by Alex Barclay
‘Fine,’ said Johnny. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ He turned to walk away.
‘Johnny – wait,’ said Edie.
He looked back. His eyes were bright with hope and Edie wondered what he thought she was going to say. ‘Just …’ she said. ‘Stop … waiting for him to change.’
Johnny frowned. ‘What?’
‘Dylan is all of what you see – the weight, the anxiety, the insecurity. But it’s Dylan – aged sixteen. It might not be Dylan at eighteen or twenty or twenty-five. But … what if it is? I’m saying – if you’re waiting for him to go back to being the happy little bunny … well …’ She paused. ‘Maybe that won’t happen.’
She raised her chin, blinked and hoped Johnny wouldn’t notice she was fending off tears.
When she looked at him again, she could see the triumph in his eyes. He stabbed a finger at her. ‘Don’t you ever give me a hard time again for grieving over that.’
‘I’m giving you a hard time,’ said Edie, ‘for letting him see it.’
Johnny’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, and I’m the piece of shit? Because you can hide it better? These “feelings” everyone is supposed to be all open about?’
‘No one thinks you’re a piece of shit,’ said Edie.
‘Oh, I think we both know Dylan does.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Edie. ‘I’ve never got that from him.’
‘Well,’ said Johnny, ‘maybe he raises his acting game when he’s around a champ.’
Edie hated them both at this moment – individually, but mostly, as a couple.
The grandfather clock in the hall chimed four times. Edie closed the door to the bar behind her and stood with her back to it, pausing to release a breath into the dense silence. The storm had been building all afternoon, and she could feel the powerful push of the wind against the walls of the inn, like the shoulder of a fairytale giant who didn’t want them there, who would keep pushing until they were gone. She knew that in her own house, the wind would be whistling through every broken part, reminding her of every unmet promise. ‘Remember the monstrosity we said he’d raze to the ground? And replace with our dream home? Well, we live in it! And we’ve barely done a thing to it! But look at the beautiful fairy garden! You can see it from our bedroom! Look at the pretty lights! I go there when I’m losing my mind to try to make myself believe in magic again!’
She peeled herself away from the door and walked down the hallway. As she passed the dining room, a movement inside caught her eye, and she stopped. Mally was standing at the dinner table, taking a photograph with her phone.
Edie walked in. ‘Hello, Mally.’
‘Oh!’ said Mally, startled.
‘What are you up to?’ said Edie, smiling.
‘Just – I love what you’ve done!’ said Mally, looking around.
The room had been transformed from elegantly formal into elegantly mismatched. The dining table still had its white starched linen table cloth, but there was a brown tweed runner on top, covered with fresh greenery and a mix of squat cream pillar church candles on slices of polished woodcream taper candles in short brass candlesticks. The napkins were in muted blues and greens, with porcelain hummingbird napkin rings. The usual heavy silver cutlery was replaced with 1940s bone-handled knives, forks and spoons. The wine glasses were a collection of modern and antique – crystal, etched, gold filigree, all different, all beautiful.
Mally was staring at Edie, eyes bright. Edie sometimes wondered whether Mally was hopped up on ADD drugs. There was a wide-eyed, nervous intensity about her that could sometimes veer into something darker. And why would Mally be looking at place settings? She barely ran a hairbrush through her hair.
Edie’s gaze moved down to Mally’s hand. Edie had put a childhood photo at every setting, face down, peeping out from each napkin. Mally was holding Helen’s. In it, Helen was sitting at her kitchen table in a white dress, her tenth birthday cake in front of her, candles lit. She was beaming at the camera, chin up, eyes scrunched tight, a pink paper crown on her head. Clare was standing to Helen’s right, with her rosy red cheeks, looking like she was about to blow out the candles herself. Edie was in the back row, smiling serenely, her two arms neatly in front of her. Murph was standing sideways behind Clare, his arm up like a robot, but his head turned to the camera. His eyes were sparkling with mischief and he had three party blowers in his mouth. It looked like whoever had taken the photo had got distracted by him, because they hadn’t waited for Jessie – the birthday girl’s best friend – to make it into the frame. There was a glimpse of her at the edge – the end of her long black wavy pigtail, the sleeve of her bright pink dress.
Dylan appeared in the doorway. ‘Hey, Mom …’ He frowned when he saw Mally.
‘I was admiring your mom’s party styling,’ said Mally. She held up the photo. ‘Look at your godmother – she was so adorable!’
‘She really was,’ said Edie.
Edie smiled. She wondered would any of her friends realize how much effort had gone into the photo selection. She knew that Helen’s tenth birthday was her favourite, and among the few photos she found, she had chosen the only one where Jessie wasn’t right by her side. She hoped Helen wouldn’t notice the fraction of her, caught at the edge – she didn’t want to see the sting of a painful memory on her face.
‘Who’s this?’ said Mally, pointing to the picture. ‘Is this the girl who died in the fire?’
Edie’s eyes widened. ‘Yes … How did you know that?’
‘Just a guess,’ said Mally. She shrugged. ‘I mean not a total guess – I read about the fire online and saw a photo.’
Dylan frowned at Mally. ‘We have to go. It’s insane out there.’
‘I can give you a lift, if you want to wait,’ said Edie.
‘No,’ said Dylan. ‘What about your hair?’
‘How many teenage boys would ever think of something like that?’ said Edie.
‘Only the ones who want something from you,’ said Mally.
‘Shut up,’ said Dylan. ‘I don’t want anything, Mom.’ He went up to Edie and gave her a hug. ‘Have fun, tonight.’
‘You too,’ said Edie, kissing his cheek, before he pulled away. ‘Be back at midnight and not a minute later.’
Edie went to Helen’s place when they had left. She felt a stab of guilt that she was checking whether Mally had left a grubby fingerprint somewhere – Mally was never unclean, just dishevelled. She had left Helen’s photo upturned. Edie picked it up. Helen had never said why her tenth birthday was her favourite, but maybe it was because it was the last summer before they all found out that bad things can still happen on sunny days.
5
JESSIE
Castletownbere
Saturday, 30 July 1983
The truck was parked in the square, twenty feet long, the side folded down to make a stage. A banner with JUNIOR TALENT CONTEST! hung from the front, flapping only once since the crowd had gathered; a single breeze on the hottest day of the year.
Jessie Crossan, eleven years old, was standing at the bottom of the wooden steps at the side of the stage. The quietest boy in her class, Patrick Lynch – his eyes bright with panic – was slowly shrinking through a tuneless ‘Green Fields of France’. It was Jessie’s father’s party piece, and she knew all the words. She was singing them in her head to will Patrick along. She loved Patrick. He was so sweet, so shy. He brought jam sandwiches to school for his lunch, and something about that made her sad. When he had no lunch, she would make him take half of hers. He would never have asked. She wanted to come to his rescue now, too; to run up on to the stage, and sweep him away like a superhero. Then dance. She had been practising for weeks.
Jessie didn’t know any excitement like performing. She lived in a quiet house, with parents who didn’t say much to each other, but when they sat side by side on the sofa, listening to her sing, watching her dance, she knew that was when they were happiest. She was sad they weren’t there to watch her today – her mother w
as away, and her father wouldn’t be back from work until dinner time.
Patrick went suddenly quiet, his pale hands intertwined, his knuckles white. His spindly legs had been shaking as soon as he stood in front of the microphone, but now the shaking turned violent, and he held a hand to his thigh to steady it. An older boy in the crowd – Johnny – shot out a laugh, and Patrick’s head jerked towards the judges’ table. There was the parish priest – Father Owens, jacket off, dabbing a handkerchief to his brow; Sister Consolata, Vice Principal of the secondary school – hands folded on the table in front of her, head tilted, legs crossed at the ankles, and the Sergeant, Colm Hurley, playing MC for the day.
‘I forgot the words,’ Patrick muttered, his gaze back on the floor.
‘Do you want to go again, Patrick?’ said Father Owens. ‘Give it another blast?’
Patrick’s eyes filled with a desperation that presaged tears.
Father Owens paused, then gave a hearty clap. ‘Well, you did a great job, Patrick! That was a fine rendition!’
Patrick’s eyes widened a fraction.
‘Indeed, it was,’ said Colm joining in the applause. ‘Well done.’
‘Yes!’ said Jessie, louder than she meant to. She looked, full of hope, at Sister Consolata, who was staring up at Patrick with her tight smile and lifeless squint. Sister Consolata had a loud clap despite her tiny hands, and eventually threw two distinct ones into the fading applause. Jessie had worked out years earlier that this was Sister Consolata’s way of giving marks out of ten.
Patrick, his head dipped, left the stage, and ran down the steps past Jessie.
‘You were brilliant,’ she said, but he didn’t hear her.
Sergeant Colm had bounded up on to the stage from the front. He gave Jessie a warm smile. ‘Up you come!’ he said. ‘Here she is, ladies and gentlemen – eleven-year-old Jessie Crossan, who – by the rig-out and the tape recorder – I’m going to guess will be dancing for us today. Is that right?’
Jessie beamed. ‘Yes!’
She looked out at the crowd, and caught Sister Consolata running a chilling gaze up and down her body. She felt a spike of fear. Her parents loved her clothes, and loved her dancing, and so did all her friends. Instinctively, she searched the crowd for comfort, and found it in the smile of her best friend, Helen. Her next best friend, Laura, was beside her, with two thumbs up. Her other friends, Edie and Clare, were standing at the front, giving her matching ladylike waves. Murph was doing moves like a boxer. She tried not to laugh. She walked over to one of the speakers, and put the tape recorder on top.
‘All business – look at her!’ said Colm, and the crowd laughed.
Jessie gave him a nod.
‘Right,’ he said, ‘she’s got it all under control. In your own time.’
He jumped off the front of the stage, and jogged back to his seat.
Jessie hit Play on the tape recorder. She took to the centre of the stage. Then she knelt, one knee on the floor, one knee up, her head curled to her chest. The music started. And, at eleven years old, Jessie, with the innocence and enthusiasm of a girl whose parents were happy when they watched her dance, moved flawlessly through her own carefully choreographed routine to the song, Maneater.
She finished, arms in the air, joyful, expectant. She was met with silence. She was used to her parents’ instant applause. Some sound. Any sound. But the crowd had fallen under the spell of Sister Consolata, whose moods could ripple out like a black-ink gauze, floating slowly down, and settling, wrapping around people, bridling them.
Jessie eventually lowered her arms, and a few scattered claps broke out. Her confused eyes finally found Sister Consolata, who was rising from her seat and heading towards her. With a stiff arm and pointed finger, she directed Jessie to exit the stage. She waited for her at the bottom of the steps, then stooped to meet her at eye level.
‘That was a disgrace!’ she said. ‘An absolute disgrace.’
She stared Jessie down until she trembled.
That night, Jessie sat on her bed wearing just the loose pink cotton top of her summer pyjamas and a pair of underpants. Her diary was open, the tiny lock and key on the turned-down sheet beside her. She wrote the date at the top of the page, along with REGATTA!!!! She paused with the nib of the pen over the first line. After a while, she wrote:
Mammy is at a pilgrimidge in Knock. But she told Daddy I could open my parcel from Auntie Mona in Boston!!! I was so excited!!! It’s not even my birthday until Thursday!!! The reason was because it had an outfit for the talent contest in it!!!! It was a shiny leotard and leggings from a proper dance shop. I love it so much! (she also got me a packet of 3 underpantses which is so embarrising). The Talent Contest was at three o’clock in the Square. It was rosting. Patrick Lynch sang Green Fields of France. And I finally got to do my dance! Maneater! Watch out boy she’ll cheer you up! Everyone loved it!
I’m so tired, but tell you the rest tomorrow. Zzzzz.
She never wrote in the diary again. She never saw it again. The guards took it. They took her blankets too. They took her sheets, and her pyjama top, her pillow and her teddies, her hairband, and her book. They took her father too for a while.
6
Edie stood in the shadows of the balcony overlooking the hall. She was wearing a dark green silk dress with three-quarter-length sleeves that had a small gold button at the cuff. She wore matching dark-green patent heels, and had a dark green bracelet with fine gold edging on her right wrist. Her hair was down, to her shoulders, and tousled, her make-up subtle, eyes with a hint of gold shadow and a smoky edge.
‘Johnny’s voice drifted up from below. ‘I don’t know where Edie is.’
‘Agonizing over the details,’ Clare said.
‘Well, I hope so,’ said Murph. ‘I did my research, and I’m expecting a “soothing five-star experience”.’
Johnny laughed. ‘That was Condé Nast Traveller.’
‘Murph reading Condé Nast Traveller,’ said Clare.
‘What do you think I read?’ said Murph. ‘The Irish Field? Which is an excellent publication, but not the point.’
‘The place is amazing, lads,’ said Laura. ‘It’s like … I don’t know how ye did it.’
‘It’s magnificent,’ said Clare. ‘Helen – you must be used to it at this stage.’
‘No,’ said Helen. ‘Still impresses me every time. But we’re usually over at the house.’
‘Probably a shithole too, is it?’ said Murph.
They all laughed.
‘Speaking of shit,’ said Laura, ‘what was with the reviews on Trip Advisor?’
Edie closed her eyes.
‘Laura!’ said Clare.
‘What? I was disgusted,’ said Laura. ‘About the afternoon tea and the cream being off, and the whole thing being a rip-off? I’m saying it because I know there’s no way that’s true.’
‘It wasn’t,’ said Johnny. ‘But that’s a conversation for another time.’
Edie took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and walked to the top of the stairs. ‘Hello!’ she said, beaming. They all cheered.
‘Here she is now,’ said Murph. ‘Lady of the Manor.’
Edie laughed. ‘You’re all so welcome! I’m sorry I wasn’t here. What an appalling hostess! I had a few things to take care of.’ She looked at Helen. ‘Happy Birthday! You look stunning.’
‘It’s the blow-dry,’ said Helen, waving a hand at it. She had thick, shiny short brown hair that fell across one side of her face. It was an old-fashioned cut but it was perfect on her. She never wore much eye make-up and always wore a pair of glasses to complement whatever outfit she had on. Tonight, they were black. She was wearing a red wrap top and a long black taffeta skirt, and red shoes with a square gold buckle with pearls on the toes.
‘It’s not the blow-dry,’ said Edie. ‘It’s everything.’
‘And she’s got the tits out,’ said Murph. ‘Looking amazing.’
Clare hugged Edie. ‘I’m blown away.’
‘I can’t believe this is your first time here!’ said Edie.
‘Ours too,’ said Laura, pointing at herself and Murph.
‘Yeah, you ignorant bastards,’ said Murph.
‘We didn’t want to lower the tone,’ said Johnny.
‘Says your man,’ said Murph, tilting his head toward him. Then he looked at himself in the long mirror, and ran his hand down the sleeve of his navy jacket. ‘I think I scrub up very well.’
‘You do,’ said Edie, opening her arms wide. Murph gave her a huge hug, and lifted her off the ground. ‘I miss my Murph hugs,’ she said.
‘So, I heard Father Lynch is coming,’ said Murph when he put her down.
‘Please have some new jokes for tonight,’ said Laura.
‘He’ll always be Father Lynch to me,’ said Murph.
‘Yes – he’s coming,’ said Edie. ‘Helen bumped into him in Cork and said “Come on down”.’
Murph looked at Helen. ‘He still looks like a priest. I know he does.’
‘No,’ said Helen. ‘No, he does not.’
‘Is he still in the States?’ said Laura.
‘I thought he was in Dublin,’ said Clare.
‘He is,’ said Edie. ‘I think he was in New York before that.’ She looked at Helen. ‘Isn’t that what you said?’
Helen nodded.
‘Jesus,’ said Johnny. ‘I never thought I’d see such excitement over Patrick Lynch coming to something.’
‘It’s not excitement,’ said Edie. ‘It’s—’
‘Curiosity,’ said Clare. She looked at Johnny. ‘You were too old when Patrick was on the scene – you were off doing your Munster thing. You only remember him from when he was a child.’
‘I hope he’s had a shower,’ said Johnny.
‘Ah, Johnny,’ said Clare.
‘It’s not like I’m going to say it to his face,’ said Johnny.
‘Sure, no wonder he smelled,’ said Laura. ‘The child was a mobile sweatshop. And he couldn’t have been more than six. Polishing the church when he should have been out kicking a ball.’