Fragile Lies (8 page)

T
he crates blocking
free passage along the landing could no longer be ignored. Lorraine gazed at the ornaments and cutlery, the table mats and linen tablecloths, the numerous sets of glasses, champagne flutes, whiskey tumblers, the Waterford Crystal goblets she had received as a wedding present. Since moving into the house she had not needed them – which seemed like a good enough reason not to bother unpacking anything. Tomorrow, she would ask the Donaldson brothers to move the crate into the attic. Anything that was not necessary for survival would be left inside. As she continued sifting through the contents, she noticed her jewellery box. Music tinkled when she opened it. A ballerina spun in a slow circle; a present from her daughter for one of her birthdays. She lifted out a pendant and laid it against her chest. Adrian’s present. A sapphire, the same shade as her eyes, and a bracelet to match. He presented them to her on their wedding night, the two of them exhausted from the celebrations and the flight to Portugal yet still eagerly seeking each other. It was dark outside, the hotel lights shimmering on the swimming pool, the beach chairs empty, the dance-floor silent. Sapphires woven into a silver weave and love as durable as the hardest stone.

She straightened, her legs cramping, and walked unsteadily down the stairs. Emily had rung earlier and asked to be collected from Ibrahim’s house. Time had slipped by while she was searching the crate and it was now after eight o’clock. She drove without further delay to Sophie’s house. After knocking repeatedly on the front door and getting no response, she walked around to the back of the farmyard. The back door was open but no one answered when she called out. A mournful bellowing came from a large cavernous building which she recognised as a cubicle shed. She had seen one on Donaldson’s farm and often, when she was passing it on her way to the beach and the wind was blowing in the wrong direction, she had held her breath against the pungent smell of cow dung. She heard raised voices and made her way towards it. The shed was empty except for a penned-off area within which a small group of people hunkered around a cow. Lorraine, hesitating at the entrance, resisted the urge to run from the sight of her daughter at the rear end of a pregnant animal, its tail firmly grasped in her hand. Ibrahim appeared to be in charge of a torture machine which was, Sophie calmly assured her, a calving jack used to assist the birthing process. The jack had two ropes attached to a lever which would be used to draw out the calf.

“It’s going to be a hard pull.” Sophie beckoned Lorraine closer. “We’re having some difficulty with one of the legs.” The cow had gone into an early labour and Joe, Sophie’s husband, was on his way back from Killarney where he’d been attending an agricultural conference. Ibrahim had already phoned the vet who was out on another call and had promised to be with them as soon as possible. The cow, however, was not prepared to wait for the experts to arrive.

“We’re in trouble if we can’t manage this ourselves. Ibrahim’s trying to ease the leg free. He’s done it before with Joe but never on his own.” In the village, Sophie always cut a dash in her vibrant costumes and traditional headwear but this evening she was wearing jeans and wellingtons. The sleeves of her red t-shirt were already stained with perspiration. The animal, in distress and lying exhaustedly on a bed of straw, raised dull agonised eyes towards her. She spoke in a soft Arabic tongue to the cow as Ibrahim eased his arm into the animal’s back passage. Emily uttered a tiny shriek which she stifled with her free hand, her other hand engaged in preventing the tail swiping Ibrahim’s face. She stared fixedly in the opposite direction as he probed, his arm disappearing up to his elbow, his face crumpled with the effort of locating the calf ’s bent leg and drawing the two forelegs parallel.

“I’ve got a hold,” he grunted.

Emily allowed herself a horrified peek before settling her gaze once more into the middle distance. Lorraine, feeling no calmer than her daughter, replaced Sophie at the cow’s head. Tentatively, she touched the sleek neck, jumping back when the cow gave vent to an enormous bellow, its bloated belly shuddering in another spasm.

“We’ve no time to waste.” Sophie’s voice shook as she assisted her son with the calving jack. It was a large frame, six feet or more, Lorraine reckoned, but they handled it deftly, securing it to the cow’s back end and attaching the ropes to the calf’s first joints. Together, mother and son began levering the handle of jack. They paused frequently to allow the exhausted animal a short respite then continued with the slow, laborious process until the feet and head appeared and the calf slithered free.

Emily dropped the tail and sobbed into her hands. She walked to the wall and stood facing it, her shoulders heaving. Ibrahim disinfected the calf ’s navel then turned Emily around and pointed. Together they watched the mother revive her new-born calf. Gently, persistently she stroked her tongue over the glistening flesh, her pansy eyes resting protectively on the wriggling animal who began, under her gentle persistence, to stagger upright before collapsing again in a sprawl of knobbled legs.

“At this stage we leave the rest to nature,” Sophie spoke softly as she gathered detergents and disinfectants. She splashed water from the buckets and led the way back to the farmhouse. Darkness had fallen while they worked. A full moon dragged the hedgerows. How close it seemed, touchable almost, and splendid in its ripeness, as splendid as the experience of watching life come into being. And so Lorraine Cheevers paused to savour its beauty and to fleetingly touch the rising beat of happiness.

“
I’ve just given birth to a calf. It was a laborious process. Mother and baby both doing well
.” On the car journey home, Emily texted the message to her friends in Dublin. “See what they make of that!” She giggled and sat back to await their response. She was high with excitement, still shaking from the birthing experience. “Wasn’t it absolutely, awesomely amazing?” she said. “Wasn’t it the most wonderful thing you ever saw in all your life?”

Lorraine nodded, her hands still trembling from shock. Her daughter’s capacity to recover was more immediate.

“I’ve made two life-changing decisions tonight,” she announced when she reached the house. “I’m going to study to be a vet and I’m going to marry Ibrahim O’Doherty. Any man who can put his arm up a cow’s backside and still turn me on deserves to spend the rest of his life with me.”

B
rahms Ward
, 10 p.m.

K
illian
, I’ve to break some sad news, I’m afraid. Bozo Daly is dead. His liver finally gave out. Live by the bottle, die by the bottle. He was a good patient, the nurse said, one of the quiet ones, fading out like a whisper. No second-guessing death, no outrage that his day was done and lady luck, that elusive, bitchy lady luck, had flicked the dust of departure with her high-buttoned boots.

We buried him this morning. Your mother attended his funeral, Marianne also. The woman with the silver boots was there and some young people from the squat. They tell me it’s ear-marked for demolition soon. We were a small gathering around a pauper’s plot. Jean says she will erect a wooden cross with his name inscribed and place it on his grave. Luke (Bozo) Daly. R. I.P.

It’s hard to believe that two years ago I’d never heard of him. I probably passed him on the quays and turned my face away or, feeling magnanimous and in tune with the world, gave him coins if he stretched out his hand. The destruction of his squat won’t be the cause of preservation angst or street protests. But until the time comes for the developers to move in it will still provide shelter for the young people who crawl nightly into its dark corners.

I wrote about it last night. My fingers flew over the keys, cut, copy, paste, delete. How easy it is, with the passing of time, to write with clarity. How simple it becomes to chart the mistakes, the unthinking actions that spin the future from our grasp. I never wanted to write a memoir. Screenplays, quick action, instant dialogue, that’s usually my style.

I’m still searching for her, Killian. I’ve checked her out on the Internet. She had a web site but it’s out of date. Her e-mails come back with a delivery failure message. She’s out there somewhere. She’s running from me but I will find her, Killian, that I promise you. And when I do … then we shall see …

R
un
… run … run rabbit run rabbit … whirr-whirr … smash … crash … glass … pick up … pick up … bracelet …

T
he Sheraton portrait was ready
. Andrea’s hands had been gracefully elongated and draped across her lap. She sat regally on a throne-like armchair, chin tilted, mouth softly curved. Her husband, solid and substantial, stood behind her. Then there was Lorcan, miraculously transformed, fresh-faced, smiling, his elbow elegantly placed on the mantelpiece, his gaze fixed fondly on his parents. The perfect composition of a successful family unit.

“Do you mind if I say something insulting?” Emily arrived into the studio one evening when her mother was applying some final strokes to the portrait.

“Why should I mind? I’m a mother.” Lorraine sighed and braced herself for the worst.

“That painting is actually
awesomely
awful.”

“Thank you.”

“I mean it’s brilliant as a portrait but it’s awful because there’s nothing of you in it. It’s just like a
really
posh pretentious photograph.”

“But the woman who commissioned it will love it. Believe me.”

“She looks like a proper poser. Who’s the guy hanging over the mantelpiece?”

“Her son.”

“Mmm … does he
really
look so groovy gorgeous in the flesh?”

Lorraine shrugged, remembering Lorcan’s scowling countenance. “A few brush strokes of artistic licence. But given time and the right circumstances, who knows what the future holds?”

Andrea Sheraton removed a bottle of champagne from the fridge. “We must celebrate.” She perched herself on a high kitchen stool and poured the champagne into two glasses. “Here’s to you, Lorraine. Long may your talents last.” One spiked high-heeled shoe beat against the breakfast bar, the other dangled from her toes. “I must say you’re looking wonderfully healthy. Must be the country air. The wild Irish image suits you but I still can’t get used to the idea of you in wellies. It quite boggles the mind.”

“The mind can get used to anything.” Lorraine took a sip from the glass and laid it back on the counter. The cloying sincerity in Andrea’s voice was as irritating as her comments.

“No, I mean it sincerely. You’ve been through a wretched time. It’s inspiring to see you coming out the other side. This portrait will attract a lot of attention. Expect commissions from my friends.” She held the glass carefully by the stem and studied the bubbles. “I was talking about you to someone the other night. Your ears must have been burning.”

“Not that I noticed.”

“It was at the opening of the Spiral Staircase Art Gallery. You remember I mentioned it a while ago? Such a wonderful night. Everyone but
everyone
came. Check out this month’s
Prestige
. The photographs are in the centrefold.”

For an instant Lorraine was too shocked to reply. How the wineglasses must have clinked as invited guests gathered in Blaide House to celebrate the opening. She leaned her elbow on the counter. The chill of the marble surface sent an involuntary shudder along her arm. “I’m afraid there’s not much of a demand for
Prestige
in Trabawn.”

“No, I shouldn’t imagine so.” Andrea released a trill of laughter. Her eyelids closed over her slightly protruding eyes and Lorraine was reminded of a bird of prey that waits for the exact moment to strike.

The tapping shoe quickened its beat. “Do you know Mara Robertson?”

“We were in college together.”

“She’s running the gallery. I hope I’m not upsetting you, Lorraine?”

“Of course not. Time has moved on, Andrea. My studio was on prime city space. It’s the perfect location for an art gallery.”

“I admire your spirit. I really do. So courageous. Mara’s hoping you’ll do your next exhibition with her. Rather an insensitive aspiration, under the circumstances.” Her accent was contrived, too many drawled vowels, each word carefully pitched to provide maximum hurt. “Bill invested in another painting. Cost him well over the odds. It’s staggering the prices you artists demand. I’ll show it to you before you leave. I’d like your opinion on its market value.”

“I have the utmost trust in Bill’s investments.” Lorraine eased off the stool. “I’m sorry to rush off but I’m already late for an appointment.”

“Oh, dear.” Andrea’s fingers fluttered to her lips. “This has upset you. I can see it in your eyes. No, no, don’t bother denying it. Bill says I’m far too sensitive for my own good. I pick up other people’s vibrations so easily.”

“Andrea, I never impose my personal life on my professional relationships and I expect you to extend the same courtesy to me.” She stared coldly at the other woman until Andrea was forced to look away. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to leave without engaging any further in this inappropriate conversation.”

High gates opened at the end of the avenue. Distracted by her anger she drove too fast onto the road. A car exiting from an opposite driveway stopped with a screech of brakes and the driver, shocked by her sudden appearance, was jolted forward. She signalled an apology and smiled through the window at him. He reversed back and allowed her to drive ahead.

A van, parked illegally and too close to the T-junction leading onto the main road, blocked her right hand vision. She advanced cautiously, unable to see if the road was clear of approaching traffic. As she drove forward, nosing past the rear of the van, a car came into view, travelling too fast, the headlights flashing warningly, forcing her to slam on her brakes. Within a few seconds the car coming from behind thudded against her bumper. She saw the driver raise his hand to his forehead. He sat in that position for an instant, his hand obscuring his face, then opened his door and walked towards her.

Together, they surveyed their cars. There appeared to be little damage to her own, apart from a dent on her bumper and some scratches.

“We seem destined to
almost
do serious damage to each other’s cars.” She spoke jokingly but his lips tightened, as if he resented her attempts to lighten the situation. He walked around her car, examining it from all angles, then leaned his hands upon the bonnet, breathing deeply, still obviously shocked by the collision.

“Twice in five minutes would certainly suggest we were destined to meet.” His voice was low, as if addressing the words to himself. “But it could have been worse. We could have knocked someone down.”

“Thankfully, we didn’t. There’s hardly any damage done. If you’re happy to leave things as they are, then we needn’t bring it any further.”

He held her arm as she attempted to open her door. “Don’t go yet. We’ve both had a shock.” He gestured towards a hotel across the road. “At least allow me to buy you a coffee before you begin your journey?”

Black hair hung low over his forehead and on his neck. His strong dark eyes observed her, an unnervingly intimate stare. His face would make an interesting study, she thought, and was conscious of a slight, almost-forgotten response, an awareness of a man’s attention and the challenge it excited within her. Once more she attempted to open the car door, aware that there was strength in his grip on her arm. “I’m afraid I haven’t time. But thank you for the offer.”

He released her arm but still stood in front of her. “You’re Lorraine Cheevers?” His voice lilted over her name, as if it was a cherished sound. “I recognise you from
Artistically Speaking
.”

“I never watched that programme.” Tears rushed to her eyes. Horrified by her reaction she sucked in her breath and released it slowly.

“Meeting you today is such a coincidence.” He spoke hurriedly, a slight frown furrowing his forehead. “I’ve tried to make contact with you for months but you seemed to disappear into thin air. I called to your studio a while back. The person I spoke to refused give me your address.”

“Those were my instructions. What did you want to discuss with me?”

“My son … I was thinking of a portrait.”

“My studio is now in Kerry.”

“Can I call and see you?”

She wrote down her address and telephone number on a piece of paper. “I only recently returned to work so I haven’t an up-to-date business card.”

“Trabawn.” He stared at the address. “I spent a holiday there when I was a child.”

“So did I, many holidays.” She smiled, feeling a sense of kinship with him. “I only remember sunshine summers. But it’s changed quite a bit since those days. You probably wouldn’t recognise it.”

“I’ll have to check it out.” His handshake was firm. “I’ll be in touch with you soon.”

“I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

She watched him walk towards his car. He was not as tall as Adrian, or as handsome, but he carried himself well, a confident stride, easy movements. He lifted his hand in salute and watched her drive away. Only afterwards, as she was driving through the city, did she realise that he had forgotten to tell her his name.