Down Among the Gods by Kate Thompson Read Free Book Online Page B

seem to make the same mistakes over and over and over again.
    Jessie is one of them. If Lydia knew what was happening here she would be tearing out her hair in exasperation. Another Alec. Another John.
    Patrick eats carefully, warmed by the whiskey, determined to make the most of the unaccustomed luxury. Jessie is pleased to see that his manners are impeccable, even by her standards.
    Patrick’s father was not a brawny, bog-blown Connemara man, much as he would have liked to be. He was born in England of second-generation Irish parents, and brought up there. Four years studying English in Balliol college had a strange effect. It rubbed the last of the Irish edges off him, but also turned him into an aspiring poet, besotted by the bucolic mysticism of Tagore and Wordsworth. He was lured back to the west of Ireland by a romantic dream of rustic simplicity, and soon fell prey to the undemanding sympathy of tall black pints and golden chasers. He was often absent, if not physically then mentally, and he left the running of the household and most of the farm as well to Patrick’s mother. But when he was there he would quote Yeats bombastically from his place at the head of the table while the family, growing in size and unruliness, picked slugs from their cabbage. He had turned his back on English civilisation and despised convention in any shape or form, but even so his conditioning had left certain indelible marks. His fist on the table sent potato skins flying. ‘For God’s sake, boy! Do you still not know how to hold your bloody knife?’
    The memory is far from Patrick’s consciousness, along with all other memories of childhood. But he is looking with interest at his fork. He uses a knife to butter bread and a spoon to eat cereals. Fish and chips he eats with his fingers, straight from the bag. He can’t remember the last time he had use for a fork. He isn’t even sure that he has one.
    ‘I use it for my work,’ says Jessie.
    ‘Hmm?’
    ‘The computer. I used to do typesetting for a couple of small publishers, but these days it’s mainly editing.’
    ‘Ah. You work at home, then?’
    ‘Yes, mostly. What about you?’
    ‘Oh, I’m all over London, me. I’m a photographer.’
    ‘Funny, that,’ says Jessie. ‘I had a feeling you were into something in the artistic line.’
    ‘I’d hardly call it artistic,’ says Patrick. ‘It’s pretty boring stuff, really. Just keeping half the London Irish in touch with what the other half are doing. I do a few things for myself as well, though. Get some more creative shots.’
    ‘Can I see them some time?’
    ‘Yes, when I get round to doing a bit of work on them.’
    Jessie hesitates for a minute, then plunges in. ‘I do a bit of writing. At least, I’m not doing much at the moment, but it’s what I want to do.’
    Patrick nods, politely.
    ‘I think it’s the most important thing in life,’ Jessie goes on, ‘to have some sort of creative outlet. It doesn’t matter what you say or what you paint or photograph, it’s what you bring to it yourself. Do you know what I mean?’
    Patrick isn’t sure that he does, and his mouth is too full to reply, so he nods again, to be on the safe side.
    Jessie has stopped eating and is prodding the food on her plate absently. ‘I think that writers and artists, the good ones, that is, the original ones, have found what it is we’re all looking for.’
    Patrick isn’t looking for anything as far as he knows, but his mouth is empty now, so he says: ‘And what’s that?’
    ‘Authenticity. I think that’s what happiness is. The discovery of your own authenticity.’
    ‘Nice word,’ says Patrick. But happiness for him is this moment, the meal and the warmth of the fire and the pleasure of a woman who is bothering to try and impress him. And it doesn’t last. When they finish eating, he becomes restless. Jessie puts on a Tracy Chapman tape and refills his glass, but he turns to the washing up, despite her protests. He is