Awakening the Gods

by Kristin Gleeson

  Still, it was mine, at least until the end of the month or I could find another job quickly. I’d asked around at the pub briefly to see if they knew if anyone was hiring, but no such luck. It was early days, I told myself. I stepped over to the counter and switched on the kettle. A cup of tea would settle me down after the session.

  I thought again of Luke. Would he have kissed me if we hadn’t been shooed into the pub? He had certainly given me a few winks and flirtatious little flourishes on the pipes afterwards. And all during his low whistle piece he had looked at me. I had played a piece on my own low whistle along with Cormac on the fiddle. Afterward Luke had taken my whistle, examined it, blew a few notes and leaned over and told me that he thought something was off with it. I had been surprised. I knew it wasn’t perfect, but it had been all I could afford at the time. Seeing my dismay, Luke had squeezed my arm and told me he would take it and fix it sometime. And that had been it. No lingering after the session. He was out the door with a “see you lads” before we’d even begun the last piece. No parting look at me, nothing.

  Now I just had to sit down, drink my tea and forget it so I didn’t spend all night dissecting every detail of what was clearly just a musical flirtation. Sure, didn’t it happen all the time? You get so into the music someone played and their skill that you start with your own bits, back and forth, sly and subtle or bold and brassy, however it took you. A little wink and nod at what was going on and no one hurt.

  I was just pouring the tea into my mug when the buzzer went for the door. I pressed the intercom.

  “Who is it?”

  “Is this Saoirse Doherty?”

  “Yes. Why do you want to know?”

  “It’s the Gardaí.”

  My heart pounded. What did the police want with me? I ran through all the possibilities. Sure, they couldn’t be here for yelling at my boss after he fired me, or any of the minor things I may have done in the past few days. I grabbed my keys and went down to let them in.

  When they entered the apartment I felt my nerves heighten even more, no “music for now” in sight, only the “saving the bad for tomorrow”, or whatever bollocks I’d said earlier.

  “Can we sit down?” The tall dark haired man in his early thirties asked. Beside him was a young woman, her blond hair pinned back under her peaked cap.

  It was when I saw her face that I realised this was not anything to do with some imagined misdemeanour. Pity filled her eyes and softened her mouth.

  I blinked but gestured to the sagging sofa. “Have a seat.”

  They sat down almost in unison.

  “Tea?” I asked. “I just made some.”

  The woman glanced over at the man and he shrugged. “Since you’ve made it.”

  I took out mugs and filled them quickly, wanting to get this chat over with. Once the tea was brewed, bags sorted, I handed out the mugs and took the chair from the kitchen table and brought it round to sit on. With an expectant look I stared at them.

  The man cleared his throat. “I’m Garda Murphy and this is Garda O’Connell. I’m sorry to intrude at this late hour, but I’m afraid I have bad news about your father.” He paused.

  “My father? What about him?”

  He cleared his throat again. “I’m sorry. It seems he’s been in a car accident. A serious one.”

  I stared at Garda Murphy, disbelieving. “Is he all right? Is he in hospital?”

  “Uh, no, Miss Doherty. Saoirse. He died.”

  I sat frozen for a moment, staring at him and all the impossible words that he’d spoken. “Dead? But that’s impossible. He’s in South Africa. At least I think he is. Let me see.” I reached for my phone to look at the most recent message I’d had from him.

  “Yes, it was South Africa. That’s where the accident occurred.”

  I stared at my tea, still trying to make sense of the words he’d just said. “How? When?”

  “The South African authorities just notified us. Apparently it was a few hours ago. His car went off the road, crashed and went up in flames. If it’s any comfort, his death would have been instantaneous.”

  I looked up then. “Instantaneous?”

  Garda O’Connell nodded. “Yes, that’s what they said. I took the call. I’m sorry for your loss.” She leaned over and squeezed my hand.

  “Thanks, thanks. Yes, it’s good to know. Thank you for telling me.” I uttered all those phrases, my Irish instinct to say those reciprocating phrases said at death, at the wakes and funerals, to replace the keening wails and shrieks.

  Other thoughts flooded my mind and it all seemed a bit much. “What shall I do? Do I need to go over there and claim the body? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”

  Garda O’Connell looked at her companion. “Um, well you don’t have to do that. It seems there really aren’t any remains to speak of.”

  “Oh.” No other words came into my head.

  “The South African authorities will be in touch with our embassy and they’ll let you know if you are required to do anything. In the meantime you can go ahead and plan his funeral.”

  “How? I mean there’s no body.”

  Garda O’Connell studied her a moment. “Ask your priest.”

  I snorted. Priest. My experience at the convent boarding school had left me giving all of that a wave goodbye. “Sorry. I don’t really have a priest. Not around here in any case.”

  “And your father?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t think so. We never really talked about it.”

  They both gave me a bewildered look.

  “We were never really close,” I said. “I was in boarding schools most of the time and he was always off travelling.”

  Garda Murphy nodded. I caught Garda O’Connell surveying the dingy apartment with a puzzled look. I could just imagine the debate going on in her head as she tried to figure out exactly why I was living in this hovel with a father who obviously had money.

  “Call his solicitor, then,” said Garda Murphy, his voice a little kinder. “I’m sure he had one. Would you know who it is?”

  I nodded, relieved. “Yes, I do. I’ll call him, then. Thank you.”

  The two of them rose and I was glad. I’d had enough. I wanted to be alone.

  Garda Murphy took out a business card and handed to me. “If you need anything else from us, feel free to ring me.”

  I thanked him and ushered them both out.

  An hour later I was out of the apartment, striding down the road. I tripped but managed to right myself. No skinned knees tonight, thankfully. It was madness to be out walking at this hour, but I couldn’t help it. I needed to move and my few metres of space was not going to satisfy me. There was an all-night gym the next road over, maybe I could go there. I laughed. Who was I kidding? I’d never worked out in my life. I didn’t have any gear on and I was a hopeless klutz, bound to do myself an injury.

  My steps kept on and I found myself heading towards The Mangle Pit. I’d only got to the end of the next road when I saw them. They were nearly visible this time. One was taller than the rest, dark trousers and dark jackets, in an older style, standing there at the edge of a small laneway. There was no whispering. Just silence. They nodded to me as I met their eyes. I froze.

  I stuffed my earbuds more firmly in place and tried to focus on the music that came from them. It was a sweet recording of Martin Hayes and Dennis Cahill, made before the Gloaming and all of that diversification. Not that I minded the musical collaboration, but there was something fun and pure about the playing of the two of them that I really loved. The phrasing and chemistry, the diddly di di humour of some of it, the magical wonder of other bits that caught me up. But not, it seemed, so much today. Today the door was open, but I couldn’t quite get inside.

  I looked over at the secretary who worked busily at her desk. She caught my look.

  “Not to worry. He won’t be long. The phone call was unexpected but it will be brief.”

  I nodded and forced a smile. I decided to imagine
the bow work and how Dennis matched some of the strokes with his own beat. But I still couldn’t help but remember the sight of those…men? Yes, men. The night I got the news about my father’s death. I’d tried to convince myself for the past week that it was just the result of shock. Nearly had when I’d attended the excuse for a funeral that was held for my father two days ago. It was all a bit rushed. An unfamiliar priest. A few strange people who presented themselves as colleagues of my father. And a few of my own friends. Nina from the cafe and the lads from the session, along with Finbarr and Gregor. Lads minus Luke. He was the invisible man, the phantom musician, appearing only when you least expected, never when you wanted.

  I sighed and shifted my weight, determined to shove it behind me, away from that room of music I wanted so much to enter now. Fiddle away those men, dance a jig instead. Blow away the piper, reel and slide and slip jig into the tunes instead. Didly, diddly, dee moves and shifts, a hop and skip. Aah now.

  The phone buzzed. The secretary answered and looked at me. It was time. I sighed, feeling the skip, hop and jump. The spin and whirl, fade away into the harsh fluorescent light above.

  I rose and slowly walked into the solicitor’s office. The only tune playing here, I thought, was money. The kind of money I hadn’t encountered since boarding school. The kind of money that I’d only glimpsed on the few occasions I’d been to my father’s house. The money tune played out in his suit, his hair, his furniture and his perfectly groomed face and beard. I knew from the outer office that it was a far from seedy firm, but the wide expansive space now—floor length windows overlooking the Liffey and expensive artwork took it up a notch.

  “Sit down, Saoirse.”

  I decided against shaking his hand since none was offered. Right, so. Quick and efficient. Well I wanted this over with as quickly as possible.

  “When can I get a set of keys to my father’s house?”

  “I’m sorry Saoirse. I didn’t realise you were under the impression that this would be anything but a quick briefing on the process.”

  “Process?”

  “The process of probating your father’s will?”

  I pressed my lips together and took a deep breath. “I realise that the will has to go through probate, but I assumed it was just a formality. That I could get the keys to the house. There are probably papers that you need.”

  “Oh I have access to the house and have retrieved the papers, no need to worry about that.”

  He smiled. The money smile. The solicitor with money looking after money, and I knew then there was some kind of little twist coming.

  “I’m sorry, but there are few matters to clear up and establish before I can allow you access to the house.”

  “What matters? Is there a problem? Are you suggesting I’m not due to inherit the house?” I sat there, stunned. I knew that we weren’t on the best of terms recently, but this seemed too much. Surely just because I’d called him everything I could think of when he refused to let me go to America and be a writer didn’t warrant this behaviour.

  “I know we weren’t on the best of terms recently, but I am his daughter. Surely I can have keys to the house? Please? It’s only that it would be handy out. I mean, my lease is up soon on my apartment… and well I can’t stay there any longer and…”

  The solicitor gave me a sympathetic look. “Oh that is unfortunate, Saoirse, but I’m afraid I can’t help you there. There are some complications. Things I need to verify. I’ll explain in a minute.”

  “But, I’m his daughter. He’s dead. Surely as next of kin I’d be entitled to know the details.”

  He shook his head. “Of course.”

  I looked at him sceptically, knowing without a doubt that ethics were defined very loosely around his office when it suited.

  “How long will probate take then?”

  He steepled his hands in a studied manner. “It’s hard to say.”

  “Roughly speaking, then.”

  He shrugged. “A few months. I can’t be certain. It could easily be longer.”

  I rose. “Well that’s that then.”

  “Sit down, Saoirse. There are a few things I need to explain.”

  “Miss Doherty.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You can call me Miss Doherty.”

  He gave me an indulgent smile. “Yes, well. That’s precisely it, my dear. I have to explain to you at this point that you are in fact not really a Doherty. At least by birth. You were officially adopted by Seamus Doherty at birth. You are in fact…” he leaned forward and picked up a piece of paper. “Oh. Well the details of your birth parents are vague.”

  I sat down hard. “Magdalen Laundries?” I said, in a feeble attempt at humour. It was all too surreal.

  The solicitor frowned. “There’s no reason to believe that. Your records just say your parents were Irish. The mother is named, but it’s indecipherable.”

  I nodded. What could I do with that? In some ways, I felt relief that the cold man I’d thought of my father all these years wasn’t really my father. It was strange that the grief that I felt was for the mother I’d imagined died giving birth to me. His wife. The fact that she had only been a vague photo at the back of a shelf and entire imaginary landscape in my own mind seemed a minor detail. I blinked back the tears that suddenly filled my eyes.

  “What does that mean now? Does it affect the will?” I finally asked.

  “Well not ultimately. I have to verify the adoption, the birth, those kinds of things. I’d been under the impression they were all in order, but, well, I just want to be certain. That’s all I can say for now, and until then, well, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait on the house.”

  And that was that.

  3

  Saoirse

  I stared at the ringing phone. The number that flashed up was unfamiliar. Was it the solicitor, or rather his secretary? I didn’t think so. I answered it with trepidation.

  “Hello?”

  “Saoirse?”

  “Yes.” I didn’t recognise the female voice that spoke. It was deep and soothing and, without meaning to, I relaxed.

  “Saoirse, I’m your grandmother.”

  “I don’t have a grandmother,” I said, on my guard again. “At least not a living one.”

  “Ah, but you do,” said the woman. “And I’m her.”

  A dozen thoughts raced through my head. “Sorry now, but is this some sort of joke?”

  “Not at all, sweetheart.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I know. I only just heard from your father’s solicitor about his death and was able to get your contact information.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “Of course you don’t. Would you mind if we just meet up and I can explain it all?”

  I thought for a moment. “Are you my grandmother by blood? Was your child my real mother or father? Is that it? My father, well my adoptive father, knew my parents and you?”

  “Look, if you just meet with me I’ll explain it all then.”

  I bit my lip. The woman uttered another plea and maybe it was her voice, the curiosity but I couldn’t help it in the end.

  “Okay.”

  Roasted beans scented the air and tantalised, a sensation undimmed the recent loss of my job grinding, brewing and serving it. The flavour filled my mouth even before I drank it, the waitress only now putting on the finishing touches. She was good. Her little flourishes a nuanced performance any theatre goer would praise and I couldn’t ever hope to achieve. A chorus girl admiring a star. I took up the cup when she’d finished and I’d paid and turned to search the tables until I spied the woman I’d come to meet. It didn’t take me long. She was so out of place I could barely suppress the laugh that rose to my throat. There were no wellies in sight, but there was no mistaking where she lived. From her long grey hair that was only just held in place by the braid down her back, to the old mud stained corduroy trousers, worn green cardigan and serviceable shoes, she showed none of
the trends on display in the rest of the cafe.

  She looked up at that moment and caught my eye. From this distance her large eyes were kind and the smiling mouth wide and generous. I nodded and made my way over to her, a little flutter of nerves rising up.

  When I reached the table I saw she was nursing a cup of tea. I unloaded my cloth bag that acted as my purse and carryall onto the chair next to her.

  “Hello, Saoirse,” she said.

  I nodded again.” Hello.” I noticed she had no food in front of her. “Do you want anything?”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m fine. You suit yourself.”

  I took my seat. The chatter that surrounded us brought the noise level up to just below unbearable. I leaned forward, cupping my mug. “So, you say you’re my grandmother.”

  The woman nodded. “I am. It’s a long story. Your real mother died when you were young, your father, my son, gone off who knows where, and before I could come and arrange anything, you were taken and put into care. I didn’t know where you were until your adoptive father’s solicitor got in touch with me the other day.” She beamed at me. “And now I’ve found you, at last.”

  I looked at her, dumbfounded. However brief her words, they were filled with so much information it was overwhelming.

  “Jesus,” was all I could manage. I took a sip of my coffee and it scalded my throat. I coughed and put the mug down and stared at the hot liquid. “Jesus.”

  She patted my hand. “I know it’s a lot to take in, especially with the recent shock of your father’s death on top of it. Seamus Doherty’s death, I mean. Not your real father.”

  I raised my head and stared into her grey eyes. They were nothing like my own green ones, but I thought I could trace a bit of a resemblance in the shape of the face. “My real father, is he still alive?”

  My grandmother nodded. “Yes, but I haven’t seen him in a good while. I’m not certain where he is at the moment.”

  Questions suddenly crowded my head. “What does he do? Where does he live?”