Something Blue

by Rosie Orr

  ‘I’ll be sure to tell me mother every word when I get home.’ She peered over his shoulder. ‘If it isn’t Mrs M. herself, with the little ones. So. I’ll be leaving you to your photoing. Be sure to say hello to Brett from Theresa next time you see him, now, won’t you? ’ She trudged away, carrying his empty cup carefully in both hands.

  Smiling, Declan made a final check with his light meter and was about slip it back into his bag when the excited shouts of the approaching crowd of school children made him turn his head. The sun was in his eyes; if he squinted, he could make out the shifting mass of kids, and the taller shapes of their teachers, and Mrs McCarthy. He was about to wave a hand in greeting when he saw another shape beside the headmistress.

  Walking towards him out of the sun – just a silhouette –but he’d know that walk anywhere …

  ‘… Dec?’

  He checked the rear-view mirror, slowing down to let a Kawasaki 750 overtake. The van was in the garage for its MOT; it should have been ready last night, but the mechanic was still farting about with the bloody brake shoes. The Fiat he’d rented for the weekend was nippy enough, but he wasn’t about to take any risks. ‘What, darlin’?’

  ‘You’re sure you like it? I mean, you’re not just saying?’ Maura tugged at the skirt of her dress; it barely covered her slim brown thighs.

  Declan glanced sideways, then back at the road. ‘Love it. Though seems to me it could be a tad shorter. I’ve never been one for the convent look, myself.’

  She giggled, and leant across the arm rest that separated them. ‘Shame we’re in this flash motor, boy, or I’d teach you a thing or two about convent girls.’ There was no arm rest in the van; Maura always rested her hand casually on top of his thigh when they were driving. Sometimes she made sure he had to pull over.

  He grinned. ‘Behave yourself, you scarlet hussy, or I won’t take you to the cinema – or out to dinner afterwards, neither.’

  Pretending to pout, she switched on the radio and fiddled with the dial, looking for music. It had started to rain again; Declan switched on the windscreen wipers. Ahead, the Kawasaki swept past a tractor then pulled in sharply as the Mercedes ahead of it put on a sudden burst of speed. Declan slowed his speed still further, happy to let the silly buggers get well ahead. Suddenly the car was filled with a burst of song as Maura found Radio Two; Adele’s ‘Make You Feel My Love’ was playing. She clapped her hands. ‘Hey, O’Halloran – they’re playing our tune.’

  It was the song that had been playing over and over again on the jukebox in the pub they’d gone to on their first date. In the end they’d been the only customers left, slow dancing cheek to cheek among the tables stacked with upended chairs. Finally the grinning landlord dried the last of the glasses, draped his cloth over the Guinness taps and steered them, still dancing, through the door. Maura tipped her face up to his as they stood in the porch and clung to him, eyes closed, waiting to be kissed. As he bent towards her, the wind blew a gust of rain into her face. It trickled down her face like tears; as he gently wiped them away with the back of his hand, she opened her eyes and smiled at him. Declan felt his heart pierced, and as he brushed his lips against hers he knew with absolute certainty she was the woman he wanted for his wife.

  Maura was singing along with Adele in her high, sweet voice. The road ahead was clear, now; and the rain had stopped. Declan switched off the wipers, checked the wing mirrors and flicked a glance at his wife, overwhelmed with love at the sight of her sitting there in her rose-printed sleeveless dress and her silver sandals; his birthday girl, his princess. He smiled, sharply aware of the faint smell of her perfume, some sort of floral scent – rose? Lily of the valley? The smooth surface of the steering wheel beneath his hands, the newly rainwashed sky. Full of anticipation of the pleasures of the evening ahead, and the night to come after that.

  The song came to an end. The DJ was making a joke about Adele’s hairstyle and Declan was opening his mouth to ask Maura if she wanted to eat Chinese or try the new Indian in Hart Street McGinty was always on about when a dark blue Subaru came into view round the bend a few yards ahead, going way too fast. Suddenly it swerved violently, veered over the central line and headed straight for them, the driver red-faced and singing at the top of his voice and waving at them cheerily.

  Declan thought afterwards he was probably wrong about the singing; the fucking bastard must have been screaming, as you would when you suddenly realised you weren’t going to be able to load a stack of CDs into the player and steer a heavy four-wheel drive simultaneously after all, because you’d spent all afternoon drinking Murphy’s with your mates celebrating your win on the 1.45 at Aintree and were so fucking tanked you could barely walk straight, let alone drive. He’d probably been wrong about the waving, too – the bastard had thrown up his arms reflexively to shield his face.

  Declan wrenched the wheel sideways, one hand on the horn; heard himself yelling, Maura screaming …

  He wishes, oh sweet fucking Christ how he wishes, that the last sound he was ever to hear her make hadn’t been that terrible screaming.

  And then they hit.

  The Fiat somersaults over and over again

  or so it seems to Declan – it turns out at the inquest that it was, in fact, only the once

  and finally comes to rest in a shower of glass.

  Then silence.

  Which is only broken when Declan realises that the passenger seat next to him is empty and sees the jagged hole in the scarred glass of the windscreen and starts to scream Maura’s name over and over again – and he’s out of the Fiat somehow and crawling on his hands and knees down the road, stones and sharp fragments of asphalt digging into his palms, ripping and tearing at the knees of his trousers, his good trousers, Maura will kill him when she sees, but there’s no answer and the sun’s gone in and the rain’s pouring down again and somewhere he’s dimly aware of the blue Subaru upturned on the other side of the road and there’s still no answer and there’s somebody inside the Subaru screaming for help but he doesn’t care about him the bastard he only wants –

  He only wants –

  And then he sees her.

  Lying neatly on her back beside the ditch, arms by her sides, hair fanning out over a tussock of grass as if it were a pillow, her rose-printed skirt drawn demurely, eyes closed, a single trickle of scarlet blood trailing down her pale forehead.

  One of her sandals is lying beside her, the heel snapped clean off, one of the slender silver straps split in two and scraped clean of its glitter.

  But that’s all right, he can buy her some more when they get home, and he knows that if he holds her very tightly in his arms, rocking her gently, saying her name, it’s only a matter of time until she wakes.

  By the time the ambulance comes, and the police cars, and the crowd of onlookers left he hasn’t noticed arrive have been sent firmly back to their own vehicles, a grey dusk is falling and the rain’s washed the blood entirely from Maura’s forehead and he’s trying to strap the sandal back onto Maura’s foot, which is ice cold now and stiff in his hand.

  A policeman squats down beside him.

  Tries to talk to him.

  After a while, he takes the sandal from Declan’s hand and places it carefully on the asphalt. He hugs Declan tightly, speaking to him firmly but kindly as the ambulance men pick Maura up and put her on a stretcher.

  Cover her with a blanket.

  Pull it up gently to cover her face.

  Slide her into the ambulance.

  And take her away.

  Declan cannot stand. The policeman steers him to the side of the road, talking, always quietly and calmly talking, and sits down beside him, gripping his shoulder, until a very young policewoman approaches, tears streaming down her face, and offers Declan a Thermos cup of very strong, sweet tea.

  He hasn’t touched tea since that day.

  And then another ambulance man arrives, rolls up Declan’s sleeve and gives Declan a shot of something, and the rest of Declan�
�s life begins.

  The shape was closer now, talking to the headmistress, Mrs McCartney, no, McCarthy, and yes it was it was, he’d expected the special guest to be some local councillor but oh sweet Jesus it really was him and Declan bent double, overcome by memories and scrabbled frantically in his camera bag, pretending to search for something although the contents were simply a blur.

  ‘Mr O’Halloran? May I introduce Sergeant O’Connor?’

  Images flashed before Declan’s eyes: glass shards on wet tarmac; a heart-shaped spill of petrol; a flattened clump of nettlewort; steam rising from a plastic Thermos cup. Slowly he straightened up and forced himself to meet Sergeant O’Connor’s eyes.

  O’Connor’s relaxed smile faltered as he recognized Declan. He checked his pace for the briefest of moments before striding forward again. Declan forced himself to smile. O’Connor returned it.

  Swallowing hard, Declan held out his hand. It was shaken firmly. ‘I want to …’

  ‘God rest her soul.’

  ‘… thank you …’

  ‘I heard the bastard got eight years.’

  ‘… for all you did that day.’

  ‘Good to see you working.’

  ‘Life goes on …’

  And then Mrs McCarthy was saying something, and a ragged phalanx of young cyclists were taking up their positions and Sergeant O’Connor was giving Declan an encouraging nod and taking his place beside the table. With a cheery smile he turned to the waiting cyclists and began to put them through their paces.

  Declan stood for a moment, seeing nothing. Then gradually the world came into focus again.

  One of the little kids sitting cross-legged on the ground in the front row had taken a toad from his pocket and was showing it furtively to his neighbour. The elderly lollipop lady had arrived early for her lunchtime shift and was leaning against the school gates having a fag.

  Declan felt the sun warm on the back of his neck.

  Life went on.

  Picking up his camera, he began the shoot.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  As the twenty-seventh of June approached, Anna’s feelings about the impending meeting with her son’s future parents-in-law swung from wild optimism (they would all hit it off so well they’d beg her to accompany them on their next world cruise) to abject despair (they’d insist the wedding was cancelled on account of her unsuitability as M-of-the-G). Fortunately the day before the meeting, a new Italian coffee machine was delivered to the coffee bar to replace the ancient Conas. Alastair had clearly ordered the most complicated design he could find – the bloody thing had more flashing lights and fancy levers than a dialysis machine and by the time Anna had made sense of the instructions she was exhausted. The others had just as much trouble as she did. Trish and Susie repeatedly produced cups of steaming hot water instead of coffee; Roxy kept forgetting how to switch off the froth dispenser, with unfortunate results. Anna was far too concerned about what she’d find at work on Thursday to focus on whether she’d make the grade with the O’Shaugnesseys.

  Ripples of anxiety threatened to surface from time to time that evening as she prepared a herb omelette for her supper, but she managed to quell them with the aid of a couple of glasses of wine She went to bed early and, surprisingly, fell asleep as soon as she switched off the bedside lamp. Planning to make a day of it in London – the train fare was extortionate, so she might as well get her money’s worth – she rose at dawn. The sky was clear, the birds were singing, the rose bushes beside Sam’s old swing had become a riot of pale pink blossom overnight. Relieved to be feeling so calm, she showered, washed her hair, dressed in her favourite secondhand Armani trousers and best Victorian-style lace blouse, dabbed the last of Jack’s Christmas Mitsouko behind her ears, put her hair up, took it down again, did her make-up, changed the trousers in favour of a black linen pencil skirt, pulled on her Hobbs ankle boots, put her hair up again and set off for the bus to the station.

  The train was crowded with commuters. Butterflies began to flutter in her stomach as soon as she sat down, as if they’d simply been waiting till she was actually en route to burst out. The paperback she’d bought at the station on modern wedding etiquette made matters worse and when, in desperation, she tried to practise the Inner Calm breathing techniques she made herself feel sick. She resolved to concentrate instead on the disasters featured on the front pages of the newspapers held up in front of her fellow passengers’ faces. At least dinner with the O’Shaughnessys couldn’t be as bad as war, or terrorism, or an evening with Robert Peston. That helped for a while. Next she decided to try a tip from a self-help book she’d seen recommended by Oprah: apparently the trick when in dire straits was to make a mental list of all the things that were going right in one’s life.

  So, one: Jack. The Ruth situation hadn’t been mentioned directly since that dreadful lunch a few weeks ago when he’d said that thing about the fat lady singing, and how he just needed a bit more time. Things had been great between them since then, and she had no intention of spoiling them again.

  Two: Sam. He’d been more than usually stuffy last night when he rang to check she’d really been joking about the ra-ra skirt and Roxy’s cowboy boots, but it was entirely understandable – he was just nervous about this evening.

  Three: Hmm – was there a three? Yes – of course there was. She grinned. Three was the fact that if – no, when – the coffee bar began to slowly fill up with bubbling foam she’d told Roxy to fetch Alastair to come and deal with it …

  The train pulled into Victoria at last. Feeling positively cheerful, Anna ordered a skinny latte at Starbucks, resisted the offer of a free croissant, and sat idly contemplating the throng of tourists swarming over the concourse as she considered the day ahead. First, she’d take the Tube to South Kensington and walk to the V&A, where she planned to spend the morning in the costume display, followed by half an hour or so with the Indian miniatures. After that she’d head for the gift shop and stock up on postcards, then have a quick lunch in the excellent cafeteria. A visit to the matinée at the National Film Theatre to see a showing of Jules et Jim was next on the agenda, then she’d have a cup of tea and … and … head for Covent Garden. OK, no time to waste. With a smile at the harassed young mother struggling to stop her toddler pouring his orange juice over his head – how he reminded her of Sam – she set off for the Tube station.

  Anna replaced the comb more firmly in the mass of dark curls piled on top of her head, applied a slick of lip gloss and regarded herself critically in the mirror of the ladies loo in Luigi’s, a little Italian coffee house in Covent Garden market. Did the lip gloss make her look unmotherly? Nowhere had lip gloss been mentioned in the make-up advice for the M-of-the-G in Bride. Yes, the lip gloss would definitely have to go. She took a tissue from her bag and rubbed it off.

  She was turning away from the mirror when she was stuck by a terrible thought. Naked lips might brand her as ungroomed, a sin in any self-respecting M-of-the-G’s book tantamount to admitting to having a penchant for eating babies for breakfast, or indulging in a spot of devil worship with the neighbours on Saturday nights. She reapplied the lip gloss hastily, and glanced at her watch. Twenty-five past seven; definitely time to go. Fine – she was ready. In fact she was more than ready. As she left the coffee bar, much cheered by a wink and a ‘ciao, bella!’ from the handsome young man behind the counter, and set off for Chez Gaston, she realised she was looking forward to the evening ahead. Her day had been perfect; the visit to the V&A had been a delight, she’d had a fantastic Ancient Egyptian salad for lunch she intended to try on her customers at Avant Art next week, and Jules et Jim had entirely restored her faith in love, life and people. She really must come up to town more often; she might become a bit less narrow-minded, less inclined always to expect the worst. Now she came to think of it, the O’Shaughnessys were probably just as nervous about meeting her as she was about meeting them …

  There was Chez Gaston, on the corner with the little bonsai trees in gold po
ts flanking the entrance. She crossed the road and smiled at the doorman as she passed. He didn’t smile back, just looked down his nose at her and moved closer to one of the bonsai trees as if he thought she might be planning to steal it. Never mind. He probably had a sick wife at home, or he’d thrown away his lottery ticket and had just discovered it had the winning number. She moved on into the restaurant, a sea of starched white cloths, pink-shaded lamps and pink-and-white flower arrangements. A waiter glided up. ‘Madame?’ When she explained that she was joining the O’Shaughnessys, he lowered his eyelids deferentially and requested her to follow him.

  He set off on a circuitous route to the other side of the room. Anna hurried after him, concentrating on not tripping over the chair legs of the diners. He came to a halt eventually, extended his arm in a theatrical gesture, bowed and slid away. Anna saw Sam, Lucy, sitting with a couple. She moved forward, smiling.

  ‘Mum!’ Sam was on his feet.

  ‘Darling!’ Should she go round the table and kiss him? No, that might embarrass him – better not. She settled for a little wave.

  ‘Hello, Anna! Lovely to see you!’ Lucy was smiling and waggling her fingers at her.

  ‘Lucy!’ She waggled her fingers back.

  Suddenly Sam was beside her. She saw with a pang that his hair had been cut too short, and he’d cut himself shaving.

  ‘Mum, let me introduce Lucy’s mother, Mrs O’Shaughnessy.’

  Anna followed the direction of his beaming gaze, and turned to meet her hostess, full of pleasure and expectation. Which was a pity, as she was entirely unprepared for the look of surprise followed by sheer dislike that flashed across the surgically lifted and sunbed-tanned features of the woman sitting on the opposite side of the table. Awash with jewellery that tinkled or rattled or chimed (or in the case of the charm bracelet that encased one scrawny bronze wrist, all three), she was encased in a confection of lavishly fringed white leather that bulged here and there in a disconcerting way. Her hair was bright orange, her lipstick magenta, her eyes bright and black, like a jackdaw’s. As Anna held out her hand uncertainly the woman pasted a social smile into place and extended a beringed talon in response.