Firefly Summer (26 page)

As Kerry reeled from the blow, Patrick hit him again on the jaw and rained blows into his body. Winded, Kerry made no real effort to defend himself, except to cry out . . .

‘You big ape, you bog man . . . you’re nothing but a bloody Irish bog man, that’s why you wanted to come back to the bogs, you never left them.’

Patrick had stopped punching anyway. He indicated a gents’ toilet. ‘Be back here in five minutes. We’re going home,’ he said, and he got into his car, wearily watching Kerry stagger away, bruised and bloodstained, to try and repair the damage to his face and clothes.

They knew that something had happened in the O’Neill family. And whatever it was, Grace was not going to talk about it.

Tommy Leonard thought that it was because Mr O’Neill was being bad-tempered. He had heard stories of him shouting at people about delays and messing and inefficiency. And to Tommy Leonard fathers were bad-tempered, because his own was a demon altogether.

Jacinta and Liam White thought that it might have something to do with someone being sick. Their father had been called up to the lodge one evening. So maybe it was an illness. Dr White wouldn’t tell them; he never talked about his patients. But if it was something simple like measles or mumps he would have said, so it could be a fatal disease.

Maggie Daly had heard that they were going away, people had said that Mr O’Neill was so fed up with not getting the hotel built straight away he was going to pull out and forget the whole thing. Maggie half hoped they would, but in another way she wanted them to stay. She didn’t hate Grace; she wanted to be her friend. The best that could possibly happen was that Grace would want the three of them – Dara, Maggie and her – to be friends, to
be a proper gang with nobody left out.

Kitty Daly kept asking Maggie why Grace didn’t come to play any more, and whether Kerry had come back from boarding school. She was not at all satisfied when her little sister didn’t seem to know.

Dara knew that Kerry had come back from school because she had been there the evening that Mr O’Neill had gone to collect him. But the next day she had a telephone call from Grace asking her not to say anything to anyone about anything.

‘What do you mean?’ Dara was totally confused. ‘If someone says hallo, am I not to say hallo back?’

‘This is serious,’ Grace said.

‘I know it is. I’m serious too. Why can’t you
tell
me what I’m not to say anything about? Why aren’t you here anyway?’

‘Is anyone listening to you?’

‘No, I mean Dad’s in the pub. Mam’s at work, Carrie’s in the kitchen, Michael’s in the yard, Eddie is probably eavesdropping somewhere. What
is
it?’

‘There’s been a bad row, and I can’t come out for a few days. Not till we’re back at school, we might even be going away.’

‘Where, where are you going?’

‘I don’t know,
please
, Dara don’t tell anyone what I told you.’

‘You didn’t tell me anything. I don’t understand any of this.’

‘About my father and Kerry not getting on. You know?’

‘Oh that. No, I won’t tell anyone. I wouldn’t have anyway.’

‘And could you try to take the drama out of it all?’

‘I didn’t know it was a drama . . .’

‘I’ve got to go now.’ Grace hung up.

They didn’t see Grace until the first day of term, a whole week. She looked very pale.

Jacinta was triumphant. ‘I told you it was a disease,’ she said proudly. ‘It could be TB.’

‘Why don’t you ask her?’ Maggie said.

‘You don’t ask people who are riddled with TB if they’re riddled with it; you pretend everything is normal,’ Jacinta replied, the doctor’s daughter.

Maggie noticed that Dara wasn’t racing up to Grace as usual. Dara was on her own.

Good, Maggie thought. Now she knows how it feels to be left out of things.

But if anyone looked left out of things it was Grace. She was like someone recovering from a bad bout of flu.

Even Sister Laura warmed to the girl.

‘Did you get any time to do those Irish lessons I set you?’ she asked, in a kinder tone than she usually used when checking on homework.

‘Yes, Sister, I have them here.’ The girl produced pages of sentences:

‘I’m going to town. Was he going to the town? We were not going to the town.’ All neatly written in the slopey writing and purple ink that the nun objected to, and was annoyed with herself for the unreasonable objection.

‘That’s very good,’ she said, impressed. ‘You must have spent a lot of time working.’

‘I spent all last week. I sat in my room all day, Sister.’ She looked downcast.

‘Well, you’re an example to them all, I must say. How
is your brother getting on at his school, tell me?’

It was a courtesy, a little personal remark to show that Sister Laura cared about Grace and her family. The girl’s face flushed a bit.

‘He liked it very much, but the place was a bit damp so they decided because he has a weak chest . . . they thought . . . they said it would be better if he went to another school. Which isn’t damp. More modern. So he’s going there.’

‘Very wise, you can’t be too careful with chests,’ Sister Laura said.

It was an odd thing to move the boy at the beginning of the summer term, very upsetting to the child and school to have changes in the middle of the academic year. And surely the place couldn’t be all that damp in the summer.

Still it was no business of hers. Sister Laura put her mind to the business of keeping the children’s minds on school when everything outside was tempting them out of the classroom and on to the river bank, into the woods and over the springy green fields around Mountfern.

Patrick and Kerry sat at the breakfast table in the lodge. Miss Hayes left the refilled coffee pot on the table and explained that she was about to cycle into Mountfern for the messages. She wished Kerry good luck at his new school and said she hoped it wouldn’t be damp like the last place. There was nothing as bad as a chill that settled on the chest. And she was gone.

She knew of course that there had been hell to pay between father and son.

Mr O’Neill had said to her on that evening when he came back with the boy, looking as if he’d been in a fight
with a crowd of thugs, that there were a few things the family wanted to discuss in confidence and they would probably go away for some days to do so in privacy. Olive Hayes had given it a little thought and said that it would be much better if
she
were to go away and let them have the house on their own. She had stocked up the larder and gone to a cousin in Galway without either giving or getting any further explanations. She knew that she had done the right thing; Mr O’Neill had gripped her hand firmly when she returned and said that they had been greatly blessed to have found someone like her. He had also added that there would always be a place and role for her when the new hotel was built.
If
it was
ever
built. Life was full of obstacles, he had said with his engaging smile.

And so now she left them alone once more so that the father and son could say goodbye in whatever way they wanted to without having to lower their voices for fear of her overhearing them.

In fact they sat in silence for some minutes after they heard her bicycle creak out through the big iron gates of the Grange.

‘I’ve done a lot of thinking, Kerry.’

Kerry looked at him politely.

‘We seem to have discovered that it wasn’t for drugs, or for alcohol. It was not for anyone else . . . you do not appear to have made any friends. It was hardly for a woman, and at your age you are unlikely to have done anything for which you could be blackmailed. There was no race meeting where you could have lost it, and you aren’t known in the bookies near the school, so it couldn’t have been that. If you bought anything with it then that
item was not delivered. You will not tell me and I have not been able to find out.’

Kerry said nothing.

‘Is that a summary of what has happened?’

‘Yes, you left out a bit here and there.’ Kerry rubbed his bruised jaw.

‘I wish that I hadn’t beaten you. I’ve said that.’

‘I don’t mind. It makes us quits.’

‘It
does
not make us quits. In no way does it make us anything like quits.’

Patrick stood up and walked towards the window.

‘It leaves me knowing that I can’t control my temper; that’s a weak position to be in. I am also left with the knowledge that you stole an enormous sum of money for a purpose which you cannot or will not explain, which leaves me in an even weaker position. How am I to continue in this way of life that I am trying to build for us if I cannot trust you? You may take money from Miss Hayes’s purse; you may reach over the counter in Daly’s and put your hand in the till. I may have to drive to this new school and hear a similar story.

‘All that’s happened to you is that you got beaten. Your life goes on exactly the same – new school, clean slate, reputation totally unsullied even to your little sister.’

Kerry remained very still.

‘In five minutes Marian is coming to drive you into the town, and you are getting the train to a school I have not seen. The principal has had a lying letter from that death’s head Minehan. I’ve seen a copy of it. He will
not
have gone behind my back, so you start here with nothing on your record. This is your last chance, Kerry, your only chance.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘No, I mean it. We’ve done a cosmetic job on it; we’ve papered it over. The last school was damp, you had a wheeze in your chest, medical advice . . . even Grace more or less believes it now. You’ve been given a new start. I’d like to embrace you and come with you to the school, and tell this new head priest, whoever he is, that I’m proud of my son and I want him to do well, like I did last time, but I don’t have the stomach for it. So Marian is taking you to the train. And we agreed that in front of anyone round here we act as normal, as if we were the best of friends.’

‘Sure.’

They heard the wheels of Marian’s car.

‘And maybe we can be the best of friends again some day.’

‘I hope so, Father.’

He looked so handsome and straightforward standing there. Patrick really did believe that it was going to be all right. He had gripped Kerry’s hand and put his other hand on the boy’s shoulder when Marian came in.

‘Yoo hoo! I’m not too early, am I? I always think it’s best to leave plenty of time, that way nobody’s rushing too much.’ She glanced eagerly, like a bright fluffy bird, from one to the other. Patrick felt a sense of shame at using her like this. She was an honourable if boring and fussy woman. It was not fair to keep involving her like this when he had no intention of involving her more permanently. Marian would be useless in a crisis. She was perfect for domestic trivia. But she would have no idea what to do in any important area of life. Unlike Rachel Fine.

Patrick had telephoned her immediately after he had got his son cleaned up, seen by the doctor and sedated. After
he had reassured Grace with bland words, he had asked Rachel what to do. Rachel said that since he hadn’t beaten it out of the boy, he was unlikely to discover it by any further force. She said that if she might draw on a metaphor taken from her own trade, the design and decor business . . . he should paper over the cracks. Pretend that everything underneath was as elegant as the surface, and make sure he created a believable surface. He had waited long enough to get back to his roots and realise his dream. Surely he wasn’t going to let it all disintegrate into a public dog fight that would entertain the locals and people for miles around. Dignity had to be kept, position maintained. Give Kerry one more chance.

For a week Patrick had worked on her advice; it seemed the natural thing to do. He had almost forgotten how practical Rachel was, and how well she knew the right thing for him.

He wished Rachel were here in Mountfern.

He wished he had encouraged her to come with him.

After the first day of term Grace seemed to be all right again. Not as cheerful as last term but still more like her old self.

‘Do you mind if we don’t talk about it?’ she asked Dara.

‘That’s all right.’ Dara was a bit huffy.

‘It would be the same if there was a problem in your family, you wouldn’t want to tell an outsider . . .’

Dara agreed grudgingly.

Maggie was much more understanding.

‘I’m sorry I’ve been a bit . . . I don’t know . . . recently, Maggie. I was just worried about something, do you know the way it is?’

Maggie knew. She said so clearly. Grace was pleased.

Arm in arm with Maggie she went off to the graveyard, and they finished the tomb of James Edward Gray to everyone’s satisfaction.

Mr Williams said it was wonderful to see young people be so helpful. Not far away Eddie Ryan gloomily chopped nettles and gathered up sacks of grass and grounsel and dandelions. Grace discovered that Maggie took the same size shoes and said she must come along to the lodge some evening and see if she wanted any that were there. Maggie never asked Grace what it was she had worried about. From time to time she wondered but still didn’t ask.

Dara made a few pronouncements that if you were a true friend you could tell
everything
and any holding back meant that it wasn’t friendship at all. But Dara bore her no ill-will, and organised Irish classes for Grace which worked so well that soon Grace O’Neill was getting better marks in class than the rest of them. Maggie’s wish had come true, they were a gang, with Jacinta on the fringes of it.

They were all very disappointed when the summer holidays were approaching and Grace announced out of the blue that she was going to go on a trip with her father and brother. It was meant to be a familiarisation tour of Ireland, she confided, but really it was a spying mission. They were going to spend a night in lots of different hotels and see what they were doing right or doing wrong. They would get ideas for their own hotel. A friend of Grace’s father, who used to work with him back in the States, had suggested this would be a good thing to do. They were off as soon as term ended, just after Kerry came back from his boarding school.