by Rosie Orr
‘Movin on?’ Declan frowned. ‘And why would that be?’
‘You’ll excuse me for mentioning it, but you said yourself it’s been three years now since –’ He gestured mutely with the hand that held the glass.
Fury sparked in Declan’s dark brown eyes and died as he saw the concern in Finn’s anxious gaze. After a while he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and gazed unseeingly into the fire. ‘I can’t, Finn.’
‘But d’ye not think –’
‘No.’
‘But –’
‘No.’
‘So ye’re planning to stay unhappy for ever, is that it? Ye’ll pardon me for saying so, but I can’t help seeing that as a very negative attitude to life.’
Declan drained his whiskey. ‘I don’t deserve to be happy, Finn.’
Astonished, Finn leaned forward and hit him smartly on the shoulder. ‘Course ye do, man – course ye do!’ He sprang to his feet. ‘What kind o’ thinking’s that?
The ancient fiddler set his glass tankard on the counter, closed his eyes and began to play ‘She Walked Through the Fair’ with great feeling in an affecting minor key. Declan noted idly how the firelight diffused a reddish glow through the dregs in the bottom of the tankard, so the liquid looked like diluted blood in some sort of medical receptacle.
He smiled mirthlessly at Finn. ‘I’ve got to pay the price for not being dead too.’
Getting to his feet, he took their empty glasses and headed for the bar.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A shower of coins spewed from a nearby fruit machine to shouts of triumph from the youths around it as Anna left the Ladies and pushed her way through the Sunday night throng towards the bar. The Golden Galleon was packed, as usual. The other members of Pier Poets were crammed between a grandfather clock and a peeling ship’s figurehead of Aphrodite, engaged in a heated discussion about the latest publication by the Poet Laureate. Some excellent poems had been workshopped during the first half of the session, and she tried not to feel nervous about the fact that she was scheduled to read next. Despite the fact that her work invariably received favourable comment – ‘Red Peppers’ had met with almost unanimous praise at the last meeting – she always dreaded the moment when she’d have to stand up and expose her innermost thoughts to public scrutiny. The poem she planned to read tonight was a melancholy piece about the young couple she’d seen in the bus shelter who reminded her of herself and Tony at that age; she’d spent every free moment of the last week or so working on it, and she was pleased with the way it was shaping up.
Things had generally been pretty peaceful lately. She’d resolved not to mention the ‘Ruth situation’ to Jack again, reasoning that the more pressure he was under to take action the more likely he was to handle things badly. Though that didn’t stop her secretly worrying … Still, for the moment she’d forget about the vagaries of her love life and enjoy her esoteric surroundings. She was just admiring the fairy lights draped incongruously among the fans of dried coral which bore an unpleasant resemblance to skeletal fingers on the shelves at the back of the bar when her elbow was jogged familiarly. ‘Hey, Anna – how’s it going? Drink?’
Sonia, one of the older members of the group, leaned against the bar waving a twenty pound note at the harassed barman. Anna smiled. She was extremely fond of Sonia, who at around sixty-five wore her long silver hair waist-length, favoured clothes that made Vivienne Westwood look positively restrained and was outspoken but constructive in her criticism of her fellow members’ work. In another life she had taught English Literature in Rome; since retiring she’d made her home in Brighton and now devoted all her time to writing. Anna admired her work more than that of almost anyone else in the group. ‘Thanks – a glass of red would be great.’
Sonia yelled the addition to her order to the barman, and turned to Anna. ‘Up next, are you? I can tell by that hunted look.’ She smiled at her kindly. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. Anyway, you and I know there are a hell of a lot of things in life more important than poetry. Did you see Men in Black last night? I’m not kidding, I laughed so much I nearly threw up.’
Anna cheered up immediately. She too had watched Men in Black, and she too had laughed so hard and so often that by the end her stomach hurt. She and Sonia reprised their favourite scenes. (Sonia turned out to have an unexpected talent for mimicry and could imitate the terse little bulldog’s voice perfectly.) They were soon in fits over Will Smith being savaged by the octopus from outer space as it gave birth in the back of a car and were still laughing when their drinks arrived. Anna was passing Sonia her vodka and tonic when Barry pushed into the space beside her. He beamed at her. ‘Anna! I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to see you laughing!’ He gazed at her for a moment, blushing. ‘And you too, of course, Sonia.’
Sonia grinned, and ate an ice cube.
‘Do tell me what the joke is!’ said Barry.
Anna took a sip of her wine. ‘It’s just that we both watched Men in Black last night. Have you seen it?’
‘Let me see … no, I haven’t. Last night I was watching a documentary on Ancient Norse dialect. Most thought-provoking.’ He consulted the elaborate multi-faced watch on his bony wrist. ‘Time’s getting on, I see. May I offer you ladies a top-up?’
He tried to attract the barman’s attention. By the time he’d succeeded, Sonia and Anna were in fits again about the film’s mortuary scene. He eyed them wistfully as he handed them fresh drinks. ‘I must say it does sound the most tremendous fun – I almost wish I’d foregone Norse semantics.’ He broke off as a figure elbowed its way past Anna to stand beside him. ‘Ah – Helena.’
Helena, a dour woman with a thicket of straight black hair, a large mole on her upper lip and the furriest legs Anna had ever seen on a woman, simpered up at him. ‘I saw the programme about Norse dialect too. Riveting, simply riveting.’ She narrowed her eyes at Anna. ‘I’m surprised you weren’t watching it, Anna – I’d have thought any serious poet would be.’ She slurped at her bitter lemon.
Sonia shot Helena a look. ‘Actually, I’d say the more serious the poet, the more fun she’s going to need to balance the angst if she’s going to stay anything like sane.’ She winked at Anna. ‘In fact I’ve often asked myself the question: would Sylvia Plath have put her head in the gas oven that January night if she could have taken her mind off things with a vindaloo, a couple of cans and Pure Hell at St Trinian’s on the telly?’
Helena frowned. ‘Hmmm. Speaking as a music therapist –’
Barry edged furtively towards Anna and touched her elbow. ‘Anna, I wonder if I might have a word?’
Oh God, he was going to ask her out.
‘It won’t take a moment.’ He drew her away from the others into a corner by the window; Anna was aware of Helena eyeing her jealously as she enlightened Sonia with her views on the true cause of Sylvia Plath’s suicide. ‘The thing is –’ Barry glanced round furtively.
Would he invite her to Amsterdam for a quick frolic?
‘– I do hope you don’t mind …’ He frowned at his half pint of shandy. ‘And perhaps I should have discussed it with you first, but I know how diffident you are about your work, despite your extraordinary talent …’
Or would it be a weekend doing the rounds at the Reeperbahn?
‘In fact, if I may say so I remain of the opinion that you should have entered “Rip Tide” for the National Poetry Competition. It was tremendous: the innovative use of layout as the words spill down the page like a tsunami, the analogy of the destructive power of love with the savage power of the sea … Though us chaps aren’t all as badly behaved as the bounder in the poem, you know, ha ha –’ He wagged his finger roguishly at Anna, spilling shandy on the hectically patterned carpet. …’
Anna was distracted by the painted bust of Britannia on a shelf above Barry’s head which bore an uncanny resemblance to Margaret Thatcher.
‘… Leaving the poor girl lying like so much detritus on the darkening shore …’ He t
ook an emotional pull at the remains of his shandy. ‘Marvellous. Then I began to think about all the other fine work you’ve read here.’
Although it was hard to imagine Mrs Thatcher going out without a top on.
‘“Lessons”, “Glass House”, and not to mention …’
Anna mentally added a flesh-pink bra to the figurehead.
‘It struck me that it’s high time you reached a wider audience, and that your work got the recognition it so richly deserves.’
She changed flesh-pink to electric-blue leopardskin.
‘And so I took it upon myself to submit twenty-five of your poems to Wild Horses, the poetry press.’ He flashed her a roguish grin. ‘Ah! I see from your expression that you are not entirely displeased.’
Great, that was much more –
Wild Horses.
The poetry press.
Anna’s smile slowly faded.
Twenty-five of your poems.
She stared at him, dumbstruck. ‘But … you can’t! I mean it’s very kind of you and everything, but for God’s sake, Barry – Wild Horses?’ She downed the remainder of her wine, and laughed. ‘Honestly, you know I don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of them wanting to publish me.’
The rest of the group were beginning to straggle back to the snug for the second half of the workshop and Anna tensed as she realised it was almost time for her to read.
She ran a hand through her hair. ‘I mean … they published Andrew Hoskins last year.’
‘Precisely.’ Barry set his empty glass down carefully on the bar. ‘They know talent when they see it.’
‘But –’
Barry looked at her sternly. ‘And so do I.’
Conscious at last of the compliment he was paying her work, and that further protestations would be churlish, Anna stepped forward and kissed him quickly on the cheek. ‘Thank you.’
‘Golly!’ Barry cleared his throat and busied himself with his papers. Anna tried not to notice that he was beetroot red, or that Helena, now arguing with Sonia about the therapeutic effects of vindaloo, was glaring balefully at her. Barry puffed out his chest, adjusted his tie and gestured with a beaming smile towards the snug. ‘Well! It’s on with the show, if you’re ready!’ Unfortunately he knocked his papers to the floor, spewing dog-eared poems, notes and flyers for forthcoming readings everywhere.
Anna helped him gather them up, reassuring him that it could have happened to anyone and that she didn’t think the old man who’d received a direct hit from Barry’s notebook had suffered permanent damage. It took longer to gather up the coins that he’d knocked from the charity collection box on the bar and separate them (under the barman’s scornful eye) from the cashew nuts next to it.
Social embarrassment had its advantages she reflected, as she followed Barry into the snug to join the rest of the group. She’d entirely forgotten her nervousness about being the next to read.
CHAPTER NINE
Declan left the pub that evening earlier than usual. Depressed at his failure to explain his feelings to Finn, he’d told him he had to get back to develop some film he’d shot earlier that day. It wasn’t entirely untrue; unable to sleep, he’d risen with the dawn and taken shot after shot of a dead sheep he discovered on his walk. The creature had got itself trapped in a barbed-wire fence, and had clearly been there for several days. Its matted coat hung in ragged clumps and maggots were already infesting its rump, festooned with dangling clumps of greenish faecal matter. But it wasn’t the carcass Declan was interested in: it was the pale coin of early morning sun reflected in the pupil of the sheep’s eye.
Finn had ordered himself another whiskey, and wished him godspeed. As Declan left, Finn was discussing the plans for his date: the landlord recommended Finn cast all thought of a visit to the cinema from his mind. He knew women, and strongly recommended that Finn impress the young lady with a visit to a French restaurant he could recommend in Limerick if he was hoping to make touchdown in the back of the car that night.
A fine rain was falling as Declan set off into the darkness; the air was heady with the scent of hawthorn and cow parsley; small creatures burrowed and scuttered in the hedgerows; a bat skittered silently past inches from his face. As he walked he began to feel better, and realised that he had spoken the truth to his friend unwittingly. The thought of getting to work on developing a first set of prints from the morning was increasingly compelling. As he neared the cottage he began to increase his pace, pondering different developing techniques he might experiment with and which grades of paper might be best. The blue gate to the cottage hung from its hinges like a rotting tooth but as he pushed it open he heard the phone was ringing inside. His heart leapt – before the realization hit him that it would never be her.
When will you get it straight, you stupid bastard, you useless, worthless piece of shit? Dead people don’t make phone calls.
He crushed the nettles at the front door with his hand, enjoying the pain, until at last, the ringing stopped. He turned and leant against the rain butt, letting the drizzle mingle with his tears. The silhouetted branches of the apple trees seemed to have trapped the moon, like the sheep tangled in the wire that morning. He looked away. There was nothing he could do to help it. There was nothing he could do to help anyone …
Dimly he became aware that the phone was ringing again. Hell and damnation, it must be McGinty with new instructions about tomorrow. He’d probably got another assignment for him after the supermarket. Please God not another one involving kids.
Last week he’d been sent to photograph a swimming gala at McGinty’s daughter’s school. Everything had gone fine at first – swimmingly, you might say, if you were of a humorous turn of mind. In fact he’d even go so far as to say he was enjoying himself, what with the excitement of the kids and the proud expressions on their parents’ faces, not to mention that daft bugger of a monsignor nearly going arse over tit as he mounted the podium to present the cups and looking daggers when the audience laughed. He’d got a great shot of that; you didn’t need one of those thought bubbles drawn in to tell you the kind of language that was going through His Grace’s mind. Sure, he’d been having a fine time of it until he saw the child.
She was one of the youngest – not more than eight or nine – waiting, shivering on the edge of the pool to take her turn in the relay team, giggling and chattering with her friends, clutching some little stuffed animal for luck. It might have been a rabbit; he couldn’t tell for sure. But the thing of it … sweet Jesus, the thing of it was she was the image, the spitting god-given image of Maura: same colour eyes, same wicked grin, same ragged, smoky hair, same slightly knock knees. His mouth twitched briefly: Maura had hit him with a pillow when he’d made a joke about them once and refused to believe that he adored them …
He’d looked at the little girl. She wore a silver cross round her neck and a bracelet of bright pink plastic beads hung around her bird-bone wrist. He pictured her threading the cheap gewgaws onto the elastic, effortfully tying a double knot, the tip of her tongue protruding from the corner of her mouth as she concentrated. The kid he and Maura might have had one day, given luck and a fair wind following …
Except there hadn’t been a fair wind following, only driving rain, and it wasn’t luck that had been powering down the Glencree road to meet them, it was …
He opened his eyes. The moon gazed at him through the tangle of black branches, the cold night air chilled him to the bone through his damp clothes, his stinging palms throbbed.
The phone was still ringing.
Fumbling with the latch (the rust was getting worse, he must remember to get some oil to it) he got the door open and picked up the phone.
‘… Mr O’Halloran?’ Not McGinty: a woman’s sharp, insistent voice. Suddenly he became aware of the lateness of the hour. Sweet Jesus, it must be some kind of emergency. His father? When he last phoned his mother had said that his blood pressure was causing serious concern, and a bypass couldn’t be ruled out. His t
hroat went dry.
‘Mr O’Halloran?’ She sounded impatient – probably anxious to get the bad news over with. They were trained to sound professional, weren’t they?
The older policeman firmly gripping his shoulder as he sat next to him by the side of the road. The policewoman handing him a mug of hot sweet tea and holding his head when he threw up seconds later. The younger policeman crossing himself before beginning to write in his notebook.
‘… Yes?’
‘At last! I’ve been trying to get hold of you for ages! Now, you don’t know me, but –’
‘It’s my dad, isn’t it?’ His throat was dry.
‘I believe you know a friend of mine.’ There was a pause, followed by an affected little laugh. ‘Well, more of an acquaintance, really. We don’t move in quite the same social circles, if you know what I mean. Anyway, somehow – and it’s my opinion the grandparents must have chipped in – they managed a really quite pleasant little wedding for their daughter …’
It was a wrong fucking number, for Christ’s fucking sake. He drew a shuddering breath.
‘… and only three bridesmaids! All dressed, I may say, in the most …’
Thank God it wasn’t his father. Still, he’d ring home tomorrow, just to check everything was OK.
‘Look, sorry but you’ve got the wrong –’
‘– sweet peas! I mean I don’t need to tell you, the colours clashed frightfully with their frocks …’
He felt in his pocket for matches; he’d feel better if the lamp was lit.
‘And then of course the cake! Well, for a start, there were only –’
Maybe if he just replaced the receiver?
‘… really quite embarrassing. But the one thing that was an absolute triumph – and I remember saying to Eamonn when Dolly suddenly produced the album at the Rotary dinner last month, well, thank heaven at least she managed to get something right – was the photographs.’