by Oliver Sands
And her mother? What of Margaret Looney in all this? Had she known? Or had she just been a gormless fool, allowing Nora to pull her strings and make her dance blindly through her depressive haze? But Margaret wasn’t around to ask any more. And Nora might as well be dead. There was only one person left in the world who could shine a light on this whole tragic state of affairs and give Breeda the answers she craved.
Breeda sat into the car and looked at the postcard once more. The phone number was a land line number. She took her phone from her pocket and slowly tapped in the digits. With her breath held, she hovered a finger over the Call button. She touched the button, clasped the phone tight to her ear, and stared off towards the chop and spray of the white horses in the distance.
In North London a phone began to ring. Breeda imagined her father walking into a hallway, getting closer to it, maybe setting down a mug of tea. She rubbed her palm along her jeans. The ring tone pulsed in her ear and she realised she was still holding her breath. Breeda flung open the car door – the air stifling again – and exhaled slowly.
‘Hello?’
A woman’s voice. Unexpected. The dialect jarring. Breeda sat up.
‘Oh. Hello. I’m looking for Malachy Looney?’
‘Mal’s not here at the mo.’ In the background a dog barked. ‘Trixie – be quiet!’ A pause. ‘Who’s this then?’
Breeda stood out of the car, an itch of sweat prickling her scalp. She hit the rewind button in her brain and replayed the woman’s words.
Mal’s not here at the mo.
Breeda put out a hand to steady herself, all doubt gone. He was alive. Her father was alive. Her legs wobbled, a newborn foal at its first tentative steps.
‘I said who’s this?’
‘That’s OK. I’ll call back later.’ She turned and gripped the side of the car with one hand.
‘Here, just—’
Breeda killed the call and flung her phone onto the passenger seat. Her gut spasmed, and for the second time that afternoon, she found herself looking at creamy chunks of seafood chowder.
Chapter 25
Nora stood across the road from The Treasure Chest in her least-favourite two-piece suit. Through the large shop window she could see Myra stepping back from her display of Donegal tweed blankets and lambswool throws, an index finger tapping at her lips. She observed as Myra swapped out a pink throw for a mustard one, before walking back behind the counter to answer the phone. Nora wiped a clammy hand along the side of her skirt. She felt frightened of what she was about to do. But needs must.
And now Dougie Mahon, the lanky shrink’s browbeaten husband, was pulling up outside the shop. He locked his car, then walked his toolbox inside, probably there to fix the flickering strip of lights under the shelves. Nora watched the silent interchange between them both: Dougie laying his tools out on the floor; Myra casting a sly glance at his bum crack as she twiddled the phone cord.
The quiet fury that Nora had experienced earlier — as she’d stood catching her breath in the doorway of Breeda’s empty bedroom — had shapeshifted into a steely pragmatism over the past few hours. Nora realised she couldn’t really blame the girl for pretending to be sick so she could slink off to Dunry. She was just being true to her nature, after all. Crafty and obstreperous, that was Breeda’s way. Nora patted a hand to her hair. She wasn’t the type of woman to make mistakes. But in this instance, well, Nora was going to have to shoulder the blame for this mess. She thought once more of the promise she’d made to Margaret on her deathbed: she was to look after Breeda. Keep her safe. Mind her. Nora cleared her throat, now dry and tight, and looked back towards the shop. There was still time. She could still make things right.
From Nora’s right came the slick glide of tyres – a small peloton of men on expensive bikes going way too fast through the village. They seemed to be bloody everywhere these days, fleeing their midlife crises along the bends and inclines of the Wild Atlantic Way. What had Myra called them once? MAMILS - that was it. Middle-aged men in Lycra. Nora stood her ground at the edge of the pavement as the collective prostate of Mamils whizzed past her, a blaze of sweat and bulging calves.
She looked back to the shop window. It was actually good that Dougie Mahon was there. The sooner Oona Mahon heard about it, the better. Any second now they’d look out and spot her. She had to be ready, she had to go through with it. Behind her a young boy was shooing away a couple of pestering seagulls from his bag of chips. Nora tried to ignore the scrawk and flap of the birds, the smell of fat and vinegar wafting past. She closed her eyes and whispered a Hail Mary to herself.
And then from around the corner came the huff and chug of McGuigan’s coach.
For the love of God!
She hadn’t factored that in. The blasted coach would park in front of The Treasure Chest and block their view of her. Nora glanced to her right again. No more cyclists, but a campervan was coming towards her, a couple of young foreigners sitting up front. She looked straight ahead now with a singular focus, ignoring the bulk of the tour coach arriving from her left, blocking out the campervan approaching from her right. Myra and Dougie were chatting at the counter. Nora rubbed at her crucifix and willed them to look out, to see her. And just then, Myra did. She turned and looked, their eyes met. The moment stretched, the seagulls paused, and the sky above Nora Cullen held its breath as she clutched her chest and fell into the path of the campervan.
Chapter 26
Breeda pegged the last of Nora’s knickers to the clothesline and tried to ignore their mocking dance in the mid-morning breeze. She kicked her foot against the plastic laundry basket on the ground, and watched it scoot across the backyard where it hit the step with a satisfying smack.
She stood for a moment, thinking back to the awful blur of Monday evening: Oona and Dougie’s panicked phone call and the ensuing cross-country mercy dash to the hospital, a ton of guilt in the passenger seat keeping Breeda company during her frantic drive home. The subsequent five nights in Nora’s box room had brought a dull crunch to the discs of her lower back, and now Breeda quietly cursed the torturous wrack of a spare bed upstairs. She reached her hands overhead, forced an arch into her stiff spine, and looked up at the cloudless sky overhead. A thin white contrail smudged the blue in an Easterly direction. Breeda stared at it and found herself wondering if it was bound for London, a place where she should be right now. She swallowed hard. There was an impatient excitement yearning to come up, but right now it had to be pushed down deep inside. Just for a while longer, just until Nora had recovered from the heart attack.
A bell tinkled from deep inside the belly of the house. Breeda snatched up the laundry basket.
Lady Muck wants a fresh pot of tea.
She paused at the back step, put her hand to the wall, and forced herself to remember that it wasn’t Nora’s fault. The poor woman had been under huge strain – no thanks to Breeda – and now she lay upstairs, holding on for dear life. Breeda was all she had left, and this was when family overlooked their differences, buried their squabbles, and pulled together.
Breeda climbed the back steps slowly, sat the basket inside the laundry door, then stuck the kettle under the cold tap. Her phone lay sleeping on the kitchen windowsill. There was still no word from Doctor Chakraborty: Breeda had left the woman three voice mails since collecting Nora at the hospital on Monday. She remembered how she’d burst into the hospital’s reception area, fearing the worst, her shoes squeaking on the polished lino and her wild eyes searching for someone to direct her to Nora’s deathbed. But she had simply found poor Nora deserted in the waiting room, a blanket draped over her knees and not a doctor or nurse in sight — an absolute disgrace. Now Breeda picked up the phone and willed it to ring. She needed to discuss Nora’s care, to understand the longer-term prognosis of her heart condition. From upstairs the bell rang again. Breeda sat the phone back on the windowsill, planted the kettle on the hob, and clicked on the gas.
‘One minute, Aunt Nora!’
Loo
king out at the garden she slowly chewed at her bottom lip. The initial excitement at knowing Mal was alive had quickly brought on a restlessness that had permeated every cell of her body. And now she desperately wanted to get the hell out of here, to go to London and throw her arms around her father. To get on with her new life. Her true life.
But since fetching Nora from the hospital five days ago, Breeda had felt a stone-like heaviness in the pit of her stomach, anchoring her to this house. It wasn’t just the rigid springs of the spare bed keeping her awake into the dead hours of the night. It was the bitter acknowledgement that she, alone, had caused this; had brought her aunt to the brink of death; might, in fact, still push her over the edge. She was beyond ashamed.
Breeda imagined the little butterfly heart beating erratically in the old lady’s chest cavity upstairs. She filled her lungs, and then exhaled a long breath of acceptance. She would simply have to be on her best behavior. Any upset or stress could kill Nora. Breeda would simply play the good girl from now on.
She unfolded the postcard from the pocket of her apron and looked at the view from Primrose Hill once more. Her dad was still there, she just had to be patient. She flipped the card and traced her finger along the phone number and considered ringing it again. But that woman, whoever she was, might answer again, and Breeda was a bad liar at the best of times. What she really wanted was to turn up and surprise him, and not have anyone else in the world tarnish or taint or put a spin on their reunion in any way. She folded the postcard and slipped it back in her pocket. Just another few days …
As Breeda poured the water into the teapot her phone rang.
‘Oona!’
‘How are ya, chica?’
‘Oh … you know …’
‘Is Nora doing your head in?’
‘Understatement of the year, love.’
‘Well, I might have something to cheer you up. Are you doing anything this afternoon?’
Breeda listened to Oona’s proposal, doing her best to block out Nora’s bell, louder and more insistent now.
‘Well, what do you say?’
‘I would love to, Oona,’ Breeda turned in the direction of the bell. ‘But I’ll have to run it past her ladyship first…’
*****
‘Barbecue?’
Nora looked from the bedroom doorway where Breeda stood, to the edge of the bed where Myra Finch was neatly perched. After a moment she looked back to her wayward niece.
‘Barbecue?’
The word took on a sourness as it left Nora’s mouth, and now it hung incredulous in the air between the three women. Myra Finch was studying a freckled hand in her lap, her pinched face the epitome of a seasoned lemon-sucker. Breeda looked down at her own chipped nail polish, feeling like a teenage girl asking the Pope for a cherry-flavored condom.
‘It would only be for an hour or two, Aunt Nora …’
Breeda heard the grating grovel in her own words and cringed. How in hell had she managed to stuff up her life so spectacularly that she now had to seek permission to go out for a sausage and a salad? She looked up and caught Myra Finch shaking her head not-so-subtly and felt a sudden urge to stride across the room and deck the bitch.
‘And who, may I ask, is hosting this “barbecue”?’ Nora was looking at Myra now, their coiffed heads both shaking to the same harmonic at the girl’s impudence.
‘Oona. And Dougie. They’re just having a few people over. It’s such a lovely afternoon.’
Breeda gestured like a hammy actor with an open hand towards the window. Nora ignored the blue sky outside, instead fixing Breeda with a hard stare.
‘I want you back by six at the latest. Six. Do you hear me?’
The woman was obviously playing up for Myra; a martyr milking her role as invalid on a moral crusade to keep her niece in check. As Breeda looked at her aunt propped up against a wall of pillows, unsaid words bubbled up from within her. She wanted to tell her aunt to take a run and jump. To tell her to treat Breeda like the grown woman she was, and to take some responsibility for her own heart condition. And part of Breeda wanted to fling other words at her aunt too and watch them sting and shock her pious face. She could tell her that Mal Looney was alive and well in London, and that she’d be getting the hell out of this house as soon as Nora was back on her feet. But Breeda bit her tongue, remembering her aunt’s delicate condition, and forced a smile.
‘No problem, Aunt Nora. Six it is.’
Nora shuffled herself more upright in the bed.
‘Now, take this tray downstairs. And you might as well bring myself and Myra up some soup. Good girl.’
‘Alright, Aunt Nora.’ Breeda cast a glance around the gloom of the bedroom, then looked once more out the window. A shock of pink cherry blossoms jostled in the warm afternoon breeze, and carried in a sweet scent, like a childhood friend asking Breeda out to play.
‘And a plate of cheese and ham toasties.’
Nora mumbled something to Myra, and Myra mumbled something back.
‘And the packet of Jaffa Cakes.’
As Breeda turned to leave she spotted something familiar lying flat on Nora’s dresser. Her foot caught on the carpet, and the cups on the tray clattered as she put a hand out to steady herself.
‘Aunt Nora—’
The rest of the words caught in Breeda’s throat, as she stared at the painting of the swimmer – her mother’s wedding present – out of place in Nora’s bedroom. Breeda shook her head, waiting for it to make sense. Nora must have let herself into the house when Breeda was in Dunry. Breeda swallowed hard. That painting was hers.
‘Oh that. Well, it’s too valuable to be hanging there in your mother’s bedroom, with God-knows-who traipsing in to view the house over the coming weeks. I’ll store it somewhere safe. Out of harm’s way.’
Breeda turned around. Nora was staring back at her with a look of pure defiance. They locked eyes as the blood pounded in Breeda’s head. She dropped her gaze to the trembling cups on the tray in her hands. Nora’s cup had a smear of lipstick on the rim and it seemed to sneer back at her. Breeda took in a deep lungful of air and forced herself to remember that her aunt’s health was precarious at best. Now wasn’t the time. Breeda needed to get out of here for a few hours. She needed to clear her head. She needed a drink. Her mind was already picturing Oona’s ice bucket of wine and beers in the back garden.
‘I’ll just fetch those soups.’
Breeda threw a dead-eyed smile towards the women on the bed and turned to leave. And as she descended the stairs, she felt a hairline fracture run through her. A ticking time bomb had begun its countdown.
Chapter 27
Breeda parked outside Oona and Dougie’s semidetached terraced house and stepped out of the car to the strains of music and laughter drifting up the side path from the back garden. She smoothed her dress down over her tummy. It would do the job: floral and flattering, and with just the right amount of exposed arm. She brushed some bronzer across her cheeks and as she tottered off down the driveway on a pair of wedge shoes Breeda decided to give herself permission to let her hair down, if only for a few hours: the Noras and Myras, the Brian O’Dowds, the Dervil Sneddons of the world could all go to hell. Breeda’s head was well and truly wrecked, and what she needed right now was a relaxing afternoon. A few drinks, and a good old natter with Oona on her swing chair would be like sunlight to a seedling. And at that moment, as if by magic, Oona’s telltale hoot bounced up the side path to Breeda, and a long overdue smile bloomed on her face.
As Breeda rounded the corner, she came face to face with Dougie. He stopped in his tracks, a plate of lamb kebabs in one hand, a champagne flute in the other.
‘Sorry, love. The supermodel convention is two doors up. But you can stay for a sausage if you like?’
‘It’s a bit early for a sausage innuendo, Doug. I haven’t even had a drink.’
‘Here, take this. I was bringing it over to my good wife.’ He turned to nod in the direction of the far back corner of th
e garden, ‘She’s probably had enough, but she’s demanding another.’
Breeda craned her neck and glimpsed Oona on the far side of the garden. Between Breeda and Oona the lawn was jammed. Oona hooted again and Breeda slowly navigated her way through the crowd.
‘Breeda!’
Oona’s face was flushed, her eyes already a little glassy. She wobbled herself off the swing seat, and raised her arms in the air, sloshing the remains of her glass onto the ground.
‘You look only gorgeous! Marie, take a look at Bree.’
While Oona yanked Breeda into an embrace, Marie Boyle, the woman from two doors down, tapped Breeda’s glass with her own.
‘Cheers, Breeda. You are looking well.’
Oona released Breeda, then looked past her shoulder, as someone else approached.
‘And I believe you two know each other?’
As Breeda turned around her smile morphed into a lunatic grimace, and she felt an urgent need to evacuate her bowels. She opened her mouth but had no words. A faked smile was being bitched down at her, eyebrows raised in a porcelain brow.
Marie Boyle piped up from beside Breeda.
‘Yeah, Dervil was telling us you went to school together. Was she a dark horse? Was she, Dervil?’
Marie nudged Breeda in the waist, then looked playfully towards their new friend.
Dervil bit her bottom lip, then looked conspiratorially from Marie to Oona. She leaned in a couple of inches, lowered her voice, then nodded to Breeda’s legs.
‘Let’s just say young Breeda didn’t get those knees from saying her prayers.’
Breeda stood dumbfounded, a mute player in her own life, as they caught the joke lobbed their way. Oona squealed, and Marie doubled over in a laughing fit which drew a curious look from Dougie across the garden.
‘Sweet Jesus. I’m going to wet my knickers.’ Oona jiggled on the spot with a hand to the crotch of her jeans. Neither Marie or Oona noticed the red blotches on their friend’s face. Breeda was the butt of the joke, the loner schoolgirl once more.