“No,” she said. “Fortunately I’ve Never Had That Experience.”
This is Kitty, the first chapter of the novella “No,” she said. “Fortunately I’ve Never Had That Experience.”. This Kindle edition can be read on Mac, PC, iPad etc using free Kindle app
My mother used say ‘Kitty’s on the steers again,’ when she’d see the petite woman rushing down the street, a gray pack on her back. The town knew that the only time Kitty was in a hurry was when a relationship of hers broke up. It seemed she was compensating for time wasted with this man or that, and went about her business in a determined manner, intensity creasing her forehead. By degrees, she rekindled friendships with old friends, smiling broadly and telling them how happy she was to be liberated, and relieved to be on her own again. She went jogging with Mrs. Lynch, and rejoined the Sunday morning yoga class at the town hall. Every second evening she went to the gym in the Leisure Center and lifted weights, ran on the treadmill, swam ten laps of the pool and went home exhausted.
Kitty was a teacher at the Community Secondary School. She came there as a young woman and some thirty years later, she still looked much the same as the day she arrived, apart from the wrinkles on her face. When she taught me I had a crush on her, but we didn’t get along that great. It annoyed her that I was good at English but hopeless at French.
In her heyday, Kitty was an attractive woman with short brown hair and the smile of an angel. She had a soft Northwest accent and blue eyes, and an elegance that befitted a lady. For work she dressed better than all other teachers, in quality clothes with a professional accent. She went casual on weekends in jeans and purple fleece, and had a tomboy look with a swagger that said she was fun. She could knock back a pint as good as any man, but rarely drank more than two.
Since the day she moved to our town, Kitty lived in the same apartment, the top floor of an old Edwardian house across The Square from our pub. Whether she was aware of it or not, but my mother knew when she came and went, who called to her, how long they stayed and so on. Sometimes over a few drinks after the bar closed, Mother would look out the window, see the apartment ablaze with 100-watt bulbs and say, “Kitty’s in The Lighthouse tonight.”
This could lead to gossip or theories about Kitty, which I found painful because I still had a crush on her. Mother would wait for me to comment, but I never did. She’d finish her drink and sigh, “Poor Kitty is a weird fish.”
Because our pub was the nearest to Kitty’s place, her men friends often dropped in for a drink while waiting for her to come back from work, or maybe just to raise some courage before meeting her. Mother could name all the suitors who came there since Kitty had joined us.
Top of the list was Mr. Rogan, an engineer from Ennis, a red-haired man who smoked a pipe and wore a green corduroy jacket. A nice man, my mother thought, a bit on the quiet side, but very well travelled and a great conversationalist when he got going. He was seeing Kitty for over two years, and a rumor went around that they were looking at sites on the High Road and thinking of building a house. Kitty looked very happy with Mr. Rogan, and linked him tightly when they went for walks down the Glen or did shopping around town. They looked like they were in love, but something snapped and suddenly Kitty gave Mr. Rogan the boot. The poor man was distraught and would drive from Ennis every evening, have a few pints in our place and watch for signs of life in Kitty’s apartment. Then he crossed The Square and rang her bell, but there was never a response. After a month he gave up, and we never saw him again.
Kitty went on the steers after that, a summer of self-improvement she called it, but it lasted a couple of years. She had occasional boyfriends, but they never stayed long and she went back on the steers for another while.
Then she met Mr. Hillman, a reporter with The Clare Clarion. We knew Mr. Hillman, because he reported on court cases, dog races and funerals in town; he often wrote his stories in our pub. There was always a notebook peeping out of his pocket and the seat by the window became his perch while he waited for Kitty. He was the first writer that I ever met and from talking to him, I decided to write a book.
Publicly they were not as close as she and Mr. Rogan, but Hillman stayed at her place a few nights every week. I found it hard to see them kiss goodbye in the morning, when I went to get the papers. They were together for a a year or more and seemed to be getting on well.
And then one night they had a row. We could hear the muffled shouts across The Square and my mother peered through the window. It was well after closing time and we were having a few drinks in the dark. Next we saw that Mr. Hillman was outside Kitty’s place, trying to talk calmly to her. She was wearing a nightdress and shouted, “Shut to fuck up! I’ve had it with you!”
Then the door banged and Mr. Hillman shouted, “And I’ve had it with you too, you fucking adolescent!”
Unlike Mr. Rogan, Mr. Hillman didn’t come ringing Kitty’s doorbell again, but whenever he came to town reporting on a story, he parked outside her place and always dropped in to our pub for a few pints. One day my mother asked him how Kitty was and he shook his head.
“Ah Kitty, poor Kitty. She has a lot of baggage.”
“God help us,” my mother said, and left it at that.
That night I began the book with a speculative piece about Kitty’s baggage. I wrote in an old leather bound shop ledger, which was the size of serving tray and at least four inches thick. The edging was marbled and the tome weighed a half-stone at least. It was slow going, writing in longhand most days with my father’s old fountain pen. I didn’t know what the book was going to be about, or if it was going to be fiction or a mishmash of poetry and prose. It would be a reflection of whatever was on my mind. Therapy maybe. With the book on the counter, I toiled away like the monks of old, while I waited for drinkers to arrive. When they did, I carefully dried the ink with blotting paper, closed the book and put it under the till.
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