I’m confused now. ‘I thought you didn’t know about the curse!’
‘Happened to another. Told ya dat.’
This gypsy, Yseult, my great-great-grandmother, cursed another person invisible? I’m stunned. Cian comes in with two mugs of tea and I take mine, dumbly.
Derry continues, ‘I did have me fair share of admirers. Couldn’t be helped.’
‘Aye, yer innocent for sure,’ Cian says, sarcastic.
‘I was young!’ Derry shouts at him. ‘And travelling! Comes with the life. Not that any of ya fookers would know, always sitting on yer backsides.’
‘Right. Well it’s been emotional but I better head,’ Cian says, obviously wanting to leave.
‘Tell yer aunt to make up a bed for Olive,’ Derry says.
‘Will do,’ Cian says, looking in my direction with an expression something like good luck.
Derry turns my way. ‘Nothing better than the open road, Olive. Not like here, bricks no wheels. May as well bury me. A sodden prison a house is I tell ya.’
‘About the curse …’ I press him.
‘Aye, right.’ Derry’s finger goes in his ear again. ‘A while after Muirgheal left we were camped further up the coast. A village girl was hanging about the camp all doeeyed and I thought why not?’ God. ‘It was one time. I had no idea she was knocked up. But Yseult—she knew.’ He sips loudly on his tea and makes a face. ‘Joan. A cheapskate on the sugar. Get me some more, Olive. Up in the cupboard there.’ He walks to the door, shooing the dog outside. ‘Was that you, Sparks? Stinkin’ dog. Go take a shite.’
I fight my urge to laugh. There is a smell, but I don’t think it came from the dog. I get up and start sorting through the cupboards for the sugar, finding a soup packet as I do. ‘Found your soup.’ I put it on the counter for him. He grumbles while I spoon in one, then two teaspoons of sugar into his cup. ‘Maybe they’re not so thieving?’ I say.
‘Don’t count on it.’
‘So, what happened to the baby,’ I say, settling back down.
‘Invisible. A boy, Brian. Tracked me down in his twenties. Lived with us for more than ten years.’
‘Where is he now?’
Derry’s shaking increases. A bit of tea spills over onto his hand so he curses and puts it down. ‘It’s no happy ending. He was thrown off his horse god knows where. Pony came home with an empty saddle. We looked for days, then one of the dogs, well … I won’t go on.’
It feels like someone has taken to my stomach with a chainsaw. The man died because no one could see him. Brian died as a result of invisibility, just like my Ma.
‘So you weren’t able to fix him?’
‘Fix him?’ Derry wipes his brow then walks away. ‘Is that what ya want from me?’
‘I was hoping …’
He raises his voice and swoops back at me. ‘And I was hoping ya might just want to meet yer grandfather!’
I stand up and raise my own voice in reply. ‘You can’t blame me for wanting to be visible! Your grandmother did curse me!’
It seems to amuse him. He actually chuckles. ‘Aye, fair enough. Calm down, girl.’ He picks up his tea and snickers into the mug. ‘Got Muirgheal’s feisty blood I see.’
‘I’m starting to think it’s my grandfather’s.’
He laughs at that.
‘I am glad to meet you,’ I say, sitting down again.
‘Aye,’ he says. ‘It’s grand.’ He leans forward, searching for my hands. I take them. They’re so thin and gnarled, horns of hard skin after decades of labour. ‘Call me Granddad?’
‘Sure.’ I try it out. ‘Granddad.’ We both grin.
‘Tell me about yer Ma,’ he says, still holding my hands. It seems to steady him a little.
‘Aibhlinn?’
‘Aye, my daughter, Aibhlinn.’ His mouth quirks at the name. He likes it. ‘Where is she now?’
I tighten my grip. ‘She died when I was small. She was hit by a car in New York.’ Derry’s face falls, so I rush to add, ‘She had a good life though, enjoyed her childhood, fell in love, had kids. I remember her being happy.’
There is a moment of silence before he asks, ‘So it is possible?’
‘What?’
‘To be invisible and happy?’ His face looks desperate, like he needs it to be true.
I think of my journey over the past six months, of dancing in the sand with Jordan and sleeping in Central Park with Dillon. I think of riding horses with Felix and kissing Tom in the snow. I think about being with Muirgheal and Rose in New York when this is over—and how anything is possible from now on.
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘I’m happy.’
One side of his mouth twitches and I see him for the handsome rascal he once was. And it’s true. I really am happy.
‘Come inside and meet yer useless cousins,’ Derry says. ‘I need to take a squirt.’
My new family greet me like they’ve known me for years. Not in a grandiose way like we share a sacred bond or something, more like ‘Jaysus, another bloody cousin’. Nobody is especially impressed that I’m invisible, nobody seems to care that I’ve been cursed. The three cousins who look to be in their late teens to early twenties—Sean, Kevin and PJ—sit in front of the telly with Cian and simply grunt their hellos then switch their attention back to the telly.
‘All boys?’ I say to Derry.
‘Clare’ll be at work and Niamh is upstairs avoiding this lot.’ Derry turns to the boys and bellows at them, ‘Turn that feckin’ thing off and greet yer cousin properly.’
‘Move off,’ Sean tells him. ‘Yer in the way ya old fool.’
‘Woeful. The lot of ya.’ Derry hobbles off grumbling, ‘Need a piss.’
They all ignore him. ‘Will ya join us for a drink, Olive?’ asks Kevin, holding up his beer.
‘Sure,’ I say, thinking it’s probably time I embrace my heritage.
‘Ma, will ya grab Olive a can out of the fridge?’ Kevin yells.
Oops. Not what I was expecting.
‘What are you watching?’ I ask him.
‘Some Christmas shite. Sit down. Make yerself at home.’
So I do. I feel strangely at ease with my four mute cousins in front of the TV. It’s a far better Christmas Eve than the dramas inevitably unfolding at Shewthrop.
A middle-aged woman walks in carrying a beer can. She looks high maintenance—a quaff of platinum blonde hair, heavy makeup, tight jeans and heels—there’s no way she’d be at home in a caravan. She must be my aunt Joan. ‘Olive?’ she asks.
‘Just here.’
She holds out the drink. ‘Nice to have ya here, pet.’
‘Thanks for having me. It’s very kind of you.’
She snorts. ‘You hear that, boys? Ya could learn some of them manners.’
An hour or so later, I’m feeling woozy from the warm beer when the front door opens. A girl about my age kicks it open, shopping bags hooked on her elbows.
‘Clare? Would that be you at the door?’ Joan calls from the kitchen.
‘Tis, Ma.’ Clare has long mouse-coloured plaits. Her skin is pale and waxy but it might be the thick mask of makeup that she’s wearing. I get to my feet to help her but, naturally, she doesn’t see me.
‘Alright Clare?’ Cian asks her. Her brothers don’t even look up.
‘Suppose.’ She sets the bags down by a hall stand to take off her coat. ‘Found this fella outside.’
Sean becomes alert. ‘What fella?’
Next thing, Dillon is standing in the porch light in wet-weather gear, his helmet under one arm, water trickling from his sideburns. He catches sight of me and beams. ‘There ya are, Lol.’
CHAPTER
37
Half of me wants to run to Dillon, the other half is furious that he thought I couldn’t do this by myself.
‘Who the feck are you?’ Sean demands, sitting forward on the couch, his chest jutting out like he’s being challenged to a fight.
‘Dillon. Mate of Olive’s.’ Dillon gestures outside. ‘A
ll right if I come in? It’s lashing rain out there.’
‘Who’s Olive?’ Clare asks.
‘Another grandkid of Derry’s,’ Cian tells her. ‘She’s invisible like Uncle Brian.’
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph.’ Clare rolls her eyes. ‘Come in then. Best take off the gear before Ma catches ya dripping,’ Clare says, waving her hands at Dillon. ‘Is Olive here then?’ she asks Cian.
‘Yes, I’m here,’ I say. She leaps at the sound of my voice so near.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s nice to meet you.’
She’s hanging Dillon’s coat for him. ‘Ya got an accent. Take it yer Australian?’
‘From Sydney.’
PJ looks up from the TV surprised. ‘Yer Australian?’
Sean punches him. ‘No shite, Sherlock. She’s been sitting here near an hour.’
Dillon sits on the floor to pull his rain pants off over his boots. He looks like a plastic astronaut struggling with his pants. I would try to help him but it’s kind of funny to watch.
‘Get the boots off first ya eegit,’ Sean tells him.
‘All right. All right,’ Dillon says, kicking them off.
Clare bundles up the wet gear to hang as Joan walks into the room. ‘I thought I heard another voice. Who’s this then?’
‘Mate of Olive’s,’ Cian tells her.
Joan sighs. ‘I suppose you’ll be needing a bed too.’
‘I was going to find a place in town, to be fair,’ Dillon tells her.
‘It’s Christmas Eve, no way are we leaving ya on yer own,’ Joan says, clomping up the stairs. ‘I’ll put PJ in with Sean.’
‘No way! Ma!’
‘That’s bleedin’ rubbish.’
‘Shut up the lot of ya,’ she says. ‘I’ll make up the beds, we’ll have the tea and later on we will all head to mass. I don’t want to hear another word.’
The boys continue to grumble but nobody defies her. They’re like small boys in men’s bodies.
‘How did you find me?’ I ask Dillon when he gets to his feet.
‘Got it out of Prue when I saw the helicopter leave. Packed the panniers and left about five this morning.’
‘You rode here? In the snow and the rain?’
‘It didn’t rain on the ferry.’
Smart ass.
I poke him lightly in the chest. ‘I didn’t need you to come. I’m fine on my own.’
‘Sure. Ya done grand.’ Dillon pokes me back. ‘So what’s yer plan now?’
I frown at him. I don’t have a plan. I was just going to hang out and see if I could discover anything new about curses or whatnot. But I can’t say that to Dillon. It doesn’t sound like a plan at all.
‘I have something in mind,’ I say elusively.
One side of his mouth turns up. ‘Would a guy who can see the truth be useful to ya at all?’
I almost slap myself in the forehead. Duh. Of course! Dillon is invaluable in a situation like this. He can get more out of Derry than I could. Still, I’m not going to admit I need him. ‘Maybe,’ I say, shrugging. ‘Do you want to meet my granddad?’ I add casually.
Dillon smiles fully now and it’s obvious he knows my tricks—damn his soothsaying ways. ‘Aye,’ he says. ‘Love to.’
Outside in the caravan, I watch fascinated as Derry and Dillon scrutinise each other. Dillon lounges back, one arm resting on the bench seat behind me. Only the intensity of his gaze gives him away. Derry too is unusually still. He’s leaning against the sink, feigning a casual air, but his knuckles are white as they clutch the counter and there is a slight quiver to his voice when he says, ‘I know yer auld man.’
‘Travelled with him?’
‘On and off over the years. Is he still a travelling man?’
‘Aye. He’s still on the roads.’
There is a beat of silence. I’m about to start asking about Yseult when Derry says, ‘Sorry about yer Ma. Heard ya travelled all your boyhood until it happened. Hard on a boy, losing a ma, losing the road …’
Dillon’s gaze falters. ‘Aye,’ he says softly.
I lay my hand on his leg in an effort to comfort him until he turns and gives me a small smile. He’s telling me he’s okay.
‘Yer better than the eegits inside,’ Derry goes on, gaining confidence. He swipes his hands through his hair, then moves across the van, shutting a tiny curtain in the window of the door forcefully. ‘Not interested in dogs, the horses—just the feckin’ telly.’
‘They’re not so bad,’ I say, feeling the need to defend my cousins, amazed how quickly I developed this loyalty.
‘Ya don’t know the half of it, love,’ Derry says, turning to me as he paces back to the sink. ‘Looks like you’ve turned out alright though, thank Jesus.’
His words pull Dillon back into focus. ‘So yer pleased to meet Olive?’
‘Best news since god was a small boy,’ Derry declares.
Dillon leans forward, clasping his hands together on the table. ‘Did ya know that Muirgheal was pregnant?’ he asks. ‘That ya had a daughter in New York?’ The air is weighty with expectancy.
Derry clears his throat, undoubtedly uncomfortable. ‘I wanted to marry Muirgheal. Told Olive that.’ He puffs his chest, getting defensive.
‘So ya didn’t know about the baby?’ Dillon asks.
Derry doesn’t reply.
‘No,’ I answer for him. ‘He didn’t know what happened to Muirgheal.’
‘Is that right, Derry?’ Dillon insists.
Derry turns his back on us. His head is wobbling wildly. He reminds me of those wobble-headed dolls you stick on the dashboard of your car. The image is so wildly inappropriate I have to shove my hand over my mouth before I laugh. I blame the heat of the situation. The strain is so thick in this room I could choke.
‘I loved that girl,’ Derry says quietly. ‘Truest thing I ever felt.’
He says it with such solemn intensity I almost sob. My mother was the result of a real love between my grandparents. It makes it better somehow.
‘Seems strange that you let her go then,’ Dillon says sharply.
‘Dillon.’ I shush him. Derry’s pulling at his shirt like a condemned man. I’m frightened he’s going to rip it clean off. ‘He didn’t know. She just disappeared.’
When Dillon turns to me there is anguish in his eyes I didn’t expect. He’s more invested in this than I thought. ‘But it makes no sense,’ he says. ‘I wouldn’t give up on ya, especially if I wanted to marry ya, especially if I thought you could be up the duff.’
He’s right. And I do want to understand. But not if it’s going to rip my grandfather apart. I take Dillon’s hand. ‘He can tell us when he’s ready—’
‘No,’ Derry snaps suddenly. ‘The boy’s right. I want to come clean.’ He takes a ragged breath. ‘I knew about yer Ma, Olive. I knew Muirgheal had run off with her.’
‘What?’
‘I had every chance to track her down, but I didn’t.’
I feel distraught. My hand slips from Dillon’s to cover my mouth. ‘Why not? I mean, if you loved her?’
‘Yseult.’ Derry turns his back on us and rifles through a cupboard. ‘She said if I chose anyone but Branna I’d kick the bucket.’
‘Oh my god.’
He finds a bottle of whiskey and unscrews the lid. ‘It wrecked me.’ He offers us the bottle but we both shake our heads. ‘Not a day goes by I don’t regret not standing up to her.’
‘Why didn’t you?’ I ask.
‘Coward.’ He takes a swig. ‘That’s all there is to it. I’m a feckin’ coward.’ He’s crying now. ‘She was powerful, Yseult. Frightening. But it’s no excuse.’
I stand up and put my arm around him. He feels ossified. His bones protrude through his skin, the muscles wasted away. Tremors run through him like tiny earthquakes. It scares me. I try to take the bottle off him but he grasps it tighter.
‘In truth, I’d do anything to see her again.’ Derry takes another swig. ‘Anything to see my dear Muirgheal.’
‘What?’ I say, surprised by Dillon’s observation.
Dillon pushes on. ‘Were you there when she did it? Did she touch you?’
Derry holds his hand open and I peer at it. There’s a small grey-coloured patch in the centre of his palm. ‘Had it ever since.’
Dillon nods as if it explains everything. But it’s freaked me out even more. How many curses is this world riddled with?
When Dillon and I emerge from the caravan, Dillon uses his hand to make a sign over himself, then does the same to me.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Cleansing us. That poor bastard’s infested with magic—and we’ve got enough shite of our own to deal with.’
‘How do you know all this?’ I ask, watching him take a piece of mistletoe from his pocket and snap it in half.
‘Grew up around it.’ He pushes it into the buttonhole of my jacket, pocketing the other half. ‘There. That should help.’
I frown at the mistletoe. ‘A twig? Really?’
He raises his brows at me. ‘Ya still doubt this? Even though you’re invisible and I can’t lie to save myself?’
He has a point.
‘So what about Derry?’ I ask. ‘Can you cleanse him too?’
Dillon shakes his head. ‘He’s too far gone, strangled with it. You saw him.’
‘Can’t you try? It’s an awful way to live.’
Dillon rubs the back of his neck. ‘There could be one thing.’ He looks at me. ‘I’ll need to speak to him alone though. Are you right with that?’
‘If it helps him, sure.’
Dillon doesn’t answer me. He takes a deep breath and puts his hand on the door handle of the caravan.
‘Good luck,’ I say.
‘Never wish luck out loud. Jesus, Ice. Ya probably just condemned me.’
Oops. ‘Sorry.’
Dillon shakes his head and ducks back into the caravan. I go into the house feeling like I’ve copped out a bit. Should I really be leaving them together?
The Implausible Story of Olive Far Far Away Page 24