‘Hey!’ She stoops to make a shelf of her thighs for the front paws, rubs the head that butts into her chin, offers her face to be licked. ‘Good girl.’
Dolly’s provenance is uncertain. The pendulous ears of a spaniel, the long nose of a collie, the round barrelly middle and spindly legs of a terrier, the goofy soul of a Lab. Una was slightly disappointed when she discovered that everyone, even total strangers, gets the same enthusiastic welcome. As a guard dog, Dolly is a total disaster.
The back door opens. Una looks up.
‘Thought it was you,’ Judy says.
She wears a blue dressing gown, her hair bumpy with brightly coloured rollers, her face unfamiliar with eye liner, lipstick, foundation – the first time Una has seen her with make-up on.
‘Come here to me,’ she says, and Una crosses the tiny yard, Dolly trotting along beside her. Judy opens her arms and Una steps into them, inhaling the familiar savoury smell of her as they embrace. Day or night, Judy always smells of food.
‘Good to see you,’ she murmurs into the side of Una’s head. ‘Delighted you could come.’ As they draw apart, she frowns. ‘What’s that on your chin?’
‘I bumped it, it’s nothing … I saw the plane,’ Una says, ‘with the banner.’
‘Oh, did you? That was Brian’s boss – he has a pal who does those things. Wasn’t it nice of him? Charlotte hadn’t a clue – he never said a word. Now, get in before we both catch our deaths. No,’ she adds sharply, ‘not you, missy’ – and instantly Dolly’s tail stills, and her rear end thumps down in disappointment.
‘Oh – can she not come in?’ Una wouldn’t normally question Judy, but she hates the thought of the dog stuck out in the cold.
‘Not today she can’t – what if she jumped up on Charlotte? She’ll be fine, don’t you worry about her.’
The kitchen is warm, and smells tantalisingly of sausages. Charlotte sits at the table in pink fleecy pyjamas, eating.
‘Hi there,’ she says, through a mouthful of food, and Una smiles back. She doesn’t know Charlotte well – she’s hardly ever here when Una comes around.
Kevin stands at the worktop, rubbing a brush over and back across a black shoe. He wears yellow rubber gloves and a long-sleeved vest that was probably white once upon a time. One of Judy’s aprons – red and green stripes with a red frill – is tied around his waist, over grey trousers. His hair is shorter than the last time Una saw it.
‘Here she is,’ he says. ‘What’s that on your chin?’
‘I banged into something. It’s OK.’
‘Florrie can cover it with concealer,’ Charlotte says.
They don’t know she had to sneak away from school today. They think Daphne knows about the wedding, they think she knows that Una comes to visit them. All the lies she’s had to tell.
‘Have you eaten?’ Judy asks, and Una remembers the couple of bites of toast earlier.
‘Well …’
‘You’ll have a couple of sausages. They’re made already – I threw them all on. Make room there, Charlotte. You want an egg to go with them, pet?’
That’s the thing about them. They haven’t got much, but they share everything. ‘No, thanks,’ Una says. She’s taking their sausages; that’s enough. She’s glad they don’t know it’s her birthday – they’d definitely want to make a fuss.
‘Sit,’ Kevin says, indicating the chair opposite Charlotte with his brush, and Una pulls it out and sits as Judy bustles from press to cooker.
OK? he mouths over Charlotte’s head, nobody else to see it but Una, and she gives a small nod and bites her lip, feeling tears nearby again. He returns immediately to his polishing, and she keeps her eyes on the table till the urge passes.
‘I saw the plane,’ she tells Charlotte then.
Charlotte grins as she reaches for the butter. ‘Gas, wasn’t it? He never said a word.’
‘Flew so low I thought it was going to come in the window,’ Kevin puts in. ‘Thought it was the Twin Towers all over again.’
‘Shut up, Dad; that’s terrible.’ But she’s still smiling.
‘How’re you feeling?’ Una asks her. For someone getting married in a couple of hours she seems remarkably cool.
‘Grand. Probably get the jitters later. I’m waiting to have my make-up done – Florrie’s upstairs doing Gaby’s now.’ Gaby is her cousin, and her only bridesmaid. ‘What d’you think of Mam?’ she asks, pointing her fork at Judy. ‘She was the first to get done.’
Una smiles. ‘Nice.’ Although looking at Judy is disconcerting today: she’s like someone Una almost knows, but not quite.
‘I think I look a bit ridiculous, to be honest,’ Judy says, placing a plate with three sausages in front of Una, ‘but they insisted.’
‘You look gorgeous, Jude,’ Kevin says. ‘You’re like Maureen O’Hara, only better.’
She flaps a tea towel at him. ‘Listen to that for rubbish – haven’t you those shoes finished yet?’
‘Not till I can see my face in them,’ he tells her, brushing placidly, turning to wink at Una.
Judy gives an impatient puff. ‘Take some bread, pet,’ she says to Una. ‘I made it this morning. Charlotte, pour tea. Kevin, get out the blackberry jam for Una. You’re coming to the church with me and Theo, love – we’re going in Donie’s car.’
Una has no idea who Donie is but she nods. The sausages taste wonderful; she hadn’t realised how hungry she is. She helps herself to a slice of the still-warm soda bread and spreads it with butter, then spoons on Judy’s homemade blackberry jam. ‘Where’s Theo?’
‘Upstairs, getting dickied up,’ Kevin replies. ‘I think he’s out to impress someone today.’
‘Stop that, you,’ Judy says, but Una can feel her face getting warm. She doesn’t mind the teasing, though – they know she and Theo are just friends. It’s his family, or more precisely his parents, she’s fallen in love with. Who would have thought it, of all the families in the world?
It was Theo Quirk’s father, Karen O’Doherty said, a few days after Una had gone back to school. A week after the funeral. Just thought you’d want to know.
Una looked at her. She didn’t hang around with Karen; they rarely talked despite being in the same class for most subjects. There was no animosity between them, just a mutual indifference.
What are you talking about? she asked, although she didn’t really care. It didn’t matter; nothing mattered any more. Dad was gone. That was all she could think about.
It was Theo Quirk’s father who was driving the bin lorry, Karen said, watching Una’s face closely – and it was all Una could do, as the words sank in, to keep it from changing.
I knew that, she lied, taking books from her locker and banging it shut. Walking away from Karen, holding her head high, although it nearly killed her. Not giving her the satisfaction of seeing how close to breakdown she had been brought by the spiteful little piece of information.
Theo Quirk. She knew him to see: he was two years ahead of them, in Leaving Cert. To the best of her recollection they’d never spoken. Una had no idea how she even knew his name.
For the rest of the day she turned the information around in her head. Theo Quirk’s father had driven the bin lorry that had killed her father. She didn’t doubt that it was true – Karen was going out with a boy in Leaving Cert; he must have told her.
All that night in bed she lay awake, trying to digest it. Theo Quirk’s father had killed her father. And even though she knew the lavender bicycle was mostly to blame, the accident wouldn’t have happened if the bin lorry hadn’t been there. He’d played his part, Theo Quirk’s father. She wished him in Hell, along with the rest of his family. She prayed she wouldn’t come face to face with Theo Quirk before he left school in June.
Her prayers weren’t answered. Two days later she was rounding a bend in the corridor on her way to the science lab when she almost ran into him. He was with two friends, and his face as soon as he saw her told her he knew. Of course he knew.
; Hey— he said, but she kept going, almost running to get away from him. They had nothing to say to one another – there was nothing he could say that she might possibly want to hear.
But there he was at the school gate when she came out that afternoon. Standing alone, obviously looking for someone. Looking for her.
Una, he said as she approached. She walked past him, quickened her pace. Heading straight home, like she did every day now.
He followed. Listen, he said, please – but she was deaf to him. She broke into a run, kept running until her heart felt like it was going to burst. She sped across streets, heedless of cars, she raced around startled pedestrians – she narrowly avoided tripping over a baby’s buggy on her flight to escape him.
She stopped on the point of collapse and slumped against a wall, trying to catch her breath – and there he was, behind her all the way. There was nothing she could do; she was too exhausted even to tell him to get lost.
Look, he panted, I know you don’t want to talk to me, I understand that—
She turned her back on him, tried to blot him out as she pushed away from the wall and forced her legs to move again.
It was an accident, he called after her. My dad is in bits over it, we all are—
She closed her eyes against the tears that suddenly threatened, bit down hard on her lip. Kept going, kept stumbling away from him.
Honest, if you knew how bad he feels about—
She stopped then, wheeled around. Glared at him, outraged, her heart still going mad inside her. Your father is alive, she panted back at him. Mine is dead. I don’t give a damn about how bad he feels. I wish he was the one who was dead – I wish you were all dead.
He made no response, just stood there. People were listening, heads swivelling to stare at them. Let them, she didn’t care. She turned away and marched off, trying to swallow a huge lump in her throat, knowing he wouldn’t follow her this time.
She told nobody what had happened, not even Ciara. For weeks after that she hurried from class to class, determined to blank him if they encountered one another, but there was no sign of him – he must have been equally resolved to avoid her.
In the meantime she found the shop keys and began revisiting there, trying to fool herself through her homework each afternoon, yearning for the sound of her father’s voice, for the weight of his hand on her shoulder, the whirr of his bicycle wheels, the music of his laughter.
But as the days wore on, as the fierce intensity of her grief began to subside, she found herself straying back to the awful words she’d spat at Theo Quirk. I wish he was the one who was dead: had she really said that? It wasn’t true. She did hate him for what he’d done, but she didn’t wish him dead. It wouldn’t bring Dad back; no good would come of it. It was a hurtful thing to say, something a child would throw out in a temper. She was ashamed of it.
It preyed on her mind. She resolved to apologise, and put it behind her. She didn’t need anything to make her feel any worse than she already did.
A week before school finished she stood at the gates watching for him, just like he had for her, and praying that nobody she knew would spot her and come over. When he emerged from the building in a group, her nerve almost deserted her. He might tell her to get lost, to shove her apology. He might ridicule her in front of his friends. But she had to do it, for her own peace of mind.
Theo, she called when she spotted him, the first time she’d used his name.
He turned, stopped dead, stared at her. She was conscious of others looking, of his friends stopping too. He muttered something to them and walked over.
Can we talk, just for a minute? she asked, and he nodded. She led him a little way down the street, away from the crowds.
I wanted to say I’m sorry, she said quietly. I was … upset, last time, I didn’t mean—
To her horror she felt her eyes fill with tears. She’d cried a river since Dad died, and still out they came with half an ounce of encouragement. She couldn’t seem to stop them. She scrabbled in her pockets for a tissue, and when she found none she scrubbed her face hard with a sleeve.
It’s OK, he mumbled, forget it. I know how I’d feel if I lost my dad.
You don’t, she replied bleakly, thumbing away fresh tears. You don’t have a clue, until it happens.
She turned away. They had nothing more to say to one another.
Listen, he said rapidly. I know this is a lot to ask, but you wouldn’t … meet him, would you?
She stopped. She turned, frowning. Meet who?
My father, he said. Could you – would you meet him?
She mustn’t have heard right. She stared at him. She couldn’t have heard that right.
Say no if you want, he went on. I’ll understand if you say no, but he’s in a really bad way. He still blames himself for what happened. He hasn’t gone back to work since. My mother’s afraid he— He broke off, mouth clamping shut, face reddening, gaze dropping to the ground.
Una couldn’t believe it. Was he serious? He wanted her to meet the man who’d taken her dad away? What planet was he on?
You have got to be kidding, she said flatly. She hitched her rucksack onto her shoulder, began to walk away again, willing him to shut up.
He didn’t shut up. If you came, he said, if he could … just tell you how sorry he is, I think it might help him.
Once more she turned back, unable to let it go. It might help him? You expect me to help him, after what he did?
His face tightened. It was an accident, he said quietly. An accident.
She glared at him, more angry words on the tip of her tongue – and then, out of the blue, a memory slipped into her head.
They were having breakfast, just the two of them. It was after Mum and before Daphne. Dad was reading the newspaper. Una, who must have been eight or nine, was eating cornflakes.
Listen to this, Dad said, and he read to her about drivers in California stopping at a motorway toll booth and paying twice, once for themselves and once for the driver in the car behind. Random acts of kindness, they’re calling them, he told her. Isn’t that cool, doing something nice for a complete stranger?
Una didn’t think it was cool. It sounded naff to her. Why would you pay for someone you don’t even know? she asked. They couldn’t pay you back, even if they wanted to, cos they wouldn’t know where you lived.
He smiled. Because it would make them happy, it would brighten their day. And it wouldn’t have to be something that costs money – you could help people out in other ways, like letting someone share your umbrella in the rain or … helping someone across the road, or carrying their shopping. It could be anything at all. I think it’s a great idea.
She didn’t think it was a great idea at all. Maybe people wouldn’t want to share a stranger’s umbrella – maybe they’d think you wanted to rob their shopping if you offered to carry it. But Dad had raised the newspaper again, so she said no more and went back to her breakfast.
And after that she began to notice him doing them, these random acts of kindness. He’d pass on a parking disc if there was time left on it, offer directions without being asked to tourists holding maps. He’d allow someone with just a few groceries to go ahead of him in the supermarket checkout queue. Once he found a travel pass and cycled across town to return it to the address printed on it. And, yes, he carried a person’s shopping more than once.
She noticed these things – it made her half embarrassed, half proud when she witnessed one – but she never thought about doing the same herself. She’d feel a bit awkward, approaching perfect strangers. And Ciara and the others might laugh at her.
So what did it mean, remembering all this now? Could it be some sort of a sign from him? Was it his way of saying, Now’s your chance?
But this was different. This was nothing like the things he did. For a start, it wasn’t random: she was being asked to do it. And the things he’d done had been small, and simple to do, and this was big, this was huge, and there was nothing simple
about it.
But still the doubt scratched at her, the question remained: was Dad asking her to do this incredibly difficult thing? Did he think she was capable of coming face to face with the man who had killed him, accident or not? The notion of meeting the bin-lorry driver filled her with dread, made her churn inside.
But reverse the situation, put Dad in her shoes, and she knew he’d do it: she’d known him well enough to be sure of that. He’d want to help. He’d want to forgive the other man and brighten his day. She knew this to be true, even as she shied away from it.
And maybe that was reason enough to say yes, if she could dig deep enough and find the strength.
She became aware of Theo standing silently by. She met his eye. Neither of them spoke for what seemed to her like an awfully long time. He was taller than her. His tie was askew. Anyone observing them would probably think they were eyeing each other up for quite a different reason.
I’ll think about it, she said, and walked off – and in the week that followed, the last week of school before the summer holidays, it was all she thought about. As she sat alone each afternoon in the little back room of the shop, trying and failing to concentrate on her homework, she returned to it again and again.
What would he be like? He drove a bin lorry for a living – what did that make him? She didn’t know anyone with a job like that: all her friends had parents who worked in banks or offices or shops, or ran their own businesses.
He might be fine – Theo seemed OK. But what if he wasn’t? He’s in a bad way, Theo had said – what if he turned up drunk to meet her? What if he didn’t want to meet her at all, what if this whole thing was just Theo’s idea? What if his father was horrible, and sneered or swore at her?
At least once a day she decided she couldn’t face it, she wasn’t strong enough. But then she’d think of Dad – and she knew that if she was ever to find peace again she’d have to go through with it.
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