by Des Ekin
‘It’s true that he can be a bit high-handed,’ said Tara, thinking of their row outside the courthouse. ‘But, come on, Mel. Schooldays were a long time ago.’
Mel nodded. ‘Sure they were. Listen, I’ve got to go. Just one tip. If you ever decide to start buying rings and going through books of carpet patterns, make sure you know all about him. I mean everything.’
More than any woman Tara had ever met, Ann Kennedy possessed that indefinable quality summed up by the word ‘presence’. Even in the most crowded, noisy room, the atmosphere would change subtly when Ann entered. You could have your back turned to the door and still sense the charisma, the electricity. You would know that she was there.
But tonight the public persona had been left aside and Ann was the perfect hostess, warm and welcoming, as Tara and Fergal joined her for dinner.
‘More tiramisu, Tara?’ she asked.
Her voice was warm, with a hint of her native County Antrim in the accent. She was a tall woman, but, unlike many tall women, she didn’t stoop to disguise her height. She carried herself proudly. Her greying gold hair, tied back in a bun, betrayed her Viking ancestors. So did her Scandinavian features – the wide, generous mouth, the finely structured features and the friendly but penetrating blue eyes.
‘No, honestly, thanks, Ann. It was delicious, but I really couldn’t manage.’
Ann smiled. ‘I’m glad you liked it. Fergal?’
‘Not for me, thanks.’
The dining-room – a modern extension to the old farmhouse at Barnabo – faced directly west, catching the full glory of the setting sun over the Atlantic. Tara could just make out the silhouette of the Róisín Dubh near Chicken Point.
Ann Kennedy followed her gaze. ‘How does your father find the fishing these days?’ she asked.
‘He’s kept busy,’ Tara admitted. ‘It’s the salmon season and he’ll be working flat-out from now until the end of July. After that, it’s back to the lobster pots. Not nearly so hectic.’
‘And how is he, in himself?’
‘Much better, thank you. He had us all worried at one stage, but he’s much improved.’
‘I’m glad. He’s a good man.’ Ann’s eyes wandered to a framed photo above the mantelpiece. It showed a couple on their wedding day. Ann, her young face shining with happiness, the full mouth smiling and sensual, and Martin, formal and solemn as befitted the occasion. His dark hair was brylcreemed into place and his deep-set brown eyes stared challengingly at the camera from beneath heavy eyebrows that met over the nose. It was a picture of youth and hope.
‘You knew my late husband, didn’t you, Tara?’ she asked.
‘I often met him,’ said Tara, ‘but I don’t think we ever had a conversation. Apart from the usual exchanges about the weather, of course.’
‘We’d just celebrated our silver wedding anniversary when he died,’ said Ann, still staring at the photo.
‘Twenty-five years. That’s a long time.’
Ann searched Tara’s face for signs of a deeper meaning behind the remark, but found none. ‘Yes,’ she said simply.
The meal had been a gourmet’s delight – roast Clare lamb with wild garlic and rosemary straight from Ann’s herb garden – but all the small talk had been exhausted and this latest exchange had created an awkwardness that no one had intended.
‘And now I must make some coffee,’ said Ann brightly, snapping out of whatever mood had captured her. She stood up and stacked the plates, carefully avoiding any splashes on her classic beige suit.
As the kitchen door swung closed behind her, Tara rose and walked over to the wall opposite the window. Another framed picture had intrigued her throughout the meal, but it had been half-hidden by the bright reflection of the setting sun on the glass.
Looking at it from a better angle, she could see it clearly. It was an original oil painting – a view of Claremoon Harbour from high on the hill. The composition was rushed, almost as though it had been dashed off in a hurry. The scale was all wrong. But the bright, savage colours sang out as joyfully as a gospel chorus. It was magnificent.
‘Like it?’
Fergal was standing behind her, offering her a replenished glass of red wine.
‘It’s absolutely wonderful,’ said Tara, with genuine feeling. ‘I’ve never seen anything quite like it before.’
‘The colours,’ said Fergal.
‘That’s it, of course,’ said Tara, studying them more closely. ‘They’re not true to life, but somehow they sum up how you feel when you stand up on the hill on a bright, windy day looking down over the harbour. It’s got a sort of…’ She searched for the word… ‘pagan quality about it.’
‘It’s been compared to the work of Matisse or Derain,’ said Fergal. He laughed. ‘I only wish it was even a fraction of the value.’
Tara peered at the scribbled signature in the corner. ‘Michael de Blaca,’ she read. ‘The Michael de Blaca?’
‘The very same,’ said Fergal, pouring himself another glass of the Hermitage which Ann had laid on for dinner. ‘Recognise the viewpoint?’
Tara studied the painting again, checking angles and perspectives. ‘It must have been painted from around here,’ she said at last.
Fergal nodded and gestured to the picture-window that offered a panoramic view of the bay. ‘Not just around here. Exactly here. Just there, a few feet from where you’re standing. That was about three decades ago.’
Tara knew very little about art, and even less about Michael de Blaca. She knew he was a moderately famous Irish artist who had lived for a few years in Claremoon Harbour before moving permanently to the Continent. He had donated a sculpture of a Celtic cross to the village about fifteen years ago. It still stood in the main street.
As the only famous person ever to have had any connection with Claremoon Harbour, his name was dropped constantly in the tourist season. There was even a De Blaca Gallery, which had absolutely nothing to do with the artist and through which an unctuous art dealer named Godfrey Villiers hawked very bad local watercolours to gullible Americans. Villiers wasn’t his real name – nobody was called Godfrey Villiers – and there were dark rumours that his shop was nothing more than a money-laundering outlet for some heavy criminal elements in Limerick city.
‘Did your parents know de Blaca well?’ Tara asked.
‘Very well,’ said Fergal. ‘He was a guest of theirs from time to time. He loved the view from this house, and they allowed him to paint here.’
There was a sudden, inexplicable tension in the air. Tara turned around to see Ann standing in the open doorway carrying a cafetière and a stack of cups.
‘Fergal,’ she said casually, but there was a strain in her voice she couldn’t disguise, ‘give me a hand with the coffee.’
‘Here, let me.’ Tara relieved her of the cafetière. ‘Fergal’s just been showing me the seascape by Michael de Blaca. It’s beautiful. You must be very proud of it.’
Ann poured the coffees. ‘I’m not keen on it myself,’ she shrugged. ‘I had it wrapped up and stored away in the loft. Fergal brought it down only this afternoon.’
She looked at her son. The last few words of the sentence were unspoken, but clearly understood: against my wishes.
‘Come on, Mom.’ Fergal was smiling, but his voice was almost a shout. ‘It’s a crime to have such a great painting rotting away up in the loft, hidden from view. Don’t you agree, Tara?’
Don’t drag me into this, Tara wanted to say. Whatever this family dispute was about, it was about more than a painting.
She smiled. ‘I think it’s a matter of individual taste. And speaking of taste – could I have one of those delicious-looking oatmeal biscuits?’
Ann looked at her with amused gratitude and passed the plate.
Fergal stalked over to the window and stared out towards the Burren hills. ‘Somebody’s forgotten to close the gate on the far field,’ he said irritably. ‘I’d better go do it, or we’ll have the cows all over the lawn again.’
‘I’ll come with you.’ Tara stood up. ‘I’d enjoy the walk.’
‘No.’ It was an order. ‘You stay here. Relax.’
The kitchen door slammed. They watched his figure disappear across the fields, bent slightly forward, almost as though his body was at war with itself, his head racing his feet to get there first. His bullish posture was exaggerated in the long shadow cast by the setting sun.
‘Do you always let him order you around like that?’ asked Ann, half in amusement, half seriously.
Tara laughed. ‘I’m a guest in your house, Ann. Things would be different if we were on neutral territory.’
Ann poured more coffee and smiled back at her. ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she said. ‘Fergal would boss the whole world about if he thought he could get away with it.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Tara added milk to her coffee and passed the jug across. ‘He sometimes tries it on. But I can give back as good as I get. I value my independence, Ann, and I don’t let anybody walk over me.’
‘Yes, so I’ve heard.’
Tara glanced sharply at her. What did she mean?
But Ann seemed preoccupied. ‘I’m glad you’re strong in that way, Tara, because…well, Fergal can be a bit overwhelming at times. I suppose he gets that from his father.’
Trying not to make it too obvious, Tara peered over Ann’s shoulder at the groom’s face in the wedding photo. She failed to discern any facial similarity between father and son.
‘There’s no harm in him,’ Ann continued, ‘but you just need to take a firm stand with him now and again. And it’s difficult to do that, I know, because he’s been through a bit of a rough time.’
‘Yes, I realise that.’ Tara became serious. ‘His father’s death. And then the break-up with his girlfriend in Canada.’
She looked out across the fields. Fergal’s figure had become dwarfed against the ancient limestone hills. The dramatic white outcrops of rock had been tinted salmon-pink by the sunset. Sheep huddled underneath the twisted, dwarfish thorn trees. From this perspective, Fergal looked for the first time frail and vulnerable, like some lonely reaper in a Van Gogh landscape.
‘I never met Mathilde,’ Ann was saying. ‘I offered to fly out once or twice, but Fergal always put me off. He said it wasn’t the right time. Then they broke up, and of course he came back here. He was pretty devastated, Tara. It’s no secret that you’ve caught him on the rebound.’
‘I know that, Ann. And I know what you’re trying to tell me.’
Ann Kennedy smiled. ‘My, my. You are perceptive, aren’t you?’
‘It’s okay. I’ve no intention of letting anyone rush me into anything. We’re just going to take it nice and easy. Enjoy the fun part. See what happens.’
‘Good.’ Ann glanced out the window. Fergal had closed the gates and was trudging purposefully back across the fields.
She smiled, then glanced at her watch. ‘Good Lord, is that the time? I have to dash out to address a meeting of the Irish Countrywomen’s Association, and I’m already late. I hope you don’t mind, Tara.’
‘Not at all. Thank you for a wonderful meal.’
‘My pleasure,’ said Ann, struggling into a light raincoat and searching for her car keys. ‘I’m sure it won’t be our last.’
Tara and Fergal listened in silence as Ann’s Honda Civic growled throatily down the lane towards the village. ‘Silencer,’ sighed Fergal. ‘I keep right on fixing it, it keeps right on breaking. It’s all those damn potholes. There’s…’
‘Don’t tell me. There’s more tar in a pack of Silk Cut than there is on the roads around here,’ Tara supplied, using his favourite line but getting in first.
He threw the remains of a bread roll at her. She returned it deftly, like a tennis serve.
‘They wouldn’t stand for it in Canada.’ He frowned at her, almost as though it were her fault.
‘Hey, hang on a minute,’ she said in mock annoyance. ‘If Canada was so great, how come it’s over there and you’re over here?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If you liked it so much, why didn’t you stay there?’
His grin faded. She had inadvertently touched a sore point. He thought carefully for a moment before replying.
‘I wanted to make it as an artist,’ he said. ‘That was the only thing that was really important to me. Vancouver has a thriving art culture – in many ways, it reminds you of what Paris must have been like in the last century. But even though I painted my goddam heart out and produced some of my best work ever, it just didn’t happen for me. I staged two full-scale exhibitions. They were well reviewed, but they didn’t put any money in my pocket. The whole exercise left me broke.’
Tara sipped her glass of wine. ‘Was that the only reason?’ she asked.
‘You want honesty?’
Tara smiled assent.
‘I lost Mathilde.’
The voice was matter-of-fact and devoid of any trace of self-pity.
‘Your girlfriend in Canada?’
‘Yes. She was very special to me. And, well, once it became clear that I wasn’t special to her, there seemed no real point in hanging around Vancouver any more. It was all very civilised, very mature. We kissed goodbye and told each other we would always remember the good times.’
‘But it took you a while to get over her.’
He shrugged. ‘It took a while, but I got there.’
‘Can I see some of your paintings?’ Tara asked suddenly.
Fergal nodded. ‘Of course. I’d love you to. But not tonight. There’s something else I want to show you.’
They rose from the dinner-table and moved into the sitting-room. It was exactly as Tara had imagined it – glass-fronted cabinets bulging with Irish crystal, mock-Jacobean leather suite, a reproduction antique globe in the corner. A bay window overlooking a well-hoovered lawn and a disciplined parade of columnar juniper trees.
‘Here,’ said Fergal without warning. ‘Catch.’
Tara spun around and stretched out her hand, too late to catch a heavy roundish object about the size of a tennisball. It fell with a muffled thud on the carpet, inches from her foot. It was a tiny, roughly-fashioned stone sculpture.
‘For God’s sake, Fergal,’ she exploded. ‘I hope that isn’t anything breakable. And even if it isn’t, my toes are.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he laughed. ‘It’s used to rough treatment. And I’m sorry about narrowly missing your toes.’
‘Apology accepted.’
‘I’ll get them next time.’
He picked up the artefact and handed it to her. Tara took it over to the window and inspected it in the fast-fading light.
‘Tell me honestly what you think,’ he prompted.
‘It’s absolutely horrible,’ she said. ‘It’s obscene, puerile and disgusting.’
‘But apart from that, you like it?’ he laughed.
The object in her hands was a crude sculpture of an obese naked woman, with giant, pendulous breasts, in a pose that would have made a gynaecologist blush. The head was completely bald and crowned with monkey ears. The face, though recognisably human, was hideously ugly and the features were twisted into a grotesque expression. Under its base were etched the letters ‘Sng1 – mdB’.
‘It’s like something you’d see sketched in a school toilet,’ she retorted, handing it back to him. ‘Where on earth did you get it? And more to the point, why are you showing it to me?’
‘You don’t know what it is?’ he persisted.
‘Of course I know what it is.’ She looked sharply at him. ‘Fergal, if this is some childish attempt to embarrass me…’
‘Hey. Hey, hey! Calm down. You know me better than that. It’s relevant. Just sit down and listen.’
She sat down.
‘Did you ever hear of the sheela-na-gig?’ he asked.
‘It’s an ancient form of stone decoration.’ She frowned, trying to remember. ‘You find them in very old churches and ruins of monasteries. One of them
was hacked off a wall and stolen a couple of years ago. I remember reading it in the papers.’
‘Very good.’ He looked impressed.
‘But that’s all I know. Except that they’ve recently been a source of great embarrassment to the Church because they’re so sexually explicit. What are they, some sort of pagan fertility symbol?’
Fergal shook his head. ‘No, the exact opposite. They may have their roots in the pagan era, but in mediaeval times the sheela-na-gig was used as a sort of protective talisman to warn pilgrims of the dangers of one of the seven deadly sins. Guess which one.’
‘Let me think. It wouldn’t be lust, by any remote chance?’
Fergal went to the bookshelf and extracted a slim volume. ‘Nobody’s quite sure of the origin of the name,’ he said, consulting the book. ‘It could be derived from the Irish phrase Sighle na gCíoch, “the old hag of the breasts”, or from Sile ina giob, which roughly translates as “Shiela on her hunkers”. The word Shiela was early Irish slang for a woman. Either of those two derivations makes sense, for these sculptures were aimed to dampen the desires of men – mainly pilgrims travelling to faraway shrines – by depicting women in the most hideous possible way.’
‘The original sex objects,’ mused Tara as she took the book from his outstretched hand. She flicked through dozens of photographic plates showing statues and engravings of naked women with gaunt skeletal heads, monkey faces or features twisted like gargoyles. The focus was always on the exposed and gaping genitals. ‘They’re as ugly as sin.’
Fergal liked the phrase. ‘That’s it. That’s precisely it. The mediaeval Christians were terrified of falling victim to the sin of lust. If they did, they believed they would go to a special circle of hell where the punishment would suit the crime. Let’s not go into details, but you can imagine. So a monk would use the sheela-na-gig as a constant reminder that, although the woman he lusted after might seem beautiful, the sin of desiring her was repulsive.’
Tara closed the book. ‘All very interesting to a student of sexual psychology,’ she said lightly. ‘But to be honest with you, Fergal, it’s not something I particularly want to discuss on a beautiful evening like this. I know, let’s drive to Ennis – there’s a new singer I’d like to check out, and she’s performing at Brannagan’s tonight.’