Barefoot Over Stones (12 page)

‘Look, Ciara, I know it’s a teensy bit awkward and everything but just give Dan a chance, please. He’s sound, really down to earth, and even if his dad is a louser he can’t be held responsible for that surely?’

‘What do you mean “even if”? After all I’ve told you about him you should be in no doubt that he is indeed the biggest shit around, preying on my little sister while his wife lives it up like the Queen. That woman wouldn’t clean her shoes with the Clancys and he just takes advantage of Leda because there is no one looking out for her at home.’

‘I don’t mean to sound like I doubt you, Ciara, because of course I don’t, but I am asking you just to give Dan a chance, that’s all. For me, because we are friends, please? He is not his father and can’t be held accountable for him. I mean, it would be unfair if anyone thought you were the same as your folks, wouldn’t it? Especially when you try so hard to be different. Give him the benefit of the doubt and see what he’s made of. If you still hate his guts after talking to him then fair enough. I can’t argue with that.’

‘Jesus, Alison, of all the effing men in Dublin, why did you have to pick him? I could introduce you to forty lads in our year that are probably better looking, great fun and, crucially, are not Con Abernethy’s son. You know I am hard-wired to hate him on sight because of his father. I think I’ll go before he comes. I just can’t think straight at the moment.’ Ciara grabbed a lipstick from the pile that languished on the mantelpiece. It was her unofficial make-up counter. She complained that the lights in her bedroom were so crap that she looked like a ferociously ugly man in drag when she applied her make-up there. Now all her potions lived in the living room accompanied by a dinky little compact mirror, one of about five that she had in various places in the kitchen, on the landing and atop the electricity meter inside the front door. It was a habit she was in to check her face for flaws or blemishes as many times as she could before she left the house. She was a firm believer that opportunities flowed to those who made an effort and she was determined not to miss any that might come her way. She applied lipstick now with a practised ease as Alison desperately tried to think of a way of keeping her from deliberately avoiding Dan. It would make things so awkward between them and she didn’t want that. Surely she shouldn’t have to choose between having a friend or a boyfriend? There was no justice in that. Ciara, intentionally avoiding Alison’s gaze, grabbed her coat, her latest charity-shop find, from where she had abandoned it on the sofa and had just fastened the first of the oversized buttons when the doorbell rang.

‘I think Redmond’s Lounge gets a bit crowded and it’s a bit hard to talk. Will we try the Ivy Tree instead? I’ve never been but it might be OK.’ Dan was doing his best to get things off to a good start with Ciara but first impressions were definitely not promising. It didn’t help that Alison had looked crestfallen when she had opened the door to him. When they turned on to Ranelagh Road Ciara finally addressed Dan, although she didn’t actually manage to look in his direction.

‘The Ivy Tree is a shit hole, full of old fogeys back from the golf and puffing like windbags on their cigars. At least Redmond’s has a bit of life.’

‘Fair enough, Redmond’s it is. That OK with you, Alison?’ Dan squeezed her hand, trying to give her a bit of encouragement. Alison nodded silently. It seemed that it was highly likely that this was going to be an absolute disaster, worse in every respect than she had imagined. Not only
was Ciara not going to let Dan off the hook, it seemed she was looking around to see a bigger, better barb that she might hang him from.

As they reached Redmond’s, noise whistled out from behind the heavy double doors. Ciara turned to Dan. ‘You better be buying the drink. Some of us are on a grant, you know, and seeing as I wouldn’t choose to have a drink with you in a million years then I at least should have the comfort of not having to pay for it. No doubt Daddy has set you up with an allowance.’

‘Ciara, do you have to be so horrible?’ Alison was appalled at the way she was treating Dan and it moved her to speak for the first time since they had left the house. ‘I’ll buy the bloody drink. If you find it so difficult to be in our company I am very sorry but you are not exactly sweetness and light yourself.’

Ciara was a bit ashamed. Her intention had never been to hurt Alison but she couldn’t help feeling her family’s pride was at stake and that she was letting Leda down by having anything to do with that scumbag’s son. However, after two rounds of Heineken, bought by Dan because he insisted, she seemed to soften slightly. Her tone became a little less acerbic and her conversation developed a bit more flesh than the cut-and-dried remarks that had characterized the first hour. She had to admit that he was nice enough, charming if you were into that kind of malarkey – which she absolutely was not. Charm was someone scrambling to cover up the bad bits. Charm was someone intent on fooling you. Dan had filled out a good bit; he was unrecognizable as the lanky boy she half remembered. His shoulders were broader and if anything he seemed taller than the stalk from school. He was good-looking too and that irked her a bit because she had been expecting a junior Con Abernethy with the hair swept to one side, slimy and full of himself. She had to admit that being the son of a total creep obviously didn’t mean that you had to turn out to be a creep too and for Alison’s sake that had to be good news.

Across the table Alison’s hopes began to rise. Nerves had made her drink three glasses of sparkling water very fast and she felt a bout of hiccups on the way. Dan was telling them about his exams that were coming up soon and his voice lulled her into a calmer, happier mood. Listening to him made her feel everything would be just fine and, seeing Ciara finally making a bit of an effort with him, Alison breathed a small sigh of relief. ‘Will we stay for another one?’ she ventured, rising to go to the bar and leaving them alone to sink or swim.

The Dáil never sat on a Friday and although the protracted session on amendments to the licensing regulations on Thursday had run late, Con Abernethy had still decided to make the trip back to Tipperary. He was being very diligent about turning up at committees and debates because there was an election due in the summer and it never hurt to show dedication when more eyes than usual were trained on the government backbenchers. Home-town followers didn’t want you spending too much time away though; they reckoned your first priority should be their concerns and they expected you not to get carried away with your work in the Dáil or get too fond of your time in Dublin.

Politics was a hard station but he liked the glory of it, the excitement of the election count and the way he felt held in such esteem by the people of Leachlara and beyond. Still, people had short memories and favours would have to be done in the run-up to any election to guarantee the right result on the night. You were only as good as the last thing you had sorted for somebody and the loyalty of voters was seriously questionable. If you missed a funeral your slip-up could lose you a whole house and their extended family. It was no good sending Columbo or another representative either as they took that as a bigger slur than missing their big day altogether. He wasn’t sure what else he would do with his life if he weren’t a politician and the best thing about it was that it allowed him to live for the most part away from Mary, which was a very good thing indeed.

They should never have got married, he knew that now, but neither was willing to walk away,
for plenty of reasons. Con did not want to be known as a divorced TD. In these matters the traditional way was always best, even if the personal price of that tradition was heavy beyond measure. Their match had made sense twenty-five years ago. He had inherited the Abernethy family home and a farm of land from his uncle and Mary was ‘a laying hen’, bringing money from the proceeds of the sale of her father’s grocery business in Thurles. It might have worked but Con had been unprepared for Mary’s coldness, which seemed to emerge the very second that she had called the house in Leachlara her own. She had withdrawn from their physical relationship the day she found out she was pregnant with Dan. She had taken to her bed by day and made it plain that he was not invited to join her by night. Con had got Eleanor Duffy, a friend of his late mother’s from the town, to help with the housework. From her alleged sickbed Mary barked instructions about the running of the house and Con had taken to being out as much as he could because he found it embarrassing to listen to. He fixed Eleanor up with cigarettes and hot whiskeys at the end of each hard day to compensate for her treatment at the beck and call of Mary Abernethy and her wages far exceeded what she might have expected to earn. Con had been overjoyed when Dan finally arrived; he had craved a son so he could show him the things that Con’s father had shown him, but also because he was the human embodiment of hope and trust in the future that had all but been extinguished by the barrier that had risen between him and his wife.

He thought that nobody in Leachlara, except his closest aides, knew that their marriage was a sham of false appearances and well-concealed disappointment and that was the way Con wanted it to stay. If your wife couldn’t be a positive addition to your life, he took it as read that she should not be allowed to ruin your chances either. More or less friendless, Mary seemed not to have confided in anyone except Dan, who to Con’s regret now knew that hatred and distrust had seeped into the cracks that love had failed miserably to fill. He counted on the fact that Dan knew his mother was a cold fish and the failure of the marriage rested mostly at her door. He had worked at having a warm and loving relationship with Dan and he was satisfied that that at least had been a success. His son talked to him, sought him out for advice and came to meet him in his apartment frequently while the Dáil was in session. Con wasn’t much of a cook but there were any number of places whence you could order meals to be delivered and he would listen to all Dan’s stories about his training while they ate the food and drank wine. He would leave the dirty dishes to one side because it was a novelty that he always relished not to have the plate taken out from under your chin by an overly zealous wife intent on clearing the evidence of any meal quicker than you had a chance to eat, never mind digest, it.

It took approximately ten minutes for Con Abernethy to get from the front door of Shanahan’s lounge to the stool that Columbo had reserved for him at the bar. He was slapped on the back several times, words of gratitude were whispered quietly as if the favours alluded to might disappear if they were spoken of out loud, and new favours were mooted, their precise details to follow later at a weekend clinic. When Con finally reached the bar Columbo had a pint of Guinness and a double-shot chaser of whiskey waiting for him. He had ordered them from Leda and told her they were for Con so she was to pull a lovely pint because the man was thirsty. Leda did as she was told and Paddy Shanahan looked over her shoulder in case she would foul up the order. Con Abernethy was great for Paddy Shanahan’s business. The minute he took a seat at the bar on a Thursday night the place got a second lease of life. People who had been ready to call it a night suddenly discovered a pocket of thirst in their beings that they had somehow overlooked. They shuffled closer to the bar. Given a while to relax, Con Abernethy would definitely stand a round to the house and it would pain them to miss it and have to hear about it the next day from someone who had been clever enough to wait on.

‘Busy in here tonight, isn’t it, Columbo?’

‘Yerra, there was a match in the field and we lost. Again. So what better to do than ramble in here to soak up the disappointment? Speaking of winning matches, any word on the date for this godforsaken election?’

‘No word yet. He is playing his cards close to his chest. I’ve heard from a few that have his ear that he wants to spring it on the other crowd so they won’t get a chance to get constituency offices organized.’

‘I’m all for stealing their thunder but in fairness, Con, it’s hard to run a campaign when the fecker won’t even tell his own team when he is going to throw in the ball.’

‘You’ve always managed before, Columbo. Sure you love the challenge!’

Con knew that, for all Columbo’s complaints, he lived for campaigning and was never as miserable as when the last of the ballot boxes were sealed on election night. After that normal life resumed and Columbo Connors didn’t have a normal life to speak of. He farmed a bit, just enough to avail himself of every easy grant, and he did a bit of auctioneering, but his dedication and his appetite were for winning elections and for helping to carry Con shoulder high when the last of the votes were in. Con couldn’t ask for a better campaign manager and it was fitting that he bought him an appreciative drink. He waited until Leda came closer, serving a customer to his left. She was wearing a tight black top and jeans and her long black hair was pulled back from a pale face that carried not a hint of make-up. There was no denying her beauty and there was also no concealing the fact that she was stealing glances at him from the corner of her eye. She left the ordered pint to settle and walked along the length of the bar to stand in front of Con, a smile teasing the corners of her mouth.

‘Can I get you something, Con? Another drink maybe?’

What he wouldn’t give for this bar to be empty now except for the two of them. Then he would tell her what he wanted. He forced himself to contain the thoughts rising within him and when he spoke his voice was low and gruff, thick with urges he could neither express nor admit. He was way beyond flirting now and he knew he was sliding into treacherous territory. Somehow the chat he had had with Dan a while back where he denied everything that Mary had insinuated about himself and Leda made him feel that the matter was closed. He had presented it as a harmless crush allowed to run too far and while the truth was that it had started that way, it was a shabby and incomplete description now. If it were innocent then Con Abernethy was beginning to realize that he had no intention of letting it remain so. Leda put a pint in front of him and winked at him as if she too knew that he was about to make his long-invited move.