the quilts kicked down, through dreams they passed in silence. And already now behind the house the sun was rising. On the back walls of the house and through the branches of the trees, through the coloured leaves of the trees and through the damp green grasses, the light of dawn was sifting. Summer morning. Cold clear water cupped in the palm of a hand.





26


At nine o’clock they were eating breakfast together in the kitchen, with clouds of steam from the kettle, clattering of plates and cups, sunlight billowing through the back window. Footsteps up and down the staircase after that, and voices calling. Alice threw a straw basket full of beach towels into the boot of the car while Felix stood leaning against the bonnet. Her sunglasses on her head, pushing her damp hair back off her face.

He came and put his arms around her from behind, kissed the back of her neck, said something in her ear, and she laughed. The four of them in the car then with the windows rolled down, the smell of hot plastic and stale cigarette smoke, Thin Lizzy on the radio, a crackle of static. Simon in the back seat, saying to Alice: God no, I haven’t heard from her in ages. Eileen’s face at the open window, the wind whipping hard through her hair. When they parked up, the beach ahead was white and glittering, dotted with bathers, people in wetsuits, families with sun umbrellas and coloured plastic buckets. Eleven o’clock on a Tuesday. Down by the dunes Alice and Eileen spread their towels out on the sand, one orange, the other with a pink-and-yellow pattern of seashells. Taking his shoes off, Simon said he would go and see what the water was like. Felix, toying with the drawstring on his swimming shorts, smiled to himself. I knew you’d say that, he said. Go on, I’ll go with you, why not. The tide was out and as they walked the sand was darker, firmer underfoot, crusted with coloured stones and fragments of shell, dried seaweed, the whitened remains of crabs. Ahead of them the sea. The sun beat down hot on their necks and shoulders. Beside Simon, Felix looked small and compact, dark-haired, nimble. Simon’s shadow longer over the flat wet sand.

Felix started asking about his job again, asking what he actually did all day. He said he mostly attended meetings, sometimes with politicians, and sometimes with activists and

community groups. Saltwater mild over their feet, and then cold on their ankles, colder still up at their knees. In the last few months Simon said they had been working a lot with an organisation for refugees. Helping them, said Felix. Trying to, said Simon. Is the water always this cold, by the way? Felix laughed, his teeth were chattering. Yeah, it’s always horrible, he answered. Don’t know why I came in, I usually never do. And you’re renting in Dublin, or you own a place? He was hugging his arms against his chest as he spoke, shivering his shoulders. Right, I have an apartment, Simon said. I mean, I have a mortgage. Felix splashed his hand idly through the surface of the water, kicking up a little white spray in Simon’s direction. Without raising his eyes, he said: Yeah, my mam died there last year and she left us the house. But that’s still got ten years on the mortgage as well. He rubbed the back of his neck with his wet fingertips. I don’t live there or anything, he added. My brother is actually in the middle of selling it now. Simon listened in silence, wading along to keep pace, the water waist-high now.

He said gently that he was very sorry to hear that Felix had lost his mother. Felix looked at him, screwed one eye shut, and then looked back down at the water. Yep, he said.

Simon asked how he felt about selling the house and he gave a strange, hard laugh. It’s funny, he replied. I’m avoiding my brother for the last six weeks trying to get out of signing it over. Isn’t that mad? I don’t know why I’m doing it. It’s not like I want to live there. And I really need the money. But that’s me, can’t do things the easy way. He splashed his hand through the water again aimlessly. It’s good you’re doing that stuff you were saying, about the asylum seekers, he said. God love them. Simon seemed to consider this a moment, and then said that he felt increasingly frustrated with his work, because all he really did was go to meetings and write reports that no one ever read. But at least you care, said Felix. A lot of people don’t. Simon said that while of course he

did care, in theory, it didn’t seem to make much difference whether he did or not. Most of the time I’m going about my life like it’s not even happening, he added. I mean, I meet with these people who’ve gone through things I can’t even begin to understand.

And as much as I’m on their side in principle, and I go to work every day and do my job, in reality I spend most of my time thinking about— I don’t know. Felix gestured back toward the shore, at the reclining forms of Alice and Eileen. The likes of them, he said. Smiling now, Simon turned his eyes away and said yes, the likes of them. Felix was observing him carefully. You’re religious, are you? he asked. Simon paused a moment before looking back up at him. Did Alice tell you that, he said, or did you just guess? Felix gave another cheerful laugh. The Catholic guilt was a giveaway, he answered. Nah, she told me. For a few seconds they were silent, walking on. Quietly, Simon said that at one time in his life he had thought about joining the priesthood. Felix was observing him, mild, interested. And why didn’t you, he said, if you don’t mind me asking? Simon was looking down into the cold cloudy water, the surface broken up here and there by fragments of reflected light. Then he answered: I was going to say that I thought politics would be more practical. But the truth is, I didn’t want to be alone.