‘So what did Scrooge have to say for himself?’ Sue asked, full of drama.
‘He’s going to stay in a hotel tonight.’
‘A hotel? Ha! No, Trevor, he’ll probably sleep in a cardboard box in Piccadilly Circus! Not a hotel, not our Tony. Hotels cost fucking money!’
‘You don’t think you’re being a bit hard on him, Sue?’
Sue turned on Trevor. ‘No, I don’t think I’m being hard on him, Trevor. He’s a tight-fisted bastard, he doesn’t want me to spend any money because he doesn’t want me to have a good time. He wants to sit in. He wants to save. He wants to be careful.’
‘He wants to get married, Sue,’ Trevor said very evenly.
Sue stopped in her tracks. She ran her hand through her hair and slowly sat down and lit a cigarette.
Trevor sat down beside her and began to speak softly. ‘He wants a nice wedding reception, he wants a semi-detached house in Surrey, he wants two cars, he wants all of that for you and him, and he knows that that takes money.’
Sue’s hand shook as she put the cigarette to her lips. When she had digested Trevor’s words she suddenly stood up and turned her back to him.
‘Well, he can go and shite,’ she said defiantly.
‘Don’t do this, Sue.’
‘Do what?’
‘Don’t throw it all down the toilet. He loves you.’
Sue didn’t reply, nor did she turn around. So Trevor spoke to her back. ‘The two of you are going to blow probably the finest relationship I have ever seen and all because you’re both too stupid to recognise how much you love each other.’
Sue slowly turned and looked at Trevor. He wasn’t finished - he was on a roll now. ‘Believe me, Sue, I know this. The opportunity of real love comes along very, very rarely and when it does you have to grasp it with both hands. If you don’t ...’ Trevor now sat down slowly. He wasn’t looking at Sue, he wasn’t even talking to Sue. ‘If you don’t, you will regret it for the rest of your life.’ Trevor looked up at Sue. ‘I know this, Sue!’
Sue could tell from Trevor’s face that he did know it. She stubbed out her cigarette and picked up the two mugs from the coffee table. ‘I’ll make us another cup of coffee, shall I, Trevor?’ Without waiting for an answer she left the room.
Ten minutes later she returned with two hot mugs of coffee. When she was seated, Trevor asked, ‘Are you okay?’
Sue simply nodded. She lit another cigarette and it became obvious the way she settled herself in the chair that she was ready to talk. ‘You’re right, Trevor.’
‘I know I am.’
‘And you’re not the first to tell me that. You know Nicky in Glasgow?’
‘Yes I do, what about her?’
‘She said the same thing to me two years ago. Do you know, Trevor, when she was in college some guy used to leave little paintings for her. Tiny little copies of some of the great works of art. She’d find them in weird places, Trevor, and the first letter of the artist’s name corresponded with a letter in her name. She never found out who it was, and she tells me she regrets it to this day. You’re right, Trevor, this is make-or-break for me and Tony, either we get married or we finish it now.’
Sue wasn’t looking at Trevor during the telling of any of this story. Trevor, on the other hand, was transfixed, eating every word that came out of her mouth. The blood had drained from his face, he felt dizzy, his mouth had gone completely dry, and when the question came he could barely get the words out of his mouth.
‘Nicky? In Glasgow - Nicky?’
Sue now noticed the change in Trevor. ‘Yes, what about her?’
‘What’s her surname? What’s Nicky’s surname?’
‘That is her surname, Trevor. Well, that’s not all of her surname, her surname is Nicholson - she’s Maria Nicholson — but everybody calls her Nicky.’
The four of them sat around the circular table in the dining room of the house in Cookham. It was Tony Vescoli’s first night back in the house since his departure four days earlier. At the same time as Trevor had gone to the hotel to pick Tony up, Sue had gone to the station to meet Maria Nicholson. Sue was delighted when Trevor asked her to invite Nicky down for the dinner. For two reasons: firstly she would at last get a chance to introduce her two ‘Cupid’ failures to each other, and secondly it would help to break the ice on Tony’s return.
When Trevor arrived at the hotel it was hard to tell which of the two men was the more nervous. When Tony opened the door of the hotel room he had his shirt collar turned up and a tie wrapped awkwardly around it.
‘I can’t tie this, Trevor, my hands are shaking so much,’ Tony said.
‘Well, don’t fucking ask me, Tony,’ Trevor replied.
‘Jesus Christ, Trevor, you’d think it was your big night and not mine.’ Tony laughed, but it was a nervous laugh.
But now here they all sat, at the table in a circle. Tony facing Sue, Trevor facing Nicky. If Nicky recognised Trevor, she showed no flicker of it in her expression. Her greeting when introduced to Trevor had been very formal and her thoughts seemed to be all on how the evening would turn out for Tony and Sue. Sue had obviously filled Nicky in on the situation, between phone calls and on the journey from the train station. Sue, with a little help from Nicky, had prepared a beautiful meal of stuffed pork fillets, broccoli, asparagus and new potatoes, to be followed by lemon cheesecake with cream - all of which, coincidentally, happened to be Tony’s favourite dishes. The table had been cleared of all the used dishes by now and held only four coffee cups, a coffee pot, sugar bowl, cream jug, three empty wine bottles and a candelabra. Tony coughed, ready to make his announcement.
‘Susan White, begging your indulgence and that of our esteemed company,’ he nodded towards Trevor and Nicky, and they both nodded back, ‘I would like to formally ask you to be my wife. If you accept, I would ask you -’ and now Tony put his hand into his jacket pocket and produced a small, purple, velvet-coated box. He opened the box to reveal a beautiful three-stone engagement ring, ‘- to wear this ring as a sign of our engagement.’
The proposal was very formal, although Trevor expected nothing less from Tony. Sue stared at the ring for some moments before she removed it from the box. Slowly she slid it on her wedding finger and looked up at Tony with a beaming smile on her face. ‘I love you Tony Vescoli.’
‘I love you too, Sue White.’
As Tony and Sue kissed, Trevor and Nicky clapped.
‘This calls for champagne,’ exclaimed Trevor. He left the room to collect the bottle of champagne from the fridge. When he returned and all the glasses were filled, the four of them toasted the happy couple.
The toast completed, Trevor cleared his throat. ‘I feel it would be a terrible travesty to have two beautiful women at a table and have gifts for only one,’ he announced. The two women giggled like little girls.
‘Well, good on you, Trevor,’ Tony said, and he slapped Trevor on the back.
Trevor reached into his back pocket and extracted his wallet. He carefully placed the wallet on the table and opened it flat. The eyes of the other three were riveted on the wallet. Slowly, from the back of his wallet, Trevor slid out the last canvas from the Maria Nicholson collection. He placed it in front of Nicky. Then he spoke the words that he had rehearsed with Rory and Dino, that had been stuck in his throat for so many years: ‘Add this to your collection, Maria!’
Trevor Browne and Maria Nicholson were married twelve weeks later in a small Catholic church in Deepcut in Surrey. The only two of the Browne family who were not at the ceremony were Trevor’s brother Dermot and his sister Cathy. Although she enjoyed the day enormously, Trevor’s mother, Agnes, was dismayed that yet again a family celebration had come and gone and she had failed to gather all of her family into one room.
Chapter 16
CATHY WAS DELIGHTED when she recieved Buster’s letter. It had been a long time since anyone, either in the written word or verbally, had asked her how she was. Buster had also used phrases like ‘I hope
you are as beautiful as ever’, which made her feel like a teenager once again. She read his letter at the breakfast table, alone. Mick had not returned home from his late shift. Again. She read it to herself first, then she read it aloud to Pamela. Cathy’s baby daughter smiled and gurgled in the right places, and when Cathy finished reading, Pamela frowned and began to cry, so Cathy read it again, and again. Until eventually Pamela drifted off to sleep with Buster Brady’s words ringing in her ears.
Pamela’s birth had made no difference at all to Cathy’s relationship with Mick. Cathy no longer fooled herself that she was in a real marriage or that Mick would ever be anything other than the bastard he was. But where could she go? What could she do? It had certainly crossed her mind on some days to just pack up everything and move herself and Pamela back to Dublin to her mother’s. But then she would recall her best friend Cathy Dowdall and the harrowing years she had had in her late teens trying to support herself and her child alone. So the thought of leaving would quickly vanish from her mind. Instead she kept a good home and poured all of her energies and attention into Pamela. While Pamela was sleeping, Cathy tidied the kitchen and then sat down at the table and replied to Buster’s letter. She began to tell Buster of the state of affairs between herself and Mick. It was the first time she had ever told anyone what was going on and when the letter was posted she felt strangely lighter. Cathy O‘Leary knew she was trapped. She knew she couldn’t change Mick O’Leary. She knew she couldn’t change circumstances. She knew the first thing that had to change was Cathy O’Leary and with an infant child she wasn’t ready for that change. Not yet.
The C-block supervisor gave permission for Dermot to walk Buster down to the administration building. It was March 24th, Buster’s release day. They strolled together slowly towards the building, Buster carrying a nylon bag containing the meagre belongings he was taking home with him. Dermot walked by his side, his hands in his pockets. When they reached the door of the admin. building, and Dermot could go no farther, they stopped. The two men turned to face each other. Dermot looked down on his chubby little best friend. He was about to speak when the admin. door opened and the new arrivals for the day were bustled through. Dermot and Buster looked at the new boys arriving.
‘Same old faces, they just keep coming back,’ Dermot said flatly.
‘Yeh. But it won’t be me, Dermo. I’m never coming back.’
They looked at each other again.
‘I hope not, Buster. Look, when I get out of here ...’ Dermot began. ‘Well, yeh know.’ Dermot began to shuffle his feet.
‘Dermo, I’ll be outside that gate waiting for yeh. I will!’ Buster’s eyes were filling up.
‘Sure, don’t I know you will, Buster,’ Dermot slapped Buster on the shoulder. ‘Now, go on, get the hell out of here.’ Dermot turned and began to walk away.
‘Dermo?’ Buster called.
Dermot turned.
‘Can I write to you?’ Buster asked.
‘You’d better or I’ll kill you when I get out,’ Dermot replied with a smile. The two men burst into that laughter of sadness that only parting friends can know.
That evening as he queued for his food in Mountjoy Prison, Dermot wasn’t in the humour for conversation, but he had little choice. One of the new arrivals recognised him. Dermot wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up and allow him to just pick up his food and get back to his cell to eat his dinner in peace. But Dermot also knew that feeling of ‘just in’ and how sometimes the only way to relieve the nerves was to talk and talk. So he let the man go on. Little of what the guy was saying was of any interest to Dermot but he feigned attention. Until the man said, ‘Oh yeh, by the way an old friend of yours croaked it!’
This got Dermot’s interest. ‘Croaked it? Died, like?’
‘Yeh, overdosed on heroin!’ The man now spoke with the relish a gossip has in the knowledge that he is imparting fresh news.
‘A friend of mine? Who?’
‘Your woman from Townsend Street. What’s her name? Eh ... Mary Carter! Yeh, that’s it, Mary Carter.’
Dermot instantly dropped his tray. He pushed the man aside, turned around and began to make his way unsteadily back to his cell. As he reached the top of the stairs of his own landing he threw up. Father Gibney spent that night with Dermot in his cell, the young prison chaplain listening through massive sobs to the outpourings of guilt and regret from a broken young man.
PART TWO
Chapter 17
DECEMBER 1988 DUBLIN CITY
BECAUSE ST CHRISTOPHER’S NATIONAL SCHOOL was smack in the middle of the city centre the high railing that surrounded the play yard was essential. This kept the children from straying from the school and onto the busy city streets. Needless to say, the older boys, those of ten or twelve years of age, had found ways to scamper either over or through the railings and make their way to the local shops when the teachers weren’t looking. However, the railings kept the younger boys in. It was the morning break and children were screaming and running in all directions all over the school yard. The chatter of their voices was deafening. At one end of the yard was a long stone building with a long bench along the wall; the children referred to this as ‘the shelter’. They would sit on the bench and eat their sandwiches or drink their milk, or whatever they had.
Cormac Carter cupped his hands together and blew hard into them. For a fraction of a second they warmed and then went cold again. It was freezing. He repeated the action three or four times before pulling his hands apart and sliding them up the sleeves of his duffle coat. This is how his Aunt Margaret taught him to warm his hands. Cormac lived with his aunt in one of the new inner city houses built in The Jarro. Aunt Margaret had five other children, and they all got to call her ‘Mammy’. Cormac had to call her Aunt Margaret. Cormac did not have a Mammy. He once had had a Mammy, Aunt Margaret told him, but he could not remember her. Aunt Margaret said she had died. Cormac didn’t really understand ‘died’.
With his hands warm, he leaned against the end wall of the shelter and slowly inched his face out until just his eye was looking out from the school yard. The eye wandered for a little and then focused on its target. He was here again. Cormac quickly pulled his head back. He wondered who this person was, this man who had been hanging around the school every day at playtime for the last few weeks. He had told Aunt Margaret about him at tea one evening. She had quickly looked over at Uncle John who was reading his newspaper. Uncle John looked up from the paper to meet her gaze. He shrugged and went back to his paper. Aunt Margaret had simply said, ‘Don’t mind him.’
Cormac took another peep out at the man. I wonder who he is, thought the boy. He made a decision there and then. Puffing up his chest he stepped out of the shelter and began to walk across the yard towards the man. He was going to ask this man who he was. He did not get the chance. The man saw him coming and by the time Cormac had got halfway across the school yard the man had vanished. The little six-year-old stood with his hands on his hips wondering.
‘Jesus, that was close,’ Dermot said aloud. His words were punctuated by puffs of steam as his warm breath met the icy air. He would have to give this up now. He was six weeks out of prison and every weekday for the last four weeks he had come to the school. It had taken just one day and a couple of questions to some of the older children to find out which one was Cormac Carter. He had watched him every day since, as if hoping in some way that in a gesture or a movement Cormac would confirm to Dermot that he was indeed his son. He hadn’t seen anything. He knew Cormac was living with Margaret Carter - a bitch, but good with kids. She was Mary’s eldest sister. Dermot heard the bells of St Jarlath’s church ringing out the twelve o‘clock Angelus, and again he spoke aloud to himself, ‘Christ, I have to get to work.’ He checked his plastic bag to make sure it hadn’t burst. Then he quickly headed off down the street.
Since his release from prison, Dermot had been staying in the Iveagh Hostel near Christchurch in Dublin. It was Father Gibney who found him the acc
ommodation, although he tried first to talk Dermot into going back to live with his mother. Dermot wouldn’t hear of it. He knew he had changed a lot himself over his six and a half years in prison. But the bitter memory of that confrontation with his mother in the visiting room of Mountjoy Prison had not left him. His feelings about that hadn’t changed.
The Iveagh Hostel was a shelter for indigent men. It had originally been set up and donated to Dublin city by Lord and Lady Iveagh of the Guinness family, and was now run by volunteers. It was crowded at night, and noisy too. A lot of the men staying there had drink or psychiatric problems. There were no cooking facilities, though you got a cup of tea every morning before you left at 8am. Dermot didn’t have to worry about his meals during the day, for Father Gibney had also fixed him up with a job. The priest had explained to Dermot that the job didn’t pay too much but at least it was a start, and if he was wise and put a few pounds aside he could eventually move into a flat and get himself a better job. When Father Gibney told Dermot of the position he was being offered Dermot smiled wryly. Dermot was now a kitchen porter in the Gresham Hotel, just like his father had been twenty years previously. Maybe his mother was right, maybe he was just like his father. Anyway, although the money wasn’t great, thanks to the Iveagh Hostel Dermot was able to save a few pounds, and thanks to the Gresham Hotel - for Dermot had all his meals there - he had put on weight since leaving prison.
When he arrived at the Gresham Hotel that day he went to the locker room. He changed into his kitchen overalls and, carefully placing his plastic bag of books in the bottom of his locker, he closed and locked it. For the next eight hours Dermot would wash pots.
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