Something Blue

by Rosie Orr

  Ruby’s father apologized profusely. He left very soon after that.

  Jack’s pace slowed as he wondered (not for the first time) exactly what the content of this particular slice of porn might have been – adult films featuring nurses had always been something of a favourite of his. Maybe he could persuade Anna to dress up some time, and force him to have a very thorough check-up …

  Nearly home. With a sigh, he hefted his briefcase to his other hand. It was heavier than usual tonight – he had scads of mock GCSE papers to mark. As he crossed the road he looked up. A plane was making its way across the cloudless blue sky; he wondered if it was going to Ireland. Shame he hadn’t been able to have more of a chat with Anna this morning before she left. The blow on the head with the football had happened just as he was about to remind her how much he loved her. (He lifted a hand and prodded the lump gingerly. Maybe he should have a scan, just to be on the safe side?) Even more of a damn shame that he couldn’t go with her – a couple of nights in a hotel really would have given them scope for some fun. Maybe he could have persuaded her to pretend to be a chambermaid, or something.

  Blast, he’d almost passed the front gate.

  As he opened the front door he was assailed by the usual racket; the television booming at top volume in the living room, Charlie barking madly somewhere, violent banging and crashing directly overhead as Ruth slammed about in their bedroom. He put down his briefcase and headed for the kitchen. With a bit of luck he could grab a can of beer from the fridge and sneak it into the garden before Ruth came down. He was passing the living-room door when he hesitated. The noise was so loud the walls were practically vibrating – if he didn’t do something fast Mrs Cooper would be coming round to complain again. And this was setting aside the effect the racket was having on his headache – or brain tumour, which he wouldn’t be at all surprised if it turned out to be.

  He pushed open the door and went in.

  The twins sprawled on the sofa, clad in carefully torn T-shirts reaching barely to their navels and white PVC shorts that revealed most of their buttocks. Jess, frowning with concentration, the tip of her tongue protruding from her lips, was pushing a needle through Poppy’s right earlobe. Poppy was gazing at the television. Neither of his daughters looked at him as he entered. ‘Jess! What the hell are you –?’

  ‘Dad, isn’t it obvious?’ Jess glared up at him. ‘I’m piercing her ear, OK? Everyone’s doing it.’

  ‘Ah. I see. Right, fine. Good.’

  He glanced out of the window. He could see his son near the rockery, crouching over Spike. The dog was barking louder than ever and had his back legs tied together with what looked suspiciously like his best tie. Charlie appeared to be attempting to fix an elastic band round his testicles.

  Jack sighed. He’d go and sort things out as soon as he’d dealt with the sound problem.

  Head throbbing, he turned towards the television. A middle-aged actor in an unnaturally starched white medical coat, stethoscope slung ostentatiously round his neck, was pacing up and down his surgery. After a bit more pacing, he picked up a photograph of a beautiful woman from the corner of the desk and regarded it with an expression Jack assumed was meant to convey anguish. Jack smirked; somebody should tell the guy it looked as if he was trying to remember his own name. He turned to the twins, intending to share this observation with them; they were staring at the screen, rapt. He blinked. Good god, wonders would never cease. He reached out discreetly to modify the sound.

  ‘For chrissake, Dad, leave it. It’s Heartbreak Hospital.’

  ‘Yeah, geroff.’

  ‘But girls, Mrs Cooper …’

  ‘Hey, Jess – what the –?’ Poppy was frowning.

  Jack followed her gaze.

  The scene had changed to what was clearly intended to be a ballroom, since an enormous revolving glitterball dangled from the studio ceiling. Strobe lights beamed dramatically back and forth through the darkness, illuminating a glamorous young couple waltzing cheek to cheek.

  ‘It’s a flashback to Doctor Strong when he was young, right? Like he’s remembering when he first met his wife – you know, Tara.’ Jess breathed. ‘See the guy? Brett Love. I mean shit – fuckin’ A.’

  Thank God Ruth wasn’t around.

  ‘Yeah, fuckin’ A.’

  The young hunk tossed back his gelled quiff and clasped his pneumatic teenage partner closer to his tux. ‘This’ll last like forever, right, Tara?’ She winced as the stethoscope dangling rakishly from his breast pocket dug into her cleavage.

  ‘Sure thing, Rock. Forever.’

  They kissed and the twins sighed blissfully. Jack was pretty sure they didn’t notice the glitterball jerk suddenly and drop a couple of feet, or the strobes reveal the fact that the hunk was wearing jeans and trainers below the tux. He hid a grin. With a bit of luck it would soon be over; he’d come back and turn down the sound then. He’d pretend one of the twins was wanted on the phone, or something, so he’d only have to deal with one of them fighting back.

  The soaring violins ceased and the screen went blank for a moment. The ballroom was replaced by the surgery again where Doctor Strong was still gazing at the photograph. Jack began to creep away – he was still in with a chance with that beer if he was quick.

  He’d almost reached the door when the living room was filled with rich, manly tones.

  ‘Tara! How could I ever have left you, precious girl? I know now what a fool I was – what a terrible, terrible mistake I made.’ The actor gave a manly sob. ‘How could I ever have thought Jolene could take your place? I’ll find you again somehow, somewhere, if it’s the last thing I do, and I’ll make it up to you, my darling.’ Another sob. ‘I’ll ask you to be mine once more.’

  Jack turned slowly, horrified. Be mine once more?

  What if Anna’s ex-husband …?

  The Doctor bent over his desk, shoulders shaking, as the credits began to roll. Once, Jack would have thought that he was certainly laughing.

  Now … Now it was all he could do not to burst into tears himself.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Anna gazed out of the taxi window in disbelief.

  So where the hell had they filmed Ryan’s Daughter? And what about Barry Lyndon?

  Where were the rolling green hills and meadows, the picturesque stone-walled fields, the charming wayside grottos that featured big in every single film set in Ireland she’d ever seen? The view ahead consisted – as it had consisted for the last hour – of mile after relentless mile of grey road unspooling through a flat landscape of unremitting dullness. Now and again a grey house could be seen squatting at the side of the road, its ugliness highlighted by a garish red and white trim.

  And what about the weather? Where were the gentian-blue skies illuminated by shafts of gentle autumn sunshine? The wispy lambswool clouds? The sodding rainbows? The sky was the colour of steel wool and it had been drizzling lightly but persistently ever since she got off the plane.

  Unfortunately her expression had been interpreted by the taxi driver as admiration of his homeland, and he’d maintained a barely comprehensible running commentary since they set off. Every so often he’d catch her eye in the mirror and wink.

  When she’d first seen him lounging beside his battered navy blue saloon, deep in the Catholic Times, she’d assumed he was awaiting the Ancient’s arrival; since he looked exactly as she imagined her neighbour would look if divested of her habit there seemed a good chance that he was her brother. Anna was disappointed when the Ancient, looking positively invigorated by the rigours of the flight, strode straight past and climbed into a waiting car driven by a scared-looking nun who appeared to be about fourteen.

  The taxi driver half turned in his seat, speeding up slightly as he gestured towards a grim fortress that was heaving into view through the rain-splattered windscreen. The cigarette that dangled from his bottom lip deposited a trail of ash down the front of his rust-coloured pullover.

  Anna nodded enthusiastically; she’d le
arned early on in the journey that this was the only thing that would make him turn back and concentrate on the road ahead again. The fact that so far the only other vehicles they’d seen were a tractor and a very old man wobbling along on a bicycle miles from any sign of habitation did nothing to lesson her apprehension. On both occasions the taxi driver had swivelled round to draw her attention to their fellow travellers. They’d passed them both at top speed, the taxi veering wildly all over the road. As Anna cast a look back she saw the tractor plough into the nearside brambles; the old man nearly fell off his bike as he gave them the finger. The taxi driver waved heartily back through the rear window, and muttered something incomprehensible.

  She’d stared at him dumbly, too terrified to speak.

  He nodded encouragingly, and for want of anything else to do short of leaning over the bench seat, screaming, and grabbing the steering wheel, she’d nodded back.

  The hideous building was looming closer. She nodded hard. ‘Golly, yes! Absolutely!’

  A prison? A remand home? A truly ghastly thought struck her; she gripped her bag even more tightly. Please please don’t let him be saying and this, my dear lady, is your hotel. As he returned his attention to the road, she saw that a statue of the Virgin stood sentinel beside the high, closed gates. Thank God – it was a convent, not a hotel. Anna was almost sure the Virgin rolled her eyes disapprovingly as they shot past. She was about to return her gaze to the road ahead when she realised the driver was muttering and crossing himself piously. Would he glance in the mirror and expect to see her crossing herself too? Fortunately the controls required all his attention at that moment, as without indicating he accelerated and turned left into a narrow road that appeared between a telegraph pole and a battered green letterbox nailed to a creosoted post. After they had driven for a couple of miles the driver turned and beamed at her, jerking his head (dislodging a further spill of ash) at a green-painted sign ahead.

  ‘Wow, yes! Great!’ Anna nodded maniacally.

  He turned back to the road again.

  They drove on. Any hopes Anna had of her destination being imminent were dashed as time passed and dusk began to fall. But the countryside had gradually changed from a featureless plain to gentle, wooded hills – now and again a stone wall could be glimpsed, and once she caught sight of a little stream bubbling along at the side of the road, though there were no signs of any human habitation. She glanced at her watch: seven o’clock. God, she was hungry. At least she should be able to get a good dinner. As Tina had expounded at some length in her last telephone call, the Grand Hotel was famous throughout Ireland for the excellence of its cuisine. The great and the good frequently sojourned there, and she had it on good authority from her friend Thelma, who was very high up in party planning, that Queen Mary had once almost stayed there. She was about to search in her bag for the brochure Tina had sent (along with details of the terrifyingly high tariff and a sharp reminder about not clashing with lime green) when the taxi veered sharp right. They sped beneath a stone arch and along a winding track bordered by iron fencing buckling beneath the weight of massive laurels. Over a pair of cattle grids, and the track became a gravelled drive. Anna clutched her bag again, and began to feel excited as she made out what looked like a miniature castle in the near darkness, its turrets and towers silhouetted against the sky, lights glimmering here and there from its shadowy bulk. A moment later the taxi swept past a display of topiary animals or birds – it was impossible to tell – grouped artistically round a circular flowerbed and came to a halt at the bottom of a curving flight of steps lit by a pair of antique lanterns, only one of which was functioning. The driver turned round, looking pleased with himself, and named an astronomical sum in euros. Anna was too grateful to have arrived in one piece to question it and paid up, adding a ridiculously large tip. She waited for him to get out, open her door and remove her luggage from the boot. It soon became apparent that in his view, none of this was part of the arrangement. Lighting another cigarette from the butt of the last he drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, clearly anxious to be on his way back to the heady fleshpots of Knock.

  Anna took the hint. It took a moment to fix the handle back into its socket once she’d managed to get her door open, and quite a lot longer to wrestle the boot open and haul out her suitcase, but at last she managed it. With a cheery blast of the horn, the taxi accelerated away into the night, scattering clouds of dust and causing a flurry of rooks to rise from the trees, shrieking indignantly.

  Picking up her suitcase, Anna took a deep breath and watched by a pair of stone lions, began to climb the steps. The wet stone was cracked and covered with yellowing lichen; she tripped and almost fell more than once. At the top she pushed open one of the heavy walnut double doors. A very thin old man in a maroon jacket was watching her expressionlessly through the engraved glass panel; at the last moment he reached out a trembling hand and held it open. She entered, smiling her thanks, and set down her case with a sigh of relief.

  The foyer was large, featuring a great many mirrors in elaborately leafed and curlicued gilt frames and vases of salmon pink gladioli perched on insubstantial-looking wrought iron stands. At first glance it appeared extremely grand; closer inspection revealed that the mirrors were silvered, the gilt was tarnished, the gladioli were beginning to wilt and the wrought iron could do with a dust. An oil painting of a racehorse hung over the marble fireplace; a cigarette butt had been tossed in the empty hearth and what looked like (but surely couldn’t be?) a used condom lay in the grate. Smiling gamely, she looked back at the elderly man who flickered his tortoise-lidded eyes in the direction of the deserted reception desk. As she rang the little brass bell and waited for someone to appear she wondered why he didn’t sit down and rest on the faded plum velvet love seat beneath the largest mirror – he certainly looked exhausted. Perhaps he was a famous Irish author politely waiting for his wife to emerge from the Ladies, or an American tourist waiting for the rest of the group to come down and join him for cocktails in the bar before they went into dinner?

  ‘Yes?’

  A young woman in a black dress, her eyebrows plucked into faint arcs, her hair bleached the colour and consistency of straw, stood behind the desk gazing at her blankly; a gold brooch pinned to her breast vouchsafed the information that her name was Bernadette. It took Anna the best part of a quarter of an hour to persuade Bernadette that no, she wasn’t with the Golden Wedding anniversary party (that explained the old man then); yes, she had booked, she was part of the O’Shaughnessy wedding party, the Mother of the Groom, actually; no, she didn’t need to park her car in the hotel carpark; and yes, she would like someone to take her suitcase up. She accepted the key to Room 103, signed the register, picked up a handful of brochures from the display beside the dish of imperial mints and smiled her thanks at Bernadette, who responded with a distant twitch of her sugar pink lips in Anna’s direction and a queenly gesture to the old man, who to Anna’s horror lurched forward and tried to lift her suitcase.

  ‘God, no, please – I can wait for a member of staff.’

  Bernadette sighed. ‘Patrick is the bellboy, Madam.’

  The bellboy? The poor old bugger must be eighty at least. Anna reached out and tried to prise the handle from his liver-spotted grasp. He shot her a look of pure venom and tightened his grip. Anna gave up, and made great play of perusing one of the brochures while he concentrated on hoisting the suitcase a couple of inches above ground level and tottering to the lift. She soon wished she hadn’t. Tina had already informed her that Fergustown was only five miles away, but the map on the front of the brochure, all laughing tankards of Guinness and winsome leprechauns, made it look horribly near. The thought of Tina lurking so close by was chilling.

  Quelling the urge to throw the leaflet into the grate along with the condom she hurried over to the lift, where the aged bellboy was crouched over her suitcase in what appeared to be the final stages of a heart attack. As she entered he made a lunge for the con
trol panel and with a wheeze the door closed and the lift began to judder slowly upwards, stopping now and again as if to remember what it was supposed to be doing before sighing and continuing its shaky ascent. The silence during the third halt was broken by the bellboy farting. Anna felt her cheeks go pink. Quick, think of something to say. ‘Gosh, I’m starving.’ Now she came to think of it she really was – she’d had nothing since breakfast except a can of lukewarm Coke and a cellophane-wrapped slice of something unidentifiable on the plane. A glass or two of wine and some decent food would restore her flagging spirits considerably. ‘Still, I’ve come to the right place, haven’t I? I hear the food here is fantastic. Must say I’m really looking forward to dinner.’ She mimed exuberant expectation, almost losing her balance as the lift began to jerk and heave upwards again.

  He stared at her as if she’d said she was looking forward to having a couple of male strippers and an effigy of the Pope sent to her room. There was a ping as the lift stopped and the doors rattled open, drowning his reply as he staggered with her suitcase into the corridor and headed for Room 103 at the far end. Something about being close to heaven, was it? Oh, how awful. Still, given his age and his undoubted religious devotion, he’d probably meant it in a good way.

  It wasn’t until she’d over-tipped him, and accepted from his shaking hand the yellowing sheet of paper headed Information for Guests that Anna realised what he’d said.

  The dining room closed at seven.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ‘Stop playing with your food, Jack, and eat properly. And while you’re about it you can finish Charlie’s.’ Ruth leant across the kitchen table and scraped a cold hamburger, half a fried tomato with most of the flesh sucked out and several peas his son had spat out in disgust, onto her husband’s plate.