Life Without Children: Stories

by Roddy Doyle

Genres: Literary Fiction; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

“[Doyle] imparts a sense of poignancy and glimpses of happiness, of grief and loss and small moments of connection . . . you’re left feeling close to dazzled.” —Daphne Merkin, New York Times Book Review

A brilliantly warm and witty portrait of our pandemic lives, told in ten heartrending short stories, from the Booker Prize–winning author of Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha

Love and marriage. Children and family. Death and grief. Life touches everyone the same. But living under lockdown, it changes us alone.
 
In these ten beautifully moving short stories written mostly over the last year, Booker Prize winner Roddy Doyle paints a collective portrait of our strange times. A man abroad wanders the stag-and-hen-strewn streets of Newcastle, as news of the virus at home asks him to question his next move. An exhausted nurse struggles to let go, having lost a much-loved patient in isolation. A middle-aged son, barred from his mother’s funeral, wakes to an oncoming hangover of regret.
 
Told with Doyle’s signature warmth, wit, and extraordinary eye for the richness that underpins the quiet of our lives, Life Without Children cuts to the heart of how we are all navigating loss, loneliness, and the shifting of history underneath our feet.

Release date: February 22, 2022

Publisher: Viking

Print pages: 190

Sample

Box Sets

There’d nearly been a fight. People were drinking wine like it was beer and a man Sam didn’t know had thumped the table and shouted that House of Cards was better than Breaking Bad and Mad Men, put together.

—All the seasons!

The man had knocked over a glass.

A woman had thrown a fist-load of peanuts at him, although most of them bounced off the table. She seemed to be defending Breaking Bad and Mad Men. Sam wasn’t sure. He hadn’t seen either. His wife, Emer, had been in the middle of it, too, standing up for The Killing, the Danish version. Sam hadn’t seen The Killing and he hadn’t a clue how Emer had managed it.

They’d walked home, staggering a bit.

—When did you watch The Killing?

—I didn’t.

—It seemed like you did.

—Yeah, well, I didn’t. But, like, everyone says it’s brilliant.

He’d watched it since. Seasons One, Two and Three. And it was brilliant. He’d watched The Bridge too. And Love/Hate. And a good chunk of The Wire. They were all great.

But he’d felt late getting to them. Too late, and too slow. He knew that if the same people were to meet around a table now they’d be getting worked up about a whole new bunch of box sets, or something new on Netflix, and he’d be lost again.

He’d watched The Killing alone while Emer was at work. He’d watched most of Season One in a day. It was mesmerising. He’d been going to buy Emer one of the striped jumpers the detective, Sarah Lund, wore. But he’d done a search – €310, for a genuine one from the Faroe Islands. There was no way he was spending that kind of money, not now.

He didn’t have a job. That still felt like a smack, three months later. Just when they’d both begun to think they’d survived the worst of it, when they were starting to hear and believe the optimism on the radio. We’re seeing light at the end of the tunnel. This is great news for Ireland Inc. He’d been called in for a chat.

He’d started sending out the CVs the day after he came home jobless. He’d signed up with an agency. He’d even ticked the box that let them know he was prepared to go to the UK, Australia or Canada. It would be temporary. It could be exciting. He hadn’t hesitated.

But nothing.

He was too slow, again. Too late. One of the banks was advertising mortgages for people who were thinking of coming back home to Ireland, from the UK, Australia and Canada.

They’d be fine. Emer said it, and they said it together. They touched glasses and smiled. They’d tighten the belts, just a bit. They’d renegotiate the mortgage, but only when they had to. They’d stretch the six remaining years to twelve, or fifteen.

—We’ll drink less.

—No way.

They laughed. She patted the dog on her lap.

—And we’ll feed you a bit less, Chester, she said. —Cos you’re a fat little fucker, aren’t you.

He wasn’t fat – the dog. Neither was Sam.

Just when they’d thought they were safe. They hadn’t been alone in thinking that. The cookbooks were a sign of the shift. Whenever they went to people’s houses – and they did it a lot, on Friday and Saturday evenings, the homes of people Emer knew from work or old friends she’d kept in touch with – they were given food that was supposedly eaten on the streets of cities that Sam associated with bombings or destitution. Beirut street food, Mumbai street food. Jerusalem was the latest – Ottolenghi. The recipe book was always on the kitchen counter, and they’d have to hear the tale of the hunt for the ingredients before they were allowed to eat.

Not that he objected to the food. He cooked a bit himself. Dublin street food, and the odd Mexican or Far Eastern dish. But, anyway, that was the start of the country’s comeback, he’d thought. And Emer had agreed with him. The street food books – the money to buy them and the money to use them, the tiny bit of ostentation. The books alone on the counter, and the box sets piled beside the telly. One night, he’d even made up a story about a couple on the Southside who’d served up barbequed fox – medieval street food. He’d added a joust in the back garden and an outbreak of cholera before everyone around the table realised that he was joking.

That was the last time he’d been funny.

Something had snapped, or sagged, a few weeks after he was let go. Someone sitting beside him at a different dinner, someone else he didn’t know, had asked him what he did and he hadn’t been able to answer. Not a word.

---

*

The next time Emer had told him they were going to someone’s house on a Friday he’d said No.

—What?

She hadn’t looked at him yet. She was just in from work, concentrating on the dog.

—I’d prefer not to, Sam said.

He hated the sound of that, the voice and the words, the pompous little boy. But he’d said it.

—Why not? she asked.

She was sitting on the kitchen floor, shoving the dog across the tiles and enjoying his return. She looked up at Sam.

—Ah, said Sam. —I don’t –. I just –

—What?

—Why is it always your decision?

—Hang on, she said. —What?

She was standing now, taking her coat off.

—What did you say? she asked. —I mean, what do you mean?

She smiled.

—Well, he said. —Why is it like that?

—Sorry – like what?

—You come home and announce we’re going to Fifi’s house –

—Fiona’s.

—Grand. Sorry. But you never ask.

—Ask what?

—If, like. If I want to go – or if we should go.

—What’s wrong?

—Nothing’s wrong.

—There’s something wrong.

—There isn’t.

—Is it the job?

—No, it’s not the fuckin’ job.

—Sam.

—What?

—Just stop it.

—Stop what?

—Ah, Sam, she said. —Listen.

She was moving again, across the kitchen. She was brilliant at this, making normality out of the tension. She put the kettle under the tap.

—Sam, she said.

—Don’t patronise me, Sam said.

—I’m talking to you.

—Okay.

—I know what you’re going through. Don’t say anything –. I know it must be terrible – okay? But you’ll get another job, wait and see. You’re highly skilled.

He let her go on.

—This is temporary, she said.

She tossed a teabag into a mug.

—Agreed? Sam?

—Okay, he said.

—You think that too, I know. You know. It’s temporary.

—Yeah, he said.

—So, she said. —We keep on going. Business as usual.

She was working the top off the mocha pot now, making him coffee. He didn’t drink tea.

—I suppose so, he said. —But it’s been three months.

—That’s nothing, she said. —We’ve both heard about people who were waiting for years.

But it wasn’t about the job, or any job, or how he’d spend the time.

—It’s just – like –.

—What? she said.

She smiled. It amazed him, how she managed this. It never looked frozen or insincere. She loved him. Her tea was in her hands, his coffee was on the gas.

—All these invitations, he said.

—They’re not invitations, she said back. —It’s not formal. They’re, like. Just, people – friends.

—Yeah, but your friends. I know no one.

—You do.

—Not really.

—Come on, Sam. They’re our friends.

—Some of them, he said.

—Is that not enough?

The pot was bubbling. He took a mug from the shelf. He took the pot off the gas.

—Thanks, he said.

—No worries.

He sipped the coffee, and gave her the thumbs-up.

—Why don’t you volunteer? she said.

—What?

—Do stuff, she said. —You know. Meet people.

—People?

—Stop it, Sam. You know what people are. Everybody’s volunteering these days.

—I don’t want to fuckin’ volunteer, he said.

—Why not? What’s wrong? I’m worried about you, Sam – really. I am.

He said nothing – he couldn’t think of anything. He didn’t want the coffee; he could feel it burning his gut.

—It’ll give a shape to your day, she said. —Sam?

—Listen, he said. —Emer.

—Go on.

She looked so eager, so ready to help.

He threw the mug.

---

*

He walked ahead as the dog ran back for the ball. He walked into the wind and the bit of rain. It wasn’t dark yet. The sun was a lump sinking behind the city.

He’d apologised to Emer, and said he’d bring the dog for a walk, get some air. He couldn’t look at her. He’d found the dog’s ball and lead in the drawer under the sink, and he’d left. He’d called Bye from the front door but she hadn’t answered.

The dog was back. He dropped the ball in front of Sam.

—Good man.

It bounced, and rolled off the path onto the grass. Sam moved to pick it up.

And it happened.

A guy on a bike went into him. But Sam didn’t know that. All he knew was the pain.

He was on the ground by the time what had happened began to assemble itself. He saw the bike, and the guy sprawled on the path a bit further away. He heard a noise he didn’t recognise. It took a while to know that he was making it. Grunting, blowing, pushing back the pain. He could hear the skid now, the sound of the guy pulling the brake. He heard the guy’s protest.

—Get out of the way!

Now he heard the guy groaning, and a wave hitting the other side of the sea wall. He heard himself. Breathing like he’d been running for hours, shoving the air out. Bellowing. He didn’t know if he could move.

There was no one else around. Normally, this time of day, there’d be other people walking their dogs, or running, or even the homeless lads looking for somewhere to hide for the night. But there was no one.

He moved a leg – he could. He rolled to his side. He lifted himself. Jesus though, God. Jesus, the pain. He kept going. He felt huge. He stood up out of the wet and the injustice; that was how he felt, how he saw himself. Made monstrous. ...