Jamie followed Rose’s pointing finger. He recognized immediately the green jalopy he and Paddy had pushed out of the field. “God, so it is! There’s nothin’ wrong with your eyes, Rose.”
Rose beamed. “Now I thought I’d bring the flowers just in case, Jamie, for there’s nothing a lady likes more tae get from a man than a bunch of flowers . . . fresh picked they are from me garden this morning.”
“Aye, so,” Jamie said. “Look nice, right enough.”
“They are indeed, Jamie . . . and I’ve put a wee bit of baby’s breath and false goat’s beard through them tae add a bit more color, like.”
They made their way across the car park.
“God, there’s Miss King at the door.” Rose gave a little regal wave. “And thank heavens she’s there, ’cos she’ll help get us in through that contraption, so she will.”
Miss King smiled and beckoned Rose forward through the glass. Rose obliged. Jamie took his cue, and stepped into the second chamber.
“Now, that wasn’t so difficult?” the secretary said as the pair emerged, blinking with surprise, into the foyer.
“Thank you very much, Miss King,” Rose said. “’Cos, you know, we were a wee bit nervous since the last time.”
“You’re very welcome . . . What beautiful flowers, James! Who’s the lucky lady?”
“Aye, they’re nice boys, right enough,” Jamie said, reddening.
At that very moment, the restroom door opened and who should appear, glowing from her hypnosis session, but Ruby.
“There’s the very lady now,” Rose said.
“Aren’t you the lucky lady, Ruby?” Miss King smiled, and withdrew behind her desk again.
Jamie thrust the bouquet at Ruby. “Hello, Ruby. These . . . these here are for you, so they are.”
Ruby took the bunch of swan-river daisies, still warm from Jamie’s tight grasp, and almost wept again. No one had given her flowers before. She didn’t know what to say.
Rose came to the rescue. “Now, Jamie plucked them in my garden, ’cos he wanted tae give you a wee gift, Ruby.”
Jamie, too, was lost for words. Rose gave him a discreet little nudge.
“Aye . . . aye, Ruby, thought . . . thought you would like them. They’re called goat’s breath with baby’s beards.”
“No, Ruby,” Rose corrected. “Jamie got a wee bit mixed up. They’re swan-river daisies with a wee bit of false goat’s beard and some of that nice baby’s breath through them.” She gave Jamie another nudge.
“Aye, them, ’cos . . . ’cos it’s terrible what you’ve come through with that accident . . . and yer mother bein’ sick and all, Ruby.”
Viewing the scene from behind her desk, Miss King felt her eyes welling up.
“Thank you . . . thank you very much,” Ruby said finally. She gazed down at the beautiful trembling blooms. “They’re lovely, Jamie. You . . . you must have a lovely garden, Rose?”
“Oh, I love the gardenin’, Ruby. Like yourself, I’m sure.”
The intercom sounded on Miss King’s desk.
“But I’m not so good at it, Rose.”
“How was . . . how was your meetin’ with the doctor?” Jamie ventured.
“It was great, Jamie,” Ruby said, putting her thumb and forefinger together as Henry had instructed. She suddenly felt flooded with happiness, and bestowed on Jamie a heartfelt smile. “It’s your turn now, is it?”
“Aye, so.” Jamie pulled on his ear and studied the floor.
“James, Dr. Shevlin will see you now.” They all turned at the sound of Miss King’s voice.
“That’s you now, Jamie,” Rose said, very pleased with the shape her matchmaking plans were taking thus far. “You go on in there and I’ll wait on you. But first I’ll leave Ruby out to her car.”
“Aye, so . . .” Jamie touched his cap to Ruby. “Well . . . maybe . . . maybe see you about again, Ruby, so we will.”
The ever-patient Paddy McFadden was enjoying a cigarette and a nose through the Mid-Ulster Vindicator when his wife emerged from the clinic with Ruby. He knew immediately what he had to do. Rose had schooled him in what to say. Just as she’d schooled Jamie in his lines concerning the presentation of the bouquet.
He watched them stroll over to Ruby’s car. It was time he played his part. He stubbed out the cigarette and got out.
“Here’s my Paddy,” Rose said, at sight of him.
“Hello, Ruby, and how’s the mammy?” Paddy removed his cap. “Hope she’s . . . hope she’s gettin’ a bit better?”
“She’s not too bad, Paddy, thank you.”
“That’s good.”
“Now,” Rose began, “I was just saying to Ruby that she should come out with us this Friday night, to hear Jamie play the accordjin in Slope’s.”
“Aye, that’s a very good idea,” Paddy agreed. “Jamie . . . Jamie would like that, so he would.”
“I’d love to, but . . .” Ruby frowned and looked sad. “But . . . but I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t leave Mammy.”
Rose had expected that reply and was ready for it. “Don’t your sisters come from Belfast at the weekend, Ruby?”
“Aye . . . aye, they do, but . . . but I don’t think they’d want me going out, like.”
“Now, Ruby, that’s where you’re wrong. You’re looking after your mammy all week, so you need a wee break from it. And a couple or so hours of a Friday night is not too much to ask, sure it’s not, Paddy?”
“Nah, not a wild lot to ask atall, Ruby. Sure we’ll collect you and leave you home again, so they’ve nothing to worry about.”
Ruby thought of May and June and how cruel they’d been to her the previous weekend, talking about selling the farm when the mother died. Snatches from the hypnosis session came back to her. You have the power, Ruby . . . you no longer give them the power . . . From this day forward you will be able to act and think and feel like everything is possible . . .
“. . . so what d’ye think, Ruby?” Rose was saying.
Ruby smiled, gripped the stems of the beautiful blooms more tightly. Thought of how kind Jamie had been in giving them to her. “Aye, I’d love to hear Jamie play.”
“God, that’s great, Ruby!” Rose clasped her hands together, barely able to contain her joy. “Isn’t it, Paddy?”
“It’s great, all right,” Paddy said. “Me and Rose’ll collect you at eight. Wouldn’t that be right, Rose?”
“Eight would be great. You’ll be ready for then, won’t you, Ruby?”
“Aye . . . ’cos May and June come home at six. So they’ll have time to have their supper first when I’m gettin’ ready.”
Paddy and Rose saw Ruby off.
A delighted Rose returned to the clinic, to await Jamie and impart the happy news.
Chapter thirty-five
Friday morning and Henry was running through his list of patients for the day. He was glad the weekend was in sight, and had planned on going to Lisburn to visit his father and check on the house.
He didn’t often visit Hestia House, his Belfast home. After his move to Killoran, he would spend every weekend there, on the off chance that Connie might reappear. But as the weeks turned to months, and the light of hope dimmed, it was clear that each journey he made there was a futile one.
He’d employed Sinclair’s housekeeper, the redoubtable Mrs. Malahide, to clean the place once a week and generally keep an eye on things. He’d also left a letter on the table, in an envelope with Connie’s name on it, giving details of his new whereabouts and a declaration of his love.
He was dwelling on that letter now when Miss King put her head round the door.
“You’ll be pleased to know that Finbar Flannagan is in the building, Dr. Shevlin.”
“Really! He’s actually got the date right? Wonders will ne’er cease.”
“Yes.” The secr
etary threw a covert look over her shoulder, came forward and lowered her voice. “I should warn you that you’re in for a surprise. He hardly looks like the same person. John Lennon seems to have departed.”
“Oh . . . Are you sure it is he?”
“Oh yes, but you will see for yourself. Shall I send him in?”
Henry grinned. “Please, Edie, please.”
Henry was indeed surprised at the transformation. He hardly recognized Finbar. Gone was the beaded headband and long locks. He now wore his hair neatly shorn above the ears. The baggy clothes had been replaced with jeans and a cotton shirt. There were no love beads around his neck, and he no longer wore those signature Lennon spectacles. He still carried his roll-up tin of tobacco, though.
“Finbar, good to see you,” Henry said. “How’ve you been?”
“Between worlds . . . aye, between worlds. That’s why I’ve come to see you.”
He sat down on the sofa.
The Liverpudlian accent had disappeared, too. So the metamorphosis seemed complete. The only question was: With John Lennon clearly gone, what persona was Finbar employing now to stop being himself and facing his own reality? Henry pulled up a chair.
“Go on, Finbar . . . in your own time.”
“I joined the Screamers ’cos of Lennon, and I became Lennon ’cos he was a genius . . . and . . . and if I could be him . . . could be a genius, then I couldn’t be just ordinary, boring Finbar Flannagan . . .”
“Hmm . . . you want to tell me about the Screamers?”
Finbar didn’t answer. Instead he reached for the tin of roll-ups and started constructing a cigarette. His fingers trembled, but he kept his eyes rooted on the task, as if it were a mighty challenge he had to overcome in order to move to the next part of his story.
“They were all runnin’ from something . . . just like . . . just like me . . .”
“Well, we all need to escape from things from time to time, Finbar.”
“But I couldn’t . . . couldn’t escape, could I? Not from him.”
“Your stepfather?”
He nodded. Lit the cigarette.
“You can’t escape from your memories, Doctor. You can never outrun your bloody childhood, no matter how many pills you swallow, or how many needles you stick in your arms, or therapists you talk to. The struggle’s always in the mind—that’s what Lennon said. He said: ‘We must bury our own monsters and stop condemning people. We are all Christ and we are all Hitler. We want Christ to win.’”
Henry was impressed. “I didn’t realize he was such a philosopher.”
“Aye . . . that’s why I joined them: the Screamers. ’Cos if they were good enough for Lennon they were good enough for me. And I . . . I hated him for what he did to me . . . and . . . and I was angry.”
He sucked greedily on the roll-up.
“Thought they would clear me head, ’cos you can’t paint a picture on dirty paper; you need a clean sheet. Lennon said that, too.”
“And did it help . . . being with like-minded people and giving vent to repressed feelings in such a physical way?”
“Aye, they showed me how to cry. I’d never cried . . . not since I was a kid. That was a start . . . the crying. The screaming came easy after that. Then . . . then I met a woman . . . ”
“On Innisfree?”
“Aye . . . Holly Blue. She told me she was—”
“Sorry, did you say ‘Holly’?” At mention of the name, Henry saw himself reading a note in the dimly lit bedroom of a terraced house in Belfast many months before.
Thanks for everything, Harry.
Best of luck,
Holly
“Aye, Holly Blue she called herself. Nobody used their real name, see . . . too much stuff to hide. She told me she was on the run from the IRA.”
All at once, Henry felt on edge. “I see . . .”
“Most of them were a bit weird, but she wasn’t.”
“So you started a relationship.”
“Nah. She didn’t want to . . . said she was married. But we had a lot in common, ’cos she was an artist and she liked poetry. We worked well together.”
“As a team, you mean?”
“Aye . . . I’m a joiner . . . that’s my trade. So I cut trees and made furniture . . . tables and chairs and stuff. We were self-sufficient . . . and she, Holly, she painted them. Not in the normal way . . . she put flowers on them.”
A married woman, an artist who liked poetry, called herself Holly, and was on the run from the IRA. Could it . . . Could it be so? Well, he’d learned many strange things about his wife since her disappearance. He was intrigued. Just for a moment, he set his therapist’s hat aside. Unethical, maybe, but . . .
“How old was Holly? Your age?”
“Thirty.”
Henry’s heart rate shifted up a gear.
“Unusual for a woman to tell a man her age,” he quipped. “And especially that one . . . that milestone.”
“She was different.” Finbar reached for his tin of roll-ups again. “That’s why I liked her. She wasn’t run of the mill, as they say. But she had her demons like the rest of us. There was a lot she wouldn’t say. In group sessions she’d just clam up. It pissed some of them off, ’cos we were there to rid ourselves of insecurities and be honest with each other.” He grimaced. “Maybe the only thing any of us are sure of is our age.”
“Will you be seeing her again?”
Finbar shook his head.
“She left. One day she was there, the next . . .” He blew on his bunched fingers, fanned them wide. “Gone, without a word to no one. As if the aliens had abducted her in the night.”
He lit the roll-up.
Henry concentrated on the wavering flame of the lighter. He swore he could hear his own heart beating.
“One thing’s for sure, though.” Finbar drew on the cigarette, squinting at Henry through a plume of smoke. “Somebody was on her tail; that’s for sure.”
He had heard enough. It was time to move on.
“You’re very perceptive, Finbar. Have you found a way to ‘bury your own monsters and stop condemning,’ like your hero said?”
“I’m trying . . . but it’s hard. Without the drugs, it’s hard.”
“It is. But you’ve taken the first step. Not even a step—a huge leap forward.”
“Aye . . . I suppose.” He flicked ash into the little foil tray.
“Giving up the drugs is really giving up the stranglehold your stepfather’s had over you all these years. Every time you took a shot of heroin, you were giving him power over you. Now, every time you resist that urge, that power gets weaker and weaker.”
“It does?”
“Yes. You’ve dropped the disguise that kept you from owning up to the real you, Finbar. You identified with the childhood of Lennon because he was abandoned by his father and suffered an abusive childhood, just like you. But he overcame all of that—from what you’re told me. He was a good example to follow. You see, we can go through life blaming our parents for our problems, or we can look back and see them for the deeply flawed, misguided individuals that they were . . . unwilling—or in most cases not even aware they had the choice—to live freely and authentically while they had the chance. A great many people go to their graves ignorant of this simple fact. But you won’t. D’you know why?”
Finbar shook his head.
“Because you’re willing to look for answers. You have enough insight to question things. You’re creative. But most important of all, you’ve made the decision to stop abusing yourself. Whether for good or ill, our lives turn on the decisions we make, so we must be sure we make the right ones. And you’ve made the right one.”
“But what if I relapse? What if the bad thoughts come back?”
“You won’t relapse.”
“Aye . . . but
how do you know?”
“I’m going to let you into a secret, Finbar. Thoughts are not facts. They are mental events that come and go like the clouds in the sky. The trick is recognizing that, and choosing only to dwell on the good ones, the ones that empower you.”
“You mean: don’t pay attention to . . . to the negative ones . . . just . . . just ignore them altogether?”
“Exactly.”
“More easily said than done, Doc.”
“That’s a belief. But beliefs are not set in stone. We can change them. You, and only you, can do that.”
They talked some more. Finbar told of his plans. He had a friend in London—a craftsman who made bespoke furniture—who’d offered him a job in his workshop.
He got up. “I’m looking forward to going . . . getting out of here,” he said, waving a hand.
“This room or Northern Ireland?”
They laughed. “Both, I suppose.”
“We still have more work to do, Finbar.”
“I know. Don’t worry: I’ll be keeping my appointments from now on . . . now that my mind is clearer.”
“Good.”
They shook hands and Finbar made to leave.
“Just one thing, Finbar, before you go. I wouldn’t mind visiting your friends on Innisfree. Sound like an interesting lot of people. Could you tell me how to get there?”
“Aye, no bother. I’ll draw a map for you. But if you have any problems, there’s a guy called Max—Mad Max. He’ll see you right.”
“How will I find him?”
“Oh, don’t worry, Max’ll find you. Knows everyone who comes there. He’s a regular in the pubs around Burtonport, so if you have any problems just go into one of them.”
After Finbar left, Henry lifted the phone. No, he wouldn’t be visiting Belfast or looking in on his father the next day. He called to mind the words of a sinister man in a dark suit and fedora.
“If you want to see your wife again, stop looking.”
Well, he’d stopped looking for a whole year and they’d never contacted him. It was long enough to have waited.
Then, from nowhere, a voice he couldn’t ignore: “Your wife. You’ll . . . you’ll . . . be seeing her soon.” Ruby’s voice.
The Godforsaken Daughter Page 25