Barefoot Over Stones

by Liz Lyons

  ‘This is the surgery line, Ciara,’ Cathy said curtly.

  ‘I know that, Mrs Shepherd, but I have tried the house number and there is no answer. I need to talk to Alison and explain things.’

  ‘Look, I know Alison is down there but she is very upset and might not want to talk to you. I will tell her you are looking for her but I can’t promise anything. She is very hurt.’

  Ciara felt bad enough already and talking to Cathy didn’t make her feel any better. In the following weeks she continued to call the surgery every few days. Cathy insisted she was giving the messages to Alison but none of her calls was returned so Ciara gradually gave up. As a last resort she wrote a letter to Alison, trying to excuse her stupidity and beg her forgiveness, but the letter was returned unopened to the house in Leachlara. Alison had readdressed the letter and the sight of her friend’s handwriting on the envelope was the final act of rejection. Ciara abandoned hope that their friendship could be restored.

  She wrestled her thoughts back to the present while she waited for her bag. Delving into the past was too painful. As soon as she had got her trolley case from the carousel she headed out to find a bus or a taxi that would take her to Colm’s apartment to meet her nephew. Despite her mounting credit-card debt she opted for the luxury of a taxi, to avoid scrimping for the exact change for a bus. It used to cost fifty-five pence from Nassau Street to the Northbrook Road stop and she would happily walk the last ten minutes, nipping into Spar for a bar of chocolate or a pint of milk and a sliced pan if she was ravenous for supper. As she waited in the taxi rank she wondered how much it cost now.

  The upbeat humour of the taxi driver suited her. She could do with a bit of jovial conversation with somebody before she landed on top of Colm and Tom. She would need to muster any charm and warmth she had left after what had happened with Leda that morning. Colm must already think the worst of her because she would be linked in his head with Leda but at least he had told her she was still welcome when she had phoned him to say that Leda had done a runner. Again. He didn’t seem shocked. Perhaps Leda’s behaviour had already exhausted his capacity for surprise.

  She marvelled at how different the roads around the airport looked since the last time she had seen them. It was so much more built up; roads were clogged with traffic and everywhere held the fragile promise of unfinished newness. She had heard of the Celtic Tiger of course. Every Irish person she had met in Spain and England felt duty bound to tell her about the miracle of economics that had swept all before it at home. Thinking she had fled unemployment, they were only too keen to tell her now that they were giving jobs away but that you might need three of them to find a house to call your own. Ciara never admitted that she was fleeing something that a job or the celebrated Tiger couldn’t cure. She had heard the phrase so many times that she thought her head might implode if she heard it once more. As it happened, it didn’t, because the taxi man had used it twice before they had even reached the M50, rolling the ‘r’ of Tiger for dramatic effect.

  ‘So tell me, love, are you here for business or pleasure?’ he enquired as he cruised down the bus lane towards Drumcondra and the older Dublin she hoped she might yet recognize.

  ‘A bit of both maybe, but mostly pleasure I hope,’ she answered quietly as she gazed out of the window. She couldn’t match the place she was seeing now with the place she had left years before. Dublin didn’t have this much traffic the last time she was here and there were new apartment blocks everywhere. It seemed as if it had turned into a city of apartment-dwellers, the newest of them her nephew Tom and his father, Colm. ‘Twenty One, The Malt Store, Claddagh Road. It’s off the South Circular,’ she announced to the driver confidently as if she knew exactly where she was going and whom she would find there.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  No stone had been left unturned to make Colm’s apartment look like a grotto to healthy and normal family life. This whole procedure was not going to flounder on Iris Lifford’s lack of effort. The place had been vacuumed to within an inch of its life. The sterilizer had sterilized everything she could lay her hands on. Tom was pristine in his green and blue sleepsuit. If he smelt divine of baby lotion and as if he had been bathed just before Nurse Halloran arrived, it was because he had been. Colm did his best not to screw up anything that his mother had neatly arranged because he knew that however co-operative she was being they were very close to the flip side of her industry, which was an outright explosion. That they must avoid at all costs. He had had some photos of Tom developed and he had stuck them into frames that he’d had stashed in the drawer of his desk. He put them in a few visible places around the living room. In the drawer he also found a photo of himself and Leda that Rory had taken of them at the Reilly & Maitland St Patrick’s Day Lunch. It was a day when he had realized that it was entirely possible to spend an unspeakably awful day with a beautiful girl if she decided that there was no real reason to talk to their colleagues or to him. The photo looked convincing enough, because Leda always looked gorgeous no matter what her mood. He could say that now even after all that had happened and all that she had done. Colm himself was smiling too, because just as he was taking the photo Rory had dropped the punchline to a joke he had been telling him piecemeal throughout the otherwise depressing lunch. It was to all intents and purposes a heart-warming photo of a couple in love, a couple expecting their first child, except one of them didn’t know and one of them seemed not to care, either then or now. Colm resisted the urge to tear it to pieces and placed it back in the drawer face down. He would deal with it another day.

  Ciara had said that she would turn up about an hour before the appointment and Colm secretly hoped that his mother would make herself scarce so that they could put on a convincing act of young parents struggling with, but ultimately managing, the difficulties of being new parents. It was not as if he was breaking the law wanting to raise his own child but he did feel that he needed the nurse to think that all was well so that she would sign off on the Leda Clancy file and be happy to see a happy and healthy Tom for the remainder of his vaccinations. The initial meeting with Ciara had been uneasy because Colm had been beset with worry that she would have plans for Tom that involved more time with the Clancy family, or that she would want to take Tom to Leda. As far as he was concerned Leda could be with Tom if she would agree to move back into the apartment, but his son was not going anywhere out of his sight. He was deeply relieved that Ciara, who professed herself devoid of anything one might mistake for maternal instinct, had no notion of playing happy Clancy families. She wanted the best for Tom and she wanted to meet Colm herself to see what he was made of, but her role in Tom’s life was going to be that of a devoted aunty – if that was OK with Colm.

  ‘God yeah, it is. I have to say I am relieved.’ His sharp exhalation of breath gave Ciara some idea of how worried he had been about meeting her. ‘I am not at all sure that your parents know of their grandchild’s existence. In fact I am almost certain that they don’t, as they didn’t visit the hospital or even telephone while Leda was staying with me. If it’s all right with you I would like to keep things that way for the moment – just until I feel I have Tom totally settled and on an even keel.’

  Ciara knew he was worried that even if Leda didn’t want Tom her parents might, so she let him know that the Leachlara contingent would not descend on him.

  ‘Listen, Colm, I wouldn’t leave my pet cat, if I had one, with my folks for the weekend. They would mean well but it wouldn’t be a good idea so I think we will keep Tom to ourselves for the moment. Besides, the last thing Leda needs is the whole of Leachlara discussing her baby in the pubs. Dad is out there most nights and he cannot hold water.’

  ‘She was never that keen on going home or talking about it. I never pushed the issue because I didn’t want to be crowding her and anyway our relationship didn’t last long enough for us to get down to the nitty gritty of finding out about each other’s families. She only ever talked to Mam after Tom was born and she ha
d left at that stage so they didn’t exactly hit it off. Tell me to mind my own business, but did she fall out with your folks or what? I know families can be hard. Believe me.’

  Ciara took a deep breath. She could just be evasive but that wasn’t really fair, was it? She could give Colm the sketch of the truth without revealing details. It might go some way to explaining the way that Leda had behaved, although Ciara would be the first to admit that nothing could excuse her latest trick. ‘When Leda was younger she had a relationship with a man from Leachlara who was much older than her, forty years older than her actually. He was married and she thought she was in love with him. Maybe she was. He was just a scumbag who took advantage of the fact that Leda was innocent and unhappy at home.’

  Ciara made it sound like a distant memory. There was no way she was going to admit that Leda might still be involved with Con Abernethy and that it could well explain her strange behaviour about her pregnancy and her son’s birth. It was good to be honest but only to the point that served one’s purpose best.

  ‘And your parents naturally enough did not approve, I presume.’ Colm thought he was beginning to understand Leda’s evasiveness about home.

  ‘Not quite as simple as that, I am afraid. The man was, still is in fact, prominent and well known, and so it was let go much further and longer than it should have been. He was a drinking mate of Dad’s and Dad chose not to pull his friend up about his involvement with his daughter. Mam is not the best at seeing what’s in front of her nose so nothing helpful came from there either. I tried to keep her away from him but she always went to him behind my back because presumably he made promises that she never learned he wouldn’t keep. I gave up in the end because life threw its own crap my way and, as they do say, the best thing about banging your head off a brick wall is that it feels fantastic when you stop. Pretty pathetic, but there you have it. Anyway, I reckon it has properly screwed up Leda so she doesn’t know how to recognize or appreciate decency and kindness. I could tell you who this man is but I’m not sure what good it would do.’

  ‘No, I don’t really want to know, to be honest, but thanks for telling me that much.’ Ciara’s rundown of the balls-up the Clancy family seemed to have made of Leda put Colm in mind of his own family’s shortcomings. Family misfortune was all cut from the same material. The only variety was in the detail. He could tell Ciara all about the disgrace and hardship that Patrick Lifford’s shamefully dishonest business dealings had caused his mother and himself, but he wasn’t sure that she would learn anything real or helpful about him in the process. In the same way, knowing the identity of some two-bit dodgy county councillor from Tipperary who abused the innocence of a teenage girl under the eyes of her parents was not going to help him or Tom now.

  He wasn’t sure how exactly he decided to ask Ciara to impersonate Leda at the public health nurse’s visit but he was taken aback by how readily she agreed. He expected some words about deceit, being caught out in the lie or some reticence, but Ciara was up for it at once. Colm doubted if they could pull it off but it seemed she was not afflicted by a single reservation. She didn’t doubt her ability to be convincing and her faith buoyed Colm’s confidence. Iris was appalled but, always a pragmatist, she decided to keep her disapproval to herself for the moment. At least Ciara had shown some gumption by turning up, which when compared to what Iris saw as cowardice in Leda was to be applauded.

  As a gesture of her good will she invited Colm, Tom and Ciara to her house on Grosvenor Gardens for Sunday lunch the day before the appointment. There was no point in them all sitting down for the first time on Monday and hoping to pull off this stunt. Iris thought that because she had never met Leda, only dealing with her rudeness and aggression with some success on the phone, she might find it easy enough to think of Ciara as actually being Leda. She was more than a little inquisitive to see from what and where exactly this Leda creature had sprung.

  Ciara had accepted the invitation with relish. Turning down a chance to look inside one of the houses in Grosvenor Gardens was not an option. She had gazed at the beautifully lit windows of that type of house when she had walked home from college years before. She adored the elegant steps up to the front doors and the gravel crunching beneath the feet announcing any visitor before they had a chance to chime the doorbell or clutch in their hand the polished brass knocker. The plants and the neat squares of front gardens were always immaculate and it was easy to spot the houses whose inhabitants took pride in their appearance and the others that had been carelessly and crudely divided into flats. Curtains were a dead giveaway. In the flats dirty nets usually served as the only screen from passing traffic and they were hung haphazardly, a single packet of hooks split it seemed between every dismal window in the house. The grand houses had luxuriously heavy, well-lined drapes to keep out the world and its coldness but mostly left open to show the attractions that lay inside. Ciara had imagined life to be more beautiful, more gentle when lived in such attractive surroundings. She had thought back then she would definitely be different if she had come from a house like that. Leachlara left a different sort of mark and one that was hard to wipe away. Ciara was enthralled at the prospect of having a good look from the inside out.

  She brought flowers to Iris. They weren’t a cheap supermarket bouquet but some grasses and gerberas wrapped in wax paper and tied with bamboo from a classy florist that had replaced a kebab shop where the long, loping curve of Ranelagh Road turned into the elegant straight that marked the start of the village proper. Leda had told her that Colm’s mother was a boot so she was prepared for the worst, notwithstanding her sister’s leaning towards exaggeration and negativity. It was hardly likely that Iris Lifford would think well of Leda. Ciara was Leda’s only sister and right at this moment not even she could think of a good word to say about the girl. Colm talked about Iris with gratitude and respect but with little fondness that Ciara could detect, but then again she had only known him for a couple of days. He was unlikely to open up unnecessarily or tell her anything beyond the barest bones of his story. Circumstances had thrown them together. He needed her. A little baby needed her. It felt good to help and it felt right. Ciara hadn’t felt much of either in a long time.

  CHAPTER THIRTY - ONE

  When it came to the appointed time Iris Lifford could not bring herself to be present to watch her son partake in a deception. She considered it a benign enough adjustment of the true facts but she didn’t want to witness Colm being dishonest. What if it came naturally to him and lies fell from his mouth with the greatest of ease? Then Iris Lifford would have to admit that he was a Lifford in more than name. She had been ashamed of one man for most of her life; she could not accept that she would have to think badly of another. She took herself home to make a Christmas wreath for Father Hogan’s front door from the greens and berries that were abundant in the garden. She would make an extra special one to make up for the fact that she had neglected some of her church duties for the last number of weeks. She constructed it carefully, securing each stem to the next and to the central frame. It took her mind off what was happening at Colm’s apartment, but as the clock moved toward 3 p.m. she couldn’t help thinking that it should be finished by now.

  Over at Claddagh Road Ciara was playing a blinder. Tom had taken to her like a duck to water. She sang to him all sorts of songs and none of the usual nursery rhymes that most people feel compelled to babble in a dopey, gormless sort of voice to young babies. His aunt treated Tom to what Colm had to admit was a fairly feisty rendition of ‘Fever’ and a gorgeous version of Kate Bush’s ‘Running Up That Hill’. Listening to her voice echo around the apartment made him a bit depressed. He didn’t miss Leda for himself but he missed her on Tom’s behalf. This is what it should be like, shouldn’t it? A mother singing to her new baby and the baby dozing appreciatively in her arms. Tom was being deprived of that. As heart-warming as the scene with Tom and Ciara was to watch, at best his aunt would only be an intermittent presence in his life. At worst she wo
uld personify all that he had lost.

  Colm waited in the hallway for the doorbell to ring but Brid Halloran was late, fifteen minutes late, and when she finally arrived she spent another five minutes telling them about the traffic-light sequence on Harcourt Road that had broken her heart. ‘Ten seconds of green light, did you ever hear the like of it?’

  Colm and Ciara agreed that it was a scandal and the sense of nervousness that had enveloped them began to lift a little, which was exactly what Brid had planned so she would see these parents at their relaxed best. Colm offered to make tea or coffee and while he busied himself with that Brid launched into the business at hand. She had to say this new mother was looking brilliant and not at all down in her form as she had imagined would be the case. She thought it remarkably unfair the way that some mothers resumed their figures within a matter of weeks as if pregnancy was some sort of outer-body Ziploc experience that could be peeled off, while others (and she had to include herself sorrowfully in this lot) wore the body print of their pregnancy for years after their baby’s delivery. Leda was glowing. If anything it was Colm who seemed to be bearing the brunt of new parenthood, Brid decided. He was a very handsome man and quite young, she thought, but he looked worn to a thread of life, with dark circles threatening to blot over his eyes. He was obviously doing more than his fair share and that was helping his partner get the better of a difficult start at motherhood.

  ‘Well now, Leda, tell me how you are feeling, and don’t just say tired because I know you are thoroughly exhausted, that goes with your new job description, I’m afraid, and tell me about the birth.’

  ‘Oh, Brid, I was shell-shocked in the hospital. I had read all the books, hadn’t I, Colm?’