The Breezes - Joseph O’Neill

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it harder and harder to get a game. Increasingly his polite offers of his services draw a blank and he has to content himself with running the line, waving the offsides with his red handkerchief. The day cannot be far away when my father finds that, like it or not, his officiating days are behind him.

      ‘And how about you?’ Pa asked, dropping two fresh beers on the table. ‘How’s it going? How’s the exhibition coming along?’

      ‘Just fine,’ I said, raising my glass to my mouth. ‘It’s all under control.’

      The exhibition. Two weeks tomorrow, on 16 May, my chairs are scheduled to go on show at the Simon Devonshire Gallery. It took months of pleading, telephoning, writing, lying, boasting and begging to get that show. The good news finally came one day last October, when Simon Devonshire rang me in person. ‘Well, John,’ he said, ‘you can’t keep a good man down. A week starting from 16 May, next year, how does that sound to you?’

      I could not believe it. Simon Devonshire himself, patron, connoisseur and big shot, was giving me the nod. This was it, this was the big break. ‘Are you serious?’ I said with a laugh.

      ‘Certainly I’m serious,’ Devonshire said. ‘Now, you’re not going to let me down, are you, John? I’m putting my neck on the line for you. You appreciate that, don’t you?’

      ‘Of course,’ I said breathlessly, ‘of course. Don’t worry, Mr Devonshire,’ I said. ‘You won’t regret this.’

      I was overjoyed. I rang Angela straight away. She was overjoyed, too. ‘Johnny, that’s marvellous!’ She burst out laughing. Her laugh: a wonder, a full, chuckling letting go, a pure unzipping of joy … What a find Angela was. To this day I cannot believe my luck. You hear stories of those poor boys who, steering their goats from thistle to thistle upon some African tableland, happen upon a priceless stone in the dust. Well, that was how it was with me and Angela. It was during my time as a trainee accountant, when I was doing an audit in the offices of a transportation company out in some small wet town in the middle of nowhere. It was my job to make sure that the books balanced, that the debits and credits added up, a lonely, discouraging job, the nights spent on my own in a two-star hotel, the days working away in the small isolated room to which I had been consigned, a hole darkened from wall to wall with piles of thick, inscrutable ledgers – auditors always get the lousiest workspace going. After about a week, the task arrived of checking up on three trucks that the company had listed amongst its assets. It was time to pay a visit to the warehouse.

      It was raining. I walked quickly across the muddy car-park to the Portakabin that served as the warehouse office and introduced myself to the girl who was writing there, her head lowered over her paper. Hello, I said, I’m with the auditors. If it’s possible, I’d like to do a stock-check and … I did not say another word, because suddenly I found myself looking into these two blue rocks.

      ‘Of course,’ the girl said, brushing her hair from her face, smiling. ‘Just go straight in.’ Then she looked at me and laughed, and even now it thrills me to recall that sound and the sight of her head thrown back dramatically, the paper-white teeth shining in her open mouth, the red tongue clean as a cat’s.

      Pa pushed his beer aside, licked the froth from his upper lip and said, ‘Johnny, I’ve been thinking. There’s a lot of people with back trouble in this world. A lot of people need chairs they can sit on without hurting the base of the spine. I’m telling you, you should hear the complaints I get from the people at work. It’s a complicated thing, the spine. A mystery. Even doctors don’t know how it works. Anyway, I was thinking that there must be a market for specially designed chairs for people with back problems. Do you follow me?’ Pa spread his pale, veiny hands on the table. ‘I reckon that if you could come up with something along those lines you’d be made. I read something about it the other day,’ he said. ‘In the paper. They’ve now got chairs with no backs. You just have a seat which is tilted forwards and these pads to rest your knees on. Did you know that?’

      ‘It’s not a bad idea, Pa,’ I said, but I left it at that. In the furniture circles that I move in, it is artistic and not ergonomic considerations that prevail. The people who go to Simon Devonshire’s are not interested in lumbar comfort. They want pieces that make a statement, that provoke discussion. They want chairs with suggestive titles. Take last year’s two successes. The first was a chair called ouch. On its back were carved figures engaged in all kinds of monsterish copulations: goats doing it with men, women doing it with horses, dogs doing it with cats and so forth. But they were not the main feature; that was the wooden phallus which rose from the middle of the seat, so located that you could not sit on the chair without being penetrated by it. But that, of course, was not a problem, since the chair was not designed to be sat on. The same thing applied to the second success of the season. Entitled Caramba, Yes, it was just an ordinary wooden chair with four legs and a back, a chair of the cheap, plain, functional kind that you saw in garden sheds all over the country. Because of its strong ironical content, it is cheaper to buy certain new cars than Caramba, Yes.

      Devonshire signed me for an exhibition on the strength of one piece which he displayed and immediately sold: the love chair, which consisted of two ash seats with splayed legs connected by a mutual arm. Calling the piece the love chair was Devonshire’s idea, not mine, but I was happy to go along with his suggestion – what could be wrong with love? Pa’s favourite work of mine, though, is the pew, a kneeling-stool attached to a small desk where the supplicant might rest the elbows: a prie-dieu. I finished it about eight months ago and to my surprise he expressed a liking for it.

      ‘I like it,’ he said. ‘I really do. I think it’s the best thing you’ve done.’ He circled it slowly, examining it. ‘I could use a chair like this,’ he said. ‘I could use it when I say my prayers.’

      I smiled. I was pleased that someone like Pa, who actually prayed to God, saw practical value in the chair. I was surprised, too. I had not foreseen that someone might appreciate the object so literally.

      ‘I could put it in the spare bedroom upstairs,’ Pa said. ‘I could go up there when I needed some peace and quiet, some time for myself.’

      Pa could not have the pew, though, because I had promised it to Angela as a gift. There it is over there, next to the fireplace. She uses it as a platform for her plants. It does not look particularly good that way, obscured by the fern, but it’s hers now, and if that’s what she wants to do with it, that’s fine by me. That’s the great thing about Angela: everything she does is fine by me.

      ‘Well, anyway,’ Pa said, lifting his glass, ‘here’s to the exhibition. You’ve earned it, son. You’ve worked hard and you’ve gotten what you’ve deserved.’

      I returned the gesture with a hollow smile. I did not say anything to Pa about the exhibition because I did not want to upset him, not now. I’d wait a while. I’d wait till things started looking up for him.

      Things looking up: how was I supposed to know what was going to happen?

       4

      Let me say this: Angela’s place is not an easy place to cool your heels. This is a studio apartment. Aside from a small bathroom and a kitchen, there is only one room – the living/bedroom, which as a place of entertainment is a dead loss. The television is broken, I have read the books and heard all the records. The kitchen is no better: the bread is stale, the cupboards are empty and there’s nothing in the fridge. Usually you can count on finding some ruby orange juice or a tub of pasta salad from the delicatessen, but not tonight. There isn’t even any milk. You’d think that Steve had dropped in.

      Angela must be pretty busy at work to allow things to get this way. They really drive her hard at Bear Elias, and if she does not go into the office at the weekend it is only because she has brought work home. When she gets back in the evenings, the first thing she does is head straight for the sofa and bed down for an hour. Only then, when I have brought her a cup of tea and rubbed her feet and warmed her toes, does she have the

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