The One I Love
Page 29
Elle looked at Kurt who raised his eyes to heaven. “Modelling?” Elle said.
“Mum has a friend in London. She says I’ve got great cheekbones and a good attitude.”
“Well, then,” Elle said.
“Still,” Irene said, “I’m not sure I’d like modelling. I might do a beauty course or something. I’m not really sure so for the minute I’ll stick with nursing but I swear I’ll never make a nurse. People are foul.”
Leslie came every day except the day she had an appointment with her consultant. She would arrive bringing books or chocolates or both. “You can never read enough or eat enough,” she said.
“You’re too good to me,” Elle said.
“You’re right, I am,” Leslie said, “and as soon as you’re well enough remind me to give you a kick in the hole.”
“That’s lovely language.”
“Isn’t it? I heard it coming out of the mouth of a ten-year-old as I was making my way over here.”
“Is it possible to be depressed that you’re depressed?” Elle asked.
“I’m sure it is. I know I’d be depressed if I was depressed.”
“I just wish I could look into the sky and make sense of it all,” Elle said.
“The answer to life’s problems isn’t in the sky,” Leslie said. “It’s in Jack Lukeman’s songs.”
Elle smiled. “Really?”
“Absolutely. In fact ‘I’ve Been Raining’ changed my life – well, that, a nosy girl called Deborah, a cat with the shits, a broken lift and a surgeon.”
“So, name the song that will change my life.”
“Hmmm.” Leslie thought about it for a moment or two.
“Time’s up.”
“No,” Leslie said, batting her away. “Give me a second.” Then she grinned. “‘Universe’.”
“‘Universe’?” Elle arched an eyebrow.
Leslie cleared her throat.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to sing it?”
“I’m better than you,” Leslie said. She cleared her throat again and began to sing. “‘Oh nothing lasts for ever …’”
“Dun, dun, dun, dun,” Elle sang, imitating the trombone.
Two male patients on their way back from a smoke stopped at the door to enjoy the show.
“‘You can cry a million rivers …’” Leslie sang, and pointed at Elle, who nodded and got ready to imitate a trombone once more.
“Dun, dun, dun, dun …”
“You can rage it ain’t no sin
but it won’t change a thing
’cos nothing lasts for ever …”
Leslie reached out and embraced Elle. “Sing it with me, Elle.”
Together they sang:
“There’s a universe inside
where the two of us can hide
and there’s nothing to be frightened of,
a flash of light a raging star
don’t you know you’re not alone,
ah there’s nothing to be frightened of.”
A nurse stopped beside the two male patients and looked at the two girls singing, arms wrapped around each other. She smiled before she went about her business. The two men clapped.
“Thank you, thank you, we’re here all week!” Leslie said, and Elle laughed. They sat silently for a moment or two, then Leslie looked into Elle’s eyes. “Well? Did it work?” she asked.
“You’re right – I’m cured,” Elle said, and laughed.
“I hate to say I told you so.” Leslie smiled at her friend. “It’s going to be all right, you know.”
The first chance Jane had after Elle was stabilized, she made her way down towards her mother’s rose bushes and the graves of the gerbils, Jessica, Jimmy, Judy and Jeffrey. She walked the correct distance between them and started digging. Rose and Kurt appeared from their respective doors and followed her to the spot where Elle had told Leslie she’d left her final goodbyes. Kurt and Rose were silent while Jane dug. When they heard the shovel tapping on the tin Jane turned to face them and Rose nodded for her to continue. She cleared the soil from the top of the tin and picked it up. She opened it, exposing the three notes folded inside. She set it down on the ground and took a lighter out of her pocket. She looked once more to her mother and she nodded again. Jane leaned down and set the paper alight. It went out so she lit it again and when it looked like it was going to go out again Rose reached into her pocket, pulled out a hipflask and sprinkled some booze on it causing it to reignite and burn until there was nothing left.
“Aren’t you even curious?” Kurt asked, as they made their way back to the house.
“No,” Rose and Jane said in unison.
“I am,” he admitted, “a bit.”
Rose put her arm around her grandson as they walked. “It wasn’t Elle’s time to say goodbye, so let’s just be grateful for that.”
Jane found it hard to get rid of all her anger. The people in St Patrick’s Hospital had told her that this was a perfectly natural reaction and they attempted to explain her sister’s mental state to her. Jane found it hard to accept that Elle was unwell. She had been so desperate to believe her when she’d explained away her symptoms, and now she felt so selfish and stupid.
It was her son who got through to her. “Mum, you do the best you can but you’re not perfect. No one is, except maybe me.”
“She could have died,” Jane said.
“We all could die any day and not because we want to. Elle is just like the rest of us.”
“Oh, yeah, and what’s that?”
“Fucked up,” Kurt said, and Jane laughed for the first time since Elle had tried to kill herself.
*
Alexandra was buried on a Sunday morning. The church was packed to the rafters. Tom stood at the top of the church with Alexandra’s father, her brother, his wife, her sister and her husband. The priest spoke warmly of Alexandra, her mother Breda and the entire Walsh family. He spoke warmly of Tom and his fight to find her. He hoped that he could now find peace as he had no doubt that Alexandra had.
When Leslie told the Jack Lukeman camp that Alexandra had been found, Jack offered to sing at her funeral. The family were blown away by his kind gesture so he sang Breda Walsh’s favourite hymns for the girl who had died on the way to pick up tickets for his show. Tom got up and spoke about his wife, how they’d met, how they’d fallen in love, the reasons he’d loved her, the reasons he would always love her. He spoke about their plans and dreams and disappointments. He spoke about her sense of humour and he ended by reading from the last note Alexandra ever wrote to him.
“Alexandra always had the last word in our house so I think it’s only right that she gets the last word today. ‘Tom, When you are shopping can you pick up the following: bread, milk, water, spaghetti, mince – lean! Make sure it’s lean and not the stuff they call lean and charge half price because it’s not lean. I want lean cut right in front of you and I don’t care how much it costs.’”
The crowd laughed, and Tom read on: “‘Tin of tomatoes, basil, garlic, wine, if you don’t still have a case or two in the office and make sure it’s not Shiraz. I’m really sick of Shiraz. If you want dessert pick something up. I’m meeting Sherri in Dalkey for a quick drink at five. She has the Jack Lukeman tickets so I took money from the kitty to pay for them. I’m taking a ticket for you so if you don’t want to go text me. I’ll be home around seven thirty. Your aunt called. She’s thinking about coming to Dublin next weekend. Try and talk her out of it. I’m exhausted and can’t handle running around after her for forty-eight hours straight. Your aunt is on cocaine. I’m not messing. An intervention is needed.’”
Again the crowd laughed a little and smiled at the words from a girl who couldn’t be boring even writing a shopping list.
“‘Oh, and washing-up liquid. We badly need washing-up liquid, and will you please call someone to get the dishwasher fixed? OK, see you later, love you, Alexandra. PS When somebody close to you dies, move seats. God, I love Jimmy Carr.’”
Tom led the mourners to the graveside and Jim held Leslie and Jane held on to Elle, who had been allowed out of hospital to say her own goodbye. Rose stood to the side with Kurt and Irene. Alexandra’s family bowed their heads in grief and in gratitude that the worst of their suffering was over. Whatever the police investigation might uncover, Alexandra was safe now. The priest anointed the coffin and said his prayers. Jack sang as they lowered her into the ground. When everyone had gone Tom was left alone, staring at the mound of fresh flowers covering his wife who had been dead for more than a year. Jane let the others go to the car and joined him. She slipped her hand into his and he squeezed it.
“The inquest will take at least a year,” he said. “I don’t even know if I can bear to hear the details.”
“She’s at peace now,” she said. “That’s what matters.”
“I hope so,” he said. “I’m going to go on that trip.”
“Good,” she said.
“You’re sure you won’t come?” he said, turning to look at her.
“This is something you have to do on your own,” she said.
“Too soon.”
“Too soon.”
Together they walked away from Alexandra’s grave and to the waiting cars. Tom stopped and turned to look at it one last time. If somebody close to you dies, move seats, you said. So that’s what I’ll do. I love you.
Epilogue
15 March 2009
Dear Tom,
As you know, the post-mortem revealed that Alexandra died of asphyxiation. What it didn’t reveal was that she was a fighter, but you already knew that. Our forensics team found skin cells under her nails, and although this DNA is not currently on our database we believe that it is only a matter of time before we find the person responsible for her death and when we do Alexandra will help us put that individual away.
On a personal note I just want to say that I’m so sorry for your loss. I’ve never said that out loud and I wanted to. Although I didn’t ever meet your wife, through you I came to know and care for her. Trust that no matter how long it takes we will keep looking and we will get justice for you, for her and for her family.
Now, remember what I said – live your life, you’ve lost enough.
Sincerest regards,
Trish Lowe
Patricia Lowe
Family Liaison Officer
Clontarf Garda Station
To: tomtheroamer@gmail.com
From: Janemovingon@gmail.com
Subject: You’re not going to believe what I’m doing
20 August (3 days ago)
Tom,
It’s only been eight months and it feels like a lifetime has passed since I drove you to the airport. It’s been fantastic to keep up with all your adventures through the blog. Good old Leslie for setting that up. As you know, she and Jim are engaged but did you know that she’s opting for a breast reconstruction? Probably not. I only heard it through Elle and she wasn’t supposed to say anything. Anyway, I’m delighted for her. How’s India? The last time you blogged you had the trots. I hope the situation has resolved itself and you are no longer a slave to your bottom half. I’m writing to tell you that I applied to study medicine as a mature student and I got in!!!!! I know it sounds insane but the gallery isn’t doing a lot of business at the moment and, let’s face it, the way things are going we’ll probably have to shut our doors in a few months. Elle isn’t ready to paint yet and when she does I think it’s healthier for her to work with someone else. I’ve told her and she agrees. I have money saved and besides I know I’d love doing medicine. I’m so excited. I’m going to be starting in the College of Surgeons in October, which I’m very relieved about because Kurt would have had a fit if I’d joined him in Trinity.
Elle is well. She’s taking some time off and she’s reading a lot about her condition. She’s looking at alternative therapies and Christ knows what else. I swear if she read that painting your arse red and dancing the conga helped she’d do it, but so far so good. She’s working with her doctors and she seems happy. I don’t really know any more. I just have to trust that she’ll be okay. Maybe when I’m a doctor I can find a cure. I’d put in one of those smiley faces that people do to suggest they’re joking but I’ve forgotten how to.
Anyway, I just wanted to tell you my news.
I miss you.
Jane X
To: Janemovingon@gmail.com
From: tomtheroamer@gmail.com
Subject: You’re not going to believe what I’ve just done
21 August (2 days ago)
Jane,
I am so proud of you. I think it’s amazing and brave and I know that you can do it because you have proved you are capable of so much. I also know that you will make a fantastic doctor because you’re kind and caring and even when those around you are driving you up the wall (How is Rose by the way?) you have the patience of a saint. I wish you all the luck in the world but I know you don’t need it.
I left India yesterday. My head and my arse had an argument and my arse won. I wish I could have stayed on but honestly the water was killing me. I’m en route to Kenya and I can’t wait. I have an old pal living there. He’s actually part of a construction team building houses so I’m thinking about sticking around there for a while and working with him. It will be good to get my hands dirty again. I hear the Niall Mellon Township Trust is looking for volunteers to build homes in South Africa in March so I’m going to head that way and give them a hand, although I think I have to get sponsorship. Tell you what – if you come out I’ll sponsor you and you can sponsor me. Think about it, ten days can change not just their lives but yours too.
I really miss you too and I look forward to the day I see you again.
Tom X
From: Leslie.sheehan@yahoo.com
To: Janemovingon@gmail.com
Subject: I don’t believe you!
22 August (1 day ago)
Jane,
I just got an email from Tom congratulating me on getting new tits!!!!! I can’t believe you told him. Mortified!
Leslie
From: Janemovingon@gmail.com
To: elmore@gmail.com
RE: I don’t believe you!
10:20 p.m. (3 hours ago)
See Leslie’s mail, I think I just landed you in it!!!! Sorry.
Jane
From: elmore@gmail.com
To: Janemovingon@gmail.com
cc: Leslie.sheehan@yahoo.com
RE: I don’t believe you!
1:20 p.m. (1 hour ago)
No problem. These days I blame everything on the medication.
Elle
From: Leslie.sheehan@yahoo.com
To: elmore@gmail.com
RE: I don’t believe you!
1:21 p.m.
Elle,
You just cc’d me into that mail so now I know your dirty little tricks!
Leslie
From: elmore@gmail.com
To: Leslie.sheehan@yahoo.com
RE: I don’t believe you!
1:22 p.m
L,
You see, I would never have done that if I wasn’t on medication!
xE
Acknowledgements
The first time I heard Jack Lukeman sing we were both teenagers. His voice was as big then as it is now and it’s something I’ll never forget. He was a kid and he could silence a roomful of adults with just one bar of “Summertime”. I’ve witnessed his talent and career unfold over the past twenty years and some of my best times have been hanging out with one or all of the Jack camp. I was there in the beginning, when Jack led the Black Romantics and they played night after night in the Da Club. I took my turn selling the first album Wax during the interval. Once or twice I was roped into carrying gear through the streets of Dublin heading for 38 South Circular Road, which was the Jack base camp for
all of the nineties. So many demos were recorded there; so many people lived there on and off, Jack in the back flat, David in the front, Martin upstairs, there was always something going on. Football, EU canned meats, comedy gigs, phone calls to and from America in the middle of the night, drums, bass, vocals, drinking, smoking, laughing. When I think about the nineties I think about 38 SCR and it always makes me smile.
The first time I conceived the smallest kernel of the idea for The One I Love was while standing on a balcony with Martin, looking down at the crowd at a sell-out show. On stage Jack was singing and doing his thing, but it was the crowd that captured my imagination. They were in awe, transfixed and completely silent. I made a joke to Martin that we should set up a church, the Church of Jack, and make some real money. The image stayed with me and over the years, seeing a lot of the same faces come to show after show, the idea of fans becoming friends wouldn’t let go. I spoke to Jack, Martin and David about the idea for this book two years ago, and not only were they really supportive but they gave me carte blanche to incorporate all Jack’s mat-erial and I’m so grateful to them for trusting me not to f**k up. If you read this book and your interest in Jack Lukeman is piqued, his website is www.jacklukeman.com. I hope you enjoy his music as much as I do.
So to all in the Jack camp, beginning of course with Jack Lukeman, thank you for the songs and the laughter over the past twenty-something years. Martin Clancy, you are and always will be one of my best friends, and I’ll be forever grateful for the day you walked into my world. David Constantine, that night in Northumberland Road, me on crutches, the meter out of coins and a lunatic screaming, “I’ve gone blind” – that was our Vietnam. I love you, man! Myra Clancy, you rock, and Patricia Clancy, I can honestly say there isn’t one of us that you haven’t mothered at some point: thank you.
I’d also like to thank Ken Browne. When my husband introduced us fifteen years ago, Ken was a guitar player in a rock band. We lost contact and didn’t see him for years and when we reconnected we discovered that he had transformed into an incredible artist. He, like me, is inspired by music and uses it in his work. He’s energetic with the ability to say more in a minute than some say in a lifetime. He’s deeply passionate about his work and when I’m around him he reminds me how lucky we are to be in a position to be creative and to do the things we love doing. (When my pal Enda reads this he will yawn and make an unseemly gesture with his right hand. Apologies, Enda, I’m finished; the luvvie has left the room.) I asked Ken if I could pick his brain for this book and I also asked if I could include him, and he was kind enough not only to grant me my wish but also to act excited about it. So, thanks again for your enthusiasm, exuberance and for the beautiful painting that rests on my sitting-room wall. For anyone who wishes to view the works I mention in the book, his website is www.kenbrowneart.com