by Peter Murphy
“Now!” Grainne commanded and they both froze. She had begun to be more assertive with them. She had told Rachael that she had to or they would turn out just like her. The kids tugged at their shoes and tossed them aside and were gone. Doug took Grainne’s coat like a gentleman and hung it. He shook hands with Martin, but he was in a hurry, too, and followed his kids inside.
“He’s worse than the other two.” Grainne laughed as she brushed cheeks with her brother. “And you”—she smiled as Rachael came from the kitchen—“look radiant.”
Rachael blushed a little and leaned forward to kiss her sister-in-law. “You’re the one who looks beautiful.” Grainne did. She had finally cut her hair, short at the back and sides with a long fringe. She had lost her weight and looked better than she had in years.
“Please!” She laughed again and hugged Rachael. “And thanks. I hope we’re not too early. The kids have been pestering me since lunchtime.”
“You should have come earlier then.” Martin stood back and smiled at her.
“I would, but you know Doug. Too much excitement and he’d need a nap. Are mother and Granny here yet?”
“They’re on their way. Granny had to do some last minute shopping.”
“She should have called me and not bothered Mom.”
“Mom offered.”
“Hmm. Sounds like they’re up to something. And when are your parents getting here?” She turned to follow Rachael into the kitchen.
“My dad is picking up your father and they’ll collect my mother on the way. They should be here after nine.”
Rachael poured Grainne a glass of red wine and raised her glass of grape juice. She had used a wine glass so no one would notice. “Happy Christmas, Grainne.”
“Happy Holidays, Rachael, and congratulations.”
“How did you know?”
“Don’t you think I know what being pregnant looks like?”
“Well . . . we’re not ready to tell everybody just yet, so if you could keep it quiet . . .”
“Mum’s the word.”
“Mum’s the word.”
Deirdre and Jacinta arrived and set the kids off again. Even Martin Jr. forgot himself and joined in with his rowdier cousins. Deirdre didn’t mind, but it all became too much for Jacinta who had to be rescued and brought to the kitchen and fortified with a glass of sherry.
She said she didn’t mind as Christmas was really for the children, and she was effusive in her praise for how well the house was decorated. “It looks like a real Christmas,” she decreed and everyone let that one slide.
“I think it just might be the best Christmas ever,” Jacinta added and winked at Grainne. “Your mother and I were just chatting,” she added with another wink.
**
“I know it would be asking a lot of you.” Jacinta had paused for effect.
They had stopped for coffee after a few hours of combing through what was left in the stores. Jacinta seemed determined to rid herself of the last of her money before going back—buying a few last minute things for the kids, and their kids. “But I was just wondering if there’s any way you might consider giving Danny another chance?”
Deirdre didn’t react. She knew the question was coming when Jacinta asked if they could spend some time alone. Instead, she looked across at the face of an old woman who just wanted to see her corner of the world right before she left. Deirdre’s father had looked the same as he struggled with his last few breaths. He’d wanted Deirdre to know how sorry he was about her mother and all. He still insisted it was all his fault and Deirdre didn’t try to argue the fact. There was no point; not at the end of his days.
Nor was there much point with Jacinta. She was nearly done and, even though she tried to hide it, Deirdre could see how much this trip was taking out of her. She was right to spend what she had left with those she loved—and those who loved her.
“I’m not going to rush into anything.”
She and Ritchie had parted ways. It was inevitable when she returned from Rome. She knew he had felt excluded and nothing she could say could penetrate the distrust that was growing inside him. She’d tried for a while but she wasn’t prepared to commit to someone who was fatally wounded. His wife had taken him for everything she could and he’d never recover from that.
She wondered if it wasn’t a bit callous of her, but Martin and Rachael disagreed. Grainne was concerned she might be becoming unfeeling for a while, but seemed to have changed her view.
“But you won’t rule it out?”
Deirdre avoided lying for the most part but what else could she do?
“I won’t.”
“Well, that gives me something to look forward to and, at this stage of my life, most of it is behind me. I just want everyone to be happy. Is that too much for an old woman to ask?”
“No, it isn’t. And we are happy—for the most part. We’ve been through the worst of it and life goes on.”
“You must be very proud.”
“I am, and you should be too. You had as much to do with it as I did.”
“That’s awful nice of you to say and, if I was helpful—I’m glad. Only you promise that you’ll consider it?”
“I promise.”
***
“What are you two plotting?” Martin asked as he poured the sherry.
“Can’t I even have a moment with my own granddaughter?” Jacinta pretended to scold him. “You’re not jealous, are you?”
Martin might have taken the bait but the doorbell rang and Danny, Joel and Adina arrived and set the kids into another tizzy. It was time to open the presents and Papa Joel had been selected to play Santa this year. He even wore a hat and beard that Rachael had bought for him. He wasn’t plump but made up for it with loud ho ho ho-ing, until they all gathered around the tree in the large, warm front room with the dancing flicker of a log fire.
And when at last every gift had been opened, and the mounds of discarded wrap had been put away, and the children had fallen asleep where they played, the adults sat around and talked and laughed as a family should. Joel, still wearing the Santa hat, sat back and put his arm around Adina. Grainne and Doug, squeezed into a single chair, giggled and kissed as if they were alone. Rachael took time from attending to them all and stood with Martin and Danny. They were still a bit stiff and formal together but it was a start.
In time, Jacinta rose from her place of honor by the fire and quietly asked Deirdre to help her to the kitchen. She returned alone and whispered in Danny’s ear before sitting back by the fire.
“Let’s sing a few Christmas songs,” she announced to them all as Danny sidled out.
Deirdre was sitting in the breakfast room. She had aged but she had done it with grace and poise. She smiled up at him when he entered and motioned for him to sit opposite her. “Your mother said that you wanted to talk with me.”
“She told me you wanted to talk with me.”
Deirdre laughed at that. “Well we better talk then. She has asked me to consider . . . you know.”
“I know, and I want you to know that it wasn’t my idea.”
“Well I have considered it.” She looked him in the eye and slowly shook her head. “And it is not something I can see myself doing.” She paused to gauge his reaction but he was impassive. That was what was different this time. Since Rome, Danny seemed to be finding peace and it showed in his face. “I’m happy for you, Danny, and I hope with all my heart that you make it this time. But I cannot go back to what we once were. Do you understand?”
“I do, and I wish my mother hadn’t tried to do this.”
“It was well meant.”
“The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”
“Yes, it certainly is, but we’ve been there and now we’re back.”
“Yes we have, and now I just want us to be friends, Deirdre,
and to share our family as that. I want our grandchildren to see us together—not as a couple—just as two people who’ll be there for them for as long as we get.”
“That, I can do.”
“Then that’s enough to be getting on with for now.”
“And what about your mother?”
“We’re going to have to lie and pretend that we’re working things out. For a while, anyway. She can’t live forever.”
“Are you not afraid she might come back and haunt us?”
“She might, but I wouldn’t worry about stuff like that. The dead understand life far better than the living. And I should know—they’ve been haunting me all my life.”
Deirdre smiled a little. Drunk or sober, Danny would always have a touch of melodrama about him. He used to say it was because he was poetic. Deirdre used to like that about him, but then they had to grow up. That was life, regardless of whatever his ghosts had been telling him. “Oh Danny boy, you might just become a wise old man yet.”
“I doubt it, but I’m going to do everything I can to die a sober one.”
They smiled at each other and Deirdre rose to go back to their family.
“I’m not interrupting?” Martin asked from the doorway, hesitantly.
“No. No you weren’t. I was just heading back inside.” Deirdre walked towards him and extended her hand.
“Actually . . .” Martin almost stammered, “I wanted to have a word with Dad.”
Deirdre smiled at both of them and left before her eyes welled up. She always knew that Martin would do the right thing in the end.
“I have something for you,” Martin said, and looked his father in the eye. “It’s not actually from me. An old friend of yours asked me to give it to you.” He walked past his father and retrieved a battered old guitar case from a closet. “Billie found this in a pawn shop and thought you might want it back.”
It was Danny’s old Guild. He had pawned it years ago and lost the ticket.
“And if you can still remember how to play it, Rachael and I would like you to play for the kids. It would make their Christmases.” And before Danny could answer, Martin reached out and hugged him. It was quick—and jock-like with backslapping—but it was the best he could manage.
After he left, Danny sat with his old guitar on his lap, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. He had been a lousy grandson and son—and he’d been a worse husband and father—but he was going to be the best grandfather ever. He strummed his way through a few chords and it wasn’t bad. A bit muffled by his soft fingertips but he could still get the changes. He’d do “Jingle Bells.” That would get everybody going. After that he’d just play it by ear.
And that would just be the beginning. He’d spend every moment he could telling his grandchildren the stories of Finn MacCool and the Fianna, or Oisin and his trip to Tir Na N’Og. His life up to now might have been a total disaster but he’d end on a high note, and his grandchildren would only remember a man who loved them for what they were—and not what the world said they should be. He’d use everything he’d learned along the way to guide them as best he could. It was the least he owed them all, and all who had gone before them: Nora and Bart, and his father.
Later, as he stood in the living room, surrounded by family, he couldn’t help feeling that they were all smiling down on him. His uncle Martin, too.
Even Anto was there. “Fair play to you, Boyle,” he seemed to say. “You did all right in the end.” And even though the world was still spinning out of control, the Boyles and the Brands were at peace with each other.
Acknowledgments
Throughout the book I have cited the mantras and slogans commonly used in Alcoholics Anonymous in recognition for the enormous impact they have had on so many lives.
Likewise I have “borrowed” from various writers—the saints and sinners of antiquity—and have credited them in the text. Their words still have resonance whether we agree with them or not.
I am, again, deeply indebted to my editor, Lou Aronica, and all the good people at The Story Plant, for allowing me to weave the tale of Danny Boyle and the times he struggled through. Without their encouragement and support Danny’s story would not have been told.
Likewise, I owe a huge debt to the great many people who I have met in my own life and times who taught me to look into the shadows and how to listen to the voices of the dead. My late mother, who taught me to love reading; Padraig J. Daly, who leaves a trail of beautiful words in his poetry; Jim G., who plucked me from the fires of my own hell many years ago; and my brothers, Sean, Barry, Richard, Paul, and Ciaran.
My children, Damien and Aidan, who taught me so much about life as they grew into fine young men.
And of course to my wife, Eduarda, who not only loved and cared for me during the three years I was writing this trilogy but has joined me on my next great adventure.
And to all of you who have taken the time to read the books.
May we all find peace and serenity before the end.
Peter
Lisbon, April 19th 2015
About the Author
Raised in Dublin, the city of songs and stories, Peter Murphy grew up on books and music. As a young man he spent time trekking around Europe before moving to Canada where, after a few years battling some personal demons, he fell in love and raised a family.
When his children reached adulthood and, having written four novels, Murphy packed up his life and moved back to Europe with his loving wife and faithful dog.
He now lives in Lisbon where he plans to study the lugubriousness of love.
Also by Peter Murphy
Danny Boyle was a born angel.
At least that’s what his granny used to say, and she should know – she raised him after his parents proved incapable. When she becomes ill, Danny is reunited with his parents but they do not get to live happily ever after, as the ghosts of the past haunt their days. And when the old woman dies, all of her secrets come to light and shatter everything Danny believes in.
In the turmoil of 1970’s Ireland, an alienated Danny gets into drugs and is involved in a gangland killing. Duped by the killers into leaving his prints on the gun, Danny needs all the help his friends and family can muster. Calling in favors from bishops and priests, police and paramilitaries, God and the devil, the living and the dead, they do all that they can. But even that might not be enough.
Here’s an excerpt:
On the night of Aug 10th, nineteen seventy-seven, Daniel Bartholomew Boyle made the biggest mistake of his young life, one that was to have far-reaching consequences for him and those around him. He might have argued that the course of his life had already been determined by happenings that occurred before he was born but, poor Catholic that he was, riddled with guilt and shame, he believed that he, and he alone, was responsible. He had been dodging the inevitable since Scully got lifted but he knew it was only a matter of time before it caught up with him. Perhaps that was why he paused in front of the old cinema in Terenure after weeks of skulking in the shadows. Perhaps that was why he waited in the drizzle as the passing car turned back and pulled up beside him.
“Get in the car, Boyle.”
Danny wanted to make an excuse – to say that he was waiting for someone – but he knew better.
And it wouldn’t do to keep them waiting. They weren’t the patient sort, twitchy and nervous, and single-minded without a shred of compassion. He looked around but the streets were empty. There was no one to help him now, standing like a target in front of the art deco facade of the Classic.
The cinema had been closed for over a year, its light and projectors darkened, and now lingered in hope of new purpose. He had spent hours in there with Deirdre, exploring each other in the dark while watching the midnight film, stoned out of their minds, back when they first started doing the stuff. He used to do a lot of his dealing there, too,
around the back where no one ever looked.
“Come on, Boyle. We haven’t got all fuckin’ night.”
Danny’s bowels fluttered as he stooped to look inside the wet black car. Anthony Flanagan was sitting in the passenger’s seat, alongside a driver Danny had seen around. He was called “The Driller” and they said he was from Derry and was lying low in Dublin. They said he was an expert at knee-capping and had learned his trade from the best. Danny had no choice; things would only get worse if he didn’t go along with them.
“How are ya?” He tested the mood as he settled into the back seat beside a cowered and battered Scully. He had known Scully since he used to hang around the Dandelion Market. He was still at school then and spent his Saturday afternoons there, down the narrow covered lane that ran from Stephen’s Green into the Wonderland where the hip of Dublin could come together to imitate what was going on in the rest of the world – but in a particularly Dublin way.
Dave, the busker, always took the time to nod to him as he passed. Dave was black and played Dylan in a Hendrix way. He always wore an afghan coat and his guitar was covered with peace symbols. Danny would drop a few coins as he passed and moved on between the stalls as Dylan gave way to Horslips, Rory Gallagher, and Thin Lizzy.
The stalls were stacked with albums and tapes, josh sticks and tie-dyed t-shirts with messages like “Peace” and “Love,” pictures of green plants and yellow Happy Faces along with posters of Che, whose father’s people had come from Galway.
The stalls were run by Hippies from such far-out places as Blackrock and Sandyford, students from Belfield and Trinity, and a select few from Churchtown. They were all so aloof as they tried to mask their involvement in commercialism under a veneer of cool. Danny knew most of them by sight, and some by name. On occasion he’d watch over their stalls when they had to get lunch or relieve themselves. He was becoming a part of the scene.
***
“Hey Boyle!”
Danny had seen Scully around before but they had never spoken. Scully, everyone said, was the guy to see about hash and acid, and, on occasion, some opium.