She laughed when finally they stood in front of the grave. There were five or six bunches of flowers today and a couple of photographs, including one black-and-white snap of Phil at his moody best.
“Phil Lynott! I didn’t know ye were a fan but by the way ye found this so fast, this is not yer first time comin’ here, is it?”
She hugged him happily and they stood there with their arms around each other, the wind sweeping her hair up so that it brushed his chin. He told her the story about Neville and the video, and she laughed again.
“I know. It’s stupid,” he said. “But everybody needs a hero and it helps if they look like you. Okay, Phil didn’t look much like me but he looked more like me than anybody else. And that was enough then. I was grasping at straws, growing up in all-white schools with white foster parents at home. I couldn’t find myself anywhere, d’you know what I mean? There was no reflection of me – no pictures on the telly, no people in the news, no people like me in the shop, because there really weren’t then. And then Nev introduced me to Phil and it made me think, ‘Yeah, okay, I can do this. I can be Irish. Why not?’”
He bent down now and put the bunch of carnations with the other flowers at the head of the simple gravestone.
“I come every August. That’s when he was born, so I make my own little pilgrimage every year. Like a good Irish Catholic.”
“You’ll be on yer knees climbing Croagh Patrick next,” she said.
“Nah, I don’t like his music as much.”
She hugged him a little closer.
“Before my time, of course,” she said. “You’ll have to play me your favourite songs later.”
Standing there, looking out at the sea, and the island beyond, with the sun dancing on the waves and salt on his lips again, Theo felt a door open, letting in the warm breeze of a memory. He was on a hill, his arms around his mother’s waist and she was telling him how she used to walk down the track to meet his father in the village below, when they were first married. He could feel his mother’s arms in Cara’s arms, feel her warmth in Cara’s warmth. But he couldn’t see his mother’s face. Was it gone? He closed his eyes and tried to pull up the whole memory, something deeper than the sensations that were dragging him back. But her face was blank. Her dress was green, she was wearing red flip flops, there was a scent of flowers and charcoal smoke in the air, the sun was hot and below him, banana plants rose along the sides of the track. He could even hear a radio playing music, soft as a prayer in the heavy air. But he still could not see his mother’s face. He blinked away tears. He didn’t want Cara to think she’d made him cry. It wasn’t her fault that his memories swam so close to the surface and were so quick to leap out of the water and into the bright blue of the now.
“You know, Cath said something just now, bout going back to go forward,” he said, turning away from the sea and leading Cara back down the path towards the gate.
He pulled up his collar. The sun had disappeared behind one of the candy-floss clouds that were drifting in from the sea. He was about to put his hands in his pockets but, before he could, Cara had linked her fingers through his.
“She said she had a friend in Rwanda, someone who might be able to find out what really happened to my family. What d’you think? Do you think that’s a good idea, or stirring up trouble for no good reason?”
Cara tilted her head.
“I think it’s a grand idea,” she said after a minute. “I’d hate not to know, even if it’s bad stuff or not what ye want to hear. It’s like what ye said earlier, about the molecules. Ye need all of them, and all in the right places, for you to be whole. Your memories are part of that. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah, it does. No, really,” he said as she fixed him with a sceptical look.
“Can ye find out for sure what happened?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t know to be honest. I’ve never tried. I read a few years ago that they had these courts, they were called gacaca or grass courts because they were held out in the open in the villages. And people could say what happened to them and talk face-to-face with the guys who did the killing. I think they might even have judged people for what they did. But I never looked into it much. I’d been going with the idea that everyone I knew from that time died. It just seemed impossible that anyone would’ve survived. It was like… like the apocalypse, Cara. Like the end of the world.”
“I can’t imagine,” she said after a while.
“But now Cath says this friend might be able to get hold of the records of some of those courts. Apparently, he followed the hearings and is working with the government now. Cath seems to think that there might be some kind of account of what happened to my family.”
“What’ll ye do when ye find out the truth? If it really is that your father killed the guy that worked for ye?” she said. “And what’ll ye do if there’s no explanation?”
What indeed. He’d no idea.
“I already know he did it,” he said slowly. “I know what I saw but I don’t know why. Maybe I’ll never know that but there might be other stuff, like what happened next to him and to the rest of the family. Nobody was able to find out anything about them when I was in the camp. It was like they disappeared into thin air. It’s like I’ve been able to get this far on what I knew already, but now, maybe because I’m older, I think I need the whole story. I need the end, Cara. I need to be able to say for sure what happened. It’s like my father’s stuck in my head, lifting that feckin’ machete forever. I need to know that he put it down. I need to kill him off for myself so I can move on.”
His phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket, detaching the earphones hanging from the bottom as he looked at the screen. No caller ID. He hesitated but he didn’t want to be that person, the one who didn’t want to answer the phone because he was up to no good. He wanted to be a person who could answer the phone whenever. That was the only way forward.
“Hello?”
“Theo?”
It was Gerrity. Shit.
“What do you want? I’ve nothing to say to you. I said my piece to Michael. I’m sure he told you.”
“He did, he did.”
Gerrity’s voice had a laugh in it and it maddened Theo. Cara had walked ahead a bit to give him his privacy but she could probably still hear him.
“But it’s not that simple, Theo.”
“Course it is,” he said, struggling to keep his voice low and turning again to the sea, away from Cara.
“You’re the ones who told me I knew nothing. So what d’ye care what I do?”
Theo paused, leaving room for Gerrity to answer but he waited. He knew he didn’t have to rush, the arrogant git. He knew he’d get what he wanted.
“You’ve left a vacuum, Theo, and you’re a smart lad, you know nature abhors a vacuum. So we need to have a chat. You and me.”
“Not happening,” Theo said, his voice trembling despite himself. “You can go and fuck yourself, Gerrity. Did you seriously think I’d have anything to do with you after what you did? You’re thicker than you look, then. And I don’t work for thick people.”
He hung up. Cara stopped and turned. She looked scared.
He caught up with her and grabbed her hand. Holding Hands Means That You Don’t Need To Face The World Alone. Where had he read that? Some stupid wall-hanging, probably in one of those tacky tourist shops on Grafton Street. Pure bollocks but he needed her hand in his right now.
“Bad news?” she asked.
“Old news. Don’t worry ’bout it. I told you I’m not doing that any more. They can’t make me.”
The trembling had gone from his voice, thank Christ, but she still didn’t look like she believed him. He couldn’t blame her. She’d the sense to stay quiet though. She just squeezed his hand.
They walked on a bit. It was cold now and the magic was gone from the sea. It was just water and sand after all.
“What d’ye listen to? Apart from Phil Lynott, of course.”
&n
bsp; “What?”
He forced himself back to her, away from the maelstrom in his head, where Neville was moaning, Gerrity was grinning and he was holding Michael by the coat on Ha’penny Bridge.
She nodded at the earphones he was still holding in his hand. He looked at them like he had never seen them before.
“Poetry. I listen to poetry,” he said.
And then he fell about laughing at the horrified face on her.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Deirdre hadn’t confronted Fergal. She didn’t know how to. She thought about doing it in public, down the pub maybe? He wouldn’t be able to lift a finger to her then. But maybe he’d start bawling instead. Even in her head, where she roared at him, hammered him with her fists and said all the things she’d been holding inside her for months, she couldn’t guess at his reaction. She’d no bleedin’ clue what he’d do. After what Pauline had told her, it was clear she didn’t know her husband from the next man.
She tried to make it real, whispering to herself when the kitchen was empty or when she was having a bath: “Fergal is driving for a drugs gang” or “my husband is working with Gerrity”. But it didn’t really work. Maybe because the same voice had whispered to her, not so long ago, “He’s so gorgeous, I can’t believe he wants me” or “We’re going to be so happy, we’re going to build the best family.” She couldn’t trust that voice any more. But as she watched Fergal, properly watched him now, it all fell into place and she felt like the world’s biggest fool.
These days, they barely spoke, unless it was about the kids, but Fergal didn’t seem that interested in them either. Had he ever been? She tried to remember the early years but it was such a blur. She could remember the kids – their laughter, their jokes, the falls, the bleeding, the hospital visits, the endless nights walking around the sitting room trying to rock one or other of them to sleep. But where was Fergal? He didn’t appear in these memories. So she tried to remember just the two of them together. But there were blanks there too. It’d been so long since they’d been anything other than Mam and Dad. But if he wasn’t really even being Dad? If he wasn’t front-and-centre in her memories of the kids, then where had he been all these years and who was this man living in their house, sharing her bed?
She emptied the washing machine and took the basket out to the line in the garden. She pulled out one of Conor’s dark grey t-shirts with the name of some band she’d never heard of and pegged it up. Then Kevin’s football shirt, then Grace’s jeans. Underneath, there was a pair of Fergal’s black jeans. She didn’t remember putting them in the machine. He must’ve slipped them in himself. That wasn’t like him. He usually left his clothes in a pile on the bedroom floor. He might not be a complete Flintstone, like some of his friends, but he was no New Age Man when it came to laundry.
Then Deirdre had a thought and she felt a trembling start behind her temples and work through to her fingers. She picked the trousers up, glanced back at the house – he was out but you never knew. She might not hear the engine from here with the kids screaming on the green and the sound of the ice-cream van going round the estate like a police car on happy gas. She laid the trousers flat in the basket, her eyes raking every inch. There were some darker blotches below the right knee and then again on the bottom of the legs. He must’ve put stain remover on first. Jesus, she didn’t even realise he knew where the stain remover lived. She sank back, the jeans gripped in her shaking hands.
“Heya, Mam.”
Grace came out the door to her.
“S’lovely out here at this time of the day, isn’t it? Will I make us a cup of tea and we’ll sit out here and imagine we’re on a beach in the Caribbean?”
Deirdre stood up, the trousers still in her hands.
“We’re a long way from the Caribbean here, love, but yeah, why not? Might as well enjoy the sun while it’s here. I’m sure it won’t be staying long. But d’you not have to be getting to work?”
She pegged the trousers onto the line and turned her back on them. She wouldn’t be hanging laundry in the Caribbean, would she?
“Don’t start ’til one today. Hold on a sec, I’ll put the kettle on and bring out some chairs. If we put our sunnies on and squint, we’ll be able to pretend we’re in the Bahamas.”
Despite everything, despite the whole shagging awfulness of it all, Deirdre had to agree it was nice sitting in the sun, listening to the sounds of the estate – children shouting at each other, far enough away to be hopeful rather than annoying, cars on the road, a radio playing somewhere.
“This was a good idea, love,” she said, smiling over at Grace, who looked to her like a film star, head thrown back, hair loose behind her, sunglasses on, shoes kicked off. How did we make such a beautiful thing, Deirdre wondered for the umpteenth time?
“Where are the others then?” Grace asked.
“Conor’s gone to Liffey Valley with his mates – you might see him there later, though I doubt he’ll be popping into your place.”
Grace laughed.
“Yeah, one of the best things about working there – well, apart from the discount, thank you very much – is that the lads mostly stay well away. You get the odd group, giggling and hooting and making a show of themselves but they get embarrassed fast and they’re soon out the door again, tails between their legs, red up to the eyeballs.”
Deirdre laughed. Grace had done well to get the gig at the lingerie shop – she was too classy anyway for McDonalds or Dunkin’ Donuts.
“And Kevin’s gone off with Joey and the McCartneys. They’re taking them swimming at the leisure centre. And your dad’s out, not sure where. I think he’s working.”
“Ye know it makes me mad when you call him ‘yer dad’. I’m not bleedin’ responsible for him. Don’t put that on me, Mam.”
Grace was half-joking and she smiled to show it but Deirdre made a mental note. She had to stop calling him that. But naming him was only half the problem. If Grace knew… Jesus, she must never find out.
“How’s Neville getting on in London? Did you hear from him since he left?”
Grace’s mouth tightened and she sat up straight.
“Not a peep. But he only left yesterday, I suppose?”
There was a nervous hopefulness to the question that made Deirdre want to take her in her arms.
“Where’s he staying again?”
“He’s somewhere around, where did he say it was, Queen’s Park, I think. He didn’t give me an address, he was really vague about the whole thing, Mam.”
There was a pause. Deirdre felt like Grace was asking her another question but she couldn’t fathom what it was.
Grace sipped her tea, looked at her watch, opened her mouth, shut it and sighed.
“I just don’t know what to do, Mam. His phone’s off. He’s not answering his emails. I don’t have a number for his uncle. Something about the whole thing feels off.”
“He might just need some space. I’m sure he’ll be in touch as soon as he’s settled,” Deirdre said, wondering just how wrong she might be.
Maybe Neville just didn’t want to see Grace any more. Lord knows she’d been hoping for long enough that they’d break up but she hadn’t wanted it to be like this. She’d thought he’d grow out of Grace, move on to other, older ladies, in the fullness of time. She hadn’t expected him to drop her daughter so suddenly, leaving her clutching her phone, her eyes sneaking to the screen every few minutes, her finger worrying the volume button, just in case it had been muted accidentally.
“Have you checked if his parents have heard anything?” she said.
Grace shook her head. “They don’t like me and besides, I don’t want him thinking I’m totally useless. He’ll go mental if he finds out I ran to his parents. I think they’re half the reason he wanted to get away. It’s not that they were mad about what happened. Not really, not the way you’d be. He said they don’t work like that. Actually, what he said was they’re not programmed for that. But they were driving him nuts with their hurt
silence. That’s what he called it. He said he couldn’t bear the way they kept looking at him, like they really wanted to understand how he messed up so badly.”
The sun slid behind a cloud.
Grace took off her glasses. “I suppose I need to start getting ready.”
She bent to get the cups and Deirdre stood up too.
“Don’t mind about that. I’ll tidy up here. You go and get yourself fixed… but Grace…”
Her daughter turned back from the door where she was slipping her flip flops back onto her feet. Her face was bleak, the eyes a little too wide, the mouth a little too fixed, as though she was trying not to cry.
“Neville’s a big boy, Grace. He’ll have to figure this out himself. Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll hear from him soon. He’ll call one of these days and then it’ll all be grand. You won’t feel it ’til he’s back here and all this… this madness will be long forgotten.”
Grace smiled, nodded and headed inside. Deirdre would’ve preferred it if she’d actually called her out on the drivel she’d just spouted, but what else was she to say? Forget him? Plenty more fish in the sea? He was always too old, too posh, too wasted for you? Maybe if she was a really good mother, that’s what she would’ve said. But wasn’t being a good mother also making sure you stayed talking to each other, even if it meant lying sometimes? Where was the line?
She looked at her watch. She’d better get a move on.
Theo was standing under the same tree she’d been waiting under a few weeks ago when he’d asked her for Gerrity’s number. He’d said he needed some air and Phoenix Park was handy for her. She’d always liked this place and it held its extraordinariness for her even after all these years. It was true what they said: your childhood shaped you and how you reacted to everything afterwards. Because hers was spent in a place of endless, wild space where you could wander at will as long as there were no bulls in the fields and no grumbling old lads moaning about this being their land, she loved this manicured piece of green right in the heart of the city.
Rain Falls on Everyone Page 19