Winterwood

by Patrick McCabe

  I could bear it no longer.

  —What does it mean! I snapped. What does it fucking mean?

  —Easy, he cooed.

  He flashed his incisors. I went cold all over.

  —It means 'strange', Little Redmond. That's what it means. It means 'strange'. I'm surprised at you not knowing that now. With you being an educated man and all.

  I got up from my seat and tried to push past.

  —Maybe you'll print that little nugget of information in your paper. Maybe you'll put that in your next article. I'm sure your readers would find it most interesting! Red Strange from the mountain - sounds kind of familiar, you have to admit.

  When I got to the door I demanded bitterly:

  —Tell me this. Be honest. Have you been making a fool of me all along?

  —You mean, like when I told you my stories about Annamarie and all?

  —Yes, I said, exactly.

  —When I told you I drowned the lying bitch in the river?

  —Yes, I said, and averted my eyes.

  —Yes, Redmond, I'm afraid your suspicions all along have been right.

  He paused and sighed as he looked out the window.

  —It was all lies, Redmond. I didn't drown her.

  When I heard those words, I calmed down immensely. To the extent that I actually admitted it, in fact.

  —I'm so relieved to hear that, Ned, I said.

  —Oh, are you? he said. You prefer what I did instead then, do you?

  —What are you talking about?

  He said nothing. I demanded straight out:

  —What are you talking about? What are you saying?

  He pushed me back and stood in the doorway, flicking his tongue against the back of his teeth.

  —I knifed her, he said. Just like I did the other fucking bitch, Carla Benson, the so-called beauty of Boston. Redmond, you look pale. I think perhaps you need a drink. Why don't the two of us go right back inside?

  I remembered the name Carla Benson well. Only months before he had described to me how he'd spent some months 'walking out' with her, as he'd put it, during the time he'd spent in Boston. It had troubled me so much that as soon as I got back to the city, I had gone straight to the National Library in Kildare Street and searched through the archives for issues of old American newspapers. Being similarly relieved when I succeeded in establishing that the names didn't correspond.

  Except that when I broached it with him, he was ready again.

  —Aye, but you see, her name wasn't Benson. Her name wasn't Carla Benson at all. I lied about that.

  He leaned over to me when he said it, his two eyes like slits.

  —Carla Mclntyre - that was her name. Boys but I be's forgetful!

  I literally ran from the cabin on that occasion. All the way down the mountain, I could have sworn I heard him laughing:

  —Ned and Red! Together for ever! Till the winter snow whitens hell's highest hills!

  I knew I shouldn't have gone back near the library — the first time had been ordeal enough. But as soon as I got back to Dublin, I went straight there and ordered the American papers from the archive again. I kept insisting to myself that the whole idea was quite preposterous, repeating what I'd been told a hundred times before. The same old refrain you heard in the mountain pub - the same one I'd heard that very first day:

  —Pass no remarks on Ned. Sure you couldn't believe the old fool's oath, I'm telling you.

  I would have given anything for that to be the case. But there it was before me in black and white letters. The officer in charge of the case was quoted as saying he'd never in his life seen anything like it.

  —The poor woman was eviscerated. In fifty years' service I've never encountered such brutality.

  As that which was inflicted on the unfortunate Carla Mclntyre.

  In the Leinster News office after that, they noticed that I'd become increasingly irritable. I couldn't for the life of me seem to shake her name off. I kept thinking of the officer and his description. Then I'd see Ned or hear him. Throwing back his head and saying:

  —Boys O boys!

  —You're like a bear with a sore head, my colleagues told me, lighten up.

  Ultimately I knew I was faced with no choice — I would have to confront him. To that end I had rehearsed the scenario in my mind. It was as though he could anticipate the thoughts inside my head and I found that deeply intimidating.

  I sat in his kitchen, stammering awkwardly as I repeated my accusations. I felt such a complete and utter fool. His whole body rocked with laughter.

  —Boys O boys, but Redmond, I swear you're an awful man - where in heaven's name did you get such an idea? That I would go and do a thing the like of that? Sure I've never been out of the valley in my life - I haven't even been fortunate to have a girlfriend! Oh, sure, once upon a time there was a little sweetheart I had a dalliance with all right —a lovely little girl by the name of Annamarie Gordon, as I recall. And I have to admit I might have been that little bit soft on her. But sure what she want with an old mongrel the like of me? In the end, anyway, Redmond, she went off and married a doctor. Lives in England or someplace now, I hear. But a lovely girl she was all the same. Now where in the divil did I put that jug of clear?

  It was a masterful performance and there is no doubt about it. He could simply, effortlessly, run rings around me. And I know that, although maybe it's not something to be particularly proud of, there have been many times since that day I called to the house and collected Immy when I would have given anything to have possessed even a fraction of Ned Strange's formidable resourcefulness. The tiniest percentage of his linguistic dexterity, the meagrest portion of his adroitly evasive, exculpatory strategies.

  Labyrinthine schemes and plans, always presented with a big, open countryman's honest face. They were as natural to the man as eating or breathing. Beside him in these respects I was a pygmy, an ingenu. A minion of no worthwhile consequence. Even just thinking about it humiliated me.

  I mean, I could see how efficiently he would have conducted himself on such a day as that appalling one in Deep Pan Pizza. When I'd been stupid enough to stop the car. I could imagine just how effortlessly he would have dealt with such a dauntingly difficult situation - skilfully sidestepping each successive challenge. Encountering Piper Alpha wouldn't have posed a problem in the slightest. Right there on the spot, without even having to think, he'd have concocted some perfectly plausible story, some wryly amusing anecdote which would have validated without question his presence in the restaurant. As opposed to my hapless procession of stuttering maunderings: I'm here to do this, I'm here because of that.

  It really is awful to be tongue-tied in that way, and there can be no doubt but that it proved very, very much to my advantage indeed that the Scottish oil-rigger happened to be — as he eagerly explained, as though under the impression that we enjoyed some kind of special relationship —leaving for South Africa that same evening.

  —Goodbye, Dominic, I heard him calling in the distance.

  I thought I'd faint before getting back to the Escort, to the sanctuary of love and my beloved, at last, now slumbering, daughter.

  I have never in my life been in need of such resources as I was that day we motored erratically along the highway, my driving at times proving almost as inadequate as my conversational skills. Which, in the end, represented almost a parody of Ned Strange's. To give you an example: instead of remaining calm - twinkly-eyed, even, as he, doubtless, would have done — and launching myself easefiilly into some devil-may-care narrative, I instead began to relate this detail-heavy version of that day in the park when the two of us had discovered the robin, my hopelessly sentimental disgressions only serving to confuse little Imogen further. It was just so stupid, that's the only way I can describe it!

  My gestures too — it seems so obvious now — they really were wholly and utterly inappropriate. Much too large and unsettling by far. Operatic, almost, for heaven's sake!

  The difference
between me and Ned was that it came as second nature to him to act as though he owned his audience. Not caring a damn whether you listened to his story or not. Thereby, of course, ensuring that you did. That was the paradigm I ought to have emulated.

  It was a pitiful performance. I accept that now.

  On top of which, I almost crashed the car. Twice. When Imogen's eyes opened I heard her squealing, over the screeching brakes:

  —Daddy!

  Redmond Hatch, the poor man's Ned Strange. All I could say was, if he and I were twins, then I was the weak and ineffectual one. 'Combine with oneself in bold conspiracy'? The idea was laughable. I'd never be Ned Strange.

  I simply wasn't up to the task.

  Entertain? Why, I couldn't even entertain my own daughter, I remember thinking, burning with shame.

  For once upon a time I would have taken her little hand and told her not to be worried in the slightest. About the stupid 'afraid' things or anything else. Would have just squeezed that hand gently, reassuring her after the manner of any ordinary father. Instead of foolishly waving my arms, compressing almost every experience we'd ever had into one single exasperating, quite impenetrable account. Hopelessly over-stimulating the child, who was in a state of extreme anxiety in any case — and, as if that wasn't bad enough, almost killing the pair of us into the bargain. It's pretty obvious now that someone was looking out for us.

  —I won't let you down! I could have sworn I heard, at one point.

  If only I'd demonstrated some measure of poise. The tiniest approximation of some kind of equanimity. That surely ought not to have been at all difficult, even for someone as ineffectual as Redmond Hatch or Place or Tiernan or Strange or whatever the fuck my name was supposed to be. It really ought not to have been quite so difficult. Even for Redmond the cuckold from the country.

  Even for a pathetic mountain mongrel such as me.

  2001

  Six: Scarlet Ribbons

  GEORGE BUSH IS SUPREME in the White House now and the war in the North of Ireland seems definitively concluded. It's hard to believe, I know, but that's what has happened. The world is in a state of flux - constantly changing. That is, and always has been, the essence of being human. Change. And life, more than ever now, seems to have altered with a bewildering rapidity — as alien to 'the old mountain-time' as can possibly be imagined. So many transformations since that first journey to winterwood, since that now best forgotten, seriously distressing afternoon.

  It all seems so distant at this juncture anyway - once-epochal events possessing no substance, little more now than the dimmest of recollections. Since that time the Rwandan holocaust barely meriting a mention and the slaughtered of Croatia evoking no more than glum shrugs of regret.

  As for my life, it too has seen its share of dramatic transformations — not something you'd expect from drab old 'Redmond Place', the man who can't even translate his own name, it would seem.

  But, transformed it has been and - believe you me, having known what it's like to be close to destitute, emotionally and financially — I am very grateful for that indeed.

  For a start, I no longer work in the newspaper business, having jumped at the chance when it was offered of a lowly, admittedly, start in the field of television. I really couldn't believe my luck. But the opportunities in Ireland are enormous now, compared to the grim old days of the eighties. And when we had concluded the interview, they told me there and then they were prepared to take me on as a trainee, initially, on a short-term contract. They operated an anti-ageist policy, they told me, and my being in my sixties posed no problem at all. It was changed times in Ireland, I remember reflecting happily. Good fortune has smiled on me practically non-stop since then.

  At that time, as I say, my position was modest enough researching duties, mainly, on the Primetime programme —but sufficient to build on, with the result that I now oversee and edit general documentaries and features.

  As a matter of fact, I attended the annual television awards only last night in the Burlington Hotel. It was a sumptuously elaborate affair, as has become the norm in affluent Dublin, which misses no opportunity for yet another meretricious fanfare. Casey really enjoyed herself, she told me, and reckoned it was, 'by a whisker', superior to last year's affair.

  Casey, by the way, if you've not guessed, happens to be my second wife - and an extremely beautiful lady she is.

  Which I'm sure might prove difficult for some people to believe. That someone - someone who's already failed at marriage once, and who isn't in any particular respect striking or remarkable - could ever have succeeded in being so fortunate. Not only to meet but hold on to, I guess, a lady as classy and attractive as the lovely Casey Breslin. To be perfectly honest, there are times when I find it somewhat difficult to credit myself. What's even more exciting is, I have been assured that she loves me. And, even better than that - I believe the woman. Believe her with all my heart.

  Even yesterday I could feel it, by the way she held my hand and the look she gave me as we danced. I don't think I've ever been as happy as I am with her. More than with anyone I've ever known before. But then — I've not known all that many women. To be perfectly frank, the only one I really knew, in any depth to speak of, was Catherine Courtney. And Imogen, of course. But you couldn't possibly call her a woman - not at that time, anyway, little kitten. And, in any case, I didn't really know Catherine. I thought I did. But then when she left me for the Maltese, I was compelled to re-evaluate almost everything I'd believed.

  —She couldn't have loved you, I'd reproach myself, otherwise she wouldn't have left you for a snake.

  Which may or may not have been true - I don't know. All I know is, I'm still fond of her. And always will be. I haven't told Casey that, however. I don't see the point. They are different kinds of loves - with each of them special in their own unique way.

  I can't impress upon you how depressing it was, coming upon Catherine's picture so often in the paper. Not to mention the main evening news. And seeing our wedding photo, with my own fuzzy image extrapolated, my eyes already fixed on our blissful future together. That picture of me in that old monkey suit — it looked nothing like me now, of course. Not that it mattered much after the police inquiries had led them to Bournemouth and the anticlimax that was my choreographed 'suicide'. With it soon becoming just another 'tragic case'. Which, in its way, was a very apt description. If not for the reasons which everyone else thought. I had a rather different view of that tragedy.

  As far as my apprehension went, I knew being found out was probably highly unlikely. The only one who could possibly have known anything was Piper Alpha. And he had long since departed for South Africa. No one else but him had even been aware of my presence in Ireland. And Dominic Tiernan at sixty years of age, with his grandad shirts and ponytail, didn't look remotely like Redmond Hatch.

  In the end everything grew quiet and that suited Imogen and me just fine.

  —A beautiful calm on winterwood settled, as the poet might say.

  The next time I saw Catherine's photo, in the Evening Herald, to say I was shocked would be putting it mildly. But, as it transpired, it had nothing, specifically, to do with Imogen. It was connected to a report of a traffic accident in which her partner Ivan had been critically injured. The headline read: 'Renewed Heartbreak for Mother of Missing Girl'.

  I kept a watchful eye on proceedings (it had mentioned in the paper that he'd been taken to St Vincent's Hospital) and, sure enough, Ivan passed away. As soon as I heard the news, I experienced this almost uncontrollable, visceral desire to see her. To the extent that I went back to the pub in Rathfarnham.

  It was the saddest of houses now, with people coming and going all day long, paying their respects to her deceased partner, Ivan Lennon. In the little apple orchard the tractor tyre swing just hung there limply, the leaves beneath it crackling and dying.

  There was a scarlet wreath on the door and — disrespectful though it might have been - I simply couldn't prevent it from re
minding me of winterwood.

  Disrespectful, I mean, in the sense that I was indulging in my own pleasure when right there in front of me people were experiencing real heartbreak and trauma. But they had always looked so beautiful, those ribbons just fluttering away amongst the pines in the dark, where I'd tied them to some branches the first night we'd arrived, and told her how my own mother had used to sing it. 'Scarlet Ribbons', I mean. I just couldn't stop myself dwelling on it. I know what some people might think. That I invented a story to elicit sympathy, even love. Which I needed so badly I would do anything to get it.

  But they can think what they like. I don't have to resort to pathetic strategies like that. I know what love is. If I want love it's there in one sentence: the beautiful days we spent in Kilburn.

  I washed Immy's bag and brought it out to her. I was shocked when a mini-beast wriggled out of her sleeve but it didn't infuriate me - not the way it might once have done. I just picked it up gently and laid it on the ground. Then the two of us sat there together, and I stroked her fleecy hair in that old warm Queen's Park way. There was a snowfall that night and it seemed so perfect I didn't bother going home at all. The next morning when I got in, I reassured Casey by telling her I'd been working through the night. She said:

  —You watch it now, Dominic, or I swear you'll collapse.

  —Ha ha, I laughed, and gave my wife a hug.

  After Ivan died, Catherine sold the house in Rathfarnham and moved - to where, I didn't know. I went out one day and she was gone. I won't pretend it didn't surprise me. For all my surveillance and clever conspiracies, I hadn't foreseen that eventuality, had I?

  I think she must have sold it for a song.

  I'd sit in the pub across and think about the days, those long ago days when they'd stand there snipping roses and Imogen would laugh as Ivan told her some joke. Once or twice after closing time, although I knew it was foolhardy, I climbed in over the garden gate, and sat there in the tyre, thinking — thinking about the Snowman walking in the air, walking in the moonlit sky.