The Dazzling Truth

by Helen Cullen

  In the post-prosecco fizzy glow she was swimming in, her cocktail dress from Coast looked perfect. A purple velvet bodice and taffeta skirt; she knew it was perhaps more fitting for a wedding than a birthday party, but this dress was compensating for all the years of doing without. She came downstairs, and her father was waiting for her, somber in a black tweed suit and white cotton collarless shirt. “You’d have made a lovely priest, Daddy,” she said, and he threw his eyes up to Heaven.

  “You wouldn’t wish that on your ould father now, would you? You look lovely, Noll. Are you ready?”

  She stopped in front of the hallway mirror to gently pat her curls and pull them outside the collar of her coat.

  “Have the others left? I don’t want to be the first to arrive.”

  “Mossy and Kalindi are gone ahead of us, and they were going to collect Si and, er, Luka on the way. I presume Dillon will turn up eventually.”

  “Do you think we should wait a bit longer? Give the place a chance to fill up a bit?”

  “Noll, let’s go.”

  Nollaig didn’t know that Mossy and Kalindi had left two hours before to visit all the neighbors along the way to urge them along, telephoning those farther afield to make sure they were leaving soon.

  They walked to Tigh Ned’s, Nollaig gripping her father’s arm to steady herself in black patent stilettos that were never intended for the craggy roads of the island. “It’s almost like we’re walking down the aisle,” she said, and laughed wryly.

  “It’s better,” her father answered. “Because you’ve still got all that to look forward to, if you want it. Life isn’t just about getting married, you know. Or staying married. Much as the world tells you so. There are so many ways to find happiness.”

  She snorted. “Like you do, you mean?” Her remorse was immediate. “I’m sorry, Daddy. That wasn’t fair. But you’ve had your great love affair. Even if it’s behind you, at least you had it once. Isn’t that better than never at all?”

  They continued in silence until they reached the front door of Tigh Ned’s.

  “Ready?”

  “You go first and come out and tell me if there’s anyone there.”

  “Nollaig, would you get a grip. Get in there, girl.”

  He opened the door wide and she stepped into the pub. Only Jimmy Severin sat on a high stool, watching a repeat of the Killarney v. Kerry match on the television. Ned wasn’t even serving behind the bar.

  “Oh no, where is everyone?”

  “Keep going! Sure, isn’t the party in the back?”

  Her heel caught in the gap between the floorboards as she proceeded slowly to the rear of the pub. She hopped on one foot, holding on to her father for balance, as he wrestled her shoe free, cursing under his breath.

  Back on two feet, she paused, gathering herself as she approached the function-room door.

  Disco lights flickered in its frosted glass panels, and she could hear the muffled sound of a Blondie track and, best of all, the beautiful chorus of voices chattering—lots of voices chattering. She flung the door back and was overwhelmed to see half the inhabitants of the island crammed into every available inch. A great cheer went up when they saw she’d arrived, and Nollaig was propelled through the crowd, passed from hugging arm to arm until she was standing on a little stage, just two feet off the ground, where Seanie O’Shea had set up his DJ booth. A table full of presents was set up beside him and in the center a giant birthday cake in the shape of an N covered in chocolate buttons, with “Happy Birthday” spelled out in miniature vanilla cupcakes. “That’s not the cake I ordered,” she whispered to Kalindi, who laughed at her. “Of course not, you daft woman. Did you think we wouldn’t get you a cake? Have you no faith in us at all? Brace yourself, I think your father’s going to say a few words.”

  “But is everyone here? Where’s Dillon?”

  “Did you not see him? Look, he’s in the corner over there with Si’s boyfriend. That’s his punishment for coming so late.”

  Nollaig saw her little brother, backed into the corner of the room, while Luka towered over him, arms gesticulating wildly as he waxed lyrical on something dull enough to drain all the color from Dillon’s face. When Dillon saw Nollaig watching, he waved and used the intervention as an excuse to break free.

  “Documentary maker,” he said. “Don’t ask. I mean it. Never, ever, ask him about what.”

  She laughed and squeezed him hard. “I was so afraid you wouldn’t come.”

  “You needn’t have been.”

  She raised an eyebrow at him.

  “Stop it,” he said. “I’m here now.”

  Seanie faded down the Arctic Monkeys, and Murtagh tapped the microphone as he picked it up, thus filling the room with an ear-shattering squeal. “Testing,” he boomed so loudly that his own head snapped back. “Hello,” he whispered, much too quietly this time.

  “C’mon, Goldilocks,” someone shouted from the back. “Next time, you’ll be just right.”

  A laugh rose around the room as Murtagh cleared his throat and beckoned Nollaig to join him on the stage.

  Nollaig half walked, half skipped toward her father. A white bra strap, stained with orange fake tan, slipped off her shoulder and dangled against her bare arm. Kalindi caught Nollaig’s eye and gestured to her to pull it up, but the mime confused her. She thought it was an encouragement to strut with some attitude, which, unfortunately, she tried to do.

  Murtagh put his arm around his daughter, and she rested her head on his shoulder as she scanned all the familiar faces before her. She wasn’t sure who she was looking for, someone just hers, perhaps, where a gaze could linger a little longer. Instead, her eyes eventually found the chipped plum nail polish on her big toe.

  Her father cleared his throat and began again.

  “I’d like to say go raibh mile maith agaibh, a huge thanks, to you all for coming out tonight to celebrate my wonderful daughter’s thirtieth birthday. I can’t bear to think how old that must make me but, thankfully, those sums are too hard for me.”

  The crowd laughed gently, and Nollaig elbowed him.

  “It gives me so much pleasure to have all my children gathered together under one roof, and to see so many old friends and neighbors here to celebrate Nollaig’s milestone. There is no one more selfless, more caring, no one kinder than my eldest daughter, and I’m incredibly proud of her. If only I could train her to turn off the immersion when she’s finished, my work would be complete.”

  The crowd laughed again as Nollaig rolled her eyes and gave him a little shove.

  “Of course, I wish her mother could be with us this evening, as we do every day, but I only have to look at my four children to know that she is still with us, in so many ways. Every time they shine, any day they speak a difficult truth, all righteous paths they walk, each noble task they perform, that is Maeve coming through. And I know she would want you all to have a riot tonight, as I do. Friends and family, please join me in raising a glass in honor of Nollaig. To Nollaig.”

  “To Nollaig!”

  “Do you want to say something?” Murtagh whispered to his daughter, but she shook her head, blowing her nose in a crumbling tissue he handed her from his pocket. Attention shifted from them as the DJ faded the music back up, Sultans of Swing this time, and people began to shuffle their feet in time to the beat as the hum of voices rose again. The party cast a new glamour on the islanders, elevated them from their usual perfunctory exchanges and practical attire. It was amazing what a bow tie here, a pair of pearl earrings there, could do to lift their spirits. Murtagh sat on the windowsill, nursing a tumbler of Jameson, diluted by the ice cubes that melted before he had time to drink it. The heat of a radiator burned through the backs of his trouser legs where they rested against it. Borne of habits long established, he found himself checking the room for the whereabouts of each of his children.

  M
ossy was propped against a speaker, flinching at the pounding bass drum, while Father Dónal pointed out something of great interest to him in the parish newsletter. Too polite to break away, he looked resigned to his fate as he watched Dillon spinning Kalindi under his arm, where they danced in front of the DJ booth. They made a handsome couple and Murtagh felt a pang for Mossy, who must have been aware of it, too. Mossy had never been one for dancing. Murtagh remembered once overhearing a heated row between them, rare though they seemed to be, when Kalindi asked Mossy if she would have to borrow someone else’s husband for the rest of her life every time she wanted a dance. Murtagh noticed that young Bracken girl watching Dillon, too, out of the corner of her eye, and remembered how she and Dillon had circled each other in their teens. There was hurt there, he remembered, but couldn’t recall the details. That could get interesting later, he thought.

  Sive and the boyfriend were in an animated debate where they sat on the windowsill opposite him, but it looked more passionate and electric than angry or hurtful. He could see that from the way Luka tapped out a point on his daughter’s knee with his forefinger. Why was he wearing white fingerless gloves? Sive reached up to swipe his lopsided fringe behind his ear and their noses touched. Murtagh looked away. This man reminded him of too many of his old classmates; still clinging on with their painted fingernails to the dream the seventies had promised them of something more revolutionary while what had once made them unique identified them now as figures of fun. What did Sive see in him? Was he somehow to blame? He could only imagine the fish food Maeve would have turned him into. If she were still here, though, would Sive still be attached to this eejit? He dismissed the thought—it was unfair to assume every poor decision his children made was as a result of her absence. Murtagh stole a glance back at them but quickly regretted it as Luka began nibbling Sive’s ear as she leaned closer into him.

  Twice his eyes scanned the room for Nollaig, but he couldn’t place her. It seemed too long since he’d last seen her, but before the niggle of doubt could prompt him to search properly he was struck by the sight of someone else appearing through the function-room doors. Dressed in a manner more fitting to a Milanese sidewalk café than Inis Óg, Fionn slunk into the room like a cat, shoulders bent to duck under the low ceiling. He clutched a silver gift bag tightly in his hand, his shoulders tense. Murtagh saw Síle McGrath look him up and down as Fionn leaned against the back wall to acclimatize to the room; she nudged Mary O’Loughlin and winked in delight toward him. Murtagh’s heart skipped, but before he could corral his courage a blood-curdling scream cut through the party din from outside. He pressed his forehead against the windowpane, his hands cupping his eyes, but couldn’t see anything in the pitch-black exterior. Heads turned as those who’d heard the shriek pushed toward the exit to see what was happening. Murtagh followed, pausing only for a moment to give the sleeve of Fionn’s black cashmere pullover a gentle squeeze as he passed. “Welcome back,” he whispered, rolling his eyes in anticipation of whatever awaited him outside.

  Nollaig was lying on her back in the long grass, her skirt bunched around her waist, Aindí’s wife, Úna, straddling her in a gold strapless dress that had slipped to expose her right breast. Úna was shaking Nollaig’s shoulders like a rag doll while Nollaig kicked her legs in vain to be free of her. “You couldn’t leave him alone, not for one night, could you? While I’m sitting inside holding his pint like an eejit? Well, it’s all over now, you brazen slut. You’re going to get what’s been coming to you.”

  Dillon shouted at her to let Nollaig go and ran toward them. Úna raised a fist into the air but, before she could deliver the blow, Aindí had gripped her wrist and began pulling his wife off Nollaig, who stayed lying where she was. Úna turned her aggression toward Aindí now, beating her fist against his chest as he tried to drag her farther away while she hoisted her dress back up. Dillon pushed past his father, frozen where he stood, and helped his sister up from the ground. She stood shaking in his arms, and he turned his back to shield her from the gaze of the miniature mob that had gathered.

  “All right, folks, let’s give them all a minute to calm down. Go on inside with ye!” Father Dónal shepherded the islanders back into the pub.

  They reluctantly moved in a slow procession, craning their necks to look behind them as they walked. Murtagh felt a hand on the small of his back and instinctively took a step forward. “Is everything okay?” Fionn asked. “What’s been going on?”

  “Too much, by the looks of things. Would you mind—would you maybe head back in? I’ll see you inside in a minute.”

  A shadow fell across Fionn’s face but he did as he was asked, catching Dillon’s eye before flicking his gaze away and returning inside. Murtagh could see the O’Sheas staggering along the pier, Aindí dragging his wife along, her pausing every few feet to curse at him again. Her words carried on the breeze, turning the air blue. Murtagh walked over to Dillon and Nollaig. She was a little calmer now, emitting big hiccups. Black mascara spread across her face, giving her panda eyes, and her nose was running. “I’m so sorry, Daddy,” she said. “I’ve made a total show of myself. Ruined it all.”

  He pulled her under his arm, the same place she had stood at the start of the evening as he had made his speech. “Shush, love,” he said, smoothing her hair. “It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.”

  “Who was that man you were talking to?” Dillon asked, nodding in the direction of where Fionn had been standing.

  “What man?” Nollaig asked, looking up at her father.

  He avoided their eyes as he stared out into the inky-black abyss of the sea.

  “Do you not recognize him?” he asked, his voice catching a little as he spoke. “That was Fionn!”

  Nollaig leaned away from him, searching his face for answers. “Fionn? What’s he doing back here?”

  Murtagh took off his blazer and wrapped it around his daughter’s shoulders. “Just visiting. Don’t worry about him. Now, what do you want to do? Are you going back inside or...?”

  “God, no, look at the state of me.” She held her skirt out in front of her, ripped and covered in grass stains. Her tights were torn to shreds. “I don’t know how I’ll ever face any of them again.” She buried her head in her hands.

  Dillon gave her a playful shove. “Aindí O’Shea? Really, sis? Of all people? I remember he had terrible athlete’s foot and had to wear these gross antibacterial socks in the school locker room. Once, we—”

  “Not helpful, Dillon, thank you,” his father cut him off.

  Sive crunched across the gravel toward them, a champagne flute dangling from her hand. “What the hell has been going on out here? The whole place is alight in there with one story more outrageous than the next. Noll, what have you been up to?”

  Murtagh caught her by the elbow and steered her back toward the door, appealing for her just to go inside.

  “Okay, okay, I’m going,” she said, shaking the dregs of her glass into a heather bush.

  “Dillon, why don’t you two start walking, and I’ll follow with your things?” Murtagh said. “Go on, you’ll catch your death out here.”

  He watched his two children follow the path the O’Sheas had taken, but they were a much more subdued couple as they strolled along, Dillon’s arm slung around his sister.

  Murtagh walked back through the pub to the function room, ignoring how the conversation halted as he approached, noticing that the television was muted over the bar. He couldn’t help but wonder if folks had been pressing glasses up to the window to eavesdrop on the events outside but continued walking through to the party with as much dignified aplomb as he could muster. Fionn was waiting inside for him, a hot whiskey ready in his hand. Murtagh took it gratefully, drank it in one long gulp that burned his throat. He felt the liquor fizz through his veins and begin to thaw the shock from his skin. “Nollaig’s gone home,” he said. “I think maybe it might be best if you slip awa
y. There’s been enough drama for one evening.”

  Fionn clicked his tongue. “If that’s the way you feel.” He waited a moment and then continued. “I’m not sure this was such a good idea anymore. Perhaps we should try again another time?”

  Murtagh maneuvered him farther away from possible prying ears.

  “I’m sorry, Fionn, you know I’m delighted you’re here, but my nerves are gone. Why don’t you come over for breakfast in the morning? Things will have calmed down by then, I promise. Let’s just leave things for tonight, okay?” Fionn nodded and left the room without another word.

  Murtagh swallowed hard as he watched his back leave and then faced what remained of the party. Sive came toward him with Luka in tow, both their arms full of presents, two handbags dangling from her shoulder; the studs on her vintage suede jacket stopped the straps slipping down her arm. Luka nodded as he passed by, but Murtagh was relieved that he didn’t say anything. He saw Mossy on the stage cutting the cake. Kalindi passed it around on green paper plates, the picture of smiling serenity as she moved through the room. Murtagh wove his way through the crowd to her and leaned in to speak in her ear. “We’re slipping away. Can you wind things down here and I’ll see you back at the house?”

  “This is the last song,” she said. “Just the national anthem to go and the lights will be going up.”

  He kissed her on the forehead. “Thanks, my dear. I’m sorry to leave you two here on your own. What a mess.”

  She shook her head at him whilst passing a slice of cake over his shoulder to Father Dónal, who was eyeing it wolfishly. “We’re grand. I just hope she’s okay.”

  Murtagh shrugged. “I think she’ll be fine.”