The big smiling man vacated the door frame to let me in.
Bill you’re welcome. You’re a little bit early. Tom isn’t here yet. “
“Hello Monty. Habit of a lifetime I’m afraid. Drives the wife mad. She’s a last minute woman.”
I followed the big man as he padded in soft slippers through the kitchen area of the one bedroomed apartment to a small dining table. The door to his bedroom was open. On the unmade bed I noticed an open copy of Seamus Heaney’s collection ‘North’
“Like a bit of poetry then?”
“I like reading all sorts. Poetry makes me read slowly. There are no wasted words. Every word has its own place. You do a bit of writing yourself I hear.”
“Yeah I’m a bit of a scribbler alright.”
“I wouldn’t mind reading some of your stuff.”
“No problem. I’ll drop over a small collection of short stories the next time I’m passing.”
The doorbell rang and Monty let Tom in.
They sat at the table. A brown loaf, steaming fresh from the oven, sat on a brown breadboard. Sliced strong cheddar from the deli down the street lay on a chipped floral patterned plate. A ceramic teapot stand protected the vinyl tablecloth from the metal teapot filled with strong tea. I was amused that no offer of coffee was made, a reminder of times long past in my home place.
I had taken the call a week before inviting me to lunch. Monty, after an adult life of excessive drinking and floating between emergency hostels and the street had managed to contain his drinking to a level that didn’t harm others and didn’t add to the harm he had already caused himself. He said he wanted to thank Galway Simon for offering him his own place but in particular Tom, the Relapse Prevention Counsellor, for helping him to manage his drinking. I gladly changed my diary to take him up on his offer.
The next hour passed quickly. Monty’s thanks were received graciously but quickly. Without any prompt the talk turned to reminiscence, appropriate to men of our age. We shared anecdotes of our upbringings in rural Munster. We each outlined the expectations, mainly maternal, that led us down the supposed escape route of education from our humble beginnings. Each story stimulated others of a similar nature. Interruptions were welcomed as the anecdotes tumbled round the round table. Mouthfuls of cheese and bread struggled to stifle our laughter. Trust was assumed not requested as in more formal settings. Personal details, often consigned to memory, were offered without reservation. Any signs of our differing roles were cast aside as our manhood and humanity assumed equal status.
Inevitably the conversation turned to alcohol and our exposure to it in our early lives. We had each been introduced to its place in our rural society long before it was legal for us to imbibe. The seven sacraments of our Catholic upbringing had offered us repeating opportunities to absorb the relationship that our family and friends had with the demon drink. Like previous generations our coming of age involved lubricating our work and social roles with our preferred tipple.
We spoke of the badge of honour that our early drinking brought among male friends, our ever increasing capacity, and our reputations as men that could hold their drink. Very little mention of women at that time was made. Gradually we acknowledged without judgement the three different routes taken by us in terms of the growing habit. What remained was the realisation that the roads taken by us at our particular crossroads was more of a lottery rather than a planned route to better things.
The crumbs of our lunch lay like the scattered memories and reflections of our lives. For an hour the humble apartment over the Charity Shop had been the universe; three men brought together by one man’s desire to say thanks.
Tom and I stood to head for our next diary entry. Firm handshakes marked the bond created.
This lunch, without intention, had offered so much more to the Client, Counsellor and CEO.
Excerpt from Homeless not Hopeless by Bill Griffin
The Scribbler Griffin 