The fire is nearly out and I’m getting cold. Drinking this brandy is doing me no good now; I could drink two bottles of it and still be sober. It’s Sunday night again – a whole week since I went to bed in peace. I don’t like Sundays – dead days I call them.
I remember I nearly fell that night when I was taking off my trousers but I managed to get myself undressed. The curtains were shut tight and I pulled them open – like sleeping in a godamn tomb with them closed like that. I`ve told her and told her. Sometimes I think she does it on purpose.
It was a calm, quiet night with a bit of a moon and not a sinner about in the street. I stood there looking out the window with not a worry in my head and then I turned to the bed. She was well buried in it and I knew I’d had a bit too much to drink, but a man has to have his bits and pieces and I was going to have my rights anyway.
I footered about with the rubber for a minute and when it was on I wheaked up her night-dress and laid into her. She was holding her breath with her face turned away, holding herself tight and still. I laid in good and heavy and when I was finished I rolled off and gave her a good push. She deserved it, I thought, lying there like that as if I was a stranger. I should have clocked her one but that’s not the way I work. She spun over onto her side and her knees came up and her head went down. She was like a spider, rolling itself up when you touch it and not a sound out of her – waiting for me to go asleep; my eyes were heavy all right. I pushed her a bit more and she curled up even tighter.
“What ails you?” I growled at her.
The bit of a moon was shining in and she was white as a ghost in the bed. I could see she was shaking.
“Sshhh …the child,” she whispered, pointing to the wall.
Child, my arse. A big lump of a fifteen year old sleeping his bloody head off. She was more worried about the neighbours, don’t I know what she’s like? All sweet and good morning, missus. She’d die if they heard anything. However I was too tired to go on with it so I lay down again.
I didn’t feel too bad the next morning, considering . . . There wasn’t much light in the room and the windows were streaming with rain. I thought I’d heard the lifeboat in the middle of the night but maybe I’d only dreamt that.
There she was, moving about quietly, stooped over as usual. She always stoops – she sort of drops at the knees and pokes her head forward like a hen. It’s because she’s taller than me. I hoped she wasn’t sulking. Sometimes she gets in a huff over the drink and there’s no breakfast until I raise my voice.
When she left the room I stretched myself and had a good scratch and went to the bathroom. What has she to complain about? Hasn’t she the biggest house in the whole county and only young Pat to look after besides myself? She says he’s getting stroppy but sure the lad is a teenager; a fine lad too, handsome, and broad for his age. He’ll be like myself one of these days, a brave, fine-looking man. Of course I’m getting a bit heavier now about the neck and shoulders but I can carry that. She’ll have to learn to cope with him and not be whinging to me.
I was moving stuff around in the cabinet, looking for a new blade, when I came across a packet of hair-dye. I took it out and shook it. Notions, I thought. At her age! I nearly laughed, and then I sniffed the air, hoping for rashers.
Pat was down before me with a plateful in front of him, eyes glued to his phone as usual.
“That’s the boy,” I said. “Plenty of grub.”
He flicked his eyes at me, not a word out of him. My breakfast landed on the table and I rubbed my hands together.
“Yum, yum,” I said, just to see the reaction.
She moved away sharpish and didn’t speak. She was eating toast at the work top, her shoulders hunched and the spikes of hair sticking up. I took a gander at the head on her; I suppose you could say she was blonde now. Nobody was going to speak only myself by the looks of it. Well, feck the pair of them. It was a good breakfast, best thing after a feed of drink, a good Ulster fry in the morning.