Skin Paper Stone

by Máire T. Robinson

  He had noticed a change in Kavanagh lately. The last few mornings Finn had arrived to find Kavanagh already waiting outside for him to open up. There was no more disappearing. He was present, focused. He saw what needed to be done and did it without being asked. Maybe Finn had redeemed himself as a mentor after all.

  As Finn drank his coffee he glanced up to see a dark shape making its way past the door. He looked out the window and saw a short, wiry man dressed head to toe in black standing opposite the shop and shooting furtive glances in. Something about the presence of the man unnerved him. He was conspicuous in his attempts to appear inconspicuous. Finn realised he had seen him a few days before, hanging around the shop as Kav was getting ready to leave.

  ‘Hey, Kav. Do you know yer man across the road there?’

  ‘Who?’

  Finn moved closer to the window and Kavanagh followed. ‘He’s staring in here.’ He raised the blinds and they both looked out, but all Finn could see was the back of the figure as he made a hasty retreat.

  Kavanagh peered out the window. ‘Where? I don’t see anyone.’

  ‘He just left. I think I’ve seen him before though, hanging around, scoping the place out.’

  ‘Maybe he’s working up the nerve to get a tattoo?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’ He lowered the blinds and turned to Kavanagh. ‘Speaking of which, how’s the one you did on your leg? Did it heal up okay?’

  Kavanagh cringed. ‘Yeah, it’s grand. Look, about that, I don’t know what I was thinking. It was a stupid thing to do and it was … it was disrespectful to you.’

  Finn nodded. ‘I appreciate that. That was my idea of an apprenticeship, I guess, watching and learning. Maybe it was too old-school.’

  ‘No, not at all. I was impatient. I should have waited. I really am sorry about that.’

  ‘Could you do it better now, the same tattoo?’

  ‘Oh yeah, definitely.’

  ‘Okay, let’s see.’ Finn sat in the chair and rolled up his trouser leg. ‘Same tattoo, same spot, but this time on me.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yeah, and after this you can consider your apprenticeship over. You’re ready.’

  ‘I … I don’t know how to … ’

  ‘I haven’t got all day here,’ smiled Finn.

  Kavanagh nodded. ‘Okay, let’s go.’

  Chapter 31

  ‘In this country we’ve gone from boom to bust, and now we have another boom – a boom of knowledge! I think that will become apparent throughout the course of our conference here today. Each speaker will present their paper for twenty minutes, with a five-minute slot at the end for any questions.’

  The first speaker was a young American woman who presented a paper on the drúth in Irish writing. When she pronounced some of the words in Irish, Stevie could see Adrienne squirming uncomfortably in her seat as though hearing the words spoken incorrectly caused her physical pain. Stevie had her pen in her hand to take notes but ended up doodling on her notepad, drawing a series of increasingly larger spirals.

  The second speaker looked very young and very nervous. She dropped her notes, and her hands shook as she apologised and picked them up. She read from them and barely looked up. She seemed to forget entirely about the projector until the end, when she clicked through all of her slides in a flash. Nobody asked her anything during the alloted question time and she sat back down and looked relieved. Everyone clapped loudly, as though they had been collectively holding their breath and were celebrating the fact that her presentation was over.

  The final speaker was a man who was researching the velocity of medieval catapults. He had charts, which he explained in intricate detail. Stevie shifted in her seat and tried to focus on the speaker as he droned on in a monotone. What struck her was the specifity of the presentations. She began to wonder if this was what her future held. Were all academics some version of this man, focusing their entire life on a subject in minute detail, buried so deeply in it they couldn’t recognise their own esoterica as they tried to convince everyone of its worth and value? For every tiny pocket of history it seemed there was that one person who would embrace it and make it their life’s work. What was any of it for? She imagined herself in the speaker’s position, facing a sea of bored faces, a life of disinterest and lukewarm responses.

  They couldn’t find three seats together earlier, so Gavin and Adrienne were sitting in the row ahead of her. Adrienne turned around and gave Stevie a wave, and out of nowhere Stevie felt a desire to laugh that threatened to escape from her mouth. Adrienne caught her eye and grinned, a look passing between them. Stevie covered the laugh with a cough and a sharp clearing of her throat as Gavin turned and glared. Adrienne saw this and stifled her own laugh. She put her head down and Stevie could see her shoulders shake. She felt like she was in Mass again, alternating between head-nodding waves of tiredness and barely contained hysteria that threatened to explode if the priest said something inadvertently funny or some poor unfortunate unwittingly broke the silence with a fart.

  After the lecture they filed out of the room and headed like zombies in the direction of the strong aroma of coffee that was wafting from the common room. During the coffee break there was a flurry of chatter with people meeting old friends and colleagues. The mood was upbeat as people of all ages and accents mingled and chatted.

  Stevie smiled at Adrienne. ‘Jesus, that was tough going.’

  Adrienne nodded. ‘I feel bad for laughing.’

  They both started to laugh again, unleashing all of the laughter they had held back.

  Gavin came bustling over. ‘Well, that catapult one was fascinating, wasn’t it? Highlight of the conference thus far I would venture.’

  ‘Yes, very interesting,’ said Adrienne.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Stevie.

  ‘There’s a lecture on ring forts up next’ I want to get a seat near the front. Are you coming?’

  ‘Well, I’m gonna head out for a smoke. I’ll see you back in there.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Adrienne. ‘I could use some air.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll try to save you both seats.’ Gavin bustled off.

  They made their way outside and the cold blast of air hit them, reviving their senses. The courtyard of Trinity College was filled with tourists lining up to see The Book of Kells.

  Stevie filled her pipe with tobacco and lit up. ‘So how’s everything going with you?’

  Adrienne bit her lip. ‘Yeah, okay I suppose. I’m a bit nervous about this meeting with the graduate committee.’

  Stevie nodded, ‘Me too.’

  ‘I’m just worried I don’t have enough done. I mean it’s not from lack of effort …’.

  ‘I know what you mean. You’d be spending days on something and it would lead absolutely nowhere. Jesus, it’d break your heart sometimes.’

  Adrienne nodded. ‘I suppose that’s the nature of it though. It’s so rewarding at the same time when you get a good run at it and the pages almost write themselves.’

  ‘Oh definitely, yeah.’ Stevie smiled as if she knew what Adrienne meant. Pages writing themselves – what the hell? She was hoping Adrienne might express some doubt or difficulty, that they might bond over how they were both struggling, but she could see now that it was just her, only her, that wasn’t getting it. ‘So you reckon you’ll stick it out then?’

  ‘The conference?’

  ‘No. Your Ph.D.’

  Adrienne blinked hard and tried to process the question. Dropping out was a possibility that hadn’t ever occurred to her. She loved university she was always the first over to the library when essay questions were set. She couldn’t understand why students complained about exams. Wasn’t that what they were there for? Wasn’t that the whole point? People actually asked her why she bothered studying ancient hist
ory. It seemed they could understand studying modern history – just about – but ancient history, when people lived differently, why bother with that at all? They didn’t get that there was a connection there, something magical between the ages. She read these ancient Irish poems and she recognised them, she knew them, she felt them. How could you explain that in logic? It was something inside of her, like her senses had a memory. Maybe if she could let others know about it they would recognise it too: the collective Irish consciousness. It was part of their make-up on some primal level, like grain on wood.

  ‘Yes, I mean…. Why, do you think you won’t stick with it?’

  ‘Oh no, I definitely will,’ said Stevie. ‘There is a really high drop-out rate though. They don’t tell you that, you know, but it’s true.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, I was reading an article about it. Maybe it’s all those hours by yourself, and then of course it’s the question of what do you do afterwards. You can call yourself ‘Doctor’, and that’s all well and good, but what does that even mean? There’s no guarantee you’ll even get work. They say that if finding work is your reason for doing it, to choose something else.’

  ‘I don’t know what else I could do,’ said Adrienne.

  It was true. The medieval world she was studying had become her life. Things were better back then, they just were. Everyone had a place and knew what that place was. They knew what was expected of them. They had the right idea about poetry then too. Not like today. These days they just made it up as they went along. People found shopping lists left in supermarket trolleys and they called that ‘found poetry’. Ridiculious! If you knew the rules it was fairer for everyone.

  ‘Me neither,’ said Stevie. ‘So, do you have much done?’

  ‘No, hardly anything. Just a few chapters.’

  ‘Oh, great. Yeah, I’m sure that will be …’. Stevie didn’t have anything. Just some photos of the sheela-na-gigs, some scribbled notes and an entire forest of crumpled-up bits of paper. She had allowed herself to become distracted in the heady newness of being with Kavanagh. When the enormity of her research loomed, it was much more satisfying to escape into him. This need to be with him was like a drug that made her forget about anything else. She would have to ween herself off him. Turn over a new leaf. Gain some focus from somewhere, grab it from the ether. She would start by going back into the conference, even though every atom of her being wanted to walk out the front gates of Trinity College and merge with the crowds on the Dublin streets.

  She turned to Adrienne. ‘Ready to head back in?’

  Adrienne smiled. ‘Sure.’

  Chapter 32

  Patrick’s Day was bright and sunny Stevie had been planning on doing some study, but Kavanagh had convinced her to come out. ‘Come on, it’ll do you good. Besides, you can’t work on a national holiday. I’m pretty sure that’s illegal or something.’ She tidied away her books and went to get dressed. The weather was so warm it made her think of the sandals Donal had returned to her. They were still in the cardboard box in the sitting room. She had put it in the press when she was tidying and forgotten about it. She took out the box and searched through it. Maybe wearing the sandals wasn’t a great idea. They were planning on going for a walk. She should probably wear them around the house for a few days first to break them in. She put them on and paced back and forth a few steps.

  She sat down on the floor and took the other items out of the box. There were some books, an old jumper she had forgotten about. At the very bottom was a shoebox. She opened it up to find old concert tickets, holiday photos, and a pile of old birthday and Christmas cards. Underneath were some letters held together by a thick elastic band. She saw the brightly coloured envelopes, faded now – some covered in stickers – the familiar childish handwriting that spelled out her name and address. It came flooding back to her: Pam, the letters.

  Stevie suddenly felt ancient as she sat holding the letters, relics of a bygone era, before email or social media, before mobile phones. Not that long ago, but it may as well have been a different universe. They had written to each other. They lived at opposite ends of the same city. They talked about meeting up in town one day, going to McDonald’s or to the cinema. But they never did. They spoke on the phone once, but were both suddenly shy. All the openness of their letters, all that they had poured out in writing – their feelings about themselves, about therapy, about feeling at a remove from the worlds they inhabited – was now bottled back up again, unsayable.

  It was easy to forget the intensity of those feelings, Stevie thought as she opened each of the letters. It was tempting to look back on it and minimise it, call it growing pains or teenage angst, but reading the letters again she could feel it all. She was immersed in it. The pain was a physical thing. She remembered that day when Pam did her hair and how they had talked about what they would do, who they would become. Stevie found that she was crying then, big tears plopping onto the letters. She put them aside, not wanting to smudge them.

  And there was the second bunch of letters, the ones she had written in her neat handwriting, that precise cursive font in neat rows. She wrote on pale blue Basildon Bond writing paper with her fountain pen and she made sure to never smudge it. Every word was spelt correctly, and if she was ever unsure she consulted a dictionary. Even this casual exchange between two friends was ordered and exact for Stevie. In contrast, Pam wrote little poems with childish bubble-letters, drew silly pictures, and signed her letters Luv you lots n jelly tots.

  Stevie shouldn’t have her own letters too. Dr Doyle had given them to her. She had continued to attend as an outpatient once a week and there they were one day, sitting on his desk. Her heart jumped in her chest when she realised what they were. She couldn’t comprehend it. Was Pamela angry with her? Had she written something in the letters that had upset her, made her give them to Dr Doyle? Frantically, she cast her mind back over what she had written. They had written about Dr Doyle, called him a creep. Pamela had drawn a picture of him with stink lines around his face, giant glasses and goggly eyes. They had written about what a kip the clinic was, how it stank of boiled cabbage, how they were delighted to be out of there.

  ‘I have some bad news, I’m afraid.’ Dr Doyle adjusted his glasses. ‘These came from Pamela’s mother. She wanted you to have them.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ A wave of panic washed over Stevie. Some part of her already knew.

  ‘Pamela passed away.’

  They sat in silence as Dr Doyle waited for this to sink in. Stevie knew she was supposed to say something, but she couldn’t think what. Dr Doyle was looking at her sympathetically. She hated him, didn’t want to hear another word from him.

  ‘Her mother thinks it was an accident,’ he continued. ‘She cut herself.’

  Stevie stared at her hands. She would not cry in front of him.

  ‘Her mother wanted you to have this.’ Dr Doyle handed her a Mass card. ‘Would you like me to call your mother or father to come collect you?’

  She shook her head. ‘Mum’s picking me up outside,’ she lied.

  ‘Okay. We can talk about this next week. You can schedule an extra appointment with me. You can give this to the receptionist.’ He handed her an appointment slip.

  Stevie walked straight past the reception desk and outside. They wouldn’t notice that she hadn’t made the appointment. Dr Doyle already had too many patients and people on waiting lists to see him. Then guilt consumed her as she realised that she hadn’t responded to Pam’s last two letters. She hadn’t replied because it brought her back to that time, those feelings of self-consciousness and being set apart. She was studying and hanging out with friends now. She was training herself not to listen to that voice and trying to leave that part of herself behind. When Stevie reached the bus stop she took the Mass Card out of her pocket and examined it. The girl in the picture was Pamela, but
not Pamela. She was younger and her face was rounder with baby fat. Why didn’t they have a more recent photo? Stevie realised that there were probably no recent photos of her either. There were few Kodak moments when someone is sick, especially when they were not the type of sick that their family can discuss without whispering, or shifting uncomfortably, or blaming themselves in some way.

  There was a sharp knock on the door that pulled Stevie back to the present. She put the letters back in the shoebox, placed the shoebox into the larger cardboard box and returned it to the press. ‘Coming!’ she called as she wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

  She smiled as she opened the door. ‘Sorry, I’ll just be two secs. Come on in.’

  ‘Are you okay?’ said Kavanagh. ‘Your eyes are red.’

  She thought of telling him, but how could she even begin? ‘Yeah, I know. It’s this bloody hay fever back again.’ She made her voice breezy and light. Glancing at his face she could read him, and could tell that he believed her completely. She had forgotten what a convincing liar she could be.

  The Spanish Arch was thronged with revellers drinking in the sun. Some dangled their feet over the edge of the embankment, almost touching the slow, swollen black river below as an occasional swan floated past, contrasted in brilliant white against the dark water. Every so often someone would let up a cheer and it would carry and travel along the crowd as people held their cans and bottles aloft. Stevie and Kavanagh made their way through the throngs of people, Kavanagh nodding and stopping to exchange a few words with this person or that. He seemed to know everyone and everyone seemed to know him. He gripped Stevie’s hand tightly as they navigated their way through the crowds.

  They walked out towards Salthill, away from the whoops and roars of the crowd. The sun beamed on the shallow water, illuminating the yellow sands and the clumps of brown seaweed that danced here and there like submerged ballerinas. The water in the sun’s path glittered and shone like scattered diamonds. Dogs trailed their owners’ feet and snuffled in pools that had collected all along the jagged rocks lining the smooth promenade. Everything smelled of the sea and sunshine. Mothers pushed prams, children cycled, a man passed by on rollerblades. People ambled or ran or sprinted, arms swinging, everything in motion. Stevie had the sensation of being elsewhere. This was not the west of Ireland but France or Italy, the Mediterranean sun shining on them. A feeling of contentedness embraced her. Thoughts of the letters tried to intervene but she forced them from her mind. She focused on her breathing and enjoying the moment. Kavanagh held her hand and smiled at her.