The Joke
If he went now, he’d never come back. He’d
go and she wouldn’t know, or care. He’d come back and the same
thing; she wouldn’t care. So, what was the point? He wasn’t going
anywhere.
And that made it worse. And made him more annoyed.
And angry. And stupid.
This thing now. It was nothing. The thing
itself.
—No, no. He’ll come and collect you.
That was it. Word for word. What had him half
standing, still sitting, his fat arse hanging over the
armchair.
His arse wasn’t fat. But there was more of it than
there used to be. Not that much more.
Anyway.
They were the words.
—No, no. He’ll come and collect you.
The words themselves were harmless. She hadn’t even
been talking to him.
But that, there, was the point. She hadn’t been
talking to him. She’d been talking to someone else. She still was.
On the phone. He didn’t know who. Her sister, her ma, his ma. They
were the even-money bets. But it could have been anyone. Her
friend, the adultery woman, was another prospect. She was a
three-to-one bet.
He wasn’t a betting man. Never had been.
She was out in the kitchen; he didn’t know who she
was talking to. But he did know that she’d just offered his
services to whoever it was at the other end.
—No, no. He’ll come and collect you.
And that was the thing. And had been the thing for
a long time. And he was sick of it.
Sick of what, but?
He wasn’t sure. The whole thing. Everything. He was
just sick of it.
The invisible fuckin’ man.
—No, no. He’ll come and collect you.
That was who he was. What he was. The invisible
man. The taken-for-granted sap. As if he was just waiting there.
With nothing better to do.
Granted, he was doing nothing. But that wasn’t the
point. No way was it. He’d been sitting there, doing nothing in
particular – the telly was off. But it didn’t matter. If he’d been
climbing Mount Everest or upstairs in the bed, it didn’t matter. It
didn’t bloody matter what he was or wasn’t doing.
It was the fact, the thing. He didn’t know how
to—
Just hearing it. He was sick of it. And he couldn’t
say anything. Because it was so small. He could never explain it
without being mean or selfish or other things that he really
wasn’t.
Her friend, for example. The adultery woman. They’d
been friends for years. A good-looking woman. Didn’t nearly look
her age. And the adultery thing wasn’t fair. He wasn’t judging. He
didn’t; he never had.
Anyway. He’d been there when she’d left her
husband. He’d helped her load the car, his car, with her
bags and her two kids and all of their stuff. While the husband was
at work, or wherever – the pub; he didn’t know. And he was glad
he’d done it. It had been the right thing to do. He’d never doubted
it. Not once. Or resented it, or anything. The husband was a
bollix, an animal. She was well out of that situation. And he
wouldn’t have cared if the husband had come after him. The woman’s
jaw was strapped and broken, sitting beside him in the car. The
kids in the back were pale. It had been a good deed, that one. He’d
felt a bit heroic. The wife had hugged him, kissed him, thanked him
again and again.
That was the biggest example. The most
dramatic.
He wasn’t making his point. He was missing
it.
A better example. Her mother. Not such a bad oul’
one. Harmless really, once you knew her. Anyway, he’d gone out in
the pissing rain to bring her home from her bingo. More than once,
and no problem. He’d been happy to do it; he’d do it again. And her
sister. He’d brought her twenty Silk Cut when she was stuck at home
with her broken leg. And a choc-ice.
Errands of mercy. He’d been doing them for years.
And here – good – here was the point. Not once, not once – none of
them had ever asked him.
She was still on the phone.
—Yeah, I know, yeah. God.
Not once. Fair enough, they’d all said
thanks.
You’re great.
You’re a star.
I don’t know where I’d be without you.
And that was fine. And appreciated. But none of
them had ever phoned and asked to speak to him. Not once.
Ever.
And it wasn’t just that.
It was—
Fuckin’ everything. He was sick of it.
But he sat down again. His arms were getting sore,
holding himself over the seat. But that didn’t mean anything. He
hadn’t changed his mind; he hadn’t made it up. He could get back
up; he would. She was still on the phone. It wasn’t urgent,
whatever it was. He had to clear his head. He had to be clear. He
was going to say no when she came looking for him. He had to know
why.
It went back. Back, back, back. Ah, Jesus – years.
His fault. He accepted that. Yeah. His own fault. So.
But it wasn’t about the errands of mercy. She’d
called them that. It wasn’t just them. He had to be clear.
He’d liked it; he remembered. When she’d said that
about errands of mercy. She was drying his hair with a towel. She
sat on his lap. One leg each side of his legs, right up at
him.
He still had his hair. Most of it.
Lap was a stupid word.
He loved her. That was important.
Back.
Give and take. There’d once been that. Partnership.
That was what he’d have called it, although he didn’t like that
word either. Partnership. Give and take. He brought her ma home
from bingo; she sat on his lap. But that wasn’t it; that just
cheapened it. It wasn’t about the sex. But—
That too. Yeah, definitely.
How, but – ? How was he going to get his point
across without making it look like it was all about sex when it
wasn’t but, in a way, it was?
He’d deal with it.
Anyway.
Partnership. It had all been part of it. The
relationship – another fuckin’ word. They’d done things together.
Even when they weren’t together. He’d do the driving or the shop,
clean the windows, whatever. But they’d both be involved. They’d
done them together. That was how it had felt. How it had
been.
Something had happened.
Nothing had happened. It had just happened. The way
things were now.
She was still in there, on the phone. He could hear
her agreeing and disagreeing, with whoever. Listening, nodding.
Putting her hair behind her ear.
He still loved her.
And the partnership had stopped. Somewhere. He
could never have pinned it down; he’d no idea. There’d been nothing
said. Nothing done. As far as he knew. But, who knew?
It was a mess. He was. A mess. His anger.
Moods.
He wanted to reach out. In the bed. And he
couldn’t. It wasn’t there; he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t lift his
hand and move it, a foot, a foot and a half – less. He couldn’t do
it. What had happened? What had happened?
He didn’t know. He honestly didn’t. He didn’t
know.
It was a good big telly, one of the widescreen
ones. He’d thought they could watch it together. At least that.
When he’d bought it.
He was older. Fuck that, so was she. That wasn’t
it. He didn’t think it was.
They’d never spoken about it.
What?
He didn’t know. The change. The stop. He didn’t
know. The partnership. Fuck it, the marriage. And it wasn’t true
about the sex either, exactly. They still had it, did it. Now and
again. The odd time. The hands would meet. The warmth.
What was he going to say? When she came in?
She was still in there, in the kitchen. Still
chatting.
He was right but. Essentially, he was right. It was
gone. Something had gone wrong. Something small. Something that he
hadn’t even noticed. It had changed. She couldn’t deny it.
And would she? Deny it. He hadn’t a clue.
He used to know. He used to guess right, more often
than not. What she’d say. How she’d react. They’d smile at each
other, because they both knew what they were up to. She’d slap his
arse when he passed. He’d put his hand on her hair. Words hadn’t
mattered; she’d known what he meant. I love you. I like you. I’m
glad.
I love you. I like you. I’m glad.
That was it.
He used to – he could tell when she was going to
say something. Before she did. Something in the air, in the
atmosphere. He didn’t have to be looking at her. He knew. And she
did too. And he’d liked being read.
He didn’t know when it had stopped. The reading. He
didn’t know. Maybe they still could, read each other’s thoughts;
they just didn’t. He didn’t know; he didn’t think so. He didn’t
know her. He knew her, but he didn’t know her. It had been a
slow thing. Very gradual. He hadn’t noticed.
That wasn’t true. He had. He’d noticed.
But he’d done nothing.
What?
Jesus, it was terrible. Stupid.
He was angry. He was always angry.
He was always angry.
He lay awake, he woke early. It was always there.
He didn’t know why. Nothing had happened. Nothing big. His fault.
He should have known. It was there a long time, the difference. The
silence. He’d known.
They’d never had a row. That was true, more or
less. There’d never been anything serious. Small stuff. Missing
keys, her ma at Christmas. Nothing big. Fundamental. Neither of
them had ever stormed out or packed a bag. They’d never shouted or
broken anything. There’d been nothing like that. There’d been
nothing.
Maybe it was the kids.
He was blaming the kids.
He wasn’t. Just, maybe that was part of what had
happened. They’d never had time; they’d been too busy. Always
ferrying them around, football and dancing and Scouts and discos.
Then ferrying her ma as well. And her sister, and his ma. And her
friend. The one he’d driven away from her husband.
He’d had a thing about her. He’d have admitted
that. It had never come to anything. But he’d felt it. A woman
who’d had sex with someone she wasn’t married to. He’d been
excited. That was true. At the time. Even with her kids in the back
of the car. Adultery. Another word that did nothing for him.
The kids but. There was nothing in that theory.
They’d been busy, run off their feet – mad stuff. But they’d had
the kids in common. Even when they were upstairs, in the bed.
Is that one of them waking?
Don’t stop, don’t stop.
Where’s his inhaler?
Don’t stop!
They’d liked it. They’d loved it. At the time. And
it had been a long time. Twenty-six years. What had happened?
He didn’t fuckin’ know.
Did she?
He didn’t know.
Probably.
He didn’t know.
He didn’t know anything.
The telly hadn’t worked. Not really. Stupid, again.
The idea that a television could bring them together. Even a good
one. They didn’t even watch telly much. They never had. He liked
the football, now and again; he wasn’t that fussed. She liked the
politics. Questions and Answers. Prime Time. There
was another telly, upstairs in the bedroom. You didn’t need a big
screen to watch politicians. The whole idea had been stupid.
The football was better on the big screen
but.
He felt himself smiling. Like a fight against his
face. He let it through. He smiled.
She was still on the phone. She laughed.
Like the old times. He’d smiled; she’d laughed. The
way they used to know each other.
Stupid.
He was being stupid. It wasn’t like the old times,
nothing like the old times – whatever they were. He was by himself.
She was somewhere else. There was no togetherness in it.
None.
It was nice but. Her laugh. He’d always liked
it.
He used to make her laugh.
God.
Could he still? Make her laugh. He doubted it.
Would she want him to? He didn’t know.
But he’d done it before. He’d tickled her, now and
again. He couldn’t do that now. Creep up behind her in the
bathroom. They were never in the bathroom together. He smiled
again. The thought. Creeping up behind her. She’d have fuckin’
freaked. And it wasn’t the only way he’d made her laugh. Words used
to do it. Jokes. Playacting, acting the eejit. She’d liked it.
She’d loved it. She’d moved closer to him when she was
laughing.
He could give it a try. Now. A joke. Paddy the
Englishman and Paddy the Irishman were—. No; it was stupid. There
was the one about the guy with no back passage. No. The one about
the Irishman at the Tina Turner concert. He smiled. Too long, and
she hadn’t liked it the first time. He remembered.
What was he doing?
He wasn’t sure.
What’s the difference between a good ride and a
good shite? That was a good one. Short and good. But it was so long
since he’d told her a joke. He was just being thick.
They hadn’t spoken since this morning.
There’s the rain now.
Yeah.
There’s the rain now. Him.
Yeah. Her.
And that was nearly – he looked at his watch –
eight hours ago. And now he wanted to tell her a joke. It was mad.
What’s the difference between a good ride and a good shite?
Mad.
Thick. Stupid.
He wasn’t angry now but. He wasn’t sure why he’d
been angry.
That wasn’t true. He knew. But he wasn’t angry
now.
He’d tell her the joke. He was nervous now. It was
a good one to tell but. It was short, no story to it. He’d see if
it worked as he told it.
What would he see? He didn’t know. It was what he
wanted to see; that was the thing. Her face. He wanted to see her
listening – that was all. See her face, see her listening. Knowing
what he was up to. That would do.
He listened. She was out there, in the kitchen. He
could hear her shoes. He knew, somehow – he didn’t know how: she
was finishing up. The way she was moving, like she was leaving. She
was going to hang up.
What’s the difference between a good ride and a
good shite? He couldn’t do it. It was too mad, too desperate. She’d
recognise it for what it was: begging. A cry for fuckin’
help.
That was stupid too but. It wasn’t a cry for
anything. And it wasn’t fuckin’ begging. It was only a joke. There
it was now; she’d put the phone down. She was still in the kitchen.
It was more than a joke. He knew that.
Would she know?
He could hear her now.
She came to the door. She stopped.
He looked at her.