I feel a pang of sympathy. ‘How’s the house-hunting going?’
‘It’s not,’ says Art. ‘I mean, I haven’t found anything yet.’
‘What’s on offer?’ I ask. ‘I’ve heard so many horror stories.’
I’m expecting to hear tales of flats where the loo is in the kitchen but Art says, ‘I’m … I’m seeing how things pan out.’
‘Oh right,’ I say. He clearly doesn’t want to talk about it and I can’t blame him. I know looking for accommodation in Dublin is soul-destroying, especially if you’re single. I was incredibly lucky that Roo had a spare room. I raise my water glass. ‘Well, here’s to letting things pan out.’
Art clinks his glass against mine. ‘Do you want to go back to IBC after this?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to risk bumping into Bernard.’
‘I usually prefer working in the office,’ says Art, ‘but maybe not today.’
‘Do you really prefer working in there?’ I don’t know exactly how I feel about hearing this, apart from surprised.
‘Um, yeah,’ says Art. ‘When I’m at home it just reminds me that my dad’s not there.’ He gives me an apologetic look. ‘I don’t know why I keep throwing the dead dad stuff at you today. Sorry about that.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say, and I mean it.
‘When I was thousands of miles away it wasn’t like I was in denial, but I suppose I didn’t have to, you know, confront it,’ says Art. ‘And now I’m back in the house and he’s … missing.’ He picks up a beer mat and fiddles with it. ‘Does that make sense?’
‘It makes total sense,’ I say.
‘Most of the time I’m fine,’ says Art, ‘but then every so often I remember that he’s really gone and it’s like being hit behind the knees with a sandbag. My brain goes, “But he can’t be dead! Not mydad.” It’s ridiculous. But there you go.’
He lets out something that’s almost a laugh but he looks very sad.
‘It’s not ridiculous,’ I say.
And without thinking, I take his hand and squeeze it. But he looks so taken aback I immediately pull away as if I’d been burned and almost knock over my water glass.
‘Um, thanks,’ says Art. ‘Anyway! We should probably get the bill. I think we’ve done enough immersing.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Yeah, probably.’
We pay up and I’m about to head to the bus stop when Art orders a taxi and insists I let it take me home too.
‘I’m pretty sure it’s about to start raining,’ he says, ‘and the last thing we need is you getting caught in a shower and coming down with pneumonia.’
‘Do you think we’re in a Jane Austen novel?’ I say, but I don’t argue. We did have quite a long walk earlier and I’m tired now.
It starts raining heavily as soon as we get into the taxi, and I’m glad I accepted Art’s offer.
‘So,’ says Art, ‘has all this set your mind at rest?’ There’s a slight touch of condescension in his voice.
‘It has, actually.’ Walking these streets, noticing how things have changed, how I’ve changed, listening and watching the people around me – it all showed me I still feel at home here. I still feel part of this place. I can write about Dubliners. ‘How about you?’
‘Mine didn’t need to be set at rest,’ he says blithely. But I remember how defensive he was back in the office.
‘If you say so,’ I say.
As the taxi heads down the roads we walked just a few hours ago, I feel like I’m heading back to reality.
‘God,’ I say, ‘I’d almost forgotten about Bernard’s notes.’
‘Well,’ says Art, ‘it’s like you said earlier.’