by Oliver Sands
‘Any idea when he’ll be back?’
A slow lick of the bottom lip.
‘Thing is, love – old Mal’s upped and left. All a bit sudden, if you ask me. I’ve already rented out his room to someone else.’
She seemed to pick up on the confusion on Breeda’s face.
‘I’m a landlady – not a charity. So, anyway, off he goes. Mentioned jetting off to Florida for a change of scene. Sick of London, so he says.’ A nod to the darkening sky overhead. ‘Can’t say I blame him!’
‘Florida.’ It wasn’t a question so much as a sound that Breeda felt compelled to make at that moment.
‘Yeah,’ the woman continued, after a quick look up the street, and the slightest lean forward. ‘Between you and me, I think he got spooked. Someone called up last week – some woman – wouldn’t leave a message.’ Her eyes held Breeda’s a fraction of a second too long. ‘But anyway. I’m not one to gossip. As long as my lodgers pay on time then Mrs Bennett’s as happy as a pig in the proverbial.’
The dog, Trixie, had lost interest, and had tacked off down the hallway floorboards. This seemed to be the cue for Mrs Bennett too.
‘Anyway. Must get on. If you do track down old Mal, tell him Mrs B says hello.’
The door started to close before something else seemed to occur to the landlady.
‘By the way, who should I say was asking? Just in case he gets in touch?’ Her eyes had narrowed, and she stood motionless.
Breeda’s words came out as a long, deflated sigh.
‘Breeda. Just tell him Breeda was asking after him.’
The woman gave a single nod.
‘Alright, Breeda. Well, you watch yourself crossing the road. Tara, now.’
The brass knocker bounced once on the closed door and the street once again settled into its Sunday afternoon stillness. Breeda picked up the bag from her feet and turned back to survey the street. She had no clue what to do next. She hadn’t even a hotel room in which to sit and cry. Her empty stomach felt leaden and she needed to sit somewhere and think. And she needed a drink. A bloody big drink.
Chapter 32
Nora stood in her late sister’s upstairs bathroom and tossed another two painkillers into her mouth. She struggled on the cold tap with her left hand and forced the pills down, trying to slow-breathe away her frustration. Oona Mahon – well-intentioned but annoying as hell – was bellowing something up at her from the living room. Only half an hour before she’d turned up unannounced with a fruit basket at Nora’s front door and when she’d caught Nora struggling her one good arm into her coat she’d insisted she would drive her over to the Looney house herself. So now Nora stood at the bathroom sink, willing herself to calm down, but feeling disgruntled at the interfering do-gooder hovering around downstairs. She glanced at herself in the mirror and shrunk back from her reflection, her eyes sunken and bloodshot.
Another shout came up from downstairs.
‘Are you sure I can’t get you whatever it was you needed, Nora?’
‘Thank you, Oona, but no. I won’t be a minute.’
She winced at the effort of shouting back down the stairs. It was a pain to raise her voice above a whisper. They could set her arm in plaster, but no neat little white cast existed for her three broken ribs. Bed rest and patience, they’d told her last night at the hospital. They hadn’t wanted to let her out today, of course, but when Myra had visited her at lunchtime, Nora had threatened to create a scene if they tried to keep her in. She couldn’t face another sleepless night in that public ward, with its phlegmy coughers, the stench of bleach, and the superbugs lurking on every surface. Nora looked down at her broken arm in its virginal sling. She’d been lucky, they’d told her. It could have been so much worse, they’d told her.
If only they knew …
She crossed quietly to Margaret’s old bedroom and scanned it from the doorway. Breeda had packed everything as instructed, only leaving Margaret’s paintings on the wall and the photos on the dresser. The bed was stripped, the wardrobe was emptied. All else was boxed-up and ready to go. Nora sat slowly onto the bed and let her sore body sink onto the feathery softness of the mattress. From this level the view was one of only mountain and sky. No wonder Margaret had loved daubing at her watercolors here, keeping her troubled mind on an even keel.
Nora ran her left hand slowly along the stripes of the mattress and stared vacantly at the bare floorboards. She didn’t really know why she’d come here today – but she’d had to come – something had compelled her to. And she’d needed to get out of her own house. Too many memories had been raked up now and had been chasing her from room to room. Her body had been in shock from the altercation with Breeda yesterday as well, and her mind had steadily caught up with the violence, so that it too now felt battered and bruised. Telling Breeda about the insurance policy had been beyond stupid, and she felt alarmed at her own lack of discretion. She fingered the little crucifix at her neck, queer in her left hand. Who could she trust if not herself? Now she stroked the cast on her broken arm, but no sensation penetrated the plaster, the soothing useless.
A shock of color from behind the bedroom door drew Nora’s eye. She recognized it immediately – Margaret’s yellow coat from Portobello Market. She unhooked the hanger from the door and bunched the material in her left arm, burying her face in the bright yellow wool, and seeking even the slightest scent of her younger sister. It was like running into an old friend from happier days, and now Nora was conscious of a lump in her throat. The bottom of the coat was muddy, along the hem, and she walked over to the window, and picked distractedly at the little clumped tufts with her one good hand.
*****
It had been while Nora was working at the insurance company, over the summer of 1975, that her younger sister had come to London for a week. Margaret had adored London, of course, her first time in the Big Smoke. She’d been raring to get out and explore the city bright and early each morning, even after a cramped night on the lumpy two-seater settee in Nora’s tawdry bedsit. One morning, as Nora was making ready to head to the office, Margaret had stated rather matter-of-factly over a piece of toast that she was sick of looking like a dowdy culchie, and that she was going hunting for a new dress. She promptly scrounged a few quid off her big sister – with a promise to pay her back – then caught the Tube to Westbourne Park, and from there walked down to Portobello market. But it wasn’t a dress that caught her eye that morning, but a beautiful coat of sunflower yellow, the likes of which she’d never seen. It demanded to be bought, so she’d later tell Nora, and she’d dreaded to ask the man behind the counter just how much it cost. She’d haggled, of course – the shopkeeper a total curmudgeon who was having none of it – but she’d wangled a smile out of him, then a laugh, and five minutes later had walked out with change in her pocket. Her Ma and Da would have been proud.
That same afternoon, while Nora had been filing away policies in a stuffy Haymarket office, Margaret had popped into a pub in Soho to use the ladies. The barman had insisted that she buy a drink if she was to use the facilities, so she’d paid for a Britvic and was sipping her glass when she felt a pair of eyes on her from across the bar. The man had held her gaze as he folded up his copy of the racing fixtures, and walked over confidently, hand extended, his eyes never leaving hers. He’d introduced himself – a London boy from Irish stock – but he was more interested in learning about Margaret. He wanted to know what she was doing in London, if she was a model, and how had she not been snapped up yet. Margaret Cullen wasn’t green, and had someone tried such a routine back in Dunry she’d have laughed in his face. But this fella, this Malachy Looney, there was something about his persistence, his self-belief, his fascination in her, that swept her up as a willing participant in the game.
And so, ten minutes later, when she’d finished her orange juice, she’d permitted him to buy her a Babycham – just the one – and the banter had continued. As they’d talked, she became aware of herself observing the little vignette
playing out in the timeless bar. What would they say back at home? She imagined how the tongues would wag, but to hell with all that. She felt womanly. She felt wanted. And she relished the sense of impropriety of having a drink with a strange man in a strange city on a Thursday afternoon.
Three drinks later, and feeling tipsy from lack of lunch, Margaret realised with a shock how late it was. She had already agreed to meet Nora at the Eros statue after work. As she’d pulled on her coat Malachy Looney had looked so crestfallen that she’d agreed to meet him again the next evening, same place. He’d stood with her on the street, outside the pub, and as they shook on it his hand had not wanted to release hers. She allowed herself to be drawn into him for the quickest of embraces. Her new coat flashed golden in the evening sun, and in that moment, in the warmth of his arms, she felt like everything and anything was possible. As she’d walked off towards Shaftesbury Avenue Margaret had felt his eyes on her back, and she couldn’t hold back the grin which broke over her face.
Just after five pm the next day the two sisters had strolled down Old Compton Street, Margaret bubbling over with a nervous energy and turning heads in her new coat. Beside her, Nora was failing to fight the infection of her sister’s giddiness. She was happy to be dragged along to check out Margaret’s new beau and felt inwardly relieved to be getting out of her poky bedsit. But she was also aware of an uncomfortable little pang of jealousy in the pit of her stomach. Not one jot of interest had been shown her way in the three weeks she’d been in London, and here was her younger sister fresh off the boat, men already sniffing around her like flies around shite. Margaret had always been the stunner, of course, and the sting of envy lurking in Nora’s mind was nothing new. She pushed the feeling down, suddenly embarrassed at her pettiness, and linked her arm tighter through her sister’s. And so they found themselves traipsing through Soho, bent double every few meters to snort with laughter at something no one else in the world would get. Nora had brought her little Hanimex camera along, and they’d coaxed a cheery chap from the door of a book shop to take their picture, his clumsy fingers struggling on the button, which set the pair of them off into hysterics once again.
They’d fallen into the crowded bar, and weaved through the swell of Friday evening drinkers, finding a relatively quiet spot towards the back. Margaret stood on her tiptoes and glanced over the heads around the bar.
‘I don’t see him.’
‘Well, he’s hardly likely to stand you up, Maggie. Relax. We’re a bit early anyway.’
The inside of the bar was clammy, and Margaret shrugged off her new coat.
‘Take this, would you? I’m dying for a pee. Must be the nerves.’
As Margaret headed off to the loo Nora turned to look for two free stools, but instead caught her reflection in the tiniest gilt-edged wall mirror, buried in amongst prints of old Soho. She thought of her sister, who definitely looked nothing like a dowdy culchie, despite what she’d said yesterday. Margaret was all big brown eyes, long pale neck, and the fullest of lips. Nora leaned closer into the mirror. Her own eyes were more grey than blue today. Her mouth was just a tight little slash. And her hair – similar in color and length to Margaret’s – was hatefully wiry and dry and a divil to tame. Nora glanced over to the ladies, then unfolded Margaret’s yellow coat and slid her arms into it in one smooth movement. She buttoned it up quickly and stuck her hands in the pockets. Her fingers found something – Margaret’s good lipstick – and she took it out and quickly filled in her lips before rouging her cheeks a little. She might be chaperoning her sister, but it didn’t mean she had to look like an old maid while she did it. She turned discreetly to one side, then the other, then pressed her lips together once more in the mirror.
She froze. Two strong arms were around her, locking her in a tight embrace. Nora stood rigid, her hands still in the coat pockets, her arms clamped to her sides. She tried to turn but a man’s face nuzzled her neck now, and a heady blend of cigarettes and shaving soap forced its way inside her nostrils. His grip tightened, arms like marble, and she knew she was powerless to escape. The bar was full of people, yet no one looked her way. She was drowning, only meters from the crowded shore. She squirmed her face away and cast a panicked glance at the gilt-edged mirror. And now she saw him, his eyes closed, his stubbled cheek pressed against her flushed face.
He whispered, his breath hot in her ear.
‘You’re a sight for sore eyes, Maggie.’
And as if sensing her eyes on him he looked up. Their eyes met in the mirror and the din of the pub dropped away. Nora saw something shift in the man’s face as he realised his mistake. The moment stretched so that they both stood frozen in time. They stared at each other, Nora’s breath shallow, his heart pounding against her, two strangers entwined in an accidental intimacy.
He released her, slowly, then took a step back, the spell broken. Nora pushed herself away, stumbling forward, and looked down at her feet as she tried to regain her composure. She shook the suffocating coat off her shoulders and when she looked up again she found him staring at her in the mirror, a bold smile on his face, his palms up in surrender.
‘Sorry about that. A case of mistaken identity …’
Nora turned to face him, her body shaking. She folded the coat over her arms to try and disguise a tremor, holding it in front of her like a barrier. It was just an innocent mistake, wasn’t it? She could still feel the ghost of his stubble against her cheek and she forced herself not to raise her fingers to her face.
‘You must be Mr Looney?’ Her voice was dry. She needed water.
‘And you must be the big sister, Nora. Call me Mal.’
From the side of her eye Nora could see Margaret approaching and now she took a step backwards. When Margaret reached them she appeared slightly miffed at having missed her chance to introduce them.
‘Well, it looks like you two have met then? Hello.’
She leaned into Mal Looney’s space and he planted a kiss on her turned cheek.
‘Well, ladies, who’s having what, then?’ The Looney man had taken his wallet out of his jacket, but Nora pushed the coat into her sister’s arms.
‘Here you go. My turn.’
Nora fought her way through the crowd to the bathroom, her legs still unsteady, and once there, wiped all traces of lipstick from her face. She turned to go back into the noisy bar, but stopped, and instead held her wrists under the cold tap. She stood waiting for the water to cool the fire from her veins. But a minute later, with her wrists still under the tap, she looked at herself in the mirror and found herself wondering if it was cooling or cleansing she needed from the water.
*****
The interfering blonde was now shouting something up the stairs and Nora stood up stiffly from the bed. She turned to the dresser and found the old black and white photo from that day in Soho. She picked it up and tilted it towards the window. The two sisters, arm in arm, about to have their destinies set in stone. Margaret’s shining beauty smiled back at her from Old Compton Street all those decades ago, and now Nora realised why she’d had to come here today. This was the place where her sister’s spirit lingered the most. She traced a finger over Margaret’s features.
‘I’m sorry, Maggie.’
Outside the sky had taken on a slate grey color and the window had started to rattle in its frame. Nora placed the photo on the sill and watched the foam forming on the bay down below. She lowered herself awkwardly onto her knees, made the sign of the cross, and said a silent prayer for what she feared was surely about to come.
Chapter 33
Breeda’s feet drew her back towards the familiarity of Chalk Farm tube station. Once there, her gaze latched onto a young couple up ahead – disgustingly gorgeous twenty-somethings – the guy’s arm hanging comfortably around the girl’s pale shoulder, his other hand guiding a bicycle. Breeda followed at a distance, hungry for a distraction. She crossed the road after them and a moment later found herself on a smart wide street, boutiques and cafes drawing
her eyes but registering nowhere in her brain. She could hear the thoughts clambering up, clamoring for attention. A part of her – she imagined a little internalized version of Nora – wanted to scream ‘I told you so!’ and shake her by her own stupid shoulders. But if she let it up now it would take over and she’d be done for. A dark room – a dark room and a bottle of something numbing – that’s what she needed now.
A fat drop of rain found its way down her jacket collar and some blotches patterned the pavement around her. Up ahead on the far corner, beyond the well-heeled pedestrians who were picking up their paces, she spotted a pub. She pushed in through the side door, worked her way along the length of the busy bar, and found a stool at the far end. She hung her bag from a brass hook under the mahogany bar and tried not to think of the mess she’d created.
A young woman was leaning towards her from the other side of the bar, her nose pierced, her wavy hair rinsed a light blue. She looked up from the pint glass she was drying with a tea-towel and gave Breeda a smile.
‘What can I get you?’
‘A red wine. Please.’
The smile broadened, in a knowing one-of-those-days ways.
‘Well, we’ve got Pinot, Shiraz, Malbec, Chian–’
‘Shiraz. Please.’
The girl nodded, then turned away, before shouting over her shoulder.
‘Large one?’
‘Please.’
Breeda shrugged off her jacket and felt the heat from the fireplace behind her on the back of her arms. Every few moments the bar doors swung open to admit another person or two from the wet streets. Feet were stamped, umbrellas were tapped, and collars were turned back into place. Breeda glanced discreetly at the faces around her, hungry for the anonymity.
‘There you go. Would you like to start a tab?’
That knowing smile again. No doubt the girl had seen enough middle-aged fools like Breeda prop up the bar one too many times. Breeda rooted around in her purse and handed over her only credit card. The girl gave it the once over.