by Nicola White
‘All right?’ she called to Joan. Joan didn’t seem to hear, so Ali tapped her on the back. She swung round quick as a flash, something like fear widening her eyes, then settling into pleasure as she recognised Ali.
‘Look at you – and that hair: you’ve mad style.’
‘I wouldn’t get looked at twice in Dublin, but here … Anyway, how are you settling in at Ivor’s?’
‘Yeah, yeah, it’s good,’ said Joan, dismissing the question. Her eyes raked the crowd beyond Ali’s shoulder. ‘Is your aunt not coming?’
‘She’s a bit old for this, eh? Not much of a groover, Aunt Una.’
‘I need to talk to her.’
‘Tell me, I’ll pass it on.’
‘Nope,’ said Joan and turned back to the whispering women. Ali headed back into the main hall. She hoped it wasn’t her old job that Joan wanted to ask Una for. She thought they had got past all that.
She found a quiet spot by the marquee wall and took the combs out of her hair, shaking it down and raking it through with her fingers. ‘Mad style’ was not the look she’d been aiming at.
She looked up and saw Peggy Nolan standing alone in a rose-printed dress at the edge of the light, watching the dancers. Her expression was as miserable as her frock was merry. Some people could make you feel guilty just by breathing. Perhaps she would go and talk to her. But then Ali saw a hand reach out and touch Peggy’s shoulder from behind. Peggy turned round to the man on the end of the tapping hand, her dull expression unchanging. But the man must have read some consent in her eyes, because he guided her out into the swarm of dancers, an arm firmly round her middle. Ali moved to the little gap Peggy had vacated. Davy was close by on the floor, dancing slowly with a tall girl Ali hadn’t seen before – elegant, with dark sleepy eyes and high cheekbones, like a girl in a magazine. Davy was talking close into her ear, but the girl hardly seemed to listen, looked bored.
Ali squeezed her way back to the stage and asked Brendan to top up her lemonade with the Bacardi she’d seen him buy at the Red Rock.
‘The lovely Valerie,’ he said when she pointed to Davy’s dance partner. ‘And he’s still trying to get her back, poor sucker.’
So this was the girl Davy had built a house for. Ali found it hard to believe anyone would turn down Davy, even a girl who looked like that.
Then The Corvettes took to the stage and the marquee skipped and sweated to a ceilidh set. Davy reappeared to persuade her up for ‘The Walls of Limerick’. Ali hadn’t ceilidh-danced since she was thirteen and spent three unhappy weeks down in Irish college in Spiddal. They hopped and they spun, passing under the facing couple’s steepled arms after each bout, to meet a new pair to repeat the moves with. Halfway round the hall they ducked under and came face-to-face with Ivor Dempsey, holding hands with a small busty girl who seemed to be unable to dance without holding her mouth open in a delighted silent scream.
‘Theresa, darlin’,’ said Davy and kissed her hand as he sidestepped her away.
Ivor looked either furious or embarrassed as he offered his hand, it was hard to tell which. Why had she acted like such a stuck-up tit yesterday? It had taken her until now to realise that he’d perhaps been asking her out.
‘Howya?’
‘I’m grand, Ivor,’ said Ali and gave his hand a little squeeze.
He stood still for a moment and looked at her. Everyone around them was spinning, and he belatedly caught her elbow and whirled her so hard that her feet lifted up from the ground. He laughed and brought them to a sudden stop. Her head kept twirling, even as Davy danced her on to the next pair.
‘Lively girl, that,’ said Ali.
‘Oh, yeah, Theresa’s a panic.’
‘Does she go out with Ivor?’
The steel-haired woman that Ali now faced grabbed her by the waist and whisked her around grimly, prompting another bout of dizziness. She hoped Davy would remember the question.
They came together again and held their hands high for the pair of women to pass under.
‘That big galoot? I doubt it.’
The jig squealed to an end, but most people stayed in their places for the next one to kick off. Ali dragged Davy away from the floor, needing air. They went out the front entrance of the tent, where a man stamped the back of their hands with an indecipherable blotch.
Figures milled in the dark. You could see the street lights of the town away to the left, but here in the school grounds there were just a couple of floodlights over the playground, lighting empty tarmac beneath and making the surrounding darkness blacker. The marquee itself glowed a dim yellow through the grimy canvas. Over to the right, a line of girls was queuing for the three Portaloos. Men were pissing against the yard wall beyond that, legs spread for balance, chatting. The field across the road was full of cars and vans now, where there were none earlier. Dozens of bicycles leaned in the ditch.
Ali took out a flattened fag packet and removed an oval cigarette.
‘That your idea of fresh air?’ asked Davy.
They stood in silence watching people come and go, disappearing into the dark or looming suddenly back into the orbit of the marquee. Ali asked about the girl he’d been dancing with earlier. Davy pretended not to know which girl she was talking about.
‘Brendan said you used to go out with her.’
‘Brendan’s got a loose gob.’
‘C’mon, tell.’
‘Nothin’ to tell. My own fault, that’s all. Got caught looking the other way. Nobody does that to her ladyship.’
‘God, she sounds a nightmare.’
A man was shouting beyond the circle of light, up the road or in fields beyond. Hard to tell if it was serious or just tomfoolery.
‘What’s it to you?’ His voice was teasing.
In Dublin they had spent a lot of time together, out in the balmy garden nights, with candles and moths and strange drinks. Just the two of them – no Valeries, no tragedies. Ali wanted that feeling back.
‘Remember that night you made us Harvey Wallbangers?’
‘Ah, now.’
‘I can’t remember a thing after the second drink.’
‘That’s convenient,’ said Davy, and there was something hard in his voice, no teasing now.
Ali gave a weak laugh and stepped away from him, confused. She truly didn’t remember. A car drove past slowly and came to a stop near the school building.
‘Back in a minute,’ said Davy and went over to the car, leaning in the passenger window to talk. The queue to the Portaloos was getting shorter; she might as well join it. Ali called out to Davy, to point out where she was heading, but he didn’t seem to hear. The car engine was revving loudly, the smoke from the exhaust drifting up against the brightness of a broken brake light. Everyone drove wrecks around here. She took her place behind two girls. To one side of the queue, a metal stand held a spotlight pointing right at the toilet doors, dazzling all who exited.
When Ali came out of the toilet, Joan was in the queue.
‘Joanie!’ said Ali, enfolding her in a hug.
‘Stop it, stop it.’ Joan pushed her off and glanced round to check who was looking at them.
‘I’m only being friendly.’
‘Well, I’m tired. I should be in bed by now, you know.’
‘You’ve got to tell me one thing, though – honestly.’ Ali waved ahead the person behind Joan in the queue.
‘I don’t want to talk about that.’
‘No, not that. You’ve got to tell me: do you think I look like a freak?’
Joan said no, but Ali told her how everyone kept staring at her clothes. She was stroking Joan’s arm to get her to listen. Joan suddenly slapped her hand away.
‘You know nothing about being looked at funny. You know nothing about nothing.’
‘Don’t be like that.’
Someone called Joan’s name then, and she pushed past Ali, swallowed up by the dark after just a few strides. Ali looked round and noticed the women in the queue staring at her.
*
Inside the marquee the band was taking a break, and Brendan was dancing behind his record decks, urging people to keep going. Too shy shy, hush-hush, eye to eye, Too shy shy, hush-hush, eye to eye. Ali waved and did a little imitation of his moves. Laughing, he held a hand up at the side of his face to block out the sight of her.
She decided not to drink any more. For one thing, she didn’t want to have to visit those loos again. Brendan put on a slow song, and she went up to sit on the edge of the stage, in front of him. All the couples who had been flinging their arms and legs about suddenly fell on each other, as if delighted to have something to lean on. One couple stood stock-still, French-kissing studiously, like they were working their way into each other’s mouths. Ali’s view of the floor was blocked by some idiot standing in right front of her. She tilted to one side, before realising that the idiot was Ivor Dempsey and that he was holding a hand down towards her.
She met his eyes and slipped her hand into his, to see how it would feel to touch him again. Then she was on her feet and Ivor’s arm was around her, drawing her out into the middle of the shuffling dancers. She rested one hand on his shoulder. His shirt seemed such a thin barrier to the body beneath. He pulled her close and she moved her hand to the back of his neck. His hair touched her cheek. She felt him inhale, his nose just behind her ear, and she hoped there was something pleasant to smell there, not the reek of smoke and booze. He smelt lovely, sharp. She was allowing herself to relax into it when there was a scraping shriek across the record and some manic Madness track kicked in, leaving the dancers as disorientated as if someone had flung a bucket of water on them. Ali looked up to the stage and saw Brendan grinning, looking straight at her.
She tried to guide Ivor to the back of the marquee, but he had seen.
‘They’re great jokers, your family,’ he said, and his face was like granite. He put his hand against the curve of her spine and steered her towards the refreshment tent. She wasn’t sure if he was angry with her too, but they could have a sit down in the annex and maybe sort it out. But just where one tent led into another, Ivor drew aside a flap of canvas and pushed her out into the darkness. She stumbled over the muddy grass, his hand still pressing against her waistband. It was quiet behind the tent, though she was aware of huddled, possibly embracing figures here and there in the shadows. She stopped walking and turned to face him, put her hand flat against his chest. She could feel the pump of his heart under her palm.
‘I don’t want to be rolling around in some ditch,’ she said. He put his hand out and rubbed his fingertips slowly across her lower lip.
‘Would a van do?’
A moment went by, and then she said yes.
They drove a mile or two out along the road, turned down a lane and parked. He collapsed the back of the bench seat so that it formed a kind of cushioned recline for them. He did it in such a practised way that Ali flickered with doubt, thinking of other girls in this same place. Ivor brushed a hand over the surface and smiled at her.
Everybody thought she was a slut already. Even Davy. She didn’t want to try to remember what it was that Davy had been hinting at. She wanted to be only her body, not thoughts or memories. She took off her top and sat before Ivor in her bra. There was only one thing.
‘Do you have something?’
He smiled and patted his shirt pocket, then reached for the button of her trousers.
They wrestled each other out of their clothes, laughing and straining. The image of a smiling, approving Mary O’Shea came into Ali’s head and she pushed it away as Ivor pushed into her.
Sometime later she was on her hands and knees and he was covering her. There was a slick of sweat between his chest and her back. He reached a hand round to touch her, and pressed his teeth against her neck. Her body shook, her arms suddenly unable to support her. Ivor groaned and collapsed onto her.
‘Fucking hell,’ he muttered and rolled onto his back, one hand fumbling at his groin, taking care of the condom. She nuzzled into his side, trying to keep the feeling going, sneaking looks at his body through half-closed eyes, the dim light barred by shadows of branches around them. He looked like he was sleeping, but his fingers moved slowly back and forth through her hair, keeping her quiet. Owls called in the woods.
The marquee was still alight when they got back. Ali wasn’t sure how much time had passed. They parted outside the van.
‘I need to find Joan,’ he said.
She slipped back in the way they had snuck out. All the refreshments were packed up. Sleepers and snogging couples occupied the benches. Half the dancers had gone home. The Corvettes were playing ‘Spancilhill’, and a scattering of people were lurching around the floor to it. A circle of six men, including Roisín’s husband, rotated drunkenly at one end of the floor, arms around each other’s shoulders like a rugby scrum.
Brendan was putting the records away.
‘Where’s Davy?’
‘Fucked off somewhere. Just like you did. I wouldn’t mind some help with this lot.’ He wouldn’t look at her.
‘I met some girls outside,’ said Ali, acting more pissed than she was.
‘Did you now?’
‘They were such a laugh. I lost track of time.’
‘And which one of those charming ladies gave you that big hickey?’
Ali clamped her hand to her neck.
‘Other side.’
She wrapped both hands round her neck.
‘Must have got your head stuck in a tent flap,’ he said, but he wasn’t smiling, and wouldn’t speak to her on the way home.
20
Joan came over when Davy called her name, but refused to get in the car. He’d told Una she wouldn’t want to, but Una never listened. He hadn’t set eyes on Joan for years, but she was exactly the same: shy, her animal wariness alert to entrapment.
‘Just a quick chat,’ he said, ‘in private, like. You said you wanted to talk to Una. Well, here she is.’ The chug of dance music started up again in the marquee behind them.
‘She can talk to me up there.’ Joan pointed up the road to where the village started, sodium light falling on darkened house fronts and empty pavements.
She walked away, up the middle of the road, towards the lights. Davy got into the car with Una.
‘What’s she playing at?’ Una asked.
‘I don’t know. Maybe she’s drunk.’
‘You’re pretty well on yourself. She shouldn’t be out of Damascus House. I told Peter Nolan, they should keep her in. She’s not right, she’s been making threats.’
Joan was a smoky flicker in the darkness. Una started the engine and eased the car along the road in her wake. She didn’t turn the lights on.
‘What threats?’
‘Letters in the post, most days.’
‘Is she saying she’ll tell on you?’
Una gave him a disgusted look. ‘Tell on me?’
Joan looked back over her shoulder. Davy rolled down the window and stuck his head out.
‘Come here for a minute, eh? Just – come on,’ he called.
A wash of light fanned through the car as a vehicle appeared behind. Una pulled into the side and ducked her head low. Davy copied her, not really knowing why they were playing this game. The other car swooped past, then braked hard as it lit up Joan in the centre of the road. She scrambled to the side with one hand shading her face.
‘Maybe you should do this another time,’ said Davy.
‘I don’t want her coming to ours, for Joe to get wind of it. I need her alone.’
‘I’ve an idea. You drive on past her and let me out. I’ll talk to Joan, take her to Olohan’s Lane. You come join us. It’ll be quiet there.’
‘She mightn’t be so easily charmed.’
‘Leave it with me.’
He found her standing at the little triangle, the one with the tub of flowers and the signpost on it. She was looking down towards the bridge. He s
tuck his hands in his pockets and sauntered over.
‘Nice night for it,’ he said.
‘Is your sister coming?’
He slid his hands out of his pockets and transferred them gently, sliding, over her shoulders.
‘Joanie. How are you doing?’ He purred it. She met his eye only briefly. She was such a little thing. Big trouble in a small package. ‘Come away to the lane with me.’
She examined his face as if trying to remember something about him that wasn’t coming back to her.
‘No,’ she said, and his hands tightened.
Down by the old bridge a figure appeared and stood watching them. But it was only Una, come round the back way. Davy put his arm firmly around Joan’s shoulders and marched her down to the bridge. When they got near Una, he gave her a little push and backed off. He’d got them together, he could go back to the dance now, but he hesitated, curious to see how Una would handle her.
‘What do you think you’re playing at?’ said Una in her familiar scold.
Joan walked slowly to the centre of the bridge. ‘I want to show you something,’ she said. Davy could only just catch her words over the sound of the river rush. He moved with Una to flank her. Joan pointed over at the crumbling bulk of the old chapel ruins. ‘Do you know what’s there?’
‘What’s there?’ asked Una tightly.
‘It’s the cilleanach,’ said Joan. ‘My mother told me about it. It’s where the unbaptised babies go.’ Davy shifted to see exactly where she was pointing. It wasn’t the chapel, it was the little walled plot beside it, frothing with brambles and bracken.
‘It’s not used any more, Joan – it’s only stories,’ said Una.
‘That’s where he should be … my baby.’ She sagged as she spoke. ‘I’m very tired.’ She turned so that her back was against the wide bridge wall and tried to push herself up to sit on it.
‘Why don’t you and me talk about it,’ Una said. ‘Davy doesn’t understand about these things.’