The Fabulists | Page 5

she whispered. There was no reply, but she could feel how he bathed in her words, and gave himself completely to her, and she knew she would die for this, if she had to.
She looked around and saw that Brian was watching them. He looked empty and lonely and beaten, and for a moment she felt sorry for him and yearned that all three of them could be together in a warm embrace. But it was a wild fantasy, and, breaking the spell, he turned and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on for tea.
'I'll see you tomorrow, okay?'
Arthur looked up, nodded and rolled away onto his knees to watch a new cartoon. She went to the door, then looked around.
'Bye '
'Bye,' he answered, without taking his eyes off the screen. She walked back to her flat, her cheeks streaked with tears in the cold evening.

-Two-

A few days later, it dawned a fine morning. Mungo got the children out to school and, whistling softly, he walked up Stoneybatter to cash his disability cheque. Nothing put him in good humour like a fine morning. He had even brought Connie breakfast in bed and, although she had tried to conceal it, she was surprised and pleased. Maybe he should do it more often. He was bursting with life since giving up drink, and felt smug as he passed Moran's pub. With his exercises and then his long walk in the mornings, he was fit for anything, and his mind was coming alive again. Sometimes his walks took him well into the Phoenix Park, or as far as Stephen's Green. In the park, which he preferred, he could find a quiet stretch and burst into a jog when he was sure no one was watching, and he made trebly sure, because the idea of anyone seeing him jog in his boots, jeans and heavy overcoat was excruciating. Not to mention his arm, whose limpness, he knew, made him look odd, especially when running. His arm was all that bothered him. It ached badly. At first he had excluded it from his exercises, but then it became more difficult to do so, and now it felt like fresh, rearing blood was trying to push through veins grown accustomed to a sluggish flow. His left hand tingled, and he flexed it. That was another thing about walking: he could gently, unobtrusively, exercise his hand - flex, open, shut, flex, open, shut. He still couldn't raise the arm very well, but that would come soon, he felt sure.
In a few weeks time it would be two years since the fire. That would be a bad time for Connie. Aidan seemed to have forgotten about it and got on with his life as children do, especially as the burns had healed so well, thanks to the people in James's. Sure, the poor guy still had the dreams, but they were less frequent. Mungo was trying to be as kind as he could to all three of them. Connie still hadn't forgiven him, he knew, so he couldn't just hand her a bunch of roses, for instance. She wouldn't wear it, so he'd have to sneak in and put them in the kitchen, maybe in that white delft vase she liked.
Six red roses. Romance on the welfare she'd say, if she said anything. She hadn't spoken to him, not a word, for nearly a year after the fire, but nobody could keep that up all the time, so now she only spoke to him when necessary. Maybe she was softening. The response when he brought her breakfast in bed this morning had given him hope. He had been trying to work up the courage to do it for weeks. Perhaps there was no going back, but he just wanted to be part of the human race again.
He cashed his cheque in the hushed bank, and back home, he left the money on the table for Connie, keeping only the loose change. He sat and looked at it, that which only barely carried them through the week, though he didn't smoke or drink any more. Connie still smoked, but not a lot. He heard the bedsprings as she turned.'Is that you?' she called.
'It's me,' he called back.
'Well get some meat if you're going out.'
At least the children were fed and clothed. Nothing fancy, but enough. The curse of Christmas was still to come, but if children couldn't have Christmas, what could they have? He took some money and left the house.
He went down Grangegorman, crossed North Brunswick Street and turned left at North King Street, flexing his fingers as he walked, and sweating a little at the effort. It took concentration. His New Year's resolution would be to get the strength back in his hand and arm.