On the Edge of the Loch: A Psychological Novel set in Ireland (15 page)

‘Cilla – ’

‘Wasn’t easy coming here. I wanted to see you, that’s all. And I don’t give a cow’s shite whether your name’s Michael Flatley or Tony whatever-it-is!’

The hurt in her disturbed him. Even more, feeling this close to her spirit, her courage to go after what she wanted, a quality he too was committed to in this outside world. He could not deny her his admiration. Neither could he let it get out of hand, become more than it could be.

‘Right. Bye!’ She started away.

He let her go until she had travelled too far into his pain.

‘Cilla. Hold on. Give me ten minutes. Meet you in the lobby. Okay?’

Her face lost its gloom, flashed him a cheeky smirk. She wobbled away as he watched, on clicking heels, her spunk and the swish of her baggy suit infatuating him. Half-way along the corridor she turned. ‘Don’t have to go dancing. Probably break me neck in these suicide shoes. Then I’d have to sue you for millions.’

In Nalty’s Bar on Crispin Street a table carnation and the spill of light from a street-lamp provided atmosphere, augmented by low strains of traditional Irish music. Cilla enquired of the waiter if he might have a full-bodied shiraz or cabernet not shown on the wine list. He had, he reported, a Wolf Blass cabernet-merlot. That would be fine, she told him, and ordered a bottle. Tony just observed.

‘It’s on me,’ she said. ‘I hope you like it. It’s from Australia. I got very grand working with Leo Reffo; he knows all the wines from everywhere, better than I ever will. I used to think Dom Perignon was the head fella in the mafia.’

She had begun working at Claire Abbey, she told him, in February of 1991, when she was going on twenty, just before Lenny came home from the Middle East. In the three-and-a-half years since then she hadn’t once seen Charles and his daughter acting warmly toward each other. They hardly ever sat down for a cup of tea together, not in the hotel anyway. Charles would often be away for weeks, off gallivanting in America, something to do with big mining companies, probably making a fortune. When he was home, she reported, he stayed in his private house on the golf course, and he always carried his portable computer with him, every place he went, and he was very touchy about it, never let it out of his sight, like it was gold or something. One time he forgot it, left it under a table at the Abbey, then all of a sudden he stormed back in, straight through the middle of a whole bunch of nice Japanese tourists, and he grabbed it with a terrible face on him and stormed back out.

And that Charity one, Cilla went on, she’d been the manager, if you could call her that, for four years, since Charles brought her over from cowboy land. She took orders from no one only him. Plenty of times she made a mess of things, even Lenny had to stop her doing daft stuff, real eejity things, had to tell her to do it the way Leo did it, like the set-ups for St Patrick’s Day or the races or the holidays, things like that. She hadn’t a notion about what’s important, only wanted to boss everybody around. But Lenny never got involved with the hotel, or with other people, she just kept to herself. Once in a while she and Leo would have lunch together, or he’d bring coffee and sandwiches into the staff room for the two of them and they’d talk. He asked her loads of times to help him run the place, and she’d have been brilliant at it, but she always said no, she didn’t want to be a manager, just to do her own things, and read books, and she always went walking on the beach and up in the hills, even when it was raining, and she brought her camera with her everywhere.

As Cilla talked, the downpour outside began pick-pocking against the window. A little later, with her wine glass in one hand, she held aloft on her fork a single asparagus spear and peered over it at him.

‘Now that I filled you in on all the scandal, what’ll we talk about?’

He sipped his wine. ‘You.’

‘Me? I’m only a nice-looking culchie,’ she said, her face play-acting. ‘Well, I think I’m nice looking. Least, last night that’s what you said. But I’m definitely a culchie; I’m sure about that.’ She wrinkled her brow. ‘Stop staring at me, will you, you’re making me nervous. Bet you don’t even know what a culchie is?’

‘‘Course I do; didn’t I grow up here. It means a country person. It’s not a compliment though, right?’

‘What’s the harm. I’m a culchie, I’m from the bog. You’re a jackeen, you’re from the big smoke. So what? Except I’m better looking than you. And a better driver. And I can climb better. But you’re not too bad. Really, you’re kind of an okay climber. I’ve seen better, though.’ She stopped prattling, as though suddenly concerned. ‘Listen, I hope you know I’m only messing, I’m pulling your leg, I swear, I’m not serious, about nothing.’

From behind his wine glass he had sunk into her enjoyment of herself, her no-off-switch humour, the delight she took in poking fun at him, her being just who she was and what she was. How free. Now his thoughts returned to her looks, to her lamp-lit features and unedited joys. She had taken of late to drifting off for brief interludes into a smiling quiet. And right now she was gazing into her glass like it were a crystal ball, as though fascinated by what she was finding.

His mind jumped around, in wonder at where she might take him next. She had an unburdened style, tricks, things that held his interest, kept him excited. But moods too, implied more than shown; he could sense that in her. Being with her was like speeding on a river of blind bends, adventures at every turn, new depths, new dangers. Her possibilities stripped him of thoughts he needed to shed, made him feel vulnerable, young, alive, that he was really learning about living. His hand reached distractedly for the newly uncorked bottle of Wolf Blass and almost tipped it over, which drew from her a shriek that turned into uproarious laughter, and he filled both glasses.

‘What are you thinking right this second?’ she asked with sharp inquisition.

‘What? . . . I don’t, I mean I wasn’t.’

‘Yes, you were. I know what you’re thinking. You can tell me; I’m brilliant at keeping secrets.’

‘Secrets? Wasn’t thinking anything like that. You were telling me about you, remember? What life is like living in County Mayo; last back yard before Boston, you said.’

‘Me and Mayo? Nothing else to tell. Yours truly is twenty-three going on twenty-three and a half. Think I told you that at least five times. Maybe I told you three times, I don’t remember now. Must be the water in this place, probably spiked with poteen. You can’t trust poteen.

‘Anyway, I’ll try to be soberious and tell you a bit more. My step-mam and step-dad run a tiny little farm outside Killadoon; they’re getting on now, really old, God bless them. They adopted me really late. Both of them’ll be eighty-eight this year, both in the same month, November.’

‘Eighty-eight? That’s fantastic. And they’re well and still run the farm and – ’

The first signs of upset entered her face.

‘Is everything alright, Cilla. You feeling okay?’

Seconds after covering her face with her hands she lost herself in another outburst of laughter.

‘I’m really, really, really sorry. I’m not adopted. I’ll stop, I promise, I will. No more. I can’t stop. No, I will stop. Holy God’ll never forgive me.

‘Seriously, Killadoon is where I grew up. I’m being serious now. On the farm, milking cows, feeding sheep, all sorts of sexy things like that. Especially when the bull came to kiss the heifers; will I tell you about that? Will I?’

She was on a roll again. He leaned back, absorbing. A while passed before it burst into his mind, his years in hells they called correctional facilities, all the decent living he’d been deprived of, his own inner hell and the baggage he was carrying. He castigated his brain, refused to go along; wasn’t this wet night in Ireland what he had hungered for for all those years, fourteen in all, since he’d first lost the plot in Newark. Hadn’t he earned the right to this dream, this wit and conversation, this laughter.

‘No, no, it really was,’ she said, misreading his face. ‘It was great, the farm. When I look back I remember I couldn’t wait to get out, go off someplace. That’s how I went to work in Galway; I was eighteen. Only forty miles away but me mam and dad wouldn’t talk to me. I was away ten months, then I came home. That’s when Leo Reffo gave me a job as a waitress. It’s him that runs the Abbey, not Chastity Van Superwoman. And now look at me: here I am, merry, not drunk, just merry, on me way to being locked thanks to you topping up my glass when I wasn’t looking.’

‘Me? I wouldn’t – ’

She waved away his protest. ‘Do you not know me by now?’ she said. ‘And I forgot to tell you. I have four brothers, no sisters, and I’m the baby. That’s it. Told you everything. Now you’re laughing at me.’

‘No, no, I’m not laughing, not at you. It’s just the way you tell it, your life. Some people would die, many would, to have had your life.’

‘Never thought of it that way. So, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander. Not that I’m a goose. Tell me everything about you, and no lies.’ She placed a hand on his arm, spoke with the affectation of a counsellor. ‘Just relax, let everything out, you can trust me. You’re in good hands, so to speak.’

‘Nah.’ He shook his head. ‘Your life, you’ve done a lot more than me. I was born on a cold stormy night in February 1966. Went missing in 1980. That’s all I remember. Until eighteen months ago.’

‘You were in a coma for fourteen years? Stop messing! I want to know. I’m trying to be serious; it’s very hard for me. Go on, I’m waiting.’

‘The headlines, that’s it: Born in Dublin, loved Dublin. Left Ireland the day after I turned fourteen. Never to be heard from again.’ He looked directly into her scrutiny, tried to smile, but couldn’t. ‘Sorry. I mean the whole family emigrated to America. Newark, New Jersey, big strange city beside New York City. I hated it, and it never got better. Felt like my whole life had been ripped away. Then recently I moved out west, to Arizona, then came home to Ireland to visit, last summer, as you already know, first time back since I was fourteen. Wanted to climb a mountain or two. And here I am.’

‘What about your mam and dad, brothers, sisters, cat, dog, goldfish, pet crocodile? Where are they all?’

‘My mother lives in Florida. My father died when I was a teenager. Kate, my eldest sister, lives in Dublin; she’s a shrink, a psychotherapist. Two other sisters live in Atlantic City, in New Jersey. Look at that rain! I wonder if it means it’s too late in the season to climb Mweelrea.’

‘Means you’re trying to get out of telling me things. You’re full of secrets; I can tell. Bet you have a steady girlfriend in America. You could even be married or divorced for all I know.’

‘No girlfriend, no wife, no divorce.’

‘Asking too many questions, am I?’

‘We probably should get moving. It’s eleven-forty-five.’

‘No, it’s not; it’s a quarter to twelve. Afraid you’ll turn into a frog?’

‘You’re right, a quarter to twelve. I’m in Ireland. Have to remember that.’

‘We’re parked all the way up in the village. We’ll get soaked for our sins; I mean skins, shins, soaked to our – ah, feck it, you know what I mean; we’ll get drowned, and it’s all your fault.’

‘If you’re willing, I am,’ he said, then blushed. ‘To get wet, I mean.’

‘If I show you mine, you’ll show me yours.’ Eyes glassy and warm, she tried to smother her giggling. ‘Don’t mind me, I don’t know what I’m saying. Let’s walk it, why not. Be a bit of fun getting wet together. I can barely move in these stupid shoes; I’ll end up on me arse. Rear-end, I mean. Sorry, sometimes I forget to speak respectable.’

Arms entwined, they huddled first in Nalty’s doorway, peering out beyond their security, into a stormy world. Cilla unbuckled her shoes and hooked them over her arm. ‘I’ll walk barefeeted. I mean footless. Feck it, I mean no shoes on me.’ She reached for his hand and found it. ‘Now’s good a time, want to go for it?’

They sailed along the gleaming pavements in the pouring rain, neither speaking nor hurrying. And the feeling came to him again: home! Out of nowhere, this was home, an epiphany of a different kind than he’d felt before. Here he had no past but an innocent one, no record but that which he chose to reveal; here the brand new him and the original him could combine, minus the terrors he had lived with for too long. So much less to conquer now. Was it Cilla deBurca? What she permitted him to be?

Soon they fell into the car, saturated, lost to the gaiety of it all. Cilla pushed back her dripping black mane, tucked curlicue strands behind her ears, then glanced blissfully at him. ‘Nice cup of hot tea?’

‘Want me to drive?’ he asked.

She was never incapable, she told him, and it was only half-way up the hill they were going. Minutes later they were safely inside Number 9, Connemara Court. ‘The bathroom’s behind you,’ she said. ‘There’s a big white robe behind the door; you can use that. I’ll dump all the wet stuff in the dryer.’ Her look questioned him. ‘Go on, I won’t come in. You don’t have to be shy, you’re only a wet man! I’ll change in the loft; that’s where I sleep.’

He didn’t move.

‘What’s wrong? Go on, I’m not messing. Then I’ll put the kettle on. We can have scones, if you’re hungry. I baked them myself this afternoon; took me hours. I even put cherries from Italy in them, make them taste even better.’

He shuffled backwards, smiling at her cheekiness and lies, knowing she was reading his thoughts. He bolted the bathroom door behind him. She was right, the robe was large. When he had dried off, he wrapped it tightly around his nakedness, triple knotted the belt, and resigned himself to her inevitable teasing.

They arrived in the kitchen simultaneously in matching robes, he in white, she in pink. More than once she bit back a snicker as they sat at opposite sides of the café-style table. And with her humour even more loose and animated, their conversational ease resumed and remained fluid.

A while later she struggled to her feet. ‘If I don’t get to sleep now I’ll be serving breakfast like a zombie. Follow me; I’ll show you where I’m putting you.’

He faked nonchalance, tried to conceal his puzzlement. Especially after last night, when she had all but insisted on being kissed. Now though, he could not deny what had been simmering under his enjoyment of her, the excitement that had been pressing him to decide how far he could let things go. In silent observance he followed the shapeful bathrobe through hall and lounge to a sofa made up into a bed.