Aidan Furey’s short stories can be found online and in print, including with The Tangerine, Honest Ulsterman, Boyne Berries and, Ireland’s Own. He is currently seeking representation for his debut novel, Traces, which was a winner of The Irish Writer’s Centre, Novel Fair. He lives in Belfast with his wife and two daughters.
The Last Drink
By Aidan Furey
Maeve curled her fingers around a glass of Powers and watched the room through the angled mirror hanging above the bar. It was like watching a familiar episode of a show long since cancelled. The faces she knew well enough, their movements easily recognisable, their laughter easily identifiable. She imagined the same stories being retold to ears that had heard them time and time again. Her eyes settled on Siobhan; her tilted head laughing, her light touch on his shoulder, her constant half-smile bestowing radiance to all around her. Siobhan raised herself onto the tips of her hooves and whispered something into his ear and then retreated.
‘I’m having awful problems with the old diverticulitis.’
Momentarily broken from her thoughts, Maeve turned to see the plump shape of Conal Morgan.
With a raised hand, she quietened him, her eyes returned to the mirror and searched for Siobhan, fleeting from face to face, but not seeing her.
‘The piles. They’re playing up something serious.’
‘Jesus, Conal. It’s my night off.’
Maeve ejected herself from the seat and weaved through the narrow thread of space between huddled friends who vibrated with laughter and comradery. The heat of the place had become stifling, the voices and the music entwined, rising to a crescendo, making her head pulse.
In the quiet of the bathroom, she placed a hand on each side of the sink and leant towards the mirror. There were oysters under her eyes, so heavy, no makeup could cover. Her unsmiling mouth displayed a constant, derisive bitterness. She felt that her face was no longer her own, that the sourness in her life had caused it to take on a fitting, almost gargoyle form. She regretted coming or at least arriving so early. Regret was a familiar foe. She should have just shown her face; she knew that now. She should have arrived at ten, perhaps even acted surprised at was occurring, and then, when all had seen how unconcerned she was, left them to it. Instead, she had arrived at seven. Two pints of Guinness and now a whiskey had her flush faced and almost glowing with what most would see as anger or worse, envy – those that would look at her anyway. There had been a few nods towards her as the night meandered, but little more than that, and the weight of exclusion had settled heavily upon her. She closed her eyes and wondered why she stayed. Just as in the darkest of winter nights, she thought of her sister, Kerri. Fearless Kerri who had up-sticked aged twenty-two and headed to Canada with no job and not even a place to stay. The Christmas card she received each year, often made her weep. Maeve wondered how two people who shared the same genes could have two such different outlooks. Maeve’s life had always been built on hope. Her expectations had been modest – a job, a husband, a home. And she had all of that; had been content with all of that. When it curdled, so had she.
She bent down to dab her cheeks with cold water, attempting to dampen the fire in them. Behind her a toilet flushed and the door sprung open. And there she was, the strutting tart. Hair down to her hole and swinging like a show pony when she walked. And that lipstick; that thick smear of crimson that made her lips look like an orangutan’s arse. The ridiculous woman walked by without as much as a glance at Maeve.
‘Wash your hands, you dirty bitch,’ Maeve muttered to her reflection.
She touched up her make-up and returned to her seat at the bar. The music had turned melancholy, a ballad of memory and regret; about sweethearts sharing a final drink before parting. As the crowd slurred the words that they remembered, Maeve let the music guide her back to the buried past. Glimpses of contentment flashed through her mind – that crooked smile of his, the way his head moved forward when he watched TV, like an eagle, the touch of his hand on her face and the gentle gasp he made when their love reached its height. Seven years of soft memories replaced now by venom and malice.
He appeared at her shoulder, reaching across counter for something.
‘Declan,’ she said, flicking an errant hair from across face.
‘Ah, Maeve! I didn’t know whether … well, you know.’
She smiled, an action that felt unfamiliar.
‘Thought I should show my face.’
Her smile grew wider, but it stopped somewhere at her cheeks, never making it to her eyes.
‘I was wondering if we could …’
She stopped herself. There had been a wordless peace for a year or more. Breaking it now seemed too much.
‘I’ve got to get this to Minty,’ he said, holding up a cloth. ‘He’s thrown the guts of pint down his three-piece.’
And with that he was gone again. It seemed that he couldn’t stand to spend even thirty seconds with her.
How had she let it happen? How had it come to be? Fleeting glances, casual flirtation, a reduction of personal space. Attention that sparked weakness and desire. The increments of infidelity rising to a fatal conclusion and the lies waiting to be uncovered. She bowed her head and pushed back the tears. What a fool she had been.
She felt someone at her side and turned as Siobhan pushed a whiskey towards her. In the mirror she could see the eyes of the room on them, could see the nudges and the motioning of heads.
‘I don’t like seeing a person drink alone.’
And there it was, the worst of all words – pity.
Maeve wanted to push the tumbler away but instead placed her fingers on its rim and tapped slowly, stopping only when she noticed Siobhan’s French manicure circle her own glass. It must be nice to have nothing to do all day, only to look well, she thought. She looked down at herself; a pair of leggings and an oversized jumper were as much as she could muster. She been back and forth on coming for more than a week, the decision finally settled upon, a half hour before she arrived. She had wished she’d put as much thought into her preparations.
There was silence for a while, each perhaps reluctant to take the first verbal steps. A single wrong word could ignite the bitterness. It had happened before, more than once. Their names had been in the mouths of every gossip in the village, many of whom watched them now with tight-lipped eagerness.
‘We could give them another show.’
‘It could happen yet.’
‘I’m too …’
The word was lost in a sigh. Both women settled cautiously into their seats. The watching eyes of the village felt they had watched long enough and went back to their revelry.
‘Was there always and interest in him?’
In the pause, Maeve wondered if the response would make any difference. Perhaps she would feel better if there’d always been something there – perhaps some sort of rebalancing of guilt.
‘I don’t think so. He’s a good man. He didn’t deserve what you did.’
He did not. But she could not help but feel that she did not deserve this penance.
‘I can’t spend the rest of my life apologising to him, to you, to all these fuckers.’
Siobhan opened her mouth and then closed it again, trapping the instinctive words from rushing out. Then, she returned with more measured ones.
‘No one’s asking you to. Live your life and let us live ours.’
Christmas cracker advice from the tart, though Maeve.
‘Well, that won’t be a problem after tomorrow.’
Maeve turned her head away. She could see Declan staring directly at them, while supping at a Guinness and listening to what was more than likely a long, rambling tale told by Minty Flannagan. She saw what she thought was a sadness in his eyes. Perhaps it was just a reflection of her own. There was nothing more she could do about any of it. The consequence needed only acceptance. All she had now was her own self-respect, and every word was a battle to keep just a sliver of it.
‘I’m glad we’re going. Maybe not at why he wants to go.’
Another dig, Maeve thought. The hurt she had caused, the embarrassment to him. Siobhan turned her head to face Maeve. Her eyes narrowed and her jaw tightened.
‘I’d much rather that he was indifferent to you. I don’t know if it’s rage or hatred, but it’s more emotion than I’m comfortable with.’
The words gave Maeve a feeling of satisfaction and sadness in equal measure.
‘I always thought it would be you that left.’
She had thought of it. Thought of little else. Thought of Kerri and Canada. Thought of getting lost in a city. Dublin or Belfast. Start again. Where to start? How to start?
‘Well, we don’t all have daddy’s money.’
Siobhan turned away once more.
‘I’d rather have my daddy.’
Maeve felt herself losing whatever game they were playing. Siobhan’s composure only served to trump her own caustic remarks.
‘Sorry. I don’t mean …’
‘I know you’re sorry. Just move on. Live your life. You’re forty-five not seventy.’
Siobhan may have been right, but there was too much effort in moving forward. She was tired spiritually, wearied physically. She wanted to go back to a place when she did not feel so. She remembered now, not knowing why, the line of black dirt that was forever under his fingernails. And how, although he would scrub at them with a hard nail brush, so harshly the skin would glow red, but the black line persisted.
Behind them, the musicians began to play a reel. Someone whopped, causing them both to turn their heads in unison and stare. Padraig Meany was an ogre of a man with a body like a barrel and a chin like a bread bin, but he played the fiddle like the devil. His son Conn was a shy one and there had been a time when he was thought of as something of an eejit; it was good to see him come on. Mary O’Donnell sat with her eyes closed, holding the squeezebox and moving it in rhythm.
Maeve touched the glass to her lips and let the tawny liquid warm her tongue. The music and the tapping of voices weaved a mesh that covered her thoughts. She looked again to the mirror and saw the tableaux of friends and family, generations entwined in unity. She again raised her glass, this time giving a silent toast to their entwined harmony and then drank what remained. She set the glass down silently, and without comment, she rose from her seat and aimed herself towards the exit. At the door, she turned back and saw Declan join Siobhan and place a hand upon her shoulder and then dip his head towards her. His crooked smile mirrored hers. She thought, once again to go to him, to tell him … she had rehearsed what to tell him, but now, in the haze of the music and the alcohol, she did not know what. The door opened and Liam Mahon entered and nodded to her as he held it ajar for her to exit. The invitation was enough. The moment was gone. She thanked him and went out into the cold, leaving them be.
The Galway Review 