Deceptions

by Laura Elliot

  Before she could change her mind she slipped on her clothes and took her camera outside. The foreman was defensive at first, believing she had come to complain and was using the camera as a means of gathering some evidence of wrongdoing on his part. But she was persuasive and after consulting with the workers he gave permission. As she approached the crew she realised one of them was a woman. She worked silently alongside the men and paid no attention to Lorraine, who moved among them as unobtrusively as possible.

  When they stopped for a tea break she was still photographing them. They began to talk to her, the men striking macho or provocative feminine poses, asking if they were going to feature in a Playboy centrefold. When they heard she intended painting them they whistled and sang “Mona Lisa”, the woman joining in, a husky voice, one of the lads. She looked wiry and skinny against their hulking masculinity. Lorraine studied her tough face with its give-as-good-as-you-get expression. Did she suffer sexual harassment? Was her bottom pinched, patted, stroked? Had she been lewdly teased? She did not look like a woman who would suffer silently. Lorraine took their addresses and told them she would send invitations if the painting was ever exhibited.

  Bill Sheraton fretted about time-wasting. Lorraine fretted about missing the light. Lorcan, glowering and inflamed, fretted about her close scrutiny of his skin. Andrea piled clothes on the bed and fretted over the most suitable outfit to wear. A hair stylist and beautician attended to her hair and make-up. Tempers were frayed by the time the photographic session started.

  Lorraine photographed the family in the garden, grouped before a copse of blazing redwood trees, in the drawing-room, in the conservatory and at the foot of a curving staircase. Lorcan’s head jerked defensively whenever she approached him for a close-up shot. His bottom lip was cracked as if he had bitten down hard on it.

  “They want to play happy families,” he muttered. “I told them it was a sick idea but nobody around here gives a fuck what I think.”

  “Trust me. You’ll be pleased when it’s finished.” She tried to reassure him, hating her glib response but unable to think of anything else to say.

  “Will I?” His eyes rejected any comfort. “What are you going to do, airbrush out my face?” He glared at his mother whose lips were again receiving attention from the beautician. “Don’t bother inviting me to the unveiling.”

  He reminded her of Emily. The same angry struggle to break free from the decisions of adults. Following in the footsteps of a man who smelled his first million when he was eighteen was a hard burden to carry and Lorcan’s slouching posture revealed his determination not to try.

  In a clipped, cultivated accent Andrea questioned Lorraine’s fee, convinced that anyone who provided a service to her family was out to exploit their wealth. She fixed her rigid smile on Lorraine and suggested that, as she could work more easily from photographs than time-consuming sketches, surely her fee should not be so exorbitant.

  The temptation to walk away without a second thought from this elegant, spoiled woman was almost irresistible. Such an action would be gossip fodder for Andrea and her friends but what did it matter. Let them say what they liked. They had probably said it all anyway and she was far removed from the circles Andrea frequented. But, suddenly, it seemed important that she hold her ground. If she walked from this house she would do it calmly, on her own terms. “As it was your husband who commissioned the portrait, then you must make your views known to him. My fee is not negotiable. But if you decide to cancel the commission I’ll accept your decision.” She spoke crisply, reverting to the business-like attitude she always displayed when dealing with difficult clients and heard, as she expected, Andrea’s sigh of capitulation.

  “You’ve such a long journey ahead of you,” she said when Lorraine was leaving. Her tone suggested that Lorraine had settled somewhere far beyond the Russian steppes. “Bill says you’ve gone quite rural. It must be incredibly difficult to adjust. You’ve had such a busy lifestyle –”

  “I’ve adjusted very well, thank you.”

  “I’ve suppose you’ve heard that the studio in Blaide House is being turned into an art gallery. It should be quite a transformation.” She smiled, offered Lorraine a limp handshake. “I really am looking forward to working with you. Safe journey.”

  The neighbouring houses were mainly hidden behind dense shrubbery. As Lorraine drove down the driveway she caught tantalising glimpses of roofs and balconies. The road leading back to the main junction was narrow and sharp with dangerous bends. The sense of affluence, hidden wealth screened behind high walls and overhanging trees, was a tangible presence when she slowed on the corners and cautiously approached the main road. She reached the centre city in the late afternoon.

  Before moving to Trabawn, she had driven through Dublin without a second thought, equally at home in traffic grids or on the crest of busy motorways. Six months of driving along country roads where she was more likely to be held up by the rump of Frank Donaldson’s cattle than a set of traffic lights had made a difference. She drove slowly past Blaide House, averting her gaze from the glossy exterior, the grey hammered limestone walls and marbled entrance. The windows reminded her of opaque eyes, staring outwards, slanting inwards. She imagined hushed footsteps on carpets, the silent glide of an elevator rising to the first floor where Ginia Communications was located. On the ground floor, the discreet brass plate signposting the direction to Strong–Blaide Advertising would have been changed by now and her studio, that slanted attic space, would soon be stripped bare, the last remnants of her personality removed, the walls hung instead with expensive paintings. On the car radio Bob Marley sang about slavery and freedom of the mind. Music will undo me, she thought, remembering the summer of ’82 – and her memories blended with the plaintive voice of the singer, so alive and in tune with a moment, a movement, his star dying in the throes of fame. Sirens shrieked and traffic grid-locked around her. The trail of the river followed her along the quays. Firmly, she switched channels and listened instead to politicians slugging it out across the airwaves.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Brahms Ward

  9 p.m.

  I called to her studio today. The clouds were heavy with rain. It suited my mood. Blaide House overlooks the Liffey. It’s only a short distance from my apartment yet how often have I passed its walls and never once looked upwards towards her attic where she was busy painting dreams? I climbed the spiral staircase and entered a room with windows in the ceiling and a view of a grey sky. The walls were streaked with paint. Abandoned canvases and broken frames lay on the floor, the remnants of a dream turned sour. Workmen were putting a new shape on the place. They’d no idea where she’d gone. A carpenter gave me the name of the owner, who has an office on the premises. Ginia Public Relations is written outside. A woman with sculpted black hair introduced herself as Virginia Blaide. The lease had changed hands, she told me. The artist was out of town and had left instructions not to be contacted. Her attic is being converted into an art gallery.

  I demanded her new address. I refused to leave without it. The woman’s anger was contained but visible when she flashed her dark eyelashes, a beautiful face but formidable. In the end I left. Short of beating her up, what else could I do? She escorted me to the ground floor. We walked past the frowning receptionist whom I’d successfully evaded on my way in. Glass doors slid open and released me to the streets.

  How can someone fall off the edge of the world? No forwarding address.

  Glass … glass snowball … shake snow … glass … bottle … Bozo … glass … smash … crash … whirr … whirr …

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The crates blocking free passage along the landing could no longer be ignored. Lorraine gazed at the ornaments and cutlery, the table mats and linen tablecloths, the numerous sets of glasses, champagne flutes, whiskey tumblers, the Waterford Crystal goblets she had received as a wedding present. Since moving into the house she had not needed them – which seemed like a good enough reason n
ot to bother unpacking anything. Tomorrow, she would ask the Donaldson brothers to move the crate into the attic. Anything that was not necessary for survival would be left inside. As she continued sifting through the contents, she noticed her jewellery box. Music tinkled when she opened it. A ballerina spun in a slow circle; a present from her daughter for one of her birthdays. She lifted out a pendant and laid it against her chest. Adrian’s present. A sapphire, the same shade as her eyes, and a bracelet to match. He presented them to her on their wedding night, the two of them exhausted from the celebrations and the flight to Portugal yet still eagerly seeking each other. It was dark outside, the hotel lights shimmering on the swimming pool, the beach chairs empty, the dance-floor silent. Sapphires woven into a silver weave and love as durable as the hardest stone.

  She straightened, her legs cramping, and walked unsteadily down the stairs. Emily had rung earlier and asked to be collected from Ibrahim’s house. Time had slipped by while she was searching the crate and it was now after eight o’clock. She drove without further delay to Sophie’s house. After knocking repeatedly on the front door and getting no response, she walked around to the back of the farmyard. The back door was open but no one answered when she called out. A mournful bellowing came from a large cavernous building which she recognised as a cubicle shed. She had seen one on Donaldson’s farm and often, when she was passing it on her way to the beach and the wind was blowing in the wrong direction, she had held her breath against the pungent smell of cow dung. She heard raised voices and made her way towards it. The shed was empty except for a penned-off area within which a small group of people hunkered around a cow. Lorraine, hesitating at the entrance, resisted the urge to run from the sight of her daughter at the rear end of a pregnant animal, its tail firmly grasped in her hand. Ibrahim appeared to be in charge of a torture machine which was, Sophie calmly assured her, a calving jack used to assist the birthing process. The jack had two ropes attached to a lever which would be used to draw out the calf.

  “It’s going to be a hard pull.” Sophie beckoned Lorraine closer. “We’re having some difficulty with one of the legs.” The cow had gone into an early labour and Joe, Sophie’s husband, was on his way back from Killarney where he’d been attending an agricultural conference. Ibrahim had already phoned the vet who was out on another call and had promised to be with them as soon as possible. The cow, however, was not prepared to wait for the experts to arrive.

  “We’re in trouble if we can’t manage this ourselves. Ibrahim’s trying to ease the leg free. He’s done it before with Joe but never on his own.” In the village, Sophie always cut a dash in her vibrant costumes and traditional headwear but this evening she was wearing jeans and wellingtons. The sleeves of her red t-shirt were already stained with perspiration. The animal, in distress and lying exhaustedly on a bed of straw, raised dull agonised eyes towards her. She spoke in a soft Arabic tongue to the cow as Ibrahim eased his arm into the animal’s back passage. Emily uttered a tiny shriek which she stifled with her free hand, her other hand engaged in preventing the tail swiping Ibrahim’s face. She stared fixedly in the opposite direction as he probed, his arm disappearing up to his elbow, his face crumpled with the effort of locating the calf ’s bent leg and drawing the two forelegs parallel.

  “I’ve got a hold,” he grunted.

  Emily allowed herself a horrified peek before settling her gaze once more into the middle distance. Lorraine, feeling no calmer than her daughter, replaced Sophie at the cow’s head. Tentatively, she touched the sleek neck, jumping back when the cow gave vent to an enormous bellow, its bloated belly shuddering in another spasm.

  “We’ve no time to waste.” Sophie’s voice shook as she assisted her son with the calving jack. It was a large frame, six feet or more, Lorraine reckoned, but they handled it deftly, securing it to the cow’s back end and attaching the ropes to the calf’s first joints. Together, mother and son began levering the handle of jack. They paused frequently to allow the exhausted animal a short respite then continued with the slow, laborious process until the feet and head appeared and the calf slithered free.

  Emily dropped the tail and sobbed into her hands. She walked to the wall and stood facing it, her shoulders heaving. Ibrahim disinfected the calf ’s navel then turned Emily around and pointed. Together they watched the mother revive her new-born calf. Gently, persistently she stroked her tongue over the glistening flesh, her pansy eyes resting protectively on the wriggling animal who began, under her gentle persistence, to stagger upright before collapsing again in a sprawl of knobbled legs.

  “At this stage we leave the rest to nature,” Sophie spoke softly as she gathered detergents and disinfectants. She splashed water from the buckets and led the way back to the farmhouse. Darkness had fallen while they worked. A full moon dragged the hedgerows. How close it seemed, touchable almost, and splendid in its ripeness, as splendid as the experience of watching life come into being. And so Lorraine Cheevers paused to savour its beauty and to fleetingly touch the rising beat of happiness.

  “I’ve just given birth to a calf. It was a laborious process. Mother and baby both doing well.” On the car journey home, Emily texted the message to her friends in Dublin. “See what they make of that!” She giggled and sat back to await their response. She was high with excitement, still shaking from the birthing experience. “Wasn’t it absolutely, awesomely amazing?” she said. “Wasn’t it the most wonderful thing you ever saw in all your life?”

  Lorraine nodded, her hands still trembling from shock. Her daughter’s capacity to recover was more immediate.

  “I’ve made two life-changing decisions tonight,” she announced when she reached the house. “I’m going to study to be a vet and I’m going to marry Ibrahim O’Doherty. Any man who can put his arm up a cow’s backside and still turn me on deserves to spend the rest of his life with me.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Brahms Ward

  10 p.m.

  Killian, I’ve to break some sad news, I’m afraid. Bozo Daly is dead. His liver finally gave out. Live by the bottle, die by the bottle. He was a good patient, the nurse said, one of the quiet ones, fading out like a whisper. No second-guessing death, no outrage that his day was done and lady luck, that elusive, bitchy lady luck, had flicked the dust of departure with her high-buttoned boots.

  We buried him this morning. Your mother attended his funeral, Marianne also. The woman with the silver boots was there and some young people from the squat. They tell me it’s ear-marked for demolition soon. We were a small gathering around a pauper’s plot. Jean says she will erect a wooden cross with his name inscribed and place it on his grave. Luke (Bozo) Daly. R. I.P.

  It’s hard to believe that two years ago I’d never heard of him. I probably passed him on the quays and turned my face away or, feeling magnanimous and in tune with the world, gave him coins if he stretched out his hand. The destruction of his squat won’t be the cause of preservation angst or street protests. But until the time comes for the developers to move in it will still provide shelter for the young people who crawl nightly into its dark corners.

  I wrote about it last night. My fingers flew over the keys, cut, copy, paste, delete. How easy it is, with the passing of time, to write with clarity. How simple it becomes to chart the mistakes, the unthinking actions that spin the future from our grasp. I never wanted to write a memoir. Screenplays, quick action, instant dialogue, that’s usually my style.

  I’m still searching for her, Killian. I’ve checked her out on the Internet. She had a web site but it’s out of date. Her e-mails come back with a delivery failure message. She’s out there somewhere. She’s running from me but I will find her, Killian, that I promise you. And when I do … then we shall see …

  Run … run … run rabbit run rabbit … whirr-whirr … smash … crash … glass … pick up … pick up … bracelet …

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Sheraton portrait was ready. Andrea’s hands had been gracefully elongated and drape
d across her lap. She sat regally on a throne-like armchair, chin tilted, mouth softly curved. Her husband, solid and substantial, stood behind her. Then there was Lorcan, miraculously transformed, fresh-faced, smiling, his elbow elegantly placed on the mantelpiece, his gaze fixed fondly on his parents. The perfect composition of a successful family unit.

  “Do you mind if I say something insulting?” Emily arrived into the studio one evening when her mother was applying some final strokes to the portrait.

  “Why should I mind? I’m a mother.” Lorraine sighed and braced herself for the worst.

  “That painting is actually awesomely awful.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I mean it’s brilliant as a portrait but it’s awful because there’s nothing of you in it. It’s just like a really posh pretentious photograph.”

  “But the woman who commissioned it will love it. Believe me.”

  “She looks like a proper poser. Who’s the guy hanging over the mantelpiece?”

  “Her son.”

  “Mmm … does he really look so groovy gorgeous in the flesh?”

  Lorraine shrugged, remembering Lorcan’s scowling countenance. “A few brush strokes of artistic licence. But given time and the right circumstances, who knows what the future holds?”

  Andrea Sheraton removed a bottle of champagne from the fridge. “We must celebrate.” She perched herself on a high kitchen stool and poured the champagne into two glasses. “Here’s to you, Lorraine. Long may your talents last.” One spiked high-heeled shoe beat against the breakfast bar, the other dangled from her toes. “I must say you’re looking wonderfully healthy. Must be the country air. The wild Irish image suits you but I still can’t get used to the idea of you in wellies. It quite boggles the mind.”