Noah: And what about now? Are you ‘normal’ now, Alex?
Alex: I don’t know. I’d like to be. Nothing will bring Nessa back and we all have to live with that for the rest of our lives. But I want to be happy again. (looks into camera) Do you think that’s possible?
Chapter Thirty-Three
Christmas comes earlier and earlier every year, doesn’t it? the women on the island said to one another as they baked their plum puddings and ordered their turkeys and spiced beef from the butcher, deliberating over how many boxes of Quality Street they would need to keep the family satisfied until the siopa re-opened again. Her mother had never liked Christmas very much, and it was only now, as an adult, that Keelin could understand why. It was so much work, particularly if you were a woman. The perfect tree to be chosen and hauled into the house, decorations to be located in the attic, dozens of cards to be sent, the exact right shade of silver bows to be placed on top of perfectly wrapped gifts. She made a new to-do list every morning: presents which still needed to be ordered online, phone calls to be made to her daughter, begging her to come to Inisrún for the holidays rather than staying at her grandparents’ estate. It was a protest, Evie said, for her parents’ cooperation with this ‘travesty’; she would not set foot on the island while the Australians were still here, and that was final.
‘Jake told me Alex did an interview for the documentary,’ Keelin said in a low voice as her son left the dining room after breakfast, whistling happily. Her husband was reading the Financial Times, half the paper disguising his face, but he folded it and slapped it on the table next to his side plate as soon as she spoke. ‘Did Alex say anything to you about this beforehand?’ he asked. ‘I thought we agreed an interview wasn’t the best idea.’ ‘Jake said it went OK,’ she reassured him, putting down her spoon. She couldn’t bear to eat any more of this semolina porridge Henry had decided they should try. It’s rich in protein and vitamin B, and only 147 calories per serving, he claimed. And all of them revolting, Keelin wanted to reply.
‘Well, then,’ her husband said, cutting his grapefruit in half with a sharp knife, ‘nothing to fret about. You can be such a worrywart, darling.’
‘Can I?’
Keelin didn’t like it when Henry was like this, when he sank into this very deliberate composure, holding on to the sides of his temper with a white-knuckled grip. In a strange way, it reminded her of her previous marriage. Mark Delaney would have periods of serenity too, usually after he had hit her so badly that she would smell the blood seeping between her teeth. He would say he was sorry and there would be kisses and sweet talk, talks of trips to the island to visit her parents, excursions to the playground with his sister’s children arranged. Keelin forgave him and she stayed with him because that’s what marriages were about – you didn’t just run away when things got uncomfortable. She wasn’t a quitter, she told herself. She didn’t want to leave Mark; she never dreamed she would raise her son in a broken home. But she came to realise that there were more ways than one for a home to be broken. She remembered an article she had read once, where a survivor said it wasn’t ‘learned helplessness’ which kept women trapped in abusive relationships, but rather it was a learned hopefulness, and certainly that had been true for her. Keelin would have so much hope in that peace between beatings, she grew fat on it. She’d begin to imagine a life for her and Mark and Alex, one where they would be happy, the perfect family. But it never lasted. The day would come when she could feel the tension build in the house, as if the windows were jammed shut, the air turning stale and catching in the back of her throat. Everything she did would start to annoy Mark, everything she wore was unflattering, the way she ate was too loud, her laugh too grating. She found she was anticipating the moment he would lose his temper again, almost looking forward to it, in fact, because at least then it would be over until the next time, and she could begin to hope again.
‘I’m heading out for a walk,’ Henry said, popping the last segment of grapefruit into his mouth. He patted down his shirt and blazer until he found his AirPods. He tapped at the screen of his iPhone, scrolling through the apps to find Spotify. ‘It’s such a gorgeous morning. I do love the weather at this time of year. It’s deliciously crisp, isn’t it?’
‘I was listening to a good podcast the other day, if you’re interested,’ Keelin offered, stacking her plates on top of his, gathering the dirty cutlery together. ‘It was about the history of Christmas songs, it was so cheery. I think it was called—’
‘Honestly,’ her husband said, gesturing at her to hand over his leather gloves, ‘the rubbish you listen to at times. Do you know what’s happening in Syria? In Myanmar? You really ought to pay more attention to current affairs – the world is a great deal larger than Inisrún island. You don’t want to become completely uninformed, do you, darling?’ He bent to kiss her goodbye, then left, closing the door to the dining room behind him.
Keelin sat back down, staring at the dirty plates, the semolina congealing at the edges of her bowl. The truth was, she’d made a conscious decision to avoid such programmes a long time ago, fearful of hearing her own name. Continuing to listen was like receiving an accidental phone call, and instead of hanging up immediately, she pressed the phone against her ear, eavesdropping on a conversation she should not have been privy to. She’d never told her husband about what had happened a year before, when she’d turned on the radio in the middle of a lively discussion of the Misty Hill story and, taken by surprise, she made the mistake of listening to the whole thing.
‘One simply cannot discount the role post-colonialism played in this case,’ a woman with a nasal voice had declared. ‘The relationship between the islands and the mainland has always been a metaphor for Ireland’s relationship with England, this uneasy symbiosis where the oppressed still relies on its oppressor for trade, employment opportunities, et cetera. The islanders would prefer to be independent and t—’
‘I doubt the people of Inisrún think they’re oppressed by the mainland, Iseult.’
‘Of course not, Fintan. If you would allow me to finish my point? Thank you. As I was saying, it’s obvious how post-colonialism manifested itself in the Misty Hill case. Henry Kinsella becomes the human embodiment of Albion itself; we project all of our, er, congenital resentment of the English onto this one man, the dreaded Sasanach, as it were, as if our collective fury will somehow undo eight hundred years of oppression.’
‘Jennie? Do you want to jump in here?’
‘Thank you, Fintan. I think Iseult’s point is . . . very interesting, as always, but we can’t go any further without acknowledging how class played into this. And not just because of the Kinsellas’ wealth, even though there’s no doubt in my mind that it protected them in ways it wouldn’t have done for working class people like me. The media likes to pretend we don’t have a class system in this country but come on. Look at Nessa Crowley herself – women go missing in Ireland all the time; why is this particular case still receiving this amount of attention? If she wasn’t a conventionally attractive white woman from a “good” family, whatever that means, would we care nearly as much?’
‘She was beautiful, wasn’t she?’ the other woman sighed. ‘I don’t know what Keelin Kinsella was thinking; I wouldn’t have allowed a woman who looked like that anywhere near my house, not with my husband and teenage son there. I can tell you that much for nothing.’
‘Ah, here, Iseult, you’re veering dangerously into victim-blaming territory. Before you say it, yes, Keelin Kinsella was a victim too. And at the end of the day, she’s always said she doesn’t know what happened on Inisrún that night. If we’ve decided we need to believe women, surely that means we must believe all women, not just the ones we’ve decided are worthy of our support?’
Keelin had sat in her kitchen that day, listening to the debate rage on, a cup of coffee turning cold in her hands. I am not a victim, she thought. She had been a real victim before
and she knew what that felt like – the powerlessness of it, the grinding despair, the realisation she could be so easily destroyed by the person she loved most in the world, and she was incapable of making him stop. She had made a decision on the night she’d run barefoot from the house in Carlow, Alex asleep in her arms, only the clothes on her back to call her own. She had promised herself she would never be a victim again.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The Crowley Girl
‘I must of been an extra-good girl this year, Mummy,’ Evie said as Keelin picked up the wrapping paper on the floor and shoved it into a black plastic bag for recycling. ‘Santa brung me so many toys. Alannah said Santa was only getting her one present and a small surprise. I got loads more things, didn’t I?’
‘That’s not quite how it works, pet,’ Keelin said. She looked around the room, at the beautifully decorated seven-foot tree and the stacks of presents piled up beneath it – the books and clothes and CDs for Alex, the Cartier watch and Proenza Schouler handbag for her, the countless toys Evie had received – and she felt somehow repulsed by it all. There had been far less fuss when Keelin was a child, although her parents always made an effort to find something she would love, saving their money for months beforehand in order to afford it. But things were different in the Kinsella household. The first few presents were fun to open, she had to admit, her sharp inhale of breath when she unwrapped the box and saw the watch, glittering and hard (It’s a Tank Française, Henry said, fastening it on her wrist. Like Princess Diana wore), but then she had become greedy, tearing open each new gift, barely seeing what was underneath before she moved to the next and the next and the next, each time becoming more dissatisfied. Now that it was over, she wanted to sweep all the presents out of sight, hide the evidence of her family’s grotesque materialism.
‘You’re not to be telling Alannah about everything you got from Santy,’ Keelin warned Evie. 2008 had been a difficult year for everyone, and she knew many of the islanders were concerned about what the recession would bring in the months ahead. ‘No one likes a show-off.’
‘Who’s calling my darling daughter a show-off?’ Henry said, picking Evie up and swinging her around, almost knocking a Waterford crystal vase off the mantlepiece. ‘And it’s Father Christmas brought me, not “brung” me. Grammar is important, Evie Diva.’
‘Can we use our indoor voices, please?’ Keelin’s head was throbbing from the mulled wine she’d drunk the night before; Henry always did make the mix too potent. But she’d needed the extra fortification after Nessa had arrived in a tartan skirt and knee-length boots, everyone oohing and aahing over how stunning she was, Henry’s parents commenting on what a lovely couple she and Alex made. Alex stammering, his face turning red, insisting they were only friends. Nessa saying nothing, which was even more disconcerting. Why was Keelin the only one who could see this relationship was headed for disaster? She felt like Cassandra, destined to see the truth but forever doubted when she spoke it.
‘Where’s Alex?’ she asked. ‘We need to get going; we’ll be late for Mass if we’re not careful.’
‘Is that what you’re wearing?’ Henry asked, putting Evie down, and the little girl stumbled, still dizzy. He touched the fabric of Keelin’s dress, the cerise shift she’d paired with opaque tights and a black belt to cinch her waist. ‘It’s very . . .’
‘It’s very what, Henry?’
‘I didn’t say anything. I don’t know why you’re getting defensive, darling.’
‘I’m not getting defensive. You clearly have an issue with my outfit and—’
‘I never said that. There’s no need to take my bloody head off.’
‘Don’t be cross at Daddy,’ Evie said, curling around Henry’s legs and looking up at her mother forlornly. ‘That’s not nice.’
‘Exactly, Mummy,’ Henry said. ‘It’s Christmas. And it’s my birthday. She’s not allowed be cross with me on my birthday, is she, Evie?’
Keelin couldn’t help but laugh. ‘You’re some chancer, Kinsella,’ she said, relenting. She never could stay mad at her husband for long. ‘Up off the floor, now, and get your coat on,’ she said to Evie. ‘And tell your brother to hurry on, will you?’
‘It’s showtime, children,’ Henry said, clapping his hands together as Evie ran upstairs. ‘Showtime!’
It was crisp outside, their breath smoking in the cold air. Like dragons, Keelin thought as she linked arms with Alex, watching Henry stride before her, carrying Evie on his shoulders. They always walked to Christmas Mass together, it was tradition, taking the road that snaked down from Hawthorn House, around the sea cliffs and into the village itself. ‘We’ll visit your mamó and daideo later,’ she said to Alex as they passed the small graveyard where her parents were buried, not even a hundred headstones there, sticking out of the earth like jagged teeth. She gave his arm a squeeze – she knew how much he missed his grandmother. Evie had always been too little to join them on their annual expedition, even if she had wanted to, which she did not. Jonathan and Olivia Kinsella were the only grandparents Evie had ever known and they doted on her, bought her sweets and expensive toys, told her she was pretty and clever, the best girl. A gravestone and the handful of stories about Keelin’s own childhood on Rún were a poor substitute for that.
A few people were standing outside the church door, exchanging kisses and handshakes, wishing Nollaig shona to each other. They turned to look at the Kinsellas as they approached, and Keelin imagined what it must look like – the handsome husband, the beautifully dressed children, and there was she, Keelin Ní Mhordha, right in the middle of them all. Not bad for an island girl. She let go of Alex, hurrying forward to take Henry’s arm instead, smiling as they approached the other islanders.
‘There’s the man himself,’ an old friend of Keelin’s father said, reaching out to shake Henry’s hand. Her husband greeted the elderly man by name, something he repeated for every other person there. He was like the consummate politician, remembering life stories and kissing babies, looking each islander in the eye as if they were the most fascinating person he’d ever met. There were many on the island who were suspicious of Henry, Keelin knew, wary of his money and his accent and his slick charm, those who were uncomfortable with the changes Henry’s family had brought to Inisrún, whether the locals had wanted them or not. But these people needed him too. They had grown dependent upon the Kinsellas over the years, and now, when the world was limping away from the jaws of an economic collapse, the island’s very survival could rest upon Henry’s shoulders.
‘Where is she?’ Evie whined, tugging at Keelin’s hand. ‘You said she’d be here!’
‘Alannah went to Midnight Mass,’ Keelin fibbed. ‘You’ll see her at the charity walk tomorrow, OK? Now remember, it’s Jesus’s birthday and he wants you to be good while we’re in his house.’
‘But I want to show her my new dress, Mummy! You said she—’
‘Evie –’ she bent down so she was eye level with her daughter – ‘if you don’t behave, Santy will come and take all your presents away and leave a big lump of coal instead. Is that what you want?’ Evie’s jaw jutted out, the way it always did before she threw a tantrum, but she stayed quiet. ‘That’s a good girl,’ Keelin said, adjusting her daughter’s sequinned beret.
She waved at the Steins as she walked into the church, the dark oak pews gleaming, the scent of furniture wax and incense hanging heavy in the air. ‘The stollen was delicious,’ she mouthed at Lena, who blew her a kiss in return. Johanna wasn’t on Rún this Christmas; she was spending the day with Susan’s family. (Isn’t having Christmas together serious? Keelin asked as she watched her friend pack for the week in Adare, and Jo had laughed. We’ve been dating five years, she replied. It would want to be getting serious at this stage.)
‘Up the top,’ Henry murmured to Keelin, like he always did. He wasn’t religious; he hadn’t even been baptised. His parents were long-lapse
d Catholics, and Rebecca had texted Keelin that morning to let her know they wouldn’t be there either. Charlie was dying after all the mulled wine, her sister-in-law said, and the girls were refusing to get out of bed. But Henry insisted on attending Mass every Christmas morning, no matter how bad the hangover, claiming one of the front pews so his family were in full sight of the congregation, ready to be admired. The church was filling up quickly, but she saw some empty spots in front of the nativity scene. She pointed at the third row, ushering the kids in before her.
‘Oh,’ she said, when she realised who was in the pew behind them. ‘Hello! Nollaig shona.’ She leaned back to embrace Bríd Crowley, then Brendan. ‘I haven’t seen the two of you in ages.’ Their cheerful smiles froze slightly when they saw Henry beside her, reaching out his hand to shake theirs. ‘Nollaig shona,’ he said, butchering the pronunciation, his English accent flattening the shape of the words. ‘Season’s greetings, et cetera.’ He unwound the houndstooth scarf from around his neck. ‘We were just talking about you last night, Brendan, your ears must have been burning. My father was telling me about the new plans for the school. I’m glad to hear you’ll finally be getting rid of that ghastly prefab – it was an eyesore.’
‘Hmm,’ Brendan said. Bríd rested a hand on his knee, gently, and her husband cleared his throat. ‘It was very generous of the Kinsella Group to make that donation,’ he said. ‘I hope your parents know how grateful we are.’
‘Oh,’ Henry said, and Keelin could tell he was embarrassed, his cheeks colouring. ‘I didn’t mean it like—’
‘And a happy Christmas, ladies,’ Keelin interrupted him, smiling at the Crowley sisters. ‘I trust Santy was kind to you?’
The youngest girl, Sinéad, laughed – as if to say, Excuse me, I am a teenager, how dare you think I still believe in Santa Claus? – but she shut up when Nessa elbowed her, jerking her head in Evie’s direction. The little girl was gazing up at them, her bright eyes moving from one sister to the next, as if she’d never seen such glamour in her life. They did make a pretty sight, Keelin had to admit, all three dressed in fitted sweaters and pleated miniskirts, seemingly oblivious to the hungry eyes of the young men in the congregation, staring at them openly.
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