Lying in Wait(43)

‘Thanks a million,’ she said. If only needy were attractive. I made a show of putting the beer mat into my breast pocket. She leaned forward for a kiss on the cheek, but I deliberately misunderstood her and pulled her scarf up where it had slipped on her shoulder. I got up to leave, saying I’d call her. She gathered her bags and followed me to the door. She looked at me expectantly and I knew I was supposed to say when I’d call her, but I did the cowardly thing and waved goodbye.

Earlier that day, the other notable incident had happened. I was sitting at the Fresh Claims desk, going through all the forms with the new claimants, when a man sat down in the chair in front of me. I didn’t look up, as I was noting something on a previous claimant’s form, and asked him to bear with me for a moment. He handed his application form across the desk without saying anything. I finished with the previous form and filed it and then faced this new claimant. He was a heavyset man, and I didn’t recognize him straight away. Even when I saw his name at the top of the form, it didn’t immediately click with me, but when I looked him in the eye, I knew him. Gerry Doyle (Gerald on the application form and his documentation), father of Annie. How many times had I pored over those newspaper cuttings of the press conference? In the intervening years he had lost some hair, and what was left of it was silver. His face was ruddier and more bloated-looking than I recalled. I coughed and shifted in my chair. I excused myself and went out the back door of the office for a gulp of air. I wanted to throw up, but I forced myself to calm down and return to the desk. I noted all his details on the form. I imagined I could see the sorrow in him, the loss of Annie. He was separated from his wife, Pauline.

‘Any dependants?’ I asked.

He inhaled deeply and then said, ‘No. Two daughters, all grown up, Annie and Karen.’

As I talked to him, I felt his sense of shame at being unemployed for the first time in his life. I did everything I could to put him at ease. ‘It’s not your fault,’ I said with false confidence. ‘It’s just the way things are for the moment, but the economy will pick up again soon.’

He smiled at me. I got his P45, birth certificate, address, his tax ID number, his employment history. He needed help with the application form. He admitted he couldn’t read or write very well and had always done manual labour. Gerry had been apprenticed as a baker in Fallon’s in 1966 and had worked there ever since. Before that he’d been a road labourer for Dublin Corporation. Old Mr Fallon who owned the bakery had been losing money on the place for a long time, and with his failing health he could no longer work there himself. It couldn’t be sold as a going concern as there were no buyers. Mr Fallon had relinquished the lease on the building and shut up shop. Gerry’s wife had left him to live with her sister, and Gerry stayed on in the council-owned family home on Pearse Street, not far from our office. He had no savings. He had never earned a lot, and all of it had been spent on his home or his family. Since the separation, he had always given Pauline exactly half of his earnings. She had worked in a newsagent’s until her moods forced her into early retirement.

‘Her moods?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, she gets upset a lot.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ I was genuinely sorry, and I knew well the source of Pauline Doyle’s depression. I wanted to say something to him, to let him know that I understood something of his pain, but I said nothing.

When everything was done, he stood up and we shook hands. ‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘for making this so easy. I’ve been dreading this day for months, you know.’

‘I understand. Nobody wants to be here.’

As I left the pub that evening, instead of heading to the chip shop, I wandered down towards Pearse Street and stood for half an hour outside Gerry’s address. I had memorized it from the claim form. It was a 1960s redbrick corporation house. Two bedrooms. As he was a single man living in a family home, technically he should have been rehoused, but I felt a responsibility to him so I had ticked the one-bedroom box on the form. Gerry had had enough upheaval in his life.

All the windows were grimy. Rubbish had been wind-whipped into the corner of the doorway. Nobody came or went. I’m not even sure he was in, but it unsettled me, to watch his home and imagine him inside, staring at his television, perhaps trying not to think about his lost daughter.

I headed for the bus stop, but realized that I really didn’t want to go home. Not yet. I passed a phone box. Digging for change in my pocket, I took the beer mat out and dialled the number. It rang about nine times before it was answered. I quickly pushed Button A as the coins chinked their way into the machine.

‘Yeah?’ said a disembodied voice – older, female, but not Bridget.

‘Is Bridget there, please?’

A long sigh. ‘She’s in Flat 4 at the top of the house. You’ll have to wait.’ The phone clanked as it was dropped on to a hard surface, and I heard footsteps trudging slowly up the stairs. I deposited another five pence into the slot and waited.

‘Hello? Dad?’ She sounded worried.

‘Hi, Bridget. It’s me, Laurence.’

Silence. I couldn’t afford silences. Another coin into the slot.

‘I was just wondering if you’d like me to come over.’

‘Here? Now?’ I could hear an edge of hysteria in her voice.

I looked at my watch. It was 10.30 p.m.