The Art of Breathing Underwater

Chapter 9

Those constant telephone calls with Robbie proved the lifeline that saved me from sinking into my deep, ever-darkening moods. It heartened me to hear his bright voice on the other end of the line. Like the sun on your face; therapeutic for the spirit and made me warm and contented.

Relations with Nicky returned to normal; Nicky's not one to stay mad at anyone for long. I liked that about her. Forgiveness is a damn sight easier to preach than to put into practice.

I wished I had the stones to talk to either of them about the torment in my head, if only just to explain my general moodiness. They often asked if everything was all right with me, and I'd deflect their concerns with a joke, or a ready smile. At times, the smile was too ready, which gave the game away. But we had a well-established policy of non-interference, so they refused to press the matter.

My parents were a different proposition. They poked and prodded. Arguments flared, resulting in me sequestering myself in my bedroom for all but dinner time. So when I asked if Robbie could stay over, they happily agreed. Even my dad, who considered his house his sanctuary. He was not overly keen on having relatives over at Christmas. I guess I inherited my fixation on privacy and personal space from him.

My mum had one stipulation. "Tidy your room first."

"What's wrong with it?"

"It's a pig-sty." You'd never suspect it but my mum's parents hailed from the country. They grew up on a farm before they moved to Dublin. Yet their daughter had no conception of how a pig-sty looked.

"I keep my stuff organized."

"Oh, your precious video and C.D. Collection." All arranged in neat lines, favourites to the fore. "Every time I set foot in there, I'm breaking my neck over jumpers on the ground. And your bed is never made."

"Duvets aren't supposed to be tucked in under the mattress. And I never throw my clothes on the floor."

"I've told you a million times, your brother's bed is not where you leave your things. It looks like a stall at a jumble sale." I get my penchant for resorting to similes to emphasize a point from my mother.

I met Robbie in the city at one, under Eason's clock. He spotted me through the crowd and greeted me with a smile as broad as O'Connell street itself. From there, we made our way to Abbey street to wait for the bus.

Ahead of us in the queue a couple of girls, about our age, kept checking over their shoulders, glancing in our direction, and talking to each other in a low, conspiratorial tone.

The bus arrived, and we clambered upstairs. The two girls had already claimed the back-row for themselves. They smiled at Robbie as he shuffled down the aisle. The brunette pushed over beside her companion, leaving the rest of the long seat free.

Robbie chose a double-seat three rows ahead. I couldn't figure for why.

The bus engine spluttered into life.

The girls made no attempt at discretion. "It's him." "No way." "I'm telling ya."

Robbie gazed out the window.

"Hey, mister." She had to repeat it twice before he looked around. "You're him, aren't ya?"

"Nah, I'm Robbie."

"You were in that film—you played the fella's son. Freddy. The speccy kid."

"He was a smart-arse in that an' all," her friend said.

Robbie scratched his head.

The two girls stood up and filed into the seat behind us. The brunette tapped Robbie on the shoulder. "Where's your glasses?"