‘Maybe it’s time . . .’ Jo paused, glancing at Keelin uncertainly.
‘Maybe it’s time to what?’
‘Alex is almost an adult,’ her friend said. ‘He’ll be off to college soon. You won’t always be there to rescue him, Keels.’
‘I’m not trying to “rescue” him; he’s my son. I just want him to be happy. I don’t think that’s a crime, is it? Especially after everything he’s been through.’
‘Of course.’ Johanna put her arm around Keelin’s waist and squeezed tightly. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. You’re the most loyal, supportive person on Inisrún. That’s why we love you, isn’t it, Seán?’ Their friend snorted, and told them to leave him out of this. ‘And I don’t even have kids,’ Jo said. ‘What do I know?’
‘Wait,’ Seán interrupted, tapping the side of his head as if he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of this earlier. ‘I have the perfect solution.’ He paused for dramatic effect, pretending to do a drum roll on the wooden table. ‘Nessa!’
‘Nessa, your niece?’
‘Do you know another Nessa on Rún, d’ya?’ he asked, and Keelin stuck out her tongue in response; she always regressed to acting like a ten-year-old when she was around him. ‘I’ll have you know my goddaughter got an A1 in honours maths in the Leaving, and she’s in second year of Mathematical Science at UCC now, no less.’
‘Yeah, we’re well aware of that. You wouldn’t stop going on about it last year.’ Jo smirked. ‘You’d swear it was you who was doing your exams.’
‘Nessa is giving grinds to earn money.’ Seán ignored their friend. ‘She’s got the grant, but Cork is still an expensive city to live in.’
Nessa Crowley’s results seemed to be the only topic of conversation on the island for days after they were announced. Did you hear the eldest Crowley Girl got six hundred points in her Leaving, and all higher-level subjects? Keelin was asked at Mass and when she was picking up Evie from school and down by the pier waiting for the ferry, until she wanted to reply in exasperation, You do realise other people sat their exams too, don’t you?
‘But . . .’ Keelin hesitated. Wouldn’t Brendan Crowley mind if his daughter came to work in Hawthorn House? she wanted to ask. Her husband thought Brendan adored him, assuming the school principal was eternally grateful to the Kinsellas for the money they’d sunk into the island’s education system, but Keelin was from Inisrún and she knew how these things worked. The more money Henry spent trying to fit in, the less people here liked him. She could see them suppressing an eye-roll when her husband attempted to speak Irish, or when he mentioned, yet again, how his mother had been born here, his accent suddenly sounding more foreign, more English, than it ever had before.
‘Won’t Nessa be busy with her college work?’ Johanna said, a side-glance at Keelin telling her that her friend understood her reservations. ‘She’s hardly going to want to traipse home every weekend to give grinds to a teenage boy, is she?’
‘Ah, you know what those girls are like,’ Seán said. ‘They can’t survive without each other. Róisín and Sinéad were wailing the day Nessa left – you’d swear she was after getting on a coffin ship rather than the ferry to the mainland. She’ll be home every weekend anyway, mark my words. I’m telling you, she’d jump at the chance to work for you.’
‘Nessa Crowley,’ Keelin said, relenting. She stirred sugar into her coffee. ‘Well, well. You might be the solution to all my problems.’
Chapter Eight
Keelin Kinsella
Keelin: I met my ex-husband in my first year of college. He was ahead of me in the checkout queue and he turned and said, Have you ever heard of a vegetable, girl? because my basket was full of baked beans and pasta, you know, typical student stuff. When I’d paid, he asked if I needed help with my bag and he walked me home. And that was that, I guess. Within weeks, we were boyfriend and girlfriend and he was telling me I was beautiful, I was special, that he’d never felt like this about anyone else in his whole life. It was very full on.
Jake: Did that set off any alarm bells?
Keelin: It didn’t, to be honest. I’ll admit, I’d been lonely up until that point, I missed Seán and Johanna so much, and my ex-husband was the only person to show any real interest in me since I’d arrived at UCC. At the start of second year I fell pregnant, and by Christmas I’d dropped out of my course. I’d go back after the baby was born, I said. We were married by the time I was four months gone – a registry job, my parents weren’t even there; he said it would be more romantic if it was just the two of us. He made it sound . . . anyway, it was done before I knew it, really – and then he wanted to move back to Carlow, where he was from. He said his mother could help out with the baby. It made more sense, he said.
Noah: What was it like in Carlow?
Keelin: Oh God, it was awful. It was in the middle of nowhere, the nearest neighbour was miles away. I wanted to get a job; I was so young and I thought it would be a good way of meeting people, but my ex said I should concentrate on the baby. All I had to do was ask him for money if I needed it, I wouldn’t go without. But the house was so isolated, I said, I was afraid I’d be lonely. And he told me it wasn’t isolated, it was private, there was a difference. (pause) I soon found out what could happen with that man in private.
Noah: I’m sorry, Keelin. Did you ever call the police about the abuse?
Keelin: Ah, look. The worst of it happened at night-time and the local garda station wasn’t open twenty-four hours a day. I’d have had to wait until morning to talk to someone and by then . . . well, things always seemed better by then. (pause) And a friend of his from the rugby club was a guard – we used to have dinner with him and his wife sometimes. It was too embarrassing, I guess, the thought of having to make a complaint to him, knowing he’d go home and tell his wife too. I wasn’t sure if he would even believe me, everyone always said what a great guy my ex was. Salt of the earth, you know.
Jake: You were still in Carlow when you heard the news about your father, weren’t you?
Keelin: Yeah. When the phone rang – I wasn’t supposed to answer it during the day, my ex didn’t like the idea of me chatting to my parents or Jo and Seán; he said they’d only be filling my head with stupid ideas about moving back to the island. But the phone kept ringing and ringing, and Alex was screaming, and I couldn’t take it any longer so I picked it up. It was just weeping at the start; it took me a few minutes before I even realised it was my mother at the other end of the line. Mam, I said. Mam, what’s wrong? But I didn’t need her to tell me. I already knew.
Jake: What did you do then?
Keelin: I had to wait until my ex-husband came home. He checked the petrol and the mileage every night to make sure I hadn’t gone anywhere; I wasn’t allowed to use the Toyota by myself. He said I was a bad driver and he didn’t want his son in the car with me, it was too dangerous, he said. So I sat there and I waited.
Mark had found her sitting on the floor that evening, the phone still cradled in her lap. I don’t think you should go, he said when she told him. My father is dead. She said the words carefully, one by one, trying to make them real. Keelin stared at him, shocked. But it’s Daddy’s funeral, she said. He never liked me, did he? Mark replied, and Keelin wondered if this was another test. Was she supposed to ring Mam back and tell her no, she wouldn’t be coming? But she couldn’t do that, she realised. She packed hurriedly, grabbing nappies and a change of clothes for Alex, shoving a black dress and shoes into an overnight suitcase for herself. As Keelin drove to Cork, she thought of her father, how gentle he had been, how loving, how much he’d adored his only daughter. But she didn’t cry. She was too afraid to cry.
‘I got home in time for the funeral,’ she said, swallowing hard. Jake passed her a box of Kleenex from the kitchen counter and she smiled gratefully at him, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. ‘And that was all that mattered really.’
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br /> ‘I’ve heard there are some cool funeral traditions here,’ Noah said from his corner, headphones on as he checked the audio levels again. ‘My grandparents have told me a little bit, but I’d love to hear you describe it, Keelin.’
She could have told them about meeting her mother in the hospital that night, the older woman collapsing into her arms. How thin Cáit had felt, how much weight she’d lost since Keelin had last seen her. What will we do now? she asked and Keelin didn’t know how to reply. The boat trip back to the island, the ferryman quiet. The lights at the pier, the islanders holding candles to welcome Tomás Ó Mordha home for the last time. Walking up the steep hill to their cottage, the coffin balanced on the shoulders of six strong men. The wake – the songs and the stories, the tea and the scones – and then the coffin going into the ground, a bed of flowers awaiting him, and Keelin thinking, My father is in that grave. My father is dead.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m too tired to go into all that now, Noah. I’m sorry.’
‘What about your mother’s death? I understand Alex was—’
‘No,’ she said again. ‘That’s it for tonight.’
‘Too right,’ Jake said, shooting Noah an annoyed look. ‘You’ve been great, Keelin. We really appreciate it.’
The Australians had called to Hawthorn House earlier, asking if they could ‘borrow’ Keelin for the evening. She’d been in the kitchen but she could hear them on the porch, Henry joking, saying he’d have to check with the missus. When the front door closed, Keelin walked into the hall, waiting for her husband to speak.
Do you want to go, darling? he asked.
Do you think I should, Henry?
It couldn’t hurt, he said so she went upstairs to fix her make-up. Be careful, he said as she left. I always am, she replied.
In Marigold Cottage, she copied Jake and took her boots off, leaving them on the shoe rack inside. She had sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea as the two men set up for their interview, chatting easily about their plans for the documentary. It was July now; they’d been on the island for two months and they weren’t scheduled to return to Sydney until January. That’s a long time, Keelin said. We’ve been lucky with you guys giving us free accommodation, Noah admitted. That makes a huge difference to our budget.
But there are only so many people here to interview – sure, there’s barely two hundred people living on the island these days, she said, and they explained that they wouldn’t be on Inisrún all the time, they’d be travelling to the mainland and to the UK as well, they had plenty of interviews set up over there. Listen, Jake said, his eyes on her, we want this documentary to be different from anything else that has been made about the Misty Hill case. That’s why we’ve moved here; we want to fully immerse ourselves in island life. We want this to be an in-depth exploration of a community torn apart by violence and we can’t do that over a couple of weeks. This has to be done properly.
‘Keelin,’ Jake said now, motioning at his friend to help him tidy up their equipment, ‘do you want to stay for dinner?’
‘Nah, yeah,’ Noah said, putting the camera lid back on. ‘Jake is a brilliant cook – the first thing he did when we visited Cork city was find an Asian supermarket to stock up on spices. He likes that expensive shit.’
‘I don’t know if I’d call it “shit”,’ Jake said drily. ‘You’re really selling my skills here, mate.’ He smiled at Keelin. ‘We’d be glad to have you though, if you’d like.’
She checked her phone. It was eight p.m., and she had told Henry she’d be home by nine thirty at the latest. ‘OK.’ She made her mind up, thinking of that dark, silent house, and all the questions Henry would have for her when she arrived home. Asking how the interview had gone, what the men had asked her, what she’d said in response, circling around and around until she would want to fall down in exhaustion. ‘That would be lovely, thank you.’
She and Noah sat at the rickety old table while Jake cooked, the kitchen full of sizzling heat and the smell of frying onions, garlic and ginger. He had his back to them but it was clear he was listening carefully to their conversation, stifling a snort when Noah made one of his ridiculous jokes, becoming very still whenever Keelin said anything, as if he wanted to make sure he didn’t miss a word. ‘It’s just beef pho,’ Jake said when he was finished, placing steaming bowls of noodle soup on the table. ‘And not even a proper version – my ma would be disgusted that I didn’t boil bones for the broth.’ He faltered, ever so slightly, when he mentioned his mother, and Noah rushed to fill the silence, chattering about his boyfriend, Jamie, who was a doctor (‘Creative people need to date someone who has a proper job, Keelin – at least one steady pay cheque should be coming in, don’t you agree?’) and his parents’ reaction when he came out as gay (‘Mam just said, yeah, we thought as much, and Dad said he was proud of me and promptly left the room and never mentioned it again.’) He teased Jake incessantly – about his terrible surfing skills, his love life, how obsessed Jake was with work. Jake took it with good humour, rolling his eyes and calling Noah an obnoxious gronk. Keelin asked what a gronk was, and the two men competed to find the most outlandish Aussie slang they could teach her, shouting over one another until Keelin was giggling helplessly and wiping tears from her eyes. She couldn’t remember the last time she had enjoyed herself so much, staring at her empty plate in astonishment when Jake asked if she wanted a second helping. She had eaten the entire portion. She never did that any more.
‘Top of the morning to you, Mammy,’ Noah said as he answered his phone. Keelin could hear an indignant tone on the other side. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Is that not how the fine people speak on this here Emerald Isle? Begorrah, be God.’ He started to laugh at whatever his mother’s reply was. ‘OK, OK.’ He put the phone on speaker. ‘Say g’day to Jakey and Keelin,’ he said, holding the phone out, and an Irish voice said, ‘Hi, Jake. Hi, Keelin.’ Noah tilted his head towards his bedroom, mouthing ‘ten minutes’ at them.
‘Was that actually Keelin Kinsella?’ his mother asked, the phone still on speaker, as Noah closed the door behind him. ‘Tell me everything! What’s she really—’ and then it went silent, and all they could hear was the muffled sound of Noah’s voice through the walls, the creak of mattress springs as he sat on the bed.
‘I should go,’ she said.
‘Don’t,’ Jake said. ‘I’m sorry about that. Noah’s mother doesn’t mean any harm. She—’
‘It’s all right.’ She looked around the cottage, the only one that had been salvageable after Misty Hill burned down. The thick wooden beams across the ceiling and the cracked slate floor, the súgán chairs with their woven seats, the half-door in a bright yellow. It was a cliché: stone walls painted white and a thatched roof – what a foreigner would think an Irish cottage should look like. But that was the image the Kinsellas had wanted to create for Misty Hill. Traditional sells, Jonathan Kinsella said, and he had always prided himself on being a good salesman.
‘Please stay,’ Jake said. ‘Have some more wine?’
She looked at her iPhone again. There was a text from Henry, wondering where she was. Do you need me to rescue you, darling? She turned it face down. ‘Maybe half a glass,’ she said.
They talked for another two hours after that. Jake asked about growing up on the island, the changes she had seen in her lifetime, if she’d ever considered leaving Inisrún. It didn’t feel like an interview this time; he appeared genuinely interested in learning more about her. She wasn’t sure if it was the heat of the fire or the red wine – she wasn’t used to alcohol any more, she’d barely drunk since the night of the party – but Keelin felt like her tongue was stirring loose, all the words she had swallowed during the last ten years re-forming on her lips, eager to be spoken.
‘You dropped out of uni when you were pregnant but you went back as a mature student when Alex was a little kid, right? That’s pretty impressive.�
� Jake said, going to top up Keelin’s drink.
‘Not really,’ she said, putting her hand over the glass to stop him.
‘How would you describe it then?’
‘Selfish, probably. I should have stayed at home with Alex; it wasn’t right leaving him here with my mother. Not the way she was.’ Keelin gestured at Jake to pass her the water jug instead. She couldn’t go home tipsy; it wouldn’t be fair to Henry. ‘He was the best kid though,’ she said, smiling as she remembered her son waving her off at the pier every Sunday, blowing kisses and squealing with joy as she pretended to catch them. ‘He never complained about me being away for most of the week. He made it easy for me.’
‘You trained to be a psychiatrist, I read,’ Jake said. Of course he had read up about her – he probably had dossiers full of information about Keelin, about her childhood and her education, every relationship she’d ever had, all in the name of research. It was uncomfortable, and a stark reminder of the imbalance of power between the two of them, the advantage this man had over her.
‘No, that was yet another thing the papers got wrong,’ she said deliberately. ‘It was a course in Counselling and Psychotherapy.’
‘Did you ever use your degree?’ He held his hand out for Keelin’s plate, stacking it on top of his own. She gathered the cutlery and followed him to the sink.
‘I worked in a shelter for battered women on the mainland, but you already know that, don’t you?’ she said, leaning against the counter as Jake loaded the dishwasher. ‘It was the hardest work I’ve ever done in my life but I loved it too. Well, “love” is probably the wrong word. But it felt . . . necessary. Like I was doing something important, something that would actually make a difference in other people’s lives. That sounds a bit grandiose, doesn’t it?’ She cleared her throat, embarrassed. ‘Not that it matters any more. I was told my services were no longer needed after . . .’
After the Silence Page 5