by Laura Elliot
Tears rushed into her eyes. She willed them away. She had shed too many tears over love.
He mentioned Meg’s name and other names that meant nothing to her. She was unable to absorb what he was saying. His voice was too fast, incoherent almost, his breathing shallow, his complexion as translucent as wax.
Before Meg and Eoin went to the States, they had thrown a farewell party. The house was so crowded that people spilled out into the back garden. Had Michael Carmody been among the crush of people who raised their glasses and wished Eoin success in his sabbatical? Had they noticed each other among the crowd then passed on by, never registering the moment? Surely she would have remembered his searching gaze. But she would not have been the object of his attention, not then, not when their worlds were intact and secure.
“I’m leaving, Michael.” She willed her legs to hold her upright.
If she walked from the ward she could reach her car in five minutes. Spine erect, eyes looking straight ahead. He pleaded with her to stay but then, realising the enormity of his accusation, his head fell back against the pillows and he was silent.
She ignored the urge to run but once outside the hospital she hurried towards the car-park. She gripped the steering wheel and drove carefully away. How was she to make sense of anything? A portrait of his son. She was mired in lies. Surrounded by illusions.
He rang her house and left messages. She ignored his entreaties, his declarations of love. He was discharged from hospital. Fred Byrne arrived and removed his car. The grass where it had rested was flat and withered.
His manuscript arrived in a Jiffy envelope a week later, sheets of printed paper stapled together. He had handwritten the brief note accompanying it.
I wrote this when I was in a dark place. Please read it and try to understand how I could have been so wrong.
She read about his son. The bitter struggles to claim his love, his loyalty. What a picture he painted. Tug love eventually replaced by tough love. She read about a wino with a clown’s name, a vandalised car, painting materials in the boot, a bracelet in the dashboard, uniquely designed, stolen by a homeless youth called Ferryman.
Silver was a colour of many hues: the moon above the sea, a shimmer of mist on hedgerows, the gleam in the edge of a sharpened blade. It reflected in the plunge of a needle, glittered on a woman’s wrist. In the dead of night, silver was a bullet waiting to strike.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Brahms ward
5 p.m.
Killian, I’m here now. Don’t mind me lumbering around the ward. I’m an awkward ass on these crutches. What a time I’ve had of it … what a time. Never mind. Onwards march, as Meg says. She gave me a right tongue-lashing, I can tell you. You look stronger today. Good colour on your cheeks. I like the new pyjamas.
Maggie says you’re pressing her hand, blinking with your eyes, sending signals.
“Goats in white coats.” She thinks she’s the new poet laureate. “Your lad has a grip as tight as a crab’s claw and he means business. Go on, see for yourself.”
Here’s my hand. Tell me – did you miss me when I was in Trabawn? Ouch, Maggie’s right. A real bone crusher that was … oh Killian … Killian … don’t mind me. I’m a fucked up mess. I’m sorry for staying away so long. As they say, the matter was out of my legs. Sorry, bad joke. Almost as bad as Terence’s knock knockers.
Count my fingers. Five blinks, excellent. How many fingers has Harriet? All present and correct, my man. I was fifteen years old when I told her I wanted to follow in her footsteps, figuratively speaking, not literally. Unlike your great-aunt, I’d no interest in paddling the waters of the Ganges or trekking to the roots of the Grand Canyon. I filled pages with unremarkable poems which she slashed with her eyes and said, “Dead words, Michael. I want to live inside your head, not stare at your thoughts through a window that shines too brightly from other people’s elbow grease. Bring me on a journey where I touch, smell, see, breathe, love.”
I sent your story winging through the post, addressed to Trabawn. Did she read it, I wonder, or did she scatter the pages to the wind? She never replied. She found me in a boathouse, a gaping mouth facing the sea. She held me in her arms. I didn’t care about the pain. That’s the way it is with love.
You remind me of my mother when you look at me like that. Eyes like pennies. Lorraine’s eyes closed me out. Her face seemed to break apart when I tried to explain. From the beginning we were on different wavelengths yet they joined together and everything seemed possible. Strange things, telephone calls. The one that brought an ambulance to the pier saved your life. The one Harriet made destroyed mine.
Do you think your father is a crazy, sad old man? Blink once for yes. Twice for no.
Blink!
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Emily was still undressed, slouched across the armchair in her pony slippers and horse-printed pyjamas. “Gary’s parents are moving to Australia. He’ll be forced to go with them so that’s him out of the series – which is brilliant. Ibrahim thinks he’s an absolute abysmal asshole and I agree. Jessica’s career as a singer with Love Bytes will collapse in ruins. She’s such a bossy, belligerent, bellicose bitch. The way she treats Jason Judge makes me sick. Naomi becomes pregnant.” She shook her head in amazement. “Naomi! Can you believe she’d be so stupid, especially doing it with Gary – ughh!”
Virginia sighed wearily and resisted the urge to glance at her watch. “Emily, I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about. Are these friends of yours because if they are –?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Emily’s laughter had a distinctly whinnying quality. Too much time mucking out stables, from the sound of it. “They’re the characters in Nowhere Lodge. I already explained that to you. My mother’s boyfriend writes the series. I rescued him from certain death.”
“Yes indeed. You did already tell us the story.” Adrian’s indulgence had been severely tested over the weekend. “Can you please change the subject and talk about something intelligent?”
Virginia had armed herself with a full schedule for Emily’s visit. Cooking chips and burgers, or whatever glutinous concoction teenagers were fed, was not on the agenda. After collecting her from the train on Friday evening they had dined out. A visit to an equestrian centre took care of Saturday afternoon. Pony paradise. The three of them went riding together. What a picture they cut, trotting through Pine Forest in jodhpurs and riding boots. Adrian was still sitting down with extreme caution and complaining about a shifting disc in his lower back. The evening had ended with pub grub on the way home and Emily had gone straight to her room.
Apart from constantly demanding her father’s attention, and playing on his guilt by mentioning Lorraine’s name at every conceivable opportunity, she had behaved like any normal pubescent horsy teenager over the weekend. One last visit to a restaurant – Virginia had decided on Thunder Road Café as a special treat – and then it was time for the train journey home. Sweet blissful relief.
“You’d better get dressed, Emily.” She forced enthusiasm into her voice. “We’ll soon be leaving for Thunder Road.”
“We’re not eating out again?” Emily lifted her shoulders to her ears in amazement. “Don’t you ever do home cooking? Mum is the most brilliant cook, isn’t she, Dad? Remember the pavlova she used to make for dessert on Sundays? Deliciously delightful, delicately –”
“You heard Virginia.” Adrian sounded close to breaking point. “We’re eating out and then we’re driving you to the station.”
“Bloody brilliant.”
“Don’t swear.”
“Fucking fantastic.”
“Emily! We’ve tried very hard to make this weekend work.” In a battle of wills Virginia was not going to be bested by a spoilt sixteen-year-old. “The least we can expect from you is a degree of courtesy.”
Emily crossed her knees. The heads of her pony slippers bobbed threateningly. “Craven, cringing common courtesy.”
She sulked her way through brunch, nibbled
around the edges of a burger and asked for the remains to be wrapped in a “horsy bag”.
Adrian had bought her a pony for her birthday. His business was floundering and he was squandering money on a pedigree pony. Shortly after Christmas, Virginia had discovered the receipt in a drawer in his office, an innocuous-looking document with “Received with Thanks” stamped across it.
“If she wanted a pet so much why not a hamster?” Outraged, she had waved the receipt in his face. “Why did it have to be a pony?”
He had accused her of spying, forced her to go on the defensive, afraid that he would discover how thoroughly she had searched his office. The amount of unpaid bills in his files had alarmed her. She had read letters from his bank manager, his accountant and the leasing company which provided much of his office equipment. Among the unpaid bills was a demand from Ginia Communications for rent arrears.
Heuston Station was crowded with young people returning to the city after the weekend. Emily hugged her father, suddenly a vulnerable, repentant daughter. Virginia knew the wisdom of avoiding any contact other than a farewell nod.
“We really enjoyed having you to stay, Emily. You must come and visit us again soon.”
“Thank you so very much for having me, Virginia.” Emily’s contrived politeness was more difficult to tolerate than her rudeness.
Virginia willed the train to move. For an instant she saw it jolt forward. Her heart jerked with the same sensation but it remained stationary. Only her heart continued to race in sharp, painful palpitations.
“Well, Virginia, I think a stiff drink is in order, don’t you?” Adrian lifted his chin in relief as the train finally eased out of the station. “Don’t worry. It’s sure to be much easier the next time.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
The central heating purred. No cracks or dampness marred the walls. The last crate was emptied, contents stored out of sight. What was not needed was dumped in jumbo plastic sacks and flung into the skip. Faintly, Lorraine heard the sounds from the farm, the clink of buckets and churns, the lowing of cows, the rumble of Frank’s tractor. The remains of Emily’s breakfast were on the table. She lifted a cornflake, nibbled it, grimaced at the stale taste. She made beds, brushed a duster over the furniture. In her daughter’s bedroom a framed photograph of Adrian sat on the dressing table. The large montage of family photographs was mounted on the wall. Smiling days. She pressed her face into them and closed her eyes.
The bracelet had fallen from her arm one night when she was at the theatre. She was unaware of her loss until she was leaving and her foot kicked accidentally against it. Adrian had promised to have the clasp repaired but she had no memory of this having been done.
An intertwining rope of silver, two separate strands, coiled but not soldered, softly curved. “A romantic piece,” Karl Hyland had declared when he delicately embedded pure blue sapphires within the coils to represent the stepping stones they would cross through their marriage. “I will never make another bracelet like this one. Let it become a love heirloom passed on from one generation to the next.”
Karl had been her best friend in college. He was much given to dramatic gestures and flamboyant phrases.
“Amazing.” Emily arrived home from school and stared around the tidied house. “Just when I’d adjusted to life in a tip-head you turn my world upside down again.”
“I’ve been searching for my sapphire bracelet.” Lorraine pushed her hair from her eyes and sank onto a kitchen chair. “Did you see it anywhere?”
“Have you checked your jewellery box?”
“Obviously! Can you remember packing it when we were leaving Churchview Terrace? Think, Emily. I’m exhausted searching for it.”
“How should I know? My life was falling apart, if you remember that far back. I wasn’t exactly cataloguing everything I packed. Maybe he took it and gave it to her.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Why not?” Emily flung her school satchel into the corner of the kitchen. “He gave her everything else.”
Fred Byrne took his reputation seriously. Since Lorraine had refuted his opinion on the state of her car, his manner towards her when she drove into the forecourt for petrol had been polite but distant. In his office, she sat opposite him and spread her hands apologetically towards him.
“I’m here to apologise,” she said. “Since the last time we spoke I’ve discovered it’s possible my car was in an accident.”
“Possible?” Fred’s nostrils narrowed. She had offended him again. “I don’t deal in possibilities. If I did my customers could end up in a ditch on the side of the road – dead.”
She swallowed, forced the words from her. “My car was involved in an accident. I’d really appreciate it if you could show me what made you suspicious?”
Fred marched from his office to the forecourt. All that was missing from his demeanour was the wag of a triumphant tail. He lifted the bonnet of her car and peered into the interior.
“It’s the little tell-tale signs that give it away. Look closely, now, and see what I’m about. The grommets should be black but they’re silver. So are these bolts. It’s a dead giveaway that the bonnet’s been resprayed. A car would never leave the production line in that condition.”
As Lorraine followed his directions she also noticed tiny slivers of silver paint adhered to the front window frame.
“It’s a botched job, if ever I saw one.” Fred snorted derisively and pointed to a bend in a bar stretching across the front of the engine. “The cross member’s dented. The bonnet must have taken a right dint to bend it. And, like I said before, the stereo was ripped out at some stage. I knew it as soon as I started working on the wiring. I’d have a word with the dealer who sold you this car. If you like I’ll write down everything and you can show him my signature on the bottom. Cowboys, some of them bastards.” He slammed the bonnet closed.
“Thanks, Mr Byrne. You’ve been very helpful. I’ll follow it up.”
“No trouble at all. Call me Fred. I hear the art classes are great gas altogether. The wife was talking about maybe giving them a go.”
She tried to concentrate on what he was saying. His face swam in and out of her line of vision. She accepted the signed sheet of paper and drove home.
The following day she travelled to Dublin.
The title Dublin Echo had always reminded Lorraine of paperboys with sandwich boards. The interior of the newspaper office with its warren of dark corridors did little to banish this perception. She eventually found the library where the back issues of the newspapers were filed. A frail elderly man led her towards a viewfinder and stooped over her, demonstrating how it should be used. His pasty face blended into a fuzzy white beard. She imagined him living his life within the archival reaches of the building, seldom venturing into the brash modern world outside. She found the reports she needed without any difficulty and paid at reception for the back issues. Then she walked the short distance to Temple Bar where Karl Hyland’s jewellery design studio was located.
Karl greeted her with open arms. “Darling girl, too long – too long. What’s this I hear about you becoming a rustic maiden?” He removed imaginary straw from her hair and hugged her again. “How long are you staying? We have to do dinner. But not tonight. Tomorrow? No? Oh dear, cows calling you back so soon? My heart broke when I heard about you and Adrian. As for Virginia, darling – with friends like that who needs a very best enemy? How’s the little one? Cute as ever or has she become one of those revolting teenagers with tongue studs?”
He led her through his shop into the back room where his studio was located. The clutter was in marked contrast to the shop floor where the hushed reverence of a tomb prevailed and an austere young woman in black laid his designs before the public. Karl’s patter remained as fast-paced as ever. He filled Lorraine in on who was doing what and living where and with whom, and how they should all get together for a reunion – a suggestion that filled them both with instant enthusiasm and the guilty know
ledge that it would probably never happen.
“I wanted to ask about my bracelet.” She finally managed to interrupt him.
He stared at her wrist and shook his head in mock disappointment. “An inspired design. Why aren’t you wearing it?”
“I’ve mislaid it for the moment. But I’ll find it, don’t worry.” She stilled his horrified reaction with a smile. “I just wanted to enquire if you’d made any other bracelets using that particular design?”
“What? I’m mortally wounded. When Karl Hyland says unique that’s exactly what he means. How could you even ask such a question?”
“I thought there might be others with a similar pattern.”
“Not with my name on it, how could there be?”
“Did Adrian leave it in to be repaired?”
“It’s some time ago, but I remember. Seeing it again reminded me that I was born to design beautiful things.”
“When did he leave it in?”
“Can’t remember exactly. Let me check the records.” He clicked into a computer, scrolled through names. “Last year, November 20th. Paid for and collected. I’ll cut my throat if you tell me he never gave it back to you.”
“No need for such drastic action. I’ll find it. Moving house has been such an upheaval. Everything’s misplaced.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.” He sighed dramatically. “Twice in the last year I’ve pulled up roots. The first place was a hole, an absolute coal hole, and the cost! Darling, you wouldn’t believe what I was shelling out in rent.” She allowed his voice to wash over her. Karl was easy to be around. No hidden fissures.
Adrian was waiting outside Bewley’s Café. They entered and made their way towards the self-service counter. The din of voices rising towards the stained-glass windows, the aroma of coffee, croissants and bacon, the glow from the open fire, the rustle of newspapers, everything was comfortingly familiar. Breakfast in Bewley’s on a Sunday morning was a treat when Emily was a child yet the very core of their lives had changed and the bustling café was filled with uneasy ghosts. She was not hungry but Adrian insisted on ordering coffee and croissants. He emptied sugar into his cup and stirred it rapidly before speaking again. “You look exhausted. What’s wrong?”