The Dazzling Truth

by Helen Cullen

  Over the following weeks, Fionn proved popular with the islanders and students alike; he strummed along on his uke to all the traditional Irish songs they played, but could also play ukulele versions of most of the songs on the charts. The older girls at the college translated the lyrics of “Nothing Compares 2 U” by Sinéad O’Connor into Irish and he accompanied them when they performed it at the weekly Saturday-night concerts they held in the hall. Maeve smiled indulgently as Nollaig gazed up at Fionn on the stage; how many hearts would he be leaving with that summer, she wondered, but she admired him—how he managed to deflect all the crushes without anyone ever feeling crushed. That wasn’t easy, she knew, and she was pleased to see his influence on Murtagh. The pottery lessons continued, and their friendship grew, so now the pair often went on walks in the evenings together, covering miles of the island’s byways. Sometimes she joined them, but she preferred to do her walking alone. When she asked Murtagh what they talked about, he seemed mystified, replying, “You know, nothing. The usual!” as if he’d never properly considered before how they spent their time at all. But he was moved by the easy camaraderie of their friendship; not since Jeremy had he found another man he could connect with like that, to be able to discuss life’s minutiae in a way that felt so profound. He felt unafraid to be vulnerable with him; to share some of Maeve’s struggles, and see how Fionn embraced her as a whole person. It was an unmitigated joy to see how Maeve and Fionn enjoyed each other’s company; all of them outsiders on the island finding common ground on their little patch together.

  * * *

  One evening while Murtagh made hot whiskeys, Maeve and Fionn sat in two dilapidated wicker chairs in the garden.

  “Have you someone back in Birmingham missing you terribly, Fionn?” Maeve asked.

  He hesitated before answering, gazing out across the fields that stretched for miles behind the cottage. “I do, but...”

  Maeve stood up and stretched into a yoga warrior pose. “I don’t mean to pry. Ignore me.”

  He twisted the turquoise fabric bracelet on his left wrist while Maeve waited for him to speak again.

  “It’s just that I wish they weren’t.”

  She turned her head slightly to watch him in her peripheral vision.

  “Weren’t?”

  “Weren’t missing me.”

  She spun her arms in slow circles, clockwise first, then counterclockwise.

  “Ah, I see. Well, maybe the distance will have helped.”

  He cringed, folding his arms across his chest, and held her gaze. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

  Murtagh crunched up the gravelly path to where they sat, three different glass tumblers perched precariously on a tin tray and a packet of chocolate digestives wedged under his arm. Maeve released them from him and tutted. “That’s not the best combination, Murt dear. Could you not find anything better?”

  “What’s better than a chocolate digestive, eh? Delicious anytime, anywhere, with any drink.”

  She laughed. “You’re getting tipsy.”

  He placed the tray unsteadily on the grass between them, spilling some of the whiskey.

  “I know,” he said. “And on a Tuesday night. Isn’t life wonderful?”

  Fionn stood up and put his chair back against the turf shed wall, where it usually rested.

  “You’re not off already, are you?” Murtagh asked, his eyebrows arched.

  Maeve watched Fionn in silence.

  “I just remembered some marking I’ve to do for the morning. It was when you said Tuesday, it hit me.”

  “Will you not finish your drink at least?” Murtagh tried in vain to stand up again.

  “No, I’m grand. Stay where you are. I’ll see myself out.”

  Maeve followed him through the house to the front door and handed him his raincoat from the hook. “It wasn’t something I said, was it?”

  He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. “Of course not. Thanks, Maeve. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She touched her face where he’d kissed her.

  He’d never done that before.

  Maeve studied her reflection in the mirror for a moment, licked her middle finger and wiped away a smudge of mascara from under her eyes.

  She looked exactly the same, but suddenly everything felt utterly different.

  Inis Óg: July 1, 1990

  FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND people gathered outside the Mansion House in Dublin to welcome home the Irish football team who had, against all odds, reached the World Cup quarterfinals in Italy. In a joint celebration that electrified the nation, Nelson Mandela would also be accepting the Freedom of the City of Dublin at the same time.

  On the previous evening, Maeve prepared packed lunches and coaxed Dillon and Mossy out of their green jerseys for long enough to have them freshly laundered in anticipation.

  Nollaig’s green-and-orange markers ran out of ink as she feverishly colored in banners to wave while Murtagh marched around the table with the boys chanting, “Ooh ahh, Paul McGrath.”

  A mass exodus was expected from the island on the first ferry, and Father Dónal had arranged a coach to bus them from Galway to Dublin and return home that evening. It would be the boys’ first time visiting the city, and Nollaig delighted in teasing them about her own past experiences.

  “When Jeremy visited, we went to the zoo in Dublin, but we won’t have time tomorrow, Daddy says, so you won’t see the animals, like I did.”

  “The buildings are so huge you can’t even see the sky.”

  “You have to hold a grown-up’s hand all of the time because of the traffic and the kidnappers.”

  Mossy’s eyes were round as full moons listening to his big sister, but Dillon remained unimpressed. “They can’t kidnap me because I know karate!” he shouted, jumping off the sofa with a kick in the air that narrowly missed Bosco.

  “Thank you, darling,” Maeve said, pulling Bosco into her lap, “but no one has to worry about kidnappers. Tomorrow is a day of celebration, and the potential kidnappers will be too busy enjoying themselves to be on duty, understood?”

  Nollaig sat on the floor in front of her mother so she could plait her hair to keep it under control during the night.

  “Now, off to the Land of Nod,” Maeve said, “or you’ll be too sleepy in the morning to get up and we’ll miss everything.”

  Mossy and Dillon begrudgingly stomped out to brush their teeth while Murtagh carried Sive upstairs in his arms and tucked her in. It took longer than usual for the blanket of silence to smother the house that evening. “It feels like Christmas Eve,” Murtagh said, pouring himself and Maeve a thimble of brandy. “I’m excited myself.”

  “I’m going to draw a bath,” she said, and ruffled his hair as she passed him. “You head up to bed, too, and I’ll be along soon.”

  Murtagh watched his wife leaving the room, noticed the tremble in her fingers as she missed the door handle on her first attempt. He stood up to help, but she waved him away with that impatient flick of the wrist that was so familiar. Listening to the pipes cranking into life and his wife’s tread on the floorboards overhead, his stomach began to double.

  Not tonight. Please, Maeve. Not this time.

  When he passed the bathroom door on the way to bed, there was but a tiny orange glow creeping under the crack of the door. He pictured the row of tealights staggered along the windowsill, breathed in the lavender essence that curled into the hallway.

  * * *

  Despite his worry about Maeve, the brandy and the comforting embrace of their duck-down duvet lulled him, and he fell asleep with his glasses still perched on his nose and A. S. Byatt’s new novel, Possession, dangling from his grip. He jumped when Nollaig tugged his hand and leaned in close to whisper in his ear, “What’s wrong with Mammy?”

  He swung his legs out of the bed and put his arm around her: “I’ll check on her.
Don’t worry, love,” he said. “You run back to bed, there’s a good girl, we’ve a big day tomorrow.”

  He found Maeve on the bottom step of the stairs, her houndstooth shawl tight around her as she stared out at the silver moon through the small hallway window. She softly tapped the side of her head against the banister, keeping a steady rhythm, as from somewhere deep inside her a low groan dragged across the silent space between them.

  Murtagh knelt before her, holding her face in his hands.

  “Maeve, are you okay? Will you come to bed with me, my darkling?”

  She twisted her neck away. Curled up so her face lay against the carpet on the stairs with her eyes closed.

  “It’s coming,” she whispered. “I can feel it settling on my skin like a fog.”

  She shivered, and Murtagh wrapped his body around hers.

  “It will be all right,” he said. “I promise. Come and get some sleep. Maybe you’ll feel better in the morning.”

  Murtagh picked her up in his arms, just as he had carried their younger daughter only a few hours before, and slowly climbed the stairs. Her fingers gripped his back, her breath hot on his neck.

  He grimaced to see Nollaig watching them from her bedroom doorway, gestured with his head for her to go back to bed, but she ignored him. Instead, she stood silently watching them, sucking her thumb, as if they were a float in a parade.

  * * *

  The next morning, Maeve could not drag herself from bed.

  Nor bear to have the curtains drawn.

  Refused to touch the tea and toast he brought.

  The room was dark, stuffy and felt a foreign land to him once again as he maneuvered through the enforced nighttime as he tried to retrieve his belongings.

  When Fionn rang the doorbell to join their pilgrimage to the ferry, it was Nollaig who answered the door, still in her nightdress. “We’re not going,” she said, holding the door open wide for him. “Daddy’s in the kitchen.”

  Mossy and Dillon were as stunned by the news of the canceled trip as Nollaig was not. Dillon threw his glass of juice on the floor then bawled with the shock of the smash. Mossy was even paler than usual as he tugged on the label of the Irish jersey he had put on himself backward. Murtagh looked up and saw Fionn spectating the scene.

  “I’m sorry,” Fionn said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  Murtagh tightened the belt on his robe and told the twins to go with their sister and see if there were any cartoons on.

  “But we’re not allowed watch telly in the mornings,” Nollaig protested. “Just because—”

  “This once is fine,” her father interrupted. “And each of you take a banana.”

  Nollaig stomped out after the twins with three bananas scooped up in her nightdress. Murtagh closed the door behind her and Fionn asked quietly, “Is Maeve all right? What’s happened?”

  Murtagh sighed, resting his head in his hands on the counter before he spoke again. “She’s fine, but she’s not well. It’s really not her fault.”

  “So, no trip to Dublin?”

  “No, and you’d better be on your way or you’ll miss the ferry yourself.”

  They walked down the hallway together, past The Flintstones theme tune blaring through the sitting-room door, and paused on the front step. “I have to say, if Maeve was my wife, I don’t think I could allow her to disappoint everyone like this.”

  Murtagh took a step back and answered, “If Maeve was your wife, you’d have no choice.” And he slammed the door.

  He rested his back against it and jumped at the sound of the doorbell.

  Fionn held up his hands.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know I shouldn’t have said that. I just...”

  “No, you shouldn’t,” Murtagh replied, but kindly.

  “I don’t suppose I could bring the kids with me?”

  Murtagh hesitated. “You’re kind to offer, but I think it might be best if we stick together today. They can be a handful. And I don’t want to leave Maeve.”

  “We could bring them together? Could you ask her? We both know she wouldn’t want them to miss it if we could manage it.”

  “Please, Daddy.” Murtagh felt Nollaig’s small hand in his own.

  Fionn gave Murtagh’s shoulder a gentle nudge, and he reluctantly climbed the stairs. Before he could say a word, Maeve turned her head toward him and told him to go. It was a relief, she said. The right thing.

  * * *

  That evening, Fionn came home with the Moones for a midnight feast of fish and chips. He was sunburned on his nose, with the faintest whiff of alcohol on his breath, as he doused his food in vinegar. Maeve was nowhere to be seen.

  From his rucksack he produced a huge toy koala bear with a green, white and gold scarf tied around his neck. “I made a new friend today,” he said. “This is Packie.”

  “Like Packie Bonner!” Dillon shouted.

  “Exactly,” Fionn said. “I was wondering if you might be able to look after him for me. He gets bored of adults quickly.”

  “He’s so cuddly,” Nollaig said, burying her nose in his fur before she passed him to Mossy.

  “Can I go show Mammy?” he asked.

  “Let’s wait until the morning, son.”

  Packie soon became a full-fledged member of the Moone family; his narrative evolved in almost as much detail as the children’s did. Murtagh loved to position him in action poses throughout the house while they were at school. They would come home to find Packie reading the newspaper in the living room, or just finishing a glass of milk at the kitchen table, listening to classical music as he dozed on the sofa, or polishing the kitchen counter.

  And so Fionn had saved the day.

  In the memories of the Moone children, the first of July 1990 didn’t remain fixed in time as the day they missed the Ireland team homecoming because their mother was sick; instead, it became remembered as the day Fionn brought them to Dublin and brought Packie home. And it was the day Fionn unlocked the secret to the Moone family dynamic and became more than a temporary resident on the island; he had a permanent place in their hearts now that would extend beyond the end of summer. Beyond walks, and talks, and hugs. Beyond the three months he spent thinking and dreaming all over the island, and in the most private parts of their home.

  Inis Óg: August 1990

  ON THE TWENTY-THIRD of August, the last of the summer college students departed, riding the usual waves of hysteria. Murtagh stood with the twins and Sive to watch the RÓisín Dubh ferry bob away with them, thinking how many of his eggcups would appear on kitchen tables across the country in the coming weeks. As the least expensive piece of his work available in the shop, they were popular mementos for the students of their time on the island. So many of Maeve’s black-and-white photographs captured the teenagers in their shop; some with eggcups balanced on their head or held over their ears or noses. It struck him that she hadn’t taken many photos that summer; the only time he could remember seeing her camera was the day they had all gone swimming with Fionn and discovered the seal pups in the cove near the lighthouse. He remembered how elegant Fionn had been in the water; how he sliced through the tide like a knife. Maeve took his photograph while he lay drying on a rock, water rivulets dripping from his dreadlocks onto the stone, and she demanded to know if he was really a selkie.

  “A selkie?” he’d asked, squinting at her in the sunlight.

  “Ancient myths tell us of seal folk who become human when they shed their seal skins on land,” she answered, watching him through the lens. “They are known for their powers of seduction.”

  And Nollaig asked, “Mammy, what’s seduction?”

  It was difficult to think of Fionn leaving; he had become so important to the children with his energy, his kindness. Murtagh knew they would be upset to wave him off on the last boat that evening, how Nollaig had been busy all m
orning making him a card with shells from the beach glued on to it.

  As they approached their house, Sive on Murtagh’s shoulders, him holding each of the boys’ hands, he saw Nollaig running up the lane to meet them. She was crying big, wet tears, and shouting, “Daddy, Daddy!” He broke into a run, dropping on one knee before her. “What is it, Nollaig? Is Mammy all right?”

  “It’s Bosco,” she sobbed. “He’s on the road. Covered in blood. There’s ants on him, Daddy!”

  Murtagh looked past her as the twins ran ahead. They stopped short over Bosco’s body while he sprinted to catch up with them, holding tightly on to Sive. Tears made dirty tracks down Mossy’s face, but Dillon was completely still and silent. “Get me a towel, Nollaig, love. Or a sheet. Quick now. Come way from there, lads. Run inside and call your mam.”

  The boys looked relieved to be sent away.

  Nollaig came as far as the gate and threw a striped blue sheet off the washing line at him. For a moment, Murtagh hesitated when he saw it was one of the good linens but shook it out, nonetheless. He knelt beside Bosco and closed the dog’s eyes, cursing whoever had run him over and left him there for his daughter to find. “It must have been one of the bikers,” he said, remembering the blessing Father Dónal had given the three shiny new Honda motorcycles that had arrived on the ferry the previous week.

  He wrapped Bosco in the sheet and carried him through the house to the back garden, where Mossy was waiting for him.

  “Mam won’t answer the door,” he said. “I think she’s asleep.”

  Murtagh looked up at the bedroom window and saw the curtains were drawn as Nollaig tugged at his sleeve, “Daddy, we need to have a funeral.”

  Murtagh nodded and carried Bosco to the end of the garden, where the cabbages grew. He found a shovel in the shed and started digging, Mossy and Dillon helped with the plastic spades that were normally reserved for sandcastles. Nollaig wrote her mother a note and pushed it under her bedroom door, her ear pressed against the wood to see if she could hear her moving, but there was only silence.