Fragile Lies (5 page)

B
rahms Ward
, 6 p.m.

H
i there
, Killian. Let’s take a look at you. Maggie says you’ve been fretful today. How can she tell? She rattles her tea trolley and pronounces on the state of your moods with the authority of a pope. Your grandmother must have been here earlier. She’s left the glass snowball by your bedside. You’ll shake it again some day and watch the snowflakes fly.

I met Jean on the way in. We talked for a while. It’s a start. No, it’s more than that. It’s a bloody miracle. One thing we can both agree on is that the trail from the Great South Wall is dead. The police have no further information, no leads. The glass they found on the pier was further back from the scene of the accident so they don’t believe it’s a related incident.

Two guards came to my apartment that night. Boys masquerading as men. I’ve heard it said that the first realisation of aging comes when policemen and doctors cease to intimidate and start to imitate our children. But those young lads did not remind me of you. They were stalwart, square of chin, solidly earthed. They’d found my address in your pocket. The words they used were careful, regulation kindness, not overtly alarming. But I knew, oh yes, even as I ran towards the hospital entrance, I knew what I would find. Tubes and machines, monitors bleeping and you, my son, clinging grimly to life. I wanted to kneel on the floor, throw back my head and howl. Old women once wisely keened their departed but nowadays we need a canyon or a cavern, not a white sterile room, to calm the fury, make the pain more bearable.

I rang your mother from the hospital. Laura answered the phone. Your sister is only fourteen but she’s aware that late night calls come to her house for one reason only. When I asked to speak to Jean, she called her immediately. I listened to the sound of your mother’s footsteps hurrying nearer and had no idea, no earthly idea, how I would break the news to her. She hung up when she heard all she needed to hear and arrived at the hospital shortly afterwards. How shrunken she seemed, as if some vital vertebrae had been removed from her spine. Terence supported her against his chest. Laura and Duncan clung weeping to her. Your grandparents came also. A tight family circle. Nurses brought us tea and comfort, spoke in hushed nocturnal voices. A doctor with sleep grit in her eyes told us of horrendous decisions we might have to make. These are the memories I carry with me from that grief-filled night. They are memories I’ll carry to my grave.

I can’t stop thinking about that voice on the phone. Anonymous, of course, muffled by something, probably a scarf or handkerchief, but with enough clarity to send an ambulance speeding through the night. Does she have children, I wonder? Does she worry about them at night? Has she ever felt that hand clutching her heart when the knock comes to the door and she knows the fear, the bleak, terrifying moment that nudges her awake from nightmares, is about to come true?

At first it was impossible to imagine an hour passing, then two and three, a day, a week, months. But time is an indifferent monitor of grief and two weeks went by before Jean had the energy to come to my apartment. And when she came, she was ruthless in her need to apportion blame.

“You got your way at last.” Her anger was a wrenching cry, far beyond my comfort. It took nineteen years, she said, but I destroyed you in the end. I promised to look after you and I failed. I threw you out on the streets when I knew how desperately you needed my help.

“Tough love … what kind of love is that?” she demanded. “You never wanted Killian.
Never!
I don’t know how you can live with yourself.”

What use is truth when it’s buried in such anguish? She placed her head in her hands as if she couldn’t bear the sight of me. Her words didn’t hurt me. They were trite accusations compared to my own self-indictment. Like me, she is unable to rest at night. There’s no closure, Killian. You were born from a careless love and it tied us both in an enduring knot. We have two stories, same source, different strands. Some day soon I’ll write our story. Once upon a time there was a young man and a young woman. They made a homeless child …

There’s a grand stretch to the evenings. Soon it will be the longest day of the year. The cherry blossom is fading and the rooks are swirling past your window.

H
omeless
… home … less home … show way home … home on range … home sweet home … sweet Chariot … coming … carry me home … no home … Bozo …

C
ars drawing
caravans chugged through Market Street and banners advertising a country music festival appeared in the windows of the restaurants and pubs. Trabawn settled into a more leisurely pace as visitors in sun-dresses, shorts and t-shirts took over the pavements. In the supermarket a trim, bespectacled man in denim shorts and sandals stared openly at Lorraine as she approached the fresh bread counter.

“Lorraine Cheevers! My God, you haven’t changed a bit, not a bit. I’d recognise that flaming mop of curls anywhere.” He laughed at her blank expression. “Don’t tell me I’ve changed so much that you don’t recognise Máirtín Mullarkey?”

“Mad-Dog?” She tried to silence the laughter bubbling up inside her. “My God! It can’t be.”

He chuckled, raised a long, slim finger to his lips. Pale and instantly familiar blue eyes gleamed behind his glasses. “
Shhhh!
I’m a respectable science teacher these days. Emily is one of my pupils, as a matter of fact. I hope you’re not going to fling my past at me now, are you?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Master Mullarkey.” She lowered her voice to a dramatic whisper. “As long as you’re not giving my daughter any lessons in horticulture, especially the grow-and-roll-your-own variety.”

“Perish the thought. I’m a rock of respectability these days, with five daughters to keep me in hand. How’ve you been?”

“Oh, you know. Getting by. One daughter, one broken marriage and a career in painting.”

“I saw you on
Artistically Speaking
. Interesting documentary. But I’m sorry to hear about you and Adrian.”

She shrugged. “It’s water under the bridge now. Life goes on.”

“That’s a fact, sure enough. Whatever happened to the gorgeous Virginia?”

“She’s in the PR business.”

“A spin doctor, is she? Well, who’d have thought it. I always imagined her in films or on the catwalk. I was mad about that woman. Is she still breaking hearts?”

“Oh yes, I suspect she is.” Lorraine moved her trolley to one side and allowed a woman to pass them by.

“What about her brother, what’s his name?”

“Edward. He’s an economist in London. One marriage, still very much intact, and three children.”

“Emily reminds me of Virginia in appearance. Your daughter is a charming young girl, very bright.”

“But not a happy one, I’m afraid. She’s finding it difficult to adjust to her new surroundings. So much has happened so quickly in her life and I feel guilty –”

She broke off, embarrassed at revealing so much about herself to a man who had once prided himself on the quality of his home-grown cannabis.

He smiled, shrugged. “I’m in the throes of rearing five daughters so you can’t tell me anything I don’t know about the guilt trip. As soon as Emily starts making friends you’ll be home and dry.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a woman who stopped beside them, obviously anxious to speak to Máirtín. “You and Emily must come and visit us,” he said before Lorraine moved on. “Jan, my wife, would love to meet you. Give me your number. I’ll ring and arrange something soon.”

She unloaded groceries onto the kitchen table and handed a container of Pringles to her daughter. “As requested, madam. By the way, I met your science teacher in the supermarket.”

“Sparky Marky?”

“I suspect we’re probably discussing the same person.”

“He’s not the worst. Did you tell him I’m part of a dysfunctional family set-up?”

“I could have. But he wouldn’t have believed me. He says you’re an excellent student.”

“Of course I am.” Emily snapped a crisp between her teeth. “You don’t need to be happy to be brilliant. In fact, it helps when you’re despairing, depressed and dumped in hell. His daughters are in my year. They’re twin goths, Janice and Joplin.”

“That figures.”

“A man rang while you were out. Bill something or other. He wants to commission a portrait. He said you’re a difficult woman to pin down and that you’ve ignored the two phone messages he left on your answering machine.”

Before leaving Dublin, Lorraine had instructed the receptionist at Blaide House not to disclose her new address or telephone number to anyone. Abruptly, she stopped unpacking the groceries and walked outside. From where she stood, she could hear the faint break of waves on the rocks and, closer, the frenzied barking of Hobbs, the farmyard dog. These outbursts had become familiar to her, erupting whenever she approached the stile on her way to the beach or a stranger entered the lane. The collie’s barking only subsided when Noeleen came to the door to scold him. On hearing her voice, Hobbs always collapsed into abject obedience, slinking towards the shelter of the wall so no one could witness his subjugation.

Bill Sheraton’s arrival would break through the protective fug that had surrounded her since she came to Trabawn. She wanted to ring him back, postpone his visit, make excuses, invent a terminal illness – could a broken heart be classified as a “terminal illness”, she wondered – and, if he still insisted on coming, hide behind the sand dunes until he left. Despite her annoyance, she smiled at the idea of crouching like a frightened rabbit behind the eroding, sandy embankments. He was arriving tomorrow, Emily said. She would meet him, hear what he had to say, then send him politely on his way with a firm refusal ringing in his ears. When she was ready to start painting again she would make the decision herself.

Noeleen opened the farmhouse door. Her voice rang out and the barking stopped as suddenly as it had started. Despite the dog’s desire to tear her apart limb by limb whenever she came within sniffing distance, Lorraine felt a certain affection for the brute, having guessed, correctly as it turned out, that he was a direct descendant of Celia Murphy’s dog, Old Red Eye. The past manifested itself in many shapes and forms. She stretched her hands before her and watched them tremble. The tremor was faint, almost invisible, like the first stirrings of a palsy. Virginia was the only person who would pass her telephone number on to the businessman. She claimed he was her most demanding client and charged him lavishly for his abrasive ways.

When Lorraine grew calm again she returned to the kitchen. Her hands were steady as she helped her daughter stack away the last of the groceries.

On the following afternoon when Lorraine returned from the beach, Bill Sheraton’s BMW, which almost spanned the width of the lane, had offended Hobbs’ territorial instincts to such a degree that he was barking an octave higher than usual. Unperturbed by the dog’s hysteria, Bill was leaning against the front wall, observing the smoke rings that wafted in clear circles above his head. His broad hands looked more suitable to handling a shovel than the slim black cigarillo he was smoking but Virginia believed he was addicted to them. He had smoked in the gallery on the opening night of Lorraine’s
Painting Dreams
exhibition, deliberately ignoring the No Smoking signs, and no one had had the courage to rebuke him.

“Leave him to it,” Virginia had advised. “He’ll buy quickly and leave. Andrea has a full schedule lined up for the night.” Her judgement proved to be correct. After only a cursory glance at the collection, Bill Sheraton purchased two of Lorraine’s most expensive paintings and departed with his wife to attend another function.

“Don’t be fooled by his rough manner,” Virginia had said, switching off her public relations smile and casting a speculative glance at the two sold stickers. “He knows exactly what he’s buying and how much your paintings will appreciate in value. He’s a rough neck with impeccable taste.”

“What’s with the mutt?” Bill brusquely swept aside Lorraine’s apology for keeping him waiting and followed her around the side of the house. “Has it got rabies or something?”

“It’s an inherited gene,” she replied. “You can relax. He’s yet to prove his bite is worst than his bark.”

“I’m all in favour of a good bark but only when it’s accompanied by a sharp bite.” He entered her studio and blew smoke into its pristine interior. “So this is where you’re hiding out.” His tone was non-committal as he took in the bare walls and tidy shelves.

Emily was right. Her studio should be paint-splashed and haphazard, reeking of turpentine, breath-catching spirits, varnish. Instead, she stood in a white, sterile room that breathed loneliness from every corner. “How can I help you, Mr Sheraton?” She lifted the electric kettle and filled it with water.

“First of all you can tell me what the hell you’re doing bolting off to the arse-end of nowhere when you should be in Dublin creaming off the publicity after your exhibition?”

She tried to hide her annoyance as she switched on the kettle. Her sudden departure so soon after the exhibition had obviously been a subject of gossip and speculation. “I’m not a horse, Mr Sheraton. I don’t bolt. I make decisions. Trabawn is ideally suited to my needs.”

“I’ll say it is. I’ll be lucky if there’s any suspension left on my car after driving down that boreen.” He blew a derisive puff of smoke towards the ceiling. “I heard some of the callers to
Liveline
giving out about your exhibition
.
Crackpots, all of them. You should have stood your ground and fucked the begrudgers. Every fruitcake in the country with a view on anything thinks the rest of us have nothing better to do than listen to their cock-eyed opinions. I still can’t make up my mind if the paintings I bought are erotic or pornographic. But I’m not losing sleep over it.” He deliberated for an instant. “Erotic, I suppose. Pornography leaves nothing to the imagination but – well – I imagine something different every time I look at the damn things.” He chuckled deeply, suggestively. She almost expected him to nudge her and say, “Know what I mean, eh?”

“Mr Sheraton, I assume you’re here for a reason?” She gestured towards a chair and placed two mugs on the table. “Would you like tea or coffee before we begin?”

“Coffee sounds about right. Call me Bill. No sense in formalities. Andrea is interested in commissioning a family portrait.”

“I’m sure Virginia told you I’m not accepting any new commissions at the moment.”

He drew deeply on his cigarillo and continued as if she had not spoken. “Andrea’s been on my back for weeks with this latest notion. And that’s to have a family portrait by Lorraine Cheevers. How soon can you begin?”

“If you want a family portrait I can give you the telephone numbers of excellent artists who’ll be delighted to oblige.”

“Give me a break, Lorraine.” He sighed impatiently. “It’s you she wants and what she wants she gets – or I get hell. Can I ask when you’ll be available?”

“I’ll ring and let you know.”

“That’s not an answer. When are you next in Dublin?”

“I’ve no immediate plans to go there.”

“Is this a hermitage then – or can I assume you’ll venture forth into the real world sooner or later?”

Without replying, she walked to the window. Such a wilderness of weed and briar. Nothing for it but to clear everything out. She would hire a digger, get things moving. He stood beside her, puffing his foul smoke into her fresh air. “I’ll phone you when I’ve made my plans, Bill.”

“Do that. We’ll have lunch together. But, for Christ’s sake, don’t wait too long. Andrea gets what she wants or I get hell.” He handed her his business card and nodded approvingly. “That’s a nice kid I spoke to on the phone. What age is she?”

“Fifteen.”

“Has she settled here?”

“It’s taking time.”

“At least it’s a safe environment. Keys in the car, the front door on the latch, that sort of thing. Dublin’s a cess pit and our kids are swimming in it.”

“All Emily thinks about is returning to live there.”

“Keep her here. She’ll settle eventually.” She sensed him hesitating, choosing his words. “Young people. I don’t understand what the hell they’re on about most of the time – or what they want from life. Our son went badly off the rails for a while but he’s out the other end, thank God.” He shook his head vigorously. “I was running my first travel agency when I was his age. Eighteen years and I could already smell my first million. But Lorcan! Even if luck bit him hard on the arse he wouldn’t recognise it.”

He left the studio and faced the farmhouse where Hobbs was once again making his presence heard. “Some people make a lot of noise but they say nothing. Keep your eyes on the future, Lorraine.” She had expected a bone crushing handshake but his grasp was firm and oddly comforting. “I’ve been on the ropes a few times in my life. Yet I’ve always known when it was time to rise again and face the next round. You will too. Ring me when you get to Dublin and we’ll talk again.”

Máirtín Mullarkey kept his word. The following week he rang Lorraine and invited her to a barbecue on Sunday afternoon. As soon as they arrived at his bungalow, Emily disappeared with the goth twins, whose appearance suggested they had ventured forth from the confines of a vampire’s bridal suite. Apart from a brief dash to the patio for sausages, burgers and baked potatoes, Lorraine did not see the young people again until it was time to return home. Coloured lights had been hung around the garden where friends and neighbours gathered. Some of the people were local but Lorraine heard other accents, an Australian twang, the deep, melodic cadences of an African voice and the heavily accented English of a young Italian couple who had set up a holistic health centre in the village. She heard, also, a London accent, the inflection so reminiscent of Virginia that for an instant she thought her cousin was sitting on a deck chair, her face shaded by a wide-brimmed straw hat. During her childhood summers a visitor from Dublin was a stranger in Trabawn. Now, only two decades later, Lorraine was simply another unremarkable face in a multicultural gathering.

She sat beside Sophie, a Sudanese woman married to an Irish farmer. They had met in Sudan, she told Lorraine, when he was engaged on an agricultural project and she was working as a nurse in a local hospital. They had moved to Ireland sixteen years ago.

“A big adjustment?” Lorraine asked.

“At first, yes. Now, not so bad. I ignore what I don’t want to hear and draw strength from those who are close to me. And you?”

“I don’t know why I’m here.” She made the admission frankly. “I came to escape from a marriage that was no longer working. At the time it seemed a good idea. Now I’m not so sure.”