Kenneth is looking to steal away some of Peadar’s acclaim. He rests one elbow on the mantelpiece and opens his mouth. He can’t hit the high notes, and he can’t hit the low notes, and only barely manages the ones in the middle.
‘There’s always some gobshite at a party who thinks he can sing,’ Evelyn mutters in a choked voice. She slinks out of the doorway and out to the front porch. I follow her, drawing my coat around me and buttoning up to the neck. She takes a box of cigarettes from her denim pocket and lights up with a rasp. The light from a curtained window shows up the fine wrinkles emanating from her eyes and the new creases in her forehead. ‘Why don’t we just book flights and go over to London?’ she says, her lower lip trembling. ‘Just me and you. It’s what we’ve always wanted. What’s stopping us?’
‘Ah no, Evelyn,’ I say, swallowing. ‘I can’t just drop everything.’ I’m more committed to university than I realised before. The dream needs a strong foundation.
‘Will you not even consider it?’
‘No, Evelyn. I can’t.’ I have the frightening, momentarily exhilarating idea that I may have outgrown Evelyn, and that she’s already peaked. I’m the Hillary Bowman in the equation. The idea is immediately followed by the fear that if myself and Evelyn happen to go about the dream separately, it will bring us into competition with one another.
She mashes her cigarette off the pebbledash. ‘No problem, Katie. No problem at all. I only thought I’d ask.’
Maeve’s small voice pipes up from behind us. ‘Stacey Nugent is all over Peadar.’
‘Go away inside and don’t be annoying me. You’re an affliction.’ Maeve stands there gawping at the pair of us, and Evelyn pushes past her into the house, cursing under her breath.
I find Aidan sitting in one of two bamboo chairs, the kind with a big fan shape at the back of it, like a shabby tropical throne. He has blinking Christmas lights in a loop around his neck, and the aura of torture about him. He beckons me towards him with a jerk of his jaw. ‘Katie. Katie Devane. Come here and sit down until I talk to you.’ I’ve always felt comfortable in Aidan’s presence. It was Evelyn set out to plant a seed of doubt about him, but I never allowed it germinate.
‘How are you, Aidan? Happy Christmas.’ My heart lurches out of its socket as he drapes his left arm over the back of my bamboo chair, and places his right hand down on my thigh.
‘You’re the best of all of them. You’ve always been the nicest girl in Glenbruff,’ he says, slurring, and his eyes are running all over me. ‘The day I called to see you. I wanted to say it then. I hadn’t the courage.’ He takes a sharp intake of breath, and in a hard, constricted voice, he says, ‘I’m losing the head over Pamela. Did she ever say anything to you? Did she ever talk about going somewhere or doing herself in?’ I notice the empty bottles scattered about the floor and beneath the chair, and it occurs to me that I’m only a sideshow to a missing girl, and all the life force seeps out of me.
It’s later now, and it’s dark in the house, except for the twinkling embers in the grate. The sandalwood-scented football players and their girlfriends are long gone, and someone’s heaved Aidan off to bed. Evelyn’s waiting for Stacey Nugent to clear off, but Stacey’s still here, waiting it out. It’s clear to all that Evelyn’s reluctant to go home for fear of what might happen if Stacey and Peadar are left to their own devices. I wonder now if Peadar’s the source of Evelyn’s reluctance to move up to Dublin. ‘Will you have another drink, Evelyn?’ asks Stacey in a simpering voice.
‘Don’t trouble yourself, Stacey. Have you organised a lift home yet? It’s getting on.’
‘I’m in no rush, thanks.’ Stacey clacks her plastic nails on the side of her glass. ‘Will you be heading soon yourself?’
‘Oh no,’ Evelyn says brusquely, ‘I’ll be sleeping over.’ Stacey has a face on her like she’s chewing a wasp.
Kenneth says we’re in luck. He has time for one more tune before he hits the road. He takes position by the fireside once again, and he opens his mouth and then his elbow knocks a porcelain deer off the edge of the mantelpiece. It dashes off the tiled surround of the fireplace, and the head topples in on top of the sparkling ash and embers. Aidan appears in the doorway, and he lunges at Kenneth, and takes him by the collar of his shirt. Mickey Cassidy laughs a hair-raising laugh as Kenneth writhes and splutters. Aidan tightens his grip around Kenneth’s neck, and Peadar makes a dive for Aidan, wrenching him away from Kenneth. Aidan glares about the room, breathing hard and fast. ‘Let them lock me up. Get it over with,’ he shouts hoarsely. ‘Isn’t that what ye’re all thinking?’
‘That fella’s tapped,’ Kenneth proclaims, rubbing his neck. His face is wet with tears and snot. ‘Ye’re all witness to it.’
There’s no use picking up the pieces of the porcelain deer. It’s shattered completely, the small white pieces lost in the thick carpet pile, and the head turning grey in the hot ash. It was an ornament belonging to Louise Morley, but that doesn’t warrant Aidan losing his mind over it.
It’s all gone haywire in Glenbruff. I’d have been as well off watching Die Hard on television with Robert for the evening.
I take the long way round to Maeve’s house on my old bike. I spin through Glenbruff, scanning the weather-worn shop fronts, faded bunting and chipboard stapled onto window frames. I make my way through the monotonous countryside, with its pastures of thick glossy grass and endless stone walls crumbling into ditches. The air is fresh and clean and cold, shocking my lungs and heart with every intake, and the wind whistles past my ears.
I’m wondering why I’ve been summoned to see Maeve. I suppose I could have made an excuse, but it isn’t in my nature. ‘I wanted to talk to you about something,’ she says, leaning forward, peeling the insipid peach nail varnish off her fingernails and leaving the remnants on a plastic table covering patterned with golden bells and holly wreaths. There are all sorts of Christmas gewgaws on every surface. Holy angels in gaudy muumuus. Silver sleighs with foam parcels.
‘Oh-kay,’ I say, sitting ramrod in the chair. ‘What is it?’
‘I feel like it’s time for me to move on from Glenbruff. I’m thinking of moving to Dublin in the New Year,’ she says, smiling. ‘I’m ready to be a different person. Have you ever felt that way?’
‘I h-have,’ I stammer, before taking a big slug of tea and burning the roof of my mouth. Holy Mother of God. It’s like the blood is draining out of my head, like my face is going to slide off with the fright. Maeve foisted upon me in Dublin!
‘What’s it like up there? Do you think I should make the move?’
‘Th-that’s up to you, Maeve. I mean, Dublin is…it’s very different. It’s not like walking around Glenbruff and everyone knows you. That’s the nice thing about a place like Glenbruff. Everyone looking out for everyone else and asking after you.’ It’s the last thing I could have anticipated, Maeve moving up to Dublin.
‘Right,’ she says.
‘It’s a whole different ball game up in Dublin. I’m telling you. It’s full on. Getting used to the public transport and the crowds of people. And the t-tourists all over the place. Not to mention the price of rent.’ I can taste iron in the roof of my mouth.
‘There’s plenty of country people like ourselves up there,’ she says, furrowing her eyebrows.
‘There are,’ I say slowly, ‘but it’s lonely for the likes of us.’
‘I’ll have Amanda, sure. And you. Maybe you can introduce me to a few people.’
‘I could do that. Still and all, I wouldn’t be in a mad panic to uproot your whole life up to Dublin. What does Amanda have to say about it?’
‘She doesn’t know yet.’ Maeve laces her fingers together in her lap and turns her eyes to the kitchen window. The view beyond is of the pine trees and the dirt yard and Tom’s tumbledown shed. ‘It’s not just about Amanda. It’s hard to explain. I don’t think I’ll ever come right in Glenbruff. You know?’
‘Mm.’
‘Evelyn’s caught up with Peadar. You
’re in university. I feel like it’s my turn to do something. Be someone.’
‘It sounds like you’ve your mind made up.’
‘I think so. I’ve the bit of experience in Amperloc under my belt now, so I’ll apply for a few jobs and see how I fare out.’ We move towards the front door and she opens the latch, and we go out onto the concrete step beneath the hood of the porch. ‘It might be wise not to mention anything to Evelyn. She’s a bit sore with the way the year has gone for her.’ I nod in agreement.
Out on the porch, I can hear the ark-ark-ark of the crows beyond in the pine trees, and it reminds me of Evelyn’s story, the one she told us in the old cottage. ‘If you move up to Dublin, you’ll be leaving your good friends the crows behind,’ I say, and Maeve laughs. She’s not the worst, sure. Going up to Dublin could be the making of her. I’ll hardly be seeing her that often, and going for a coffee every once in a while wouldn’t kill me. I’ve been overthinking it entirely. Maeve is harmless, sure.
‘I wish Evelyn hadn’t told ye that. In front of the lads and everything.’
‘Not at all. We found it very interesting. Do you still have the things they left for you?’
‘They’re out in the shed.’
‘Go on and show them to me.’
‘They’re only bits of rubbish,’ she says hesitantly.
‘It doesn’t matter. I’d like to see them.’
‘Alright so.’ Maeve pulls on Mary Lynch’s woollen coat from the coat stand inside the door, and then we stroll around to the dirt yard and across to the shed. It’s smaller than I remember. There’s a rusty padlock on the door but it’s unlocked.
Inside in the shed I have the sensation that we’ve disturbed something or someone. Maeve pulls a cord by the door and a single light bulb dangling from the rafters comes on. I notice an old coal sack flung in a corner, the white roots of tubers creeping out of it. I could swear they’re moving.
‘The tin is around here someplace,’ Maeve says, reaching for a high shelf with old paint pots on it and grasping around with her fingers. She takes down a small tin box from the shelf and clips it open. Side by side, we look inside the tin. I see a red raffia bow, a bent nail, an old coin and a small silver pendant. It’s a ballet slipper in the midst of the trinkets, with a loop for fixing it onto a necklace. I lean forward, pushing my face closer to the tin.
‘Where did you get that from?’
‘Get what?’
‘The ballet slipper. It’s Pamela Cooney’s.’ My heart is banging behind my ribs.
Maeve turns slowly, her face reddening, her mouth moving like it’s full of marbles. ‘It’s not.’
‘It is.’
‘We’ve the same one, so. It must have come from the same shop.’ She snaps the tin closed and shoves it deep in the pocket of Mary Lynch’s coat. She goes to the door of the shed and yanks the cord, knocking out the light. I follow her out to the dirt yard.
Maeve is harmless. Maeve the Mope is harmless as a dove. I begin walking across the yard and making for the road. ‘I’ll be seeing you in Dublin, so,’ I call shrilly, and wave.
‘You will, Katie. The two of us are going to have a great time.’
2
Dublin
I’m wearing one of Norma’s polyester blouses and sweating profusely under the arms. It’s taken two bus journeys and a taxi to get to Pyro Productions, a production company situated in a sprawling industrial estate to the west of the city. The interview takes place in a room that appears to be a sort of a storage area; there are long cables in primary colours swept into loops and hanging on wall hooks, stacked hard drives with dings along the sides, and tripods draped with spider webs. The ground is strewn with curling yellow call sheets, old clipboards and empty mousetraps.
Bernard, the person who replied to my email enquiring about internships, sits on a metal chair with his legs spread wide. He looks to be in his early thirties, and he’s wearing a beanie hat, a black polo-necked jumper and a shark tooth on a cord around his neck. He presses his nicotine-stained fingertips together. ‘We’re looking for a high-energy individual. Someone who’s willing to go the distance.’ He has a sort of pout that comes on him intermittently.
‘I’m definitely that kind of person. I’m definitely ready for an opportunity like this.’
‘The hours are long, Katie. In this industry, that’s what we contend with. But there’s a real sense of camaraderie here at Pyro. It keeps us pumped. We’re all incredibly driven and working towards the same goal. We’re here to make high-quality television programming for a discerning market. Is your passport up to date?’
I nod eagerly. ‘Yes. Yes it is.’ I can’t recall the last time I saw my passport. I’ve never had any use for it. I’ll have to ask Mammy to post it to me in a Jiffy bag.
‘I like to tell the newbies to keep their passport in their back pocket. That’s the way it works around here. Everyone’s got to be primed and ready. Up for it.’ Bernard clasps his hands behind his neck, arches his back and thrusts his paunch forward. ‘I’ve a good feeling about you, Katie. Come back in on Monday. Early. I’ll give you the tour and get you started on the basics. Filling the coffee pot. Sorting the post. We’ll bring you in on the production meetings. You’ll get a handle on how things are done. Meet the producers. The directors.’ Holy God. I’m after doing what I set out to do. ‘Once you know the ropes, it’s easier to branch out into research, or directing if that’s your thing. It takes time, but it’s entirely possible.’
I’ve done it. I’ve actually done it. I’m in. ‘Brilliant. Brilliant, Bernard,’ I say, unable to conceal the elation.
‘You know, a lot of people at Pyro started out as interns. Myself included.’
‘That’s very encouraging. What do you do here now?’
‘I, uh, work across several projects. Lots of stuff in development. Lots of stuff waiting to be green-lit,’ he says, rubbing the side of his nose with his thumb.
‘Right. Brilliant.’
‘Any questions for me.’
‘I suppose I’m wondering what made you want to meet with me over anyone else. You must get lots of emails like mine.’
‘I can always tell who’s keen and who’s not. I can always tell who’s got a lot to offer.’
Holy God. ‘That’s amazing. Thank you.’ I’m reeling with delight. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘I’ve been around the block a couple of times. Worked on a lot of the big productions over the years. I can make things happen for people like you.’ Make things happen. Holy God.
‘Thank you, Bernard.’
‘Pleasure.’ He proffers a warm, damp handshake. ‘And so you know, it’s fine to wear jeans on Monday, or whatever you’re most comfortable wearing.’
I saunter out of the building and into blinding sunlight. I can feel my soul lifting out of my skin. The dream is underway. I get straight on the phone to Nuala. ‘I’m in. I got the internship.’
‘That’s unreal,’ she squeals. ‘You’re going to love it. You’ll be on the up from here on out.’ We’re only a few months finished college, and about to launch ourselves on the world. Knowing Nuala, there’ll be a cake from the supermarket on the table this evening and a soppy card about following your heart.
‘I know. I’m sick with excitement. I’d better ring home.’
Daddy answers the phone. ‘Hello.’ I can hear a political debate on the television in the background.
‘I got the job.’
‘Good girl yourself. Is it well paid?’
‘No, Daddy. It’s more of an internship. There’s no pay involved.’
‘I can’t see how that will be much use to you.’ It would have been better if I’d caught Mammy on the phone instead.
‘It’s how people start out in the creative industries, Daddy. You do an internship for the experience. Something proper might come out of it afterwards.’
‘Is that it. I must be behind the times.’
It’s important when you’ve good news to tell
the right people. People who understand the dream or have a dream of their own. Otherwise you end up feeling deflated.
I’ve made attempts to coax Nuala and Norma to the more eclectic bars and clubs in the city, but it hasn’t worked out. Nuala said she didn’t mind it too much, but herself and Norma clung to the edge of the bar counter like they were in the deep end of a swimming pool and unable to swim. ‘Everyone’s out of their minds on drugs in these sorts of places,’ Norma exclaimed fretfully, and Nuala appeared to be somewhat afraid of the other patrons: shifting her posture, compulsively glancing over her shoulder, her eyes full of uncertainty. She tried to dance along to the bleeps and bloops, in fairness to her, the curls bouncing up and down like springs, but she couldn’t make time with the beat.
‘Is the music supposed to do that?’
‘Do what?’
‘Give you palpitations. I think I’m going to have a heart attack.’
There’s no use in pretending. If Evelyn was up in Dublin, we’d be out every night of the week and going to all the best places. The nights out would feel different. They’d be manic and unrestrained. We’d be meeting vibrant people, going to endless parties and rolling in at all hours of the morning. We’d be high as the roof in one another’s company.
I often think of her, especially when I’m attending the bad parties with Nuala and Norma. I wonder had she a big party for her twenty-first birthday. I’d say she did. I’d say she went all out, and not a penny was spared. She might have had a caterer and live music, and people might have wondered if I was coming too, or not have wondered at all. In any case, the day came and went, and I only thought of it after, and it was too late then to be ringing up and wishing her the many happy returns.
I suppose I’m fearful that we might have fallen out of the groove of getting along with one another. The easy humour having become strained. It seems to me that the more you experience in life, the more you are distanced from others. Your experience alienates you. I’d say it’d be tough-going trying to get back in with Evelyn now, and she’d make me work hard for it. She’d be resentful that I haven’t phoned, though she herself hasn’t phoned. It could be that I intentionally forgot to phone on her twenty-first birthday out of fear of a reckoning or a rejection, or even both.
You Have to Make Your Own Fun Around Here Page 10