by Helen Cullen
‘Everything all right in here? You’re the last one.’
William scrambled to stand up. The room had stopped spinning, but his head was pounding.
‘Gosh, I’m sorry. I must have dozed off. One too many, I think. I’m a bit of a lightweight these days.’
The man shrugged and picked up the bin, which was overflowing with paper towels, and let the door close behind him, leaving William to pull himself together. He splashed cold water on to his face and rinsed the fuzzy feeling from his mouth. That must be the landlord, but William knew he hadn’t made the best first impression. It suddenly struck him that he had no coat, no bag. What if someone had stolen his satchel with his passport and wallet inside it? He would be stranded in Dublin. He rushed out of the bathroom, back to where he had been sitting, but all the stools were upside down on the bar and a cleaning lady was hoovering the carpet.
‘Don’t worry. I have your things behind the bar for you.’ His barman friend from earlier walked past him with a tray of empty glasses. ‘I thought you’d left without them. What happened to you?’
‘I’m ashamed to say I fell asleep on the floor of the bathroom. Your boss woke me up.’
The barman laughed, shaking his head. ‘I’m surprised he didn’t throw you out,’ he said, ‘You’re not in Temple Bar, you know.’
‘It’s very out of character, I can assure you. Is he still around? I was hoping for a word.’
‘He’s in the cellar, but he’ll be back in a minute … Good luck. He’s not the most pleasant at the best of times. Most of the time, I just try to keep out of –’
A clearing of the throat interrupted them.
‘Who, may I ask, is not the most pleasant, Mr Fitzpatrick?’
The landlord stood before them, his arms crossed in front of his black leather waistcoat and skin-tight white T-shirt.
‘Oh, no one, boss. We’re just talking about some eejit from the telly. This chap here was looking for a word. I’ll be in the cellars if you need me.’
The landlord didn’t look at William as he spritzed the bar top with furniture polish and wiped it down with a wet cloth.
‘So, Sleeping Beauty, what can I do for you? We’re officially closed, you know.’
William followed him as he worked. ‘I was just wondering if you might know a friend of mine, a girl called Winter?’ he asked. ‘She used to drink here all the time. Long red hair? She told me to say hello.’
He gave a little snort. ‘I find that hard to believe. I don’t really socialize with my customers. And I never met nobody called Winter.’
William tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Maybe it was a nickname. You sure you never heard it before?’
The landlord turned to William and looked him straight in the eye.
‘Positive. Now, if you’re done, the door’s that way.’
William struggled back into his coat, grappled to open the solid oak door. He made two unsuccessful attempts before stepping out into his third rain torrent of the day. It was strangely refreshing after his hot and sticky collapse on the floor of the bathroom. He ran to a bus shelter to try to get his bearings and come to terms with this latest blow. He stood before a map of the city centre, tracing his finger along the path he believed would take him back to the unwelcoming stench of his hostel. Out of the dark night, a soft voice spoke to him.
‘Are you lost, William?’
Ailbhe sat on the bus stop bench, reading a book by the light of a torch no bigger than a pen.
‘Ailbhe! Hello, well, no, not really. I was just confirming my route. Where’s your sister?’
‘Oh, she got a better offer. I was just letting the shower pass before I walk home. Usual story with Indie, I’m afraid. I’m sure you would rather find her sitting here.’
He sat down beside her on the bench.
‘Not even a little bit – honestly. I find your sister quite scary, and she told me I looked sad, which is actually the sort of thing that, if you weren’t depressed beforehand, would certainly bring on a bout.’
Ailbhe smirked at him.
‘Oh, don’t worry. She says that to all the boys, even the jolly ones.’ She paused. ‘In fact, especially the jolly ones. She has this theory that, deep down, all men are sad about something and are looking for a girl to make them feel better, so she pretends to sense it inside them and uses it to reel them in. It’s very effective, actually, if horribly manipulative. When we were living in London, it seemed to work even better for her with the English boys. All those repressed feelings.’
‘Crikey. Such cynicism in one so young!’ said William. ‘And here I was, worried that I looked a complete pitiable wreck when I thought I was putting on such a convincing brave face.’
‘Oh, no, don’t get me wrong: you look completely broken by life. It’s just she would have said that to you, regardless.’
Ailbhe turned her attention back to the book she was reading, as if to end the conversation.
‘Is that it? We’re done here?’
‘Why? Is there more?’
‘Well, you perform such a casual assessment of my person and then just opt out of the conversation. That doesn’t seem very fair.’
‘I didn’t mean to offend you. Anyway, you started it, looking for sympathy because Indie called you out. Looks like the rain is easing off now. I might make a run for it.’
William was suddenly a little panicked by the thought of confronting the failure of his Dublin expedition by himself, even if the alternative was this spiky lady.
‘Wait, how about a bag of chips to warm us up? Loads of salt and vinegar? You can eat them walking home.’
‘You’re not walking me home. You could be a serial killer, for all I know, though I do admit I’m not feeling hugely threatened.’
He experienced the odd sensation of being slightly offended that she didn’t think he had the makings of a serial killer in him but decided against insisting that he would be able to murder her if he wanted to.
‘That’s fine. I’m not suggesting anything untoward, just some chips. I really feel partial to a bag but have no idea where to find some and thought you might accompany me in the right direction.’
‘You’re standing across the street from a chip shop, William.’
She lost her icy aloofness for a moment, unable to resist a little laugh at his expense.
‘Marvellous. Let’s go. You can tell me about your time in London.’
They dashed across the street through the slow-moving traffic and joined the noisy queue of post-pub famished masses craving curry chips, onion rings and garlic dip.
‘You never told us what you are in town for.’
‘Well, I was looking for something – for someone, sort of. But it didn’t really work out.’
‘A girlfriend?’
‘No, I had a chance encounter with someone, of sorts, and I remembered they mentioned the Long Hall so, when I happened to be in town, I thought I would pop in and see if the universe might cut me a break. Silly, really. She doesn’t even live in Dublin any more.’
‘Unfinished business.’
‘Exactly.’
‘What’s her name? It’s a small town – maybe I know her. Maybe I’m your moment of serendipity in Dublin.’
‘You won’t. I’m starting to wonder if she even exists. Maybe I imagined her, or my wife invented her as … Oh my God, could that be it?’ William put his hands on her shoulders and gushed, ‘What if Clare wrote the letters? What if, all this time, it was her? Trying to tell me things about her? Oh God, what if she knows I’m here? This could be a total disaster.’
‘I’m sorry – you’re married? What letters? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
William paced up and down alongside the steamed-up glass window of the chip shop and put his thoughts back in order. A man in leather trousers and a white vest threw a chip at him.
‘Jaysus, stop fidgetin’ man, you’re twistin’ me melon!’
William ignored him and rejoined Ailbhe in the que
ue, whispering now.
‘No, no, that’s crazy. It couldn’t be. The details were too specific, and she could never get into my office, and Marjorie had one, and anyway, what would be the point? To test me? No, stop it, no. That’s not it, I’m just freaking myself out.’
‘Have to say, you’re kind of freaking me out, too, at the moment.’
William stood in silence as she ordered two bags of chips, with salt and vinegar on both but extra salt on hers.
‘Together or separate?’ barked the man behind the counter.
‘Separate. Definitely separate,’ Ailbhe shot back.
‘Do you not want some chips with your salt? You’ll end up with really high blood pressure if you keep that up, you know,’ said William.
‘That’s great advice, Dad, and you probably shouldn’t have nervous breakdowns in strange cities, either, but hey, at least your cholesterol is okay.’
She handed him his chips and they bumped into each other as they both tried to leave at the same time. William stood back and held the door open for her.
‘So, tell me about her – your unfinished business …’
‘Well, her name is Winter … and she lived here for quite a while, before –’
‘Ooh, how exotic, like the burlesque dancer?’
William stopped in the street and turned to face her.
‘What do you mean? What burlesque dancer?’
‘Winter! She’s fabulous, like a white-witch character. She has this stage persona that’s all about magic and casting spells over men so they do her bidding. She really works the Celtic thing – she looks like a model from a Visit Ireland catalogue. All red hair and pale skin and these piercing green eyes. I saw her at the Clapton Working Men’s Club last summer, and it was frightening how good she was. Nothing tacky or sensationalist, just a proper vintage burlesque routine.’
William dropped his bag of chips and they scattered about his feet.
Ailbhe jumped out of the way and shouted, ‘Dear God, what is it this time? What have I said now?’
He once again put one hand on each of her shoulders and locked eyes with her.
‘Are you telling me that there is an Irishwoman performing burlesque under the stage name Winter, in Clapton?’
‘Well, yes. Why? Do you think that’s your girl? If it is, you have no chance, I’m afraid. She is stunning – I mean, terrifyingly beautiful. Way out of your league.’
Her voice was fading away as the reality of the situation sank in. All this time, Winter may really have been sitting – or dancing – on his doorstep. He kissed Ailbhe on the forehead and did a little skip as he set off for his hostel. So many thoughts collided in his head: how Winter had written of a new persona, of how far the feathers would take her, Clare seeing her in a costume. He couldn’t quite believe it, but it looked like this godforsaken trip had yielded some results after all. A burlesque dancer, though? Was it remotely conceivable that a woman like that would be interested in someone like him? He felt so pedestrian. The thing was, though, she was searching for someone like him. Her letters told him so. And was her burlesque costume any different, really, from the one Clare wore to court or the one he wore to the depot? Was it strange she hadn’t mentioned her performances in her letters? No, he decided. She wanted her great love to understand her interior world; she didn’t want him to be seduced by the sequins. He was sure that must happen to her all the time. She was looking for someone different.
When he got back to the hostel, he peeled off all his clothes and sobered up a little under the ice-cold spray of the rickety shower. He climbed into the abrasive sheets, which no longer bothered him, and stared blankly into the darkness while the city citied on outside his window. When dawn broke, he was still lying in the same position, not quite asleep, not quite awake. He now knew where he could probably find Winter, so that’s what he would do – wasn’t it?
XXIII
Clare lay on an inflatable mattress dressed in grey pin-striped bedlinen in Flora’s living room/kitchen/dining room. To call it open plan would be generous; there was very little open about that space. Fitting the mattress on the floor had involved pushing Flora’s two-person pinewood dining table against the wall and stacking the chairs on top. When Clare reached out to the right, she could touch the teak sideboard that stood against the magnolia wall. To the left, the thin brown carpet gave way to the lime-green linoleum that differentiated the kitchen from the rest of the room. Her hand crossed the border as she traced the diamond pattern on the floor with her finger. Looking around the room in the morning half-light, it struck Clare how much of a stranger her sister was to her now. All these vinyl records; when had Flora started listening to soul music, fallen in love with the blues? Who were all those letters from, bundled together on the windowsill? Somehow, she had managed to splash colour and personality across every available surface that the tired little flat offered. Most of it had been collected on her travels, she’d explained. The row of terracotta pots with the family of succulents she brought home from Crete; the curtains made from woven blankets were from India; the Murano glass bowls had been carefully transported in tissue paper from Venice. A stuffed pheasant perched on the sideboard, its beady eyes watching Clare where she lay.
Over the kitchen table, dozens of photographs and postcards told a thousand tales of her adventures overseas. What did these smiling faces mean to Flora? Were they strangers passing through, or had some of them come to mean more to her? Any one person in particular? For so long, Clare had judged her little sister’s roaming to be irresponsible, flighty, feckless. When was she going to settle down? Commit to something? Even when Flora told her she had trained as a doula, Clare wouldn’t take her seriously. She realized now that, while she had been berating her sister for the choices she had made, Flora was out in the world, squeezing every spectacular second from life, experiencing so much more than her sensible older sister. At what point had Clare decided that only the lifestyle she chose had any value? Why was it so important to her that others reflected and reinforced her behaviour with their own? As she waited for the city, and her sister, to wake up into a new day, she was pleased to realize that she wasn’t jealous, she harboured no resentment. All she felt was a renewed optimism that the world was still out there. And that it wasn’t too late to get to know her sister on an equal footing, as adults.
She heard Flora gently creak the door open and pause.
‘Don’t worry, I’m awake. Come in!’
‘Sorry, sis, if I woke you. The night ran much later than I expected. That little baby was in no hurry to meet us, but he got there in the end.’
Clare sat up in her charcoal silk pyjamas and propped herself against the radiator with some pillows.
‘I don’t know how you do it, Flo. You must be exhausted.’
Flora stretched out on the tattered beige corduroy sofa, her two feet propped on the armrest, twisting her wrists back and forth.
‘Oh, it’s worth it. They called him Lennon Presley, after John and Elvis.’ She smiled. ‘That baby has a lot to live up to. When I left them, his dad was cradling him in his arms and singing “Heartbreak Hotel”.’
‘That’s sweet.’ Clare yawned and rubbed her sister’s arm.
Flora’s voice dropped a tone. ‘So you don’t still think I should train properly and become a midwife?’ she asked, raising her chin to look out at her sister from under her fringe.
Clare flinched, pulled the duvet up around her knees.
‘I’m sorry, Flora. You know I’ve only ever wanted what was best for you –’
Flora swung her legs around so she sat facing her sister.
‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘Annoying as it can be, I’d rather have someone nagging me than no one caring at all. It was almost like having a proper mum.’
Clare stretched her back like a cat and let the silence sit between them. She stood up, bounced along the mattress to make her way to the kitchen, and put the kettle on. While she waited for it to boil, she rummaged th
rough Flora’s fridge, sniffing different containers and tossing some in the rubbish bin. After a moment, Flora spoke again.
‘I was thinking about you tonight – you and William.’
Clare closed the fridge door but remained staring at it, nudging a fridge magnet from Reykjavik along the edge with her index finger.
Flora leaned on the back of the sofa, watching her sister. ‘I think you’d be great parents, that you’d be a great mum. I wish the whole baby thing –’
‘The baby thing!’ Clare pulled open the one tiny cupboard over the sink, snatched two mismatched mugs and shoved them on the counter-top. ‘Please don’t, Flora. I always said we couldn’t even consider it until we had our lives set up properly – a proper home, his career sorted. And he never got it together so, case closed, as far as I’m concerned.’
Flora stood up, pulled the sheet off the mattress and released the valve to deflate it. The trapped air escaped with a high-pitched whine while Clare slapped two teabags into the flip-top bin. Flora folded the mattress into a clumsy square in her arms, speaking again to Clare, but without looking at her.
‘Are you sure you’re not just using all that as an excuse? You were never keen, even before William.’
‘And what if I am?’ Clare snapped, as she started gathering her clothes together from where they were draped over the back of a kitchen chair. ‘It’s still all true, and do you blame me? We didn’t exactly have a great role model for mothering, growing up, now, did we? I would rather not have any children than risk turning out like her!’ She turned towards the hallway.