Engagement Party

 

 

“Let me ask you a question,” said Eamonn.

He stood at the window looking down into the rear garden. “Do you know what the most misunderstood word in the English language is?” The grass in the garden was long and clumped, collapsed under its own weight. Against the back wall, the darker green of nettles grew thick and tall. Here and there a shrub stretched and fought for life. Everwhere weeds, proud and lush and ugly.

Eamonn’s eyes shone darkly from out of a beet red face. He snapped his head around and looked behind him into the dining-room. His son Colm sat at the table, hunched, leaning on his elbows. Dinner was over. Plates with scraps of food and spent cutlery lay on the table top. Colm didn’t look at his father. He looked straight ahead into the kitchen where his mother Edel was struggling to cover some leftovers with clingfilm.
“Well?” said Eamonn.

“Ya?” said Colm. He moved his index finger in winding curves on the surface of the table, tracing shiny grease paths.

“Colm?” pursued Eamonn.

“I’d’know. Is it… ‘debate’?” said Colm. A noise from the kitchen. Edel had dropped an iron baking tray onto the hard ceramic floor. “Shit sorry,” she said in the clatter.

Eamonn shook his head. “You know what Colm, but sometimes you can be a real fucking smart arse.” Colm looked into the kitchen without expression. Eamonn turned to look out the window again.

“I’ll tell you. What it is,” he said, “It’s the word togetherness.” He breathed slowly through his nose.

“I hear it all the time. Let’s cultivate a sense of togetherness. That’s the politician’s favourite. Supposed to make us feel all warm and fuzzy. Get on board, is another one. We need people to get on board. What they really mean of course, is: Prepare to get screwed. What they really mean is: You entertain yourself with infantile fucking notions of the brotherhood of man, while we climb up onto your back and slowly drain the life out of you with taxes.” Eamonn shook his head. “Vampires,” he said, “Week-in, week-out, doling out money to loafers and teenage mothers and anyone who can fool or cajole a doctor into saying they’re disabled. And paying for their prescriptions for them and giving them fucking medical cards.” Eamonn leant one hand on the windowsill. The inside of the glass was covered in white specks of his spittle. “Togetherness, he said, breathing heavily, “It’s a disgrace.”

Colm sat still. Edel worked in the kitchen, silent. There was silence. Colm closed his eyes and breathed in. He said slowly, carefully: “Get on board. You hear that one all the time with the water charges.” He paused. No one spoke. Then Colm again: “Pull together is another one.”

Eamonn shook his head, tense and short. “Pull together,” he said, “Hard to believe… But I’ll tell you: You’re wrong about the water charges. A proper water infrastructure is something I’m more than willing to pay for. And would expect to have to pay for. It’s vital. The only mistake they made is that they didn’t privatise it entirely from day one. And it’s the same thing all over again. There will be grants for anyone who moans loud enough about not being able to pay. All these protesters… do you see them offering an alternative? Do you fuck. Change your ‘We won’t pay’ posters to ‘I won’t pay.’ At least have the decency to be honest.”

“I think you are being very cynical Eamonn.” Edel’s voice was clear and calm from the kitchen.

“You think?” said Eamonn, “I’m being realistic. Is what it is.” He looked down into the melancholy wild of the garden. “Ah, it’s pointless,” he said.

The dining room air was cut by the sharp launch of a ringtone. Colm took his phone from his pocket and answered it. “Hi,” he said. He smiled faintly. He rose. “No, no you’re grand,” he said, “Just finished the dinner.”

*

Several days later, Eamonn, Edel and Colm drove north from Galway city towards Leenane. Edel’s sister Rachel had moved into a quaint cottage, which she and her boyfriend had recently found and decided to make their new home. They drove through Connemara in grey rain, past mountains and bog lakes and loose littered stone.

“So what happens at an engagement party anyways?” asked Colm.

“I haven’t a clue Colm,” said Eamonn, “Probably some kind of an inspection before the wedding.”

“Stop,” said Edel.

“What?” Eamonn smiled.

“They have a room booked in one of the pubs there,” she said. “I think it’s just going to be dinner and drinks. Rachel mentioned something about a DJ, but she didn’t sound too sure.”

“And I’m driving home?” said Colm.

“Good man Colm,” said Eamonn. He smiled at his son in the rear view mirror.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world Dad,” said Colm.

The wipers clicked a sleepy rhythm in the fading Connemara light.

*

“And this is Edel’s son Colm,” said Rachel. She was dressed suberbly in a tight fitting red dress. Light danced about her hair, her eyes, her skin, her teeth. She was introducing her sister’s family to the Mathesons, a couple in their fifties who owned a holiday home next door to Rachel’s cottage in Leenane.

“Colm’s just finished his… first year? Second year? In college. In NUIG.” Rachel studied Colm’s face benignly.

“Second year,” said Colm.

“Oh, very good,” said the man, Richard, impeccably groomed, “What are you studying?”

“Arts,” said Colm, “Soc and Pol and Spanish.”

“Oh, how lovely,” said Richard’s wife Miriam, “Language is so good for the soul.”

Colm smiled and nodded.

At dinner, they sat across from the Mathesons.

“Someone is driving a five series,” said Colm.

“What’s that?” asked Edel.

“The beamer parked outside,” said Colm.

“That’s ours,” smiled Richard.

“Seriously?” said Colm, “Nice car.” He swallowed a spoon of thick green vegetable soup.

Richard and Miriam smiled. “I prefer the older ones,” said Miriam. Eamonn looked up. He had been quiet since they had arrived at the party.

“I have a nice old Jag I keep in our place in Dublin,” admitted Richard. Eamonn looked down at his soup again.

“Cool,” said Colm.

“Yes. It wouldn’t be up to scratch on what passes for roads around here though,” he said, looking sternly at Edel. Edel’s spoon shook slightly as she lifted it to her mouth.

“Yeah,” said Colm, he flicked nervously at his napkin. “Still though,” he said, “Must be expensive, the tax on a five-series.”

“No doubt,” said Richard, smoothing a single strand of hair which had fallen across his forehead. “We must attend to our taxes,” he said.

“I’m sure our little Soc and Pol student would know all about that,” Miriam’s face tried to cloak itself in a smile.

Colm looked at her. She looked at him. Her eyes were black. Her skin taut about her skull. A tiny flare of her nostrils. A quiver of flesh around her mouth.

“Yeah,” said Colm, “And you wouldn’t mind, but they’re talking about putting the taxes up again in the next budget.”

“Well it’s important Colm,” said Richard. “It’s the easiest thing in the world to say that all we want is lower taxes, but we’ve had giveaway budgets and where did they get us. We just don’t want to look at the bigger picture. We don’t want to confront the harsh realities.” Richard’s voice advertised his kindness. “It’s hard to see until you are a few decades on the planet, but when times are tough we’ve got to meet adversity head on and we’ve got to meet it collectively.”

“Collectively?” said Colm.

“Yes,” said Richard, “You know? We’ve got to pull together.”

Colm released a grateful sigh. Beside him, Eamonn placed his soupspoon neatly on the white tablecloth. His face was red and dark. He looked up. Looked from Richard to Miriam, then back to Richard. He rolled his eyes and breathed in. A deep breath.

“Let me ask you a question,” said Eamonn.

“What’s that?” asked Richard.

“Do you know what the most misunderstood word in the English language is?”

Engagement Party © 2017 Fergus Deffely