‘I saw her, you know, coming out of your house on Sunday morning. I saw Sam.’
Struan holds his cigarette in mid-air, then takes a drag. ‘And?’
‘What do you mean “and”? What the fuck is going on, Struan?’
‘There’s nothing going on, Lillis, and I’m getting kind of pissed off telling you that.’
‘Well, what am I supposed to think? It was half six in the morning.’
‘Sam meets her boyfriend at my house when he comes across from the commune at Scoraig. End of.’
‘Why does she meet him at your house?’
‘Because he’s married. Because they have privacy at mine that they can’t get at the staff house. Because there’s a double bed in my spare room. Because she’s a mate.’
‘She’s a sly cow.’
‘In your opinion,’ Struan says, and flicks his cigarette into the sand bucket that is spilling butts. ‘Back to work, eh? It’s busy.’ He grabs me in a hug and I endure it, though I want to thump him. He wipes at the tears that are slipping again from my eyes. ‘Your bladder is near your eye, Yourell.’
‘You sound like my father.’
Struan pinches my cheeks and stares into my eyes before kissing me hard.
‘Back to work. And take it easy on Sam.’
I arrive back into the kitchen in time to hear Dulcie shout ‘Service!’ and I go and pick up the plates.
Margaret reminds me of a half-mad, half-benevolent nun who taught me in school – she has the same stack of near-perfect teeth that Sister Albert used to grind robustly whenever she was annoyed with someone in class. Margaret frisses the fingers of one hand through her hair and spoons globs of baby rice into Charlie’s mouth with the other.
‘I just don’t believe that Sam is Struan’s type,’ she says.
‘They used to go out.’
‘Briefly. As in for a couple of weeks, if memory serves.’
‘I can’t stand her. She’s sneaky, you know? All sweetness and light in front of Struan, but bitching at me behind his back. And she’s a queer hawk – shifty. I wouldn’t trust her if my life depended on it.’
Charlie waves his arms – they are so pudgy it looks like there are elastic bands pinching his wrists and elbows. Margaret scrapes the spoon up Charlie’s chin, dragging at the mulchy rice he has burbled out through his lips.
‘Och, you’re a mess, wee man,’ she says, then turns to me. ‘She would mind mice at a crossroads, that Sam.’
I giggle. ‘I haven’t a clue what that means, but it sounds about right.’
‘I mean she’s cunning and capable. A bitch.’
‘Language, Margaret!’ We both laugh, which makes Charlie chuckle too.
‘Are you laughing, wee boy? What’s so funny?’ She sweeps Charlie out of his bouncer and whips off his bib in one expert movement. ‘Let’s take him out for a walk.’
Margaret’s devotion to her baby son amazes me. My memories of childhood are of benign neglect – I am sure Verity never ever took such interest or care with Robin or me. She certainly didn’t talk to us when we were little, the way Margaret and Gordon talk to Charlie, as if he deserves inclusion in all that happens in their world. He is not yet a year old, but he is as important to them as any adult. Our home was one of silences and bad humour; Verity so clearly resented being a mother that she took it out on Robin and me.
‘Mummy and Lillis are taking Charlie for a walk,’ Margaret says, buttoning him into his jacket and pinching gobbets of snot from his nose with her fingers. These she flicks into the air. ‘Maybe Charlie will see a seal. A seal! Will Charlie see a seal in the harbour?’ She snugs her forehead against his and he chortles, showing his tiny teeth, all four of them. His mouth is still crusted with rice and he drools onto his chin, and I wonder how Margaret puts up with all his leaky, stinky, endless dirt.
Margaret lets me push the buggy down Market Street and along Shore Street; she swings her arms and proclaims herself useless. She tells me about her mother, about her cancer and her death, about how close they were. I get bored pushing the buggy after a while and Margaret takes over. She relaxes as soon as her fingers close over the handles; she seems restored. I tell her about Dónal; that I’m not sure what way to grieve for him.
‘I don’t know whether I’m going to feel this bad forever, or if at some point it will be easy to think about him,’ I say. ‘Think about him lightly, you know, without feeling pain? Grief is so hard.’
‘It sure is; grief is work, it’s an active thing. Where do we put it all? The memories, the sadness, the constant feeling of loss. The dead only continue to exist because we talk about them, right?’
‘You don’t believe in an afterlife?’
‘I believe in the rebirth of souls, Lillis. Something of my mother lives on in Charlie, I’m sure of it.’
I look at Charlie, at his moony face, and find it hard to believe that somewhere inside his fat little body, so soft and open to the world, lies the residue of his Irish granny.
‘Dónal didn’t believe in any of that, so I don’t really either.’
‘But you feel Dónal around you, don’t you?’
‘I suppose. Well, yes, in my dreams. At night especially, that’s when I sense him close by.’
‘So, you see, he hasn’t left you. Not completely.’ We do a circle of the village and by the time we are back to Market Street, Charlie is fast asleep in his buggy. Margaret lets us into her house and, after parking Charlie in the hall, we sit in the soft light of her kitchen, listening to the kettle boil. ‘I suppose you have to ask yourself where Struan fits into all of this. Is he replacing Dónal?’
I look at Margaret, at her amiable, searching face and I realise that I do not have an answer to her question. I shrug and she gets up to brew the tea.
Chapter Eight
Verity sent my father to tell me that Dónal was dead. Dónal had asked me to go to a New Year’s Eve party with him, in some flat off the South Circular Road. He gave me the address and I said I would see him there, but I had gone to the pub with my college friends and didn’t make it. When my buzzer rang on New Year’s Day I thought it was Dónal, come to give out and tell me what a great night I had missed.
I leapt from my bed, pressed the intercom button and hopped back under the covers. After a minute or two, the door opened and Anthony stood there, not speaking.
‘Dad?’ I pulled my dressing gown from the end of the bed and wrapped myself into it. I was footless the night before and aches were clawing at the inside of my face, my mouth and my brain. I pointed at my head. ‘Hangover. But Happy New Year.’
Anthony nodded and stepped into my bedsit, closing the door after him. ‘Lillis, I have news; it’s not good.’
I jumped towards him. ‘What? Is it Verity? Robin?’
‘No, they’re fine. Look, Lil, there’s been an accident.’ He put me sitting on the bed and then sat beside me, his arm around my shoulder.
‘You’re freaking me out. Is it the boys?’ I was sure something had happened to one of the two sons he had with India.
‘No, not the boys. Lillis, Dónal Spain came off his motorbike last night and I’m afraid it was fatal. He died instantly.’
‘What? No.’ I looked at Anthony to see why he was saying this to me. ‘That’s ridiculous. No.’
‘I’m sorry, Lillis. It happened along the canal in the early hours of this morning. His bike hit a wall.’
I could hear what my father was saying but holding onto the truth of it, the facts of what he had said, was like trying to grip a wet eel. I shook my head.
‘No, no, no.’ I wanted to climb back into bed and I wanted Anthony to go away. I laughed. ‘I’m dreaming,’ I said, relieved, and I grabbed at my father, sure he would not be there at all. My hand clutched the hairy back of his hand and he took hold of my fing
ers, pumping them up and down as if I were a child again and we were playing a game.
‘He’s gone, Lillis. I’m sorry. Look, why don’t you get dressed and come to Verity’s with me? You can go and see the Spains. They’ll need all the support they can get. You should be there; they’ll want you there.’
The fish and salt smell of the Atlantic wound its way up the narrow streets that were still cold and early-morning empty. Pedestrians dodged the delivery trucks that hulked everywhere, while shopkeepers sluiced the dirt and vomit from their entryways with buckets of water that stank of Jeyes Fluid. The train had left me at the bottom of Eyre Square and I strolled down to Quay Street to meet Anthony for breakfast. Verity had suggested I go to Galway to visit my father after I had spent night after night at her house, lolling in bed, missing Dónal and feeling sorry for myself.
It was India who greeted me, from her flumped position inside the doorway of the Café du Journal; she stood when she saw me and stretched out her hand.
‘Anthony had to meet with one of his students – some minor emergency. You’ll have to make do with me for now.’ India gave a small smile; her teeth were luminous inside the lilac slick of her lips.
‘That’s OK,’ I said, gripping India’s hand and kissing her ripe cheek, ‘it’s lovely to see you.’ India smelt sweet and musky, like cedar or something else old and precious. ‘How are you? And the kids?’
India shook her wrists, making her silver bangles rattle. ‘I am fine, they are fine. Tim is in big school now, he’s very proud of himself.’
‘Aw, sweet, I bet he looks cute in his uniform. Tiny Tim. How’s my father?’
‘Oh, you know Anthony, working too hard as always, but he is well. His department may have made an important discovery, something to do with seaweed. I’ll let him tell you himself.’ India drained her coffee. ‘How is your mother?’
‘Oh, she’s annoying everyone around her, as usual. Herself most of all.’
‘Poor Verity.’
I ordered toast and two cappuccinos. The air was silent between us while we stirred our coffee; I let tan nuggets of sugar melt on my teaspoon before dunking it low and stirring it through.
‘Did you know that cappuccinos are called after the Capuchin friars, because the coffee is the same colour as their habits?’ I said.
India laughed. ‘That’s the sort of thing Anthony would say; he is full of titbits of trivia. No, I didn’t know that, but I will remember it from now on.’ She placed her hand on my knee. ‘I was sorry to hear that your friend passed away. He was so young. How have you been?’
I looked away. ‘OK. Sort of.’
‘It is devastating for his family. To lose a son. My goodness.’ She wrung her hands.
We talked about work: India’s with underprivileged children and her dealings with social workers; my bored frustration with the camera shop. The café warmed up; customers belched in and out through the door, delivering wafts of bleachy air and the screeking of gulls as they did. Anthony bustled through eventually, mouthing a sorry and holding out his palms in mock attrition; he leaned over the table.
‘My two best girls, all cosy.’ He stooped forward, kissed India on the mouth, then me on the top of my head. ‘How are you, darling?’
‘I’m all right,’ I said, frowning then smiling. I was determined not to be low while I was in their house; my father could never cope with bad humour.
‘You look tired. Come on, let’s get you home.’
Anthony carried my backpack and linked us both for the short stroll to the Long Walk. Their house overlooks the Claddagh Basin where the River Corrib empties itself with force into the sea. Once indoors, I curled into the window seat in the sitting room to watch the huge cast of swans that bounced on the water, like players in a wet and windy theatre. I thought of the legend of the Children of Lir – the four swan children – Fionnuala and her three brothers, tossing on cold seas for hundreds of years. The girl acted as surrogate mother to her brothers, protecting them from all kinds of evil. I’m like Fionnuala, I thought, with my three brothers. Though I couldn’t say that I knew Tim and Alex at all; they were so young, so far away. In truth, I barely registered them as family.
‘I might take the boys out while I’m here. To Salthill, maybe.’
‘Oh yes, they would like that very much,’ India said, looking pleased. ‘They are so fond of you and Robin, so proud. They tell everyone about their big sister and brother up in Dublin.’
‘Do they really?’ I felt a gush of heat in my stomach and smiled. Anthony winked at me.
‘Do you think it’s possible to ever get over losing someone? Like, really get over it?’
‘Possible, but difficult,’ Anthony said, and closed his eyes.
He looks like a psychiatrist sitting there, I thought, plump and wise. Even his fireside chair had the clichéd look of the TV shrink: its high, curved back sported thickly upholstered ears that seemed to hug the sides of his head. I took a deep breath, held it, then parped it out through my lips. My father opened his eyes and raised his eyebrows, inviting me to go on.
‘I loved Dónal, you know, but I didn’t love him the way he loved me. We were like brother and sister. Or on-off flat mates.’ I dropped my chin to my chest. ‘I was fond of him, so fond of him, but he drove me nuts. I miss him like crazy.’
‘He was a good kid.’
I looked into the fire, at the petrol blue and white flames that were trying to find a hold on the stack of turf.
‘It’s as if he loved me too much; he loved all the love out of the two of us and I couldn’t get a foothold, you know?’ Anthony looked at me. ‘All I know is that at some point, I gave up trying to take him seriously as a potential boyfriend. But now I can’t understand that. I don’t know why I didn’t make the effort to love him, to be with him the way he wanted.’
‘We don’t choose who to love,’ Anthony said.
I lifted my eyes to his and nodded. Anthony leaned over, took my hand and pulped my fingers through his own, hurting me – he was never aware of his own strength.
‘Maybe I’ll find someone to love, I don’t know. I look at you and India and the boys, at how happy and content you are, and I think, “Anything is possible.” ’
‘It took a long time to land where we are now, Lil, a long time. Don’t forget that Verity and I went through hell. And India and I behaved badly through it all, by getting together in the first place.’ He squeezed my hands. ‘Life is long. Don’t be in too much of a rush.’
‘I’m not in a rush, I’m just saying.’
I could feel the scald of tears plucking at the backs of my eyes. I didn’t want to cry in front of Anthony; he never knew what to say or do when people cried. It made him impatient.
‘Look, a little holiday here, away from Dublin and memories, and away from Verity, might help. We’ll only talk about Dónal if you want to. But we’re here for you, darling, India and me.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’
‘What are you to us?’ Alex asked, shoving his fists into his pockets when I held out my hand to him. The wind swished around my ears, throwing my hair into my eyes, and I clawed it away, peeling back the strands that had stuck to my lipstick. Tim held onto me tightly, as if afraid he would be thrown off the promenade into the churning sea.
‘I’m your sister, Alex. You know that.’
‘You’re very old to be our sister,’ he said, needling his black eyes at me. ‘You could be someone’s mum you’re so old.’
‘Could be, but amn’t.’ I forced a smile. ‘I’m your half sister, but that makes it sound as if I’m half a person and I don’t really like that.’
‘It sounds OK to me,’ Alex said, and turned to look across the bay at the low hump of County Clare. I looked at his tufty hair and the polished coffee colour of his neck. I examined Tim, his identical miniature. They ar
e beautiful kids, I thought.
‘The sea is lovely, isn’t it? Wild,’ I said, smiling at the boys.
Alex pointed across the water to Black Head. ‘Daddy drives us over to there in his car. Do you have a car?’
‘No.’
Alex smirked then looked away. ‘I want to go home now.’
‘I don’t want to go home yet,’ Tim said. ‘She’s bringing us for chips now, aren’t you, Lillis?’
I nodded. ‘Come on, Alex, give me your hand.’ The boy snorted and hopped onto the cluster of rocks that formed the breaker wall above the sea. He looked back at me and Tim, then jumped from rock to rock, his open jacket flipping like a wimple in the wind. ‘Alex, you’re going to fall.’ He glanced around at me and made a face, then turned back to jump forward again. His foot got caught in a crevice and he fell hard. He crouched there, no sound coming from him. I sprang over and dragged him upright. ‘You’re OK, Alex, you’re all right,’ I said, and he whimpered in my arms, his body tense.
I lifted his palms to see the damage: there was a lattice of scrapes and the inky bulge of fresh bruises. When Tim saw his brother’s hands, he started to cry and I pulled him into the crook of my other arm. The three of us sat in a huddle on the rocks, the sea whipping behind; the boys cried and I sheltered them from the wind, trying to form properly comforting words to say to them.
Tim slurped his milkshake. ‘Mummy says you are exactly like your mother.’
I looked over at him. ‘Oh, really? What else does she say?’
‘She says you like being sad. She said that to Daddy last night.’ Alex robbed a chip from Tim’s plate and he started to screech. ‘Give it back, Alex, give it back. Lillis, he took one of my chips!’
I looked out through the café window at the frothy waves that were throwing themselves up onto the prom. Power walking women in bright fleece tops leapt to dodge them and pounded on up the seafront to where Salthill fizzled out. The sea fell back for a moment before heaving over the rocks again.
The Closet of Savage Mementos Page 7