“Fair enough so,” Ivan conceded.
“He has a cast and everything.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s funny.”
He could hear the smile in her voice and grinned. “How’s Chris?”
“He’s a pain.”
Ivan laughed.
“Mam wants to talk to you,” she said, with a sigh.
“I love you, Justy,” he said quietly.
“Love you too, Dad.”
He waited for her to pass the phone to her mother.
“Dad?” she said.
“Yes, love.”
“I can’t wait to see you.”
Before he could answer she had passed the phone.
“Ivan.”
“Norma.”
“Look, I was thinking that maybe you could take the kids for the Easter holiday.” She was rustling papers.
“I’d love to have them,” he said.
“Good.”
“Doing anything nice?” he asked.
His question came as a surprise – normally they restricted their conversation to the children – and caught her off guard. “No, Des and I just need some time alone,” she admitted.
“Oh.” He regretted asking. “Well, I can’t wait,” he added, with delight.
“OK, then.”
“Right.” He put down the phone.
His kids were coming for an unexpected visit in less than a month. He thought about painting their rooms but decided against it. Justine feared change almost as much as her auntie Mary and, indeed, he did.
Sam made his way out of the wood in time to bump into Mary, who was coming home from the pub. Sunday nights were always quiet and her father was happy enough to close on his own. He was trying to open his wooden gate as she got out of her car. The damn thing seemed wedged shut and refused to budge. He shook it and shook it, cursing under his breath.
“You have to kick it,” she said.
“Kick it?” he echoed.
“It probably swelled in the rain.”
“Swelled,” he repeated.
She put her handbag on her car and gave the gate a good boot. It swung open. She picked up her bag and walked into her own garden.
“Thanks,” he said.
She responded by putting her key into the door.
“I said thanks.” He wasn’t used to being ignored and didn’t like it.
“I heard you,” she replied.
“So say, ‘You’re welcome,’” he ordered, and the pity he had felt for her earlier all but disappeared. Nothing excused bad manners.
“You’re welcome,” she said, and closed her door.
“Did that kill you?” he mumbled, putting his key into the lock.
9. All is forgiven, Brinkerhoffs
A red sun lit the dusky evening sky. Sam walked along the path, eyes north, watching the colour seep. The various shades of this small town had fascinated him during his two weeks in residence. This evening he was wandering again through the wood, a little conservation area that nestled between the golf course and the river. This place, with a Gaelic name he couldn’t even begin to pronounce, was filled with trees, swamp and water, all overlooked by low hills. There were wooden benches, a bat sanctuary, leafy trails and scampering teenage would-be lovers, and it was the place his granny had talked of most. Before the days of conservation, wooden benches and a bat sanctuary, this was where she had been a girl full of romantic dreams for a bright future anywhere but in a small, depressed town in south Kerry. This was the place where she would lie on her back, count the stars and pray that some day she would cross them to reach her destiny. Even as a child, his granny had known she would not stay in the beautiful little town yet in some small way she would mourn it all her days.
“Caught between two lovers!” She’d laugh. “Ireland versus America.” Her smile would fade just a little. “Heart versus head.” There was nothing in Kenmare for his granny in the early 1930s. The war had scarred the whole country and there was little opportunity, especially for a woman who didn’t believe in marrying for the sake of it. Her mother had despaired of her but she was the apple of her father’s eye. Her five brothers treated her like the princess they felt she was destined to become. Her mother had found a man to take her but she’d stood firm, not willing to compromise in a time when compromise was the way of life.
Maybe her feisty nature had turned her mother against her, but it had ensured her doting father’s support and her brothers’ admiration. When her mother had tried to force her daughter’s hand, the men in her life had contrived her escape. Her father could have put his foot down, but he knew that, married or not, his daughter wanted more from life. She was desperate to taste the New World and he was desperate to give her all she wanted. Instinct told him his beloved girl belonged to another place, so he drove her to the boat and sobbed as he handed over the money he and his sons had worked for to secure her emancipation. He had held her close while the whistle blew insistently, willing them to part, then pushed the money into her hand. “It’s up to you now, girleen,” he’d said, his voice choked and eyes brimming. “We can’t help you when you’re gone. America is so far away.”
She wiped the tears from his eyes. “I’ll always be in here, Daddy.” She laid a hand on his chest so that he could hold it there. “You tell the boys that I won’t let you down.” She was crying because she knew she might not see him again.
They used to call the party that was held before a family member moved to the States the “American Wake”. Emigration was tantamount to death. Sam’s grandmother didn’t have an American wake and her mother never got to say goodbye to her. In hindsight her father might have admitted this was a mistake, as his wife was not the same after her only daughter had deserted her. The boys hadn’t made a fuss either: each one had packed a small token in her bag and kissed her goodbye on a day she thought she was accompanying her dad on a job. She’d only realized she was leaving when they were on the docks and he’d handed her a bag filled with her clothes and her brothers’ farewell gifts.
“I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you, mo chuisle.” And with that he turned and walked away, not looking back at the daughter he would never see again.
Sam’s granny had often talked to him about the boat journey to America with enough money to last her a week or two. She would speak of her fright that first night at sea, feeling desperately sick in the bowels of the ship, without a soul to comfort her. But then she’d tell him she need not have feared facing the New World alone because on the third day of the voyage she met the man she would marry. Together they would get off the boat and together they would forge a new life better than the one they had left behind.
When Sam was dragged to the première of Titanic, he had smiled at the story, which seemed somewhat familiar – aside from the treacherous lover, the large jewel and the sinking ship. His granny had loved to talk about how she had fallen for his grandfather over a game of cards and one too many whiskeys. She’d spoken of home too, lamenting its beauty and the love of those she’d left behind. Even as an old woman, the small town had been part of her identity, although it had become as foreign to her on the day she died as America had been on the day she stepped off the boat as a teenager in love.
Sam looked around at the old trees, all witness to his grandmother’s youth. The grass, the sky, the water that lapped against the rocks renewed themselves but the trees held time and one a message from the grave. Now her grandson, a New Yorker through and through, was tramping through her old sanctuary, looking for the one tree in a million that bore her carving. She had only mentioned it once. “I left my mark,” she had said, smiling. At the time Sam hadn’t understood what she meant but now, an adult in Kenmare and with time on his hands, he was determined to find the tree. Unfortunately this entailed a lot more work than he had anticipated – for a small wood, there were a hell of a lot of trees – but he was as determined to find her there as she had been to leave.
While he
was surveying trees he had time to contemplate his short time in Kenmare. Since the incident with the swollen gate, he had tried to keep out of his rude neighbour’s way but Fate had acted against him. It seemed that every time he’d opened his front door she was in her garden, coming in or going out, on the pier with her dog or sitting into her car. When he ventured into his back garden to hang clothes, she’d come outside with the same intention, just a wall away. They’d attempt to ignore one another, which was uncomfortable due to their proximity. He didn’t enjoy awkwardness and with each encounter he’d curse coincidence, yet he would have been lying if he’d said he didn’t miss her on the rare day he didn’t catch a glimpse. Mary wasn’t over-toned or plastic. Her skin glowed, her body was soft and it occurred to him that she could have been the embodiment of an earth-mother if she hadn’t been such a bitch.
When he thought of her past he felt sorry for her, but whenever he saw her she didn’t seem like a victim and it was difficult to empathize with someone who so obviously didn’t like him. Sam wasn’t used to this. Of course, a hell of a lot of people in the business disliked, even hated, him but they had good reason. This woman had disliked him on sight but that was OK: he didn’t need some stranger’s approval. He had his recovery to focus on, so if she ignored him, he’d ignore her. If she sighed at the sight of him, he sighed louder. If she made a face, he made a worse one. Their annoyance had become a game and it was getting old.
Besides, now he had his project to keep his mind active. He tied a small red band around a branch of the last tree he had surveyed. This would signal where his search would next begin. It was getting late and he had promised Ivan he’d help him move furniture.
Adam’s wife and children had driven away from Kenmare, leaving him to finish off packing their belongings before he followed them on the long road away from his home. Ivan had attempted to keep things light and Adam endeavoured to maintain a brave face. Sam had kept his head down, conscious that he was assisting a new friend in saying goodbye to an old one. It was on their last trip, while they were carrying a heavy ornate mahogany desk, that he and Ivan had emerged into the evening light to be confronted with Adam and Penny wrapped round one another, kissing deeply and tears flowing. Sam was acutely embarrassed – and a little confused, having waved off the man’s wife less than an hour before. He and Ivan put the desk on the ground and went back inside, unseen by the parting lovers. Ivan made tea and Sam sat looking around Adam’s empty home. Although he felt sorry for him and his predicament, he was also a little jealous that he had never felt as strongly about anyone as the man outside clearly did.
Mary had turned up just in time to say goodbye to her old friend and to put an arm around a distraught Penny. Adam put his car into gear and, with one last look back at the love of his life, flanked by his two best friends, he drove away. Sam stood back, watching them all from the doorway, but it was Mary who captivated him – her tenderness and strength, and the way she held her grieving friend. He found himself thinking she would have been a beautiful mother. Damn shame she’s such a bitch. Ivan had suggested they all go and get something to eat and, despite himself, Sam hoped that Mary would agree. But Penny was too distressed so Mary took her home. He watched her drive away, one hand on the steering-wheel and the other stroking her friend’s hair. She hadn’t once looked him in the eye.
Penny stood under the shower while Mary surveyed the contents of her fridge. The ingredients were sparse but when Penny emerged in a towelling robe a Spanish omelette awaited her.
“I can always rely on you to cook in a crisis.”
“Just eat,” Mary scolded. “When’s the last time you ate a decent meal anyway?”
“Now,” Penny said, before shoving some into her mouth.
Mary worried about the amount of vodka in the fridge but said nothing. Penny always liked to have a stash in case of a party and she often gave one, mostly after the pub. Mary guessed she wouldn’t for a while, so with that in mind she made a mental note to pour some of the vodka down the sink as soon as Penny’s back was turned. Just in case. She probably won’t even notice.
Penny was silent.
“What can I do?” Mary asked.
“Nothing.”
“What are you thinking?”
Penny sighed.
“Honestly?” Mary urged.
“I thought he’d pick me,” she admitted. “I know he has kids, but when it came down to it, I really thought he’d pick me.” Tears rolled down her face and her nose ran. She sniffed.
“I’m so sorry, Penn.”
“I know I’m selfish,” Penny said, wiping her nose with her hand.
“You’re human.”
“I wanted Adam to abandon his children.”
“Penn, I don’t give a frig about any of that. I think you’re it.”
Penny looked at Mary. “You think I’m it?” she said, with an emerging smile.
Mary nodded. “I do.”
“What? Are you sixteen?”
“No. I just look it.” Mary grinned.
After that Penny said she felt better. Mary insisted on washing up and mopping the floor, having decided that Penny was too traumatized to engage in such menial tasks. Penny argued but Mary had taken on her in-charge mode so she sat with her coffee while Mary cleaned.
“So, what’s the story on the American?” Penny asked, stirring her coffee.
“He’s everywhere,” Mary said. “Every time I turn around there he is with a stupid face on him. The other week he actually pulled me up on my manners.”
“He did not!” said Penny, amused.
“He did. And I wouldn’t mind, but I’d helped him with his stupid gate. I never thought I’d say this but I miss the Brinkerhoffs. At least they knew how to keep to themselves.”
“The Brinkerhoffs were wanted by Interpol,” Penny said, with a slight smile and, annoyingly now, still stirring her coffee.
“And he’s Ivan’s new best friend. Three lunches last week, two nights in the pub, and clay-pigeon shooting last Sunday.” She shook her head. “It’s unbelievable.”
“Ivan’s lonely,” Penny commented.
“So he should get himself a girlfriend,” Mary said.
Penny scoffed. “Yeah, right, because that’s so easy. And what’s your big problem with the American anyway? He seems nice enough. He helped out today.”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about, Penn. Four lifetime friends saying an emotional goodbye to one another and there he is, Mr In-Town-On-A-Wet-Day-Tourist, stuck in the middle of it.”
“This isn’t you. What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” Mary answered honestly. “There’s just something about him. I can’t put my finger on it but I don’t like it.”
“Oh, are you being the all-seeing psychic again?” Penny had never really bought into her friend’s abilities. “He’s not featuring in any angry eggs, is he?”
“No.” Mary smiled. “I don’t know what it is but sometimes when I look into his eyes I want to cry.”
“Weird,” Penny said.
“What do we know about him anyway? He could be a psycho killer.”
“Psycho killers don’t usually look like movie stars,” Penny said, and returned to stirring her coffee.
“I don’t know – Ted Bundy wasn’t bad.”
“He was the one with the gold VW Beetle?”
Mary nodded.
“Yeah, OK, he was all right. Not worth dying for, though.”
“My point exactly,” Mary said. She took Penny’s spoon away from her and threw it into the sink. “It’s stirred.”
Penny was glad her friend had stayed, and their idle chat had lightened her mood, but eventually she was happy to see her go. She waved her off and closed the door. Then she went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of vodka. She thought about it for a moment and put it back. She had promised herself she would take it easy, so instead she reached for a bottle of white wine. She spent a minute or two looking for the corkscrew,
which stubbornly refused to be found. Fuck it, she thought. She opened the fridge and grabbed the vodka. Fate has spoken.
Once seated, she poured a tall glass, took her first sip and switched on the TV. I could have sworn this bottle was more than half full.
Mary parked outside her house, content that she had left Penny in lighter spirits than she had found her. The blue sky was fading to light purple and the water was still, reflecting the two upturned half-moons of the imposing bridge under which the river Roughty joined with the Sheen. Inside, she made her way to the back yard to alert Mr Monkels to her homecoming. Usually he would sense her from halfway down the road or he’d hear the car engine – either way he’d be sitting at the glass patio door panting hello. He wasn’t at the door. Instead he was lying flat out on the ground in front of the shed, half concealed by an untamed bush.
“Mr Monkels!” she called. “Mr Monkels?”
She picked up her pace and her heart started to beat in time with her feet. She bent down to him and it was clear that he was breathing but he wouldn’t budge. She stroked him and he whined a little. “OK, buddy,” she said calmly, “everything’s going to be OK.” She tried to lift him but he groaned and she knew he was too heavy for her to carry without fear of dropping him. She could hear that the American was in because the sound of gospel queen Mavis Staples was leaking from his kitchen. What is it with that man and gospel? She wasn’t going to ask him for help so instead she ran to number three, hoping against hope that Mossy would be there. He opened the door with his hands caked in clay and a joint hanging from his lips.
“Mary of the Sorrows, always a sight for sore eyes,” he said, wiping his hands with a tea-towel. He seemed unaware that he had referred to her by her nickname.
“I need your help,” she said, although from the size of his pupils she was in no doubt that he was pretty stoned.
He stood over a table on which lay a piece he was working on. “What do you think?” he asked.
It looks like a brown banana – that or a piece of… “Lovely,” she said. “There’s something wrong with Mr Monkels. Can you help me get him into the car?”
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