‘I thought that was the case. My toast is a lovely dark gold. Good night, Aidan.’
He hears the water rushing down outside, sees the light go out in the bathroom. The smallest of movements have now assumed huge significance.
‘Sweet dreams. I’ll ring in the morning.’
Chapter 8
The hotel where the birthday party is being held is a place of dark wood and carpets, furnished in fifties style. A fusty smell pervades it but there are huge bunches of flowers around and the staff are young and seem delighted with everyone. When Liv uses the toilet, the seat wobbles beneath her and she has to clutch the wall for balance.
She has donned the one dress she brought with her, a dark blue crushed velvet that she bought in Prague while Douglas was attending a convention on skin melanomas. She had loved Prague and the stunning baroque beauty of the churches; Douglas had loved it too and in particular the wine at forty pence a bottle. While he propped up bars she sought solace in churches, listening to choral and organ recitals. She smiled a good deal at people as little English was spoken and the act of smiling, of practising happiness, lifted her spirits. She shakes her head to banish the memory and thinks of Aidan. He is somewhere near, out in the still evening, probably tucking his daughter up in bed. When he speaks of Carmel, his voice softens and his lips curve involuntarily.
‘Well,’ says Owen, spotting her, ‘don’t you scrub up nice?’
‘You’re pretty smart yourself. I like the burgundy jacket.’
‘Thank you, ma’am. Come on and I’ll do introductions.’
Owen steers her, a protective hand guiding but not touching her back. They are sitting at a table of ten, with him beside her. Lucinda is at the next table in grey silk with one red rose pinned behind her right ear. She waves, using her other hand to cool herself with a bamboo fan. The meal is plain but well-cooked and wine pours freely. Liv is asked about herself in a genuine fashion; several people at her table knew her grandmother and speak warmly of her.
A woman opposite has a placid baby about six months old, called Roisin. The baby, replete from a bottle, lies in the crook of the woman’s arm and gazes around through grave, pearly eyes while her mother’s spoon lifts and falls to her lemon syllabub. In the middle of the hubbub she is centred in her own contented world; adored, safe. The mother is talking to her neighbour but also attentive; at her baby’s slightest shift, she moves her arm, nestling her back to comfort. When her father leans towards his daughter to nuzzle the warm curve of her cheek she grabs his hair and turns her steady gaze on him. ‘My own little rose,’ he croons. He loosens the top of her cardigan, his big fingers fumbling with the buttons. The mother automatically runs her hand over Roisin’s downy head, where hair like a chick’s is sprouting softly. Then she looks at the father and down; there is an intensity to the three of them, a knowing bond that is almost tangible.
Liv is mesmerised, abruptly sensing the loss of the child that she will probably never have. Douglas has always maintained that he doesn’t want children; he states that there are already too many, poor and needy in the world and they should adopt if they really want a family. She used to try and persuade him otherwise at one time but gave up the battle many years ago; what child would want a drunk for a father? It became easier in the end to convince herself that she didn’t want a child, she had enough responsibilities in her life. She would like to touch the baby, feel her soft warm scalp. Instead, she holds the palms of her hands together, feels the slick of disappointment and longing on her skin. This must be like emerging from an anaesthetic, glad to be breathing independently but suddenly conscious of the lights, noise and promising, jumbled spill of life. When she looks again at the baby, the father is tracking the mother’s palm across her scalp and Liv remembers Aidan’s hand and the furry pelt that lies the length of his breastbone. Oh, there’s still time, she assures herself.
Over coffee Owen is called on to tell a story. He heaps brown sugar crystals into his cup, pauses for a moment with eyes closed, his arm along the back of Liv’s chair, then begins in a conversational tone.
‘Well,’ he says, leaning back so that the others draw forward, ‘did you hear tell of how Cuchulain was married to the Lady Emer but he fell in love with Fand, a lady of the sea and they made a secret tryst and met down on the strand not far from here? But Emer found them out and she came to the strand with an army of women to slay Fand. Cuchulain protected Fand, asking Emer why he should give up his love for a woman who was fair and lovely and could ride the hollows of the ocean. Emer reminded him that everything new is fair, that men worship what they lack and disregard what they have. She appealed to him, full of grief, reminding him of how he had first loved her and grief came over him too. Fand saw this and she knew she had lost him. She told Emer to take Cuchulain back, that though her arms resigned him, she would always long for him and she would go far off to make sure her longing might waste away. And she walked back into the sea.’
There is silence, broken only by the rattle of a teaspoon.
‘And did they ever meet again?’ Liv asks.
Owen shakes his head. ‘No. Cuchulain grieved for months but Emer got an enchanter to give him a potion of forgetfulness and the sea god shook his cloak over Fand so that she would never be able to meet Cuchulain again.’
Everyone at the table is listening, rapt, unaware of talk and laughter from their neighbours. Roisin has gone to sleep, her delicate eyelids translucent and veined like flowers. Liv is conscious of the breathing around her, of the baby’s snuffles and her uncle’s hand settled on the strut of her chair.
Owen taps the table, breaking the reverie. ‘You see, Liv,’ he says, ‘the Irish love a good tale of sorrow and suffering, longing and loss.’
After coffee the tables are pushed back to the walls and there is dancing to a quartet who sit on a rostrum, middle-aged men with maroon and green waistcoats. Owen and Liv circle the floor. He’s a good dancer, easy and light on his feet. Candles have been lit on the tables and the balmy air is laden with scent from the drifts of freesias, roses and carnations that adorn the room.
‘Where did you hear that story you told us?’ Liv asks.
‘I’ve had it years, I think my mother might have told me it; or maybe I read it once on the radio. I learned a lot of the old tales from my mother, she was a storyteller, a seannachtai. Stories help to makes sense of life, I always think.’
‘If there’s sense to be made of it.’
‘Ah, so young and such a cynic. Do you think that maybe deciding it all makes no sense is in a way making sense of it?’
Liv nods, acknowledging the point. ‘Were you by any chance educated by the Jesuits?’
He claps a hand to his heart. ‘A perceptive cynic! I went to be a priest, I was in the seminary for three years but in the end they threw me out.’
‘Why? Did you not have a vocation?’
‘That wasn’t really the issue. I was extremely devout, first up for Mass and hot on scripture. The issue was that I loved God but I also had an abiding adoration for women and I’m not talking about the mother of God. My own mother was mortified when the priesthood and I parted company. My standing in the family never really recovered from that time and slid further down the years until my name was mud. I was a complete reprobate, you understand.’
She looks at him, appreciates the attributes of the man and the way he glides confidently on the floor, owning the space in his tailored black trousers and beautifully soft white cotton shirt. When he told the story he had his audience entranced; he could have done the same in a pulpit, using the tale as a parable. After all, priests were actors as well as holy men. She understands that he is one of those rare people who have so many interests and talents, they have to live many lives within the one.
The band strikes up again and she registers a sense of déjà vu, a pang of melancholy.
‘This song, “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes,” my mother loved it, the version by the Platters, and she’d sing it while she was h
aving a fag.’
‘Mollie had a good voice, strong. I recall her singing at her wedding party, in this very hotel: “Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner.” She had no idea where she’d landed, this place must have seemed like another planet after Haringey. The song was her way of staking her claim. Some people joined in but others didn’t; the old guard who thought that your father had let the side down by marrying out. I admired her for it. It’s never easy to be an incomer and I think she always had the map of this place upside down.’
She feels bemused and in the dark, presented suddenly with this picture of her mother before she knew her. She tucks the information away to mull over in private. Owen sings as they come to the end of the dance and she joins him: ‘when you’re your hearts on fire, you must realise, smoke gets in your eyes.’
As they move back to their table, Owen stops to talk to a couple and Liv carries on, too warm now, wishing she had a fan like Lucinda’s. She catches the eye of a woman sitting near the rostrum, an older woman with greying hair pinned up in a bun. The woman is very still and upright, her eyes keen, dark little berries in a bird-like face. There are two walking sticks leaning against her knees. She nods to Liv, a stately tip of the head, without smiling, then turns to a dark suited man next to her. Liv has the feeling that she’s being discussed.
As she pours herself water, Lucinda stops unsteadily beside her chair. ‘I do hope you’re enjoying the party.’ Her speech is slurred.
‘Thank you, yes. It’s great fun and it’s so nice to meet people who knew Nanna.’
‘And you’ve been introduced around, I know Owen’s made sure. These events can be a bit daunting if you don’t get a sense of who’s who.’
‘Oh yes, although it’s hard to keep all the names in mind. There’s a woman over there, Lucinda, near the band, in a navy dress, with walking sticks.’
Lucinda clicks her fan open and shut. It’s decorated with a flaunting peacock and yellow petals. ‘Oh, that’s Edith, you know, Owen’s wife.’ She bends closer. Liv can smell the wine on her breath and her musky perfume. ‘If you watch, you’ll see that she keeps a steely eye on him. Pity she didn’t manage to do it thirty years ago.’ She laughs, taps Liv’s shoulder with the fan as the music stops, a birthday cake is wheeled in and everyone applauds.
On the way out, Eileen O’Donovan waves to Liv in the foyer. She’s looking glamorous in a floral shift dress with a chunky necklace at her throat. In her hand she carries a small clutch bag. She playfully taps the arm of the priest she’s been talking to with the bag and crosses to Liv.
‘Everyone seems to be here tonight,’ Liv says. ‘It’s a popular venue.’ She fixes a bland smile in place.
‘Oh, for sure, there’s loads goes on here. Nearly all the weddings, birthdays and such like, and funeral wakes too. I come nearly every Saturday for the whist drive,’ Eileen tells her. ‘We send any proceeds to the missions. I didn’t get here last week because we had a family get-together, Maeve and Aidan and little Carmel. I made Carmel’s favourite pudding, raspberry trifle. Maeve tells me you met her on the market?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
Eileen is rolling the beads of her necklace between her plump fingers. Liv looks away, uncomfortable. ‘I was saying to her how you helped Carmel with her homework. Isn’t that little girl just a pet?’
‘She’s a lovely child, you must be proud of her.’ She is aware of an electricity she is carrying in her skin, sparked by Aidan. She believes that Eileen O’Donovan must be aware of it crackling loudly, deafeningly along her nerve endings.
‘I’m mad about her, she’s great company for me there in the afternoons after school. You never know the information she’s going to come out with; didn’t she tell me the other day that the colour of a diamond depends on the impurities in it! I told her, I’ll be Einstein before she’s finished with me. And she’s great with helping count the stock and keeping an eye on what’s needed on the shelves. She has the same good nature as her mother. And she’s mad about her daddy — a real daddy’s girl, she can twist the poor man around her little finger. I remember you being the same with your own father; he’d bring you into the shop, carrying you on his shoulders and sit you up on the counter while you had your toffee or sherbet dip. He’d be chatting away to my Tommy, God rest his soul.’
Liv forces herself to look directly at the woman, hoping to stop the flow. ‘I must have been very young,’ she says. ‘I can barely remember.’
‘Oh for sure, you were just tiny, with your lovely curls.’
‘Well, it’s nice to hear those memories, anyway. I’ll tell my father when I next see him.’
To Liv’s relief, Owen appears, calling goodnights. ‘Eileen,’ he says with a little bow, ‘how nice to see you.’
She nods, sizing him up. ‘Aren’t you looking the swell tonight? You’ve both been at the birthday do, I suppose?’
‘That’s right. And a wonderful time we all had.’
‘It must be great to have your niece here, after all these years.’
‘It certainly is, she’s a darling girl.’ He loops his arm through Liv’s and she gratefully receives the warmth of the gesture. ‘You must excuse us now, we have to find Lucinda and drop her home or we’ll all turn into white mice when the clock strikes twelve.’
Eileen gives him an old-fashioned look. ‘For sure, Owen, some things never change, no matter how many years flow under the bridge. You and your ladies! Aren’t you always squiring the women! ‘
‘Ah well, Eileen, some of us just can’t help being irresistible.’
‘Thanks for the rescue,’ Liv murmurs as they exit.
‘You’re welcome. She’s like a stealthy snake, that one, the kind that mesmerises you and then bites your head off. Ah, I see Lucinda, having a crafty fag by the rhododendrons. Let’s away and Eileen can size up another victim.’
* * *
Liv has two letters in the morning post. The postman is coming up the path as she makes her way from the well with a bucket of water. He’s a hefty man with a high complexion and brilliantly shiny shoes that squeak as he climbs, panting.
‘We meet at last,’ he says. ‘I’m Pat; Pat Noonan.’
She shakes her head. ‘No; you can’t really be — not postman Pat!’
‘God strike me dead if I lie. Isn’t life cruel to some of us?’
She puts the bucket down and takes the letters from him. ‘You’ll have great muscles soon,’ he says, tipping his hat back.
‘Either that or a hernia.’
He finds this hilarious. ‘Ah, you have your grandmother’s sense of humour. I hear you’ve been swimming.’
‘How did you know that?’
He winks. ‘A little bird told me. Don’t be getting sunburned, the wind off the strand there is deceptive. Oh, and the jellyfish that get swept in on the tides can give you a nasty old sting.’
‘Thanks, I know, from when I was a child.’
‘Ah, of course, Eileen was telling me you used to be over from London. One of your letters is from England.’ He tilts his head, nodding down at the postmark.
‘So it is.’ She puts the letters in her pocket, noting his disappointment. ‘I’d better get on with my chores, I’ve had no breakfast yet.’
He squeaks away, his bag flapping against his hip. In the kitchen she makes tea and refills the kettle, then sits by the window and opens the first letter, postmarked Castlegray. It’s from Owen. There is what looks like a faint trace of egg yolk at the bottom and she imagines him writing it over a fry-up, sitting at the big round oak table with Toby snoring in the corner.
Dear Liv
I wanted to mull something over with you and it helps sometimes to write things down; makes the grey matter sift and shake. I’ve been wanting for some time to go and see Edith, try and find out if we could make a go of things again or a least have a friendship. The older I get the more the stand-off between us seems ridiculous and too much like the plot of a play. We’re always passing each other or nodding
at a distance and we only live a few miles apart. I always regretted that I lost her. I lie awake at night, thinking about it; you know, the wee small hours. I suppose I’d like to make my peace with her as I’m heading for my three score and ten. Bridget used to say that the man who made time made plenty of it but the other hand, Tempus Fugit. And Bridget dying suddenly has made me think about that time flying by.
I’ve no idea how she would respond. Maybe I’m just a cracked old grey beard with foolish notions. What’s your woman’s take on this? You have a level head on your shoulders and steady eyes and you’re from a different generation, one that doesn’t seem so keen on feuds and silences. There’s no one else I could ask about this without feeling a right eejit.
Any response gratefully accepted, even if you tell me I’m daft as a brush and I need to see a man in a white coat.
Love to yourself and a lick from Toby.
Owen
P.S. When you were a baby you used to swing on my ears and call me Nownie.
She puts the letter to one side and opens the second, from Douglas.
Dearest Liv,
Thanks for the water from the well. The Glenkeen surgery prescription; at first I wasn’t sure should I rub it in, drink it or sprinkle it round the room? No, just joking; send more. It should be on the NHS. It certainly tastes better than the spinach and quinoa juice I’m getting five times a day. I have a sip every night as I go to bed and think of you. I’m sure I can feel it doing me good, working its magic. There’s an extensive library here and I found a book on Irish wells so I’m becoming versed in their significance. Did you know that there are societies in Ireland devoted to their renovation and upkeep and many have been ‘lost’ with emigration and land development?
It’s tough just now; probably the worst bit. The initial adrenalin has worn off so it’s a hard slog. Won’t go into it, you’ll know.
There are at least half a dozen people here whose marriages have already failed. Listening to them, I do understand how much I’m in your debt for sticking with me for so long. I have pathetic moments of feeling sorry for myself and then I recall how bloody lucky I am.
OUT OF THE BLUE a gripping novel of love lost and found Page 13