Firsts
THE sex was different, Ferdiad thought as he shoved his legs into his jeans one at a time. We move around more, toss each other and laugh.
She lay asleep with the covers dripping off the mattress. Her tanned body prodded by spears of orange light that pushed through moth bitten curtains, the cheeks of her bum like two large apple seeds gleamed, and chocolate coloured hair thick with wet. The room was saturated with the hot smell of bodies. The walls were the same lifeless grey they had been Ferdiad’s whole short life and on the hardwood floor an empty wine bottle lay sideways. The wine was her idea. She brought it into his home under her jumper with a childish giggle and a twitch of her lips that made Ferdiad feel more than he should about the twitching of a body part.
Pulling on a white t-shirt he made his way through the little cottage past pictures of a younger him. His arms were sore and tired, joints burning while his groin enjoyed a happy ache. Maybe it was a French thing? He said to himself. The usual rationalisation when it came to her; there was so much about her that he could not explain.
She arrived in Blackwater a month ago from a place called, “Sarr lat”, and instantly turned the little village a welcome shade of on its head. Delicately, as if lowering herself onto ice, Ferdiad remembered she stepped from the city bus wearing a dark blue coat with buttons as large as walnuts, lips pinched pink, legs shapely and smooth looking. I am here to improve my English, she said. When Ferdiad had first plucked up the courage to approach her in the chipper van queue a day or two later. In the beginning, everyone wanted to talk to her or be seen with her, no matter what they said behind her back.
‘That one. No decency dressing like that. A skirt above the knee. She couldn’t be seen in church’
‘Sure what church would have her Mary?’
‘You’re right of course Carmel. Father Byrne would turn her away.’ The Dear Father of course did no such thing.
Ferdiad smiled thinking about how he asked her to sit with him and how she smiled back when saying yes. Outside Corrigan’s pub by the river, with bags of chunky chips leaking vinegar. She talked and he watched closely, staring into her big brown eyes. Maybe he didn’t talk much because she was older, he wondered. He was so conscious that he might say something silly or immature or worse …. uncool. But when she eventually told him he was “kind”, it was the most he had ever felt like a man. Granda would’ve been proud.
Through the overgrown garden, he sauntered as if being slowly carried by the wind. On to the road that cut through fields of hay and restless foals. Distant dongs told Ferdiad it was ten o’clock. The day was young but already felt slow and lazy. The walk was quiet with no birds in the sky. It was the heat that made everything feel so slow, he thought as he pulled at his t-shirt to fan gusts of air beneath it; Ireland’s not meant to get this hot.
The village crossroads on the bank of the Bandon were dusted with clay and bits of corn; escapees from the morning march of the tractors. Small groups of families were walking together, donned in their Sunday best. The children sleepy-eyed, hair combed or tied with ribbons. Ferdiad winced at the loud creaking of the shop door. It had been there as long as he could remember but he had never gotten used to it; the hairs on the back of his neck jumping to attention.
The smell of cold meats and fresh bread filled the little store. Behind the counter, the old bird sat perched on her stool sucking the inside of her cheek and content being ugly as sin. The thin strands of muscle in her neck looked like strings pulling at her skin and her life-trampled eyes were magnified by the thick bottle bottom glasses.
‘Do you sell any of that loose tobacco?’ Ferdiad quizzed. ‘The kind you make yourself?’
The bird cracked a smirk. ‘You’re not eighteen for another six weeks, Ferdiad Keogh.’ It was the same conversation they had when it came to picking up a few cans. ‘Do you want me to tell your Mother?’
‘I only want you to be happy Dolores and I’m afraid if you’re the one to make her aware of my bad habits you might suffer her wrath. I think it’s best this stays between us.’
Doris reached under the counter and tossed him an evergreen pouch wrapped in plastic. ‘The papers come separately.’
‘I know,’ Ferdiad sassed back. He wasn’t a complete moron.
‘Of course, you do son. And what do you want smoking this stuff?”
‘I’m trying something different. Two packs please.’ his chest puffed out.
‘That’s what I hear alright,’ she grinned a toothless grin and threw him another. ‘This isn’t a town for secrets.’
‘This isn’t a town,’ Ferdiad replied. ‘You can’t run through a town in under a minute now can you.’ The door creaked again as he left her to her squawking. Calling after him, telling him to start wearing clean clothes. This place was starting to get on his nerves. It was so small and there was so much out there. Like Dublin and even France.
On the little strip of grass by the river, he kicked off his shoes and crossed his legs. He had seen her do it a thousand-and-one times. Roll a pinch of tobacco between the wings of the paper. Gently shape and seal it with a kiss from her tongue. He didn’t want to rush back you see. Well, he wanted nothing more than to run home … but that might appear too eager. And that was a type of blood he’d rather keep out of the water.
His clumsy attempt looked like a broken twig but it held together. When he inhaled it instantly relaxed him. Its peaty taste mixing with the stale wine in his mouth. It made him feel like he’d accomplished something … it made him feel connected to her somehow.
That day when she joined him to sit they kissed outside the pub. Through a veil of breath and steam from the chip bag he clung to with one hand, slow and salty, that ended with him gently touching her face. Ferdiad glanced over at their bench, eyes wide and breathing steady.
She had run out of smoke last night and would want one when she woke. As he got to his feet his body groaned again, his shoes dangling from his fingers, the pavement hot beneath his feet. He smoked the walk home with the sun on his back and a stoic expression painted on his face. Beads of sweat raced down his brow and his thoughts remained the same; remained on her. In the beginning, when they started sharing his bed it was fun and tender. She would tiptoe through the cottage to his room. The front door was never locked and it was always too late to announce herself to Ma. When they finished they would talk for hours lying knotted under twisted sheets only to start again. They barely slept. Once he woke to find her cradling his head. His wet hair stuck to her chin, the sound of her heart singing through her soft chest. She told him he had been shaking. Frantically whispering in his sleep and she couldn’t wake him. With her thumb, she made circles on his cheek and said the same French words over and over till he nodded off. She wasn’t as cool as she liked to let on either it seems, and fun and tender was now something else.
Ferdiad’s filthy feet cooled as he entered onto the kitchen tiles. Ma was still in Wicklow fleecing her produce in one of the markets there. He filled the heavy kettle and placed it on the hob and put together another smoke while waiting for it to whistle. He scooped three full spoons of coffee into a dainty white cup and let a tea bag drown in a mug for himself. He stirred the coffee slowly, not making it lap. And poured in what he thought was too much milk but knowing for her it would be grand.
Carrying the cups and a tobacco pouch swinging from between his teeth, up the narrow staircase he went, a low hum of music floating in the air. He nudged his bedroom door with a big dirty toe, his heart drumming. She was sitting up with her thick hair casually slung over her shoulder, sweat crawled down her honey-colored skin and the sun was bursting through the now open curtains making everything glow but nothing more than her. His legs felt boneless as he stepped toward her; a coy glint in his eye, a warmth in hers.
‘Do you like Di-Lan?’ she asked with a voice like liquid. Her little curved lips stretching into her little cheeks to show her white teeth framed in a perfect smile. A violin streamed out of the radio Ferdiad got last Christmas, narrating the story of a man named after some particularly bad weather.
‘Dylan’s good,’ he grinned. Handing her the coffee and maneuvering his ass on to the bed’s edge. ‘But I prefer Jerry Lee Lewis.’
‘Ugh…of course you do. The one who sleeps with his sister.’
‘I’m not sure that’s what happened. And besides, you French like weird sex anyway.’
‘We enjoy excellent sex but not with our family members.’
‘Tell that to the royal family.’
‘Which one?’
‘All of them.’
She moved her hands a lot when making a point. Waving them and wielding an outstretched finger like a deadly knife.
‘How long have you been awake?’ Ferdiad asked.
‘A little bit. Animals were making sounds and I knew it was not the one beside me.’ She slurped from her cup after taking a long sniff from it.
‘And you’re not getting dressed?’ Ferdiad looked her up and down while trying not to make it obvious. His efforts to conceal a demonstration in failure. He positioned behind her, a dumb grin on his face; bed springs groaning from his weight. He squeezed his back against the wall and pulled her in against his chest. Gently rubbing her shoulders as she ran her fingers along his shin bones and back again. Reaching behind to touch his face as he kissed her softly on the neck. She brought her head back and looked straight at him, drawing his gaze. It put goose flesh on his arms and a swell in his denims.
‘I don’t need to when I have you to keep me warm.’ Their eyes joined together, upside-down glances grabbed each other as if to look away would mean to lose the other in the waves of forever. They both remained, perfectly still.