Dinner Party

by Sarah Gilmartin

  There was such an age between scoring that Kate could easily have gone down and gotten a burger, so after the second rider was done, she told her mother she was bursting for the loo.

  ‘Can’t sit still,’ she heard her mother say to someone as she bolted for the tents. It was too dangerous to stop at the burger vans so she made for the Chinese stall at the end and got herself some chicken noodles, wolfing them down as the crowd cheered for the third rider. She thought about buying a cold sparkling water for her mother but it could go either way, so she decided against it and hurried back to the stand.

  ‘Hey, Kate!’ A voice called as she neared the stairs. Over by the Portaloos, Conor Doyle and his friend were standing, looking aimless. Kate wiped her mouth and headed over.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Bored?’

  ‘My sister got knocked out in the first round,’ Conor said. ‘The prancing one?’

  They smiled shyly at each other.

  ‘So boring,’ said the other lad. ‘I’m Gary, Conor’s cousin.’

  ‘He’s only here for the weekend,’ said Conor.

  Gary shot him a look.

  ‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘Short and sweet, that’s me.’

  He was a cocky one, right up Elaine’s street, with clever brown eyes and the kind of sharp, furtive look she found attractive. Kate had visions of the four of them on a double date in the new cinema in Kilkenny.

  ‘You’re a twin.’ Gary pulled on the neckline of his Man City top.

  ‘Gary,’ Conor warned.

  ‘The Gleeson twins,’ Gary said. ‘The famous Gleeson twins.’

  Her heart expanded at the sound of it.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said nonchalantly. ‘My sister’s riding.’

  ‘The fit one on the massive horse?’

  ‘Gary!’ Conor went red in the face.

  Kate laughed. ‘Don’t worry. She’ll love hearing that. She’ll probably get a tattoo of it.’

  The three of them were laughing now. In the background there was more cheering in the stands and she knew she should go back.

  ‘Are you going to the fireworks tonight?’ Conor said.

  ‘There’ll be a bonfire and all,’ said Gary.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Kate. ‘I’m going. We’re both going.’

  ‘What’s your costume?’ said Gary.

  ‘Dunno,’ said Kate, though she knew well—a genie and a cat.

  ‘Yeah.’ Gary frowned. ‘Costumes are dumb.’

  ‘No, they’re not,’ said Conor. ‘You said earlier that—’

  Gary stood on Conor’s runner. He took out a crumpled box of Benson and Hedges, offered her one.

  ‘I don’t smoke,’ she said. He looked disappointed, so she added, ‘But Elaine does.’

  More clapping from the stands. She moved a few steps back as both of them lit up. While Conor held his cigarette over to the side. Gary made an O with his mouth and puffed a series of thick perfect rings towards her. Why did so many boys think it was a talent? She swiped them away.

  The commentator’s voice cut through their conversation: two poles down, one refusal, no time faults. Another round of clapping, and then they called Lucy Stevens.

  ‘I better go,’ said Kate.

  Conor’s eyes went round in surprise, and she felt giddy that her leaving was having such an effect. Maybe she could stay for—

  ‘Katherine Maude Gleeson!’

  She turned to see her mother at the foot of the stairs, doing her vet-comes-to-visit eyes.

  ‘Get!’ her mother said, clutching her big black bag.

  Kate froze.

  ‘Move it,’ her mother said. ‘You’re a disgrace.’

  ‘I’m not doing—’

  ‘I know exactly what you’re not doing.’

  Kate couldn’t look at Conor. She turned away.

  ‘Call me?’ Gary winked, first at her, and then at her mother. What was he thinking?

  ‘Get up into the stand away from those hooligans.’

  It was loud enough for everyone to hear. Kate dropped her head and walked past her mother, trying not to touch her.

  Back in their seats, her mother nearly had a fit when she saw that Lucy Stevens was finished, that she’d gotten a near-perfect score save for one point deducted for time.

  ‘You little vixen,’ she hissed at Kate. ‘Smoking!’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘I saw you.’

  ‘It was only the boys.’

  ‘Trying to get my attention. Trying to take away from your sister’s big day.’

  She gave Kate a shove, sending her into the old man and his paper.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Kate.

  He said he was fine but folded the paper and put it away. Half the row turned to look at them. Her mother gave a dangerous smile and told Kate to face forward and keep her eyes on the horses. She hadn’t been violent with them for a long time, but it was latent inside her. Kate only remembered in snapshots: a bare-chested Ray made to stand for the night on the landing, a pillow held over Elaine’s face, Kate herself racing up the stairs, a hand through the banister sending her flying back down. Short, barely memorable episodes that lodged like splinters in the mind. It was the story that went with them that Kate remembered, whole passages of dialogue that she knew by heart. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. Or the old favourite, the curtain line: Never have children—they ruin your life! They sat and watched the fifth girl go round, two faults leaving her in second place at the end.

  ‘Well,’ said her mother, composed again. ‘All your sister has to do is a straight round. No faults.’

  ‘So she just has to be perfect,’ said Kate.

  Her mother turned in the seat.

  Kate smiled serenely.

  Then there was no more time for fighting because the commentator had called her sister’s name and here she was, strutting Slayer into the arena. Her hair was still in the French plait, the cause of much contention earlier that morning. As if reading Kate’s mind, her mother said, ‘It’s neater on her. No wisps.’

  Elaine passed the railing and ignored their waving, a wild look in her amber eyes.

  Kate didn’t envy her the hunt coat and necktie. Her face was pink and she kept pulling at the strap of her helmet.

  ‘Elaine!’ her mother shouted. ‘Good luck, Elaine!’

  Kate said a silent good luck and crossed her fingers. Elaine’s name was announced over the tannoy and the bell rung. Her sister took off on the split second of the timer.

  ‘Good girl,’ her mother whispered, reaching down for Kate’s hand.

  They squeezed tight as Elaine approached the vertical. She cleared it and went for the water, kicking Slayer’s flank with her boot. The horse went high over the fence, his legs not even close to the poles. The crowd clapped. The redbrick was next, a rock-hard look on her sister’s face on the approach, a twist to her mouth as she vaulted over it, not quite as cleanly as before. Kate’s heart quickened with each jump that followed, her hand gripping her mother’s the closer Elaine got to the finish. She used the whip on Slayer for the water jump and although the horse managed to get over without knocking a pole, Kate thought his foot might have touched water. But her mother was beaming, ‘Good girl,’ she said. ‘That’s my girl.’ Elaine took the turn for the final oxer with plenty of time left on the clock.

  ‘Come on, darling,’ her mother said. ‘Come on. Easy does it.’ She clamped so hard on Kate’s hand that Kate lost sensation in her fingers. Elaine was flying towards the oxer, her face in gritted concentration as she booted towards it and went up, up and over the gate, landing with a flourish on the other side and smiling majestically to the crowd as she trotted past. Kate and her mother stood and cheered. Elaine gave them a huge grin before cantering to the waiting area.

  Her mother hugged Kate, pulling her into the strong flowery smell of her fleece. When they broke apart, she began telling total strangers that Elaine was her daughter. Her whole face was lit up, young again. Later there would be sadness—beca
use that was the way of death, that any new good thing was also a reminder that Daddy was no longer with them—but for now it was wonderful to watch her enjoy herself.

  ‘A new horse,’ her mother was saying now. ‘We only bought him four months ago. My daughter.’

  As the handshakes and congratulations continued, Kate could see something happening in the arena. The pair of stewards from earlier were at loggerheads again. The large lady was flapping her board dangerously close to the face of the man in the cap. A third official got involved, shoving another clipboard into the fray. They stopped talking to consider whatever was on it. There was a lowering of noise in the stands until it petered out to a few isolated voices.

  ‘What’s going on?’ her mother began to move onto the steps. ‘What are they at?’

  Kate searched for her sister, saw her set apart from the other riders, trying to calm Slayer who was once again on his hind legs. He gave a loud, whinnying snort and then settled. Elaine turned him to face the stand. She fiddled with the tie of her helmet and began to walk the horse in small, slow circles.

  When Kate looked back at the steps, her mother was gone, tearing across the arena at impressive speed for someone in wedges. She went straight to the stewards instead of going to Elaine.

  ‘Something’s going on,’ said the old man beside her.

  Kate stood up again, wondering if she’d be allowed down there. People in the row behind were saying all sorts of awful things about her sister.

  She sat down as the speakers crackled.

  ‘The ruling is in,’ said the commentator, ‘that Number Six, Elaine Gleeson is penalized for fence four. The judges rule that the foot was in the water.’

  A shocked sound went around the crowd and then a cheering began farther into Kate’s row. She looked over and saw Mrs Stevens on her feet, clapping and calling, ‘Hear, hear—for justice,’ as if this was a public execution. Her horsey face dipped left and right in delight.

  Down in the arena, her mother was waving her arms at the officials, loud blasts of her voice rising into the stand. ‘Perfect,’ she kept saying. ‘Faultless!’ Kate glanced behind her at the crowd to see whose side they were on. Conor was back in his seat. He waved to her and gave a sympathetic shrug.

  Elaine was still on Slayer, riding up and down over the same patch of ground like a vengeful queen. For once, she didn’t look embarrassed by their mother, but seemed to will her on from her horseback position. ‘Rigged,’ their mother shouted at the large lady, whose arse, Kate realized now, may well have been the same waddling one from the Thurles competition. ‘Robbed!’ her mother said.

  The crowd was growing agitated. Some man shouted for the winner to be announced. Her mother left the stewards and ran to Elaine. They went straight into an argument themselves, the solidarity gone the moment they had to talk to each other. Elaine shook her head, tried to move off with Slayer, but her mother stood in front of the horse, put her hand on his nose.

  ‘Make up your minds,’ the same man shouted. ‘Give us the result!’

  A few minutes later, the stewards parted and the speakers crackled again. Her sister’s face was bright red. She was crying, or sweating, Kate couldn’t make out which. She leaned over the railing to try and get closer.

  ‘After deliberations,’ the commentator said, ‘Number Six, Elaine Gleeson will repeat her round.’

  ‘A sham,’ Mrs Stevens cried out, standing and shaking in a squall of khaki. ‘A fix!’ She went to leave the row but another woman pulled her back.

  The crowd booed—they actually booed her poor sister!—and Kate turned to face them, feeling something close to hysteria. She saw dozens of incensed faces and didn’t know what to do. The booing continued until the commentator demanded silence and rang the bell. Her mother took Slayer by the bridle and led him over to the starting point, Elaine floppy on top of him, her posture gone. She gave a brief smile, at least, as she took the reins from their mother and sat up straighter on the horse. Kate let out a huge breath.

  The commentator was still asking for silence as her mother sat down. She ignored Kate completely, sat forward in the seat and held the railing. The booing stopped but there was a nasty murmuring in the crowd that refused to dissipate. The bell went irrespective, the timer started, and Elaine, somehow, had the courage to trot to the first fence and land it without a fault. She did the same for the next four fences and the crowd went quiet. Kate had never felt prouder of her sister. On the redbrick, Slayer reared but she brought the whip down and they managed to get over it, so close you could barely see the gap. The next vertical was easier but her sister had started to slump again, her fingers lifting off the reins to tug at the tie of her helmet. She went at it again on the approach to the water fence and Kate heard her mother curse. She closed her eyes, she couldn’t bear it, and when she opened them, her sister was clear of the fence, no splashes, no faults, with only the final fence left.

  Elaine threw her head back and brought her leg down hard against the horse’s flank. Slayer sped up, faster than he’d been all day, and shot off towards the oxer. They looked ready for it, like they’d clear it easier than the last round, but just before the jump he bucked and threw Elaine over the fence, high over the crossed poles, her helmet flying in front of her and the rest of her following after it, landing unnaturally on the arena’s earthen floor.

  The crowd gasped, a terrible sound that took Kate into its clutches so that all she could do was stand there, watching in amazement as strangers ran towards her sister’s twisted torso. ‘My daughter!’ Her mother’s shouts sounded far away, as far as another planet. ‘My daughter! My daughter.’

  * * *

  A banging on the door woke her. Pain, her body said immediately, pain. She was lying on top of her purple duvet in her pyjamas. Her head was throbbing, but no, that wasn’t it. She moved her feet and a sharp twinge ran the whole way up her right leg. Her hip. Swollen, weighted, as if it was chained to the mattress. She looked at the picture on her locker. What she wouldn’t give to disappear into it.

  ‘Kate!’ A familiar male voice. ‘Let me in.’

  It was her daddy, here at Trinity Hall to save her.

  ‘Kate!’ More banging. ‘Are you in there? The guard will have to let me in if you don’t get up.’

  Oh, God, the horrible logic of the voice. It was not Daddy. It was Peter.

  ‘One second,’ she tried to say, but her throat was caked dry and the words squeaked away to nothing.

  Her bedroom stank of wet wool, a large damp patch on the carpet. She tried to sit up but the pain was like a knife across her pelvis. A key scratched at the lock, turning the tarnished clasp on the inside to the left. Peter and the old security guard from the main house pushed into her room.

  ‘Kate!’ Peter stopped short when he saw her on the bed, the guard bumping into his back. ‘Why didn’t you answer?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Why didn’t you answer me all night?’

  She tried to clear her throat. Her head felt like it might explode off her body, ping-pong around the room and spray the pair of them with her brains.

  ‘She’s OK,’ the guard said. ‘They’re always OK.’ He shook Peter’s hand and left, talking to himself as he went down the corridor.

  ‘Water,’ Kate managed.

  Peter ignored her. His fair hair was cocked in all directions and his big duffel coat made her feel cold. She reached for the far side of the duvet. The pain was astounding.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Peter said. ‘And what’s the smell?’ He went on a hunt around the room until he found the towel.

  ‘Please,’ she pointed at the sink. ‘Water.’

  He took her vodka mug from the locker and filled it from the cold tap. She gulped it back greedily, not caring that it tasted of alcohol.

  Peter shut the door and sat on her swivel chair. A Gulliver among her things. ‘What’s happened? Mammy is beside herself.’

  ‘Jesus, Peter.’ Kate tried to sit up. ‘Why did you tell h
er?’

  ‘You know well she’s as sharp as a compass. Had it figured out before I got off the phone from you. And she didn’t buy your text messages either. What’s going on?’

  Kate shut her eyes and leaned against the headboard.

  ‘Katie?’ he said, softer now. ‘You can tell me.’

  And just like that, he was Daddy again, and she began to cry.

  Peter came to the end of her bed, rubbed her foot. Neither of them spoke for a few minutes, just the sound of her crying and every so often another spasmic pain. She was ashamed of her tears, of making another person endure them. It was a primal shame, innate, though she knew that babies were not born that way, that she’d learnt it from her mother, an early lesson: little girls do not cry. No—little girls are disgusting when they cry. In the corridors and echoey rooms of the farmhouse, only their mother’s tears. A line popped into her head, like the start of a nursery rhyme. There was a little girl who thought she was disgusting. The world felt like it might be ending, none of the usual sounds around halls, no one else about the place. She looked at her radio and saw that it was half six in the morning. For some reason that made it even sadder and she cried harder.

  ‘Listen, Kate, I don’t know what to say here,’ said Peter. ‘I don’t know what you want. Will I go and get Ray?’

  ‘No,’ she sobbed. ‘Don’t wake Ray. Liz would be mad.’

  ‘He’s down in the car,’ said Peter, pointing out the window. ‘Will I get him?’

  Kate stared at him in wonder. Her brothers, her lovely brothers. But then—‘Mammy?’ she said.

  ‘At home.’

  Clamping her teeth, she inched herself out of bed and went to the window, pulled back the curtain. Over by the bins, there was the new Golf and her brother waiting in it like the driver in a heist.

  ‘I’m not a heist,’ she said, realizing as her words slurred that she was still quite drunk.

  She clung to the wall and made it to the desk, one hand at a time. Opening her bag, which was thankfully still intact, she popped the three remaining Nurofen from the packet and swallowed them back with the end of the water. The last one caught in her throat and she doubled over coughing until the pill came up. The pain of the cough whipped around her body.