The Kinsella Sisters (4 page)

Dervla was going to live in a Great House, while Río was going to live in a cottage by the sea. Dervla’s garden was going to have manicured lawns and a topiary, while Río’s was going to have apple trees and hollyhocks. Dervla was going to have a Dalmatian, while Río was going to have a marmalade cat. They were both
going to marry tall, dark and handsome men who looked like Pierce Brosnan in
Remington Steele
, and they were both going to have two children each, and it didn’t matter whether they were boys or girls as long as the babies were healthy and had all ten fingers and all ten toes.

‘What are you thinking about, Dervla?’ Río asked.

‘Those Sunday evenings. The ones that seemed happy until we realised that Dad wasn’t snoozing contentedly under his paper, but was comatose with the drink.’

‘Remember how he’d head off to the pub after lunch, and when he came back he’d be in flying form, and give us piggybacks, and roll down the slope in the garden with us, and we thought he was great craic? And all the time, Mama would be in the study doing the weekly accounts and we always wondered why her eyes were so red, and she told us she’d got allergic to the cat.’

‘God. We were like something in a novel by John McGahern.’

Río laughed. ‘At least it wasn’t out of a novel by that bloke who wrote
Angela’s Ashes.
’

‘Frank McCourt.’ Dervla looked at the black cast-iron fireplace that was grey now with ash and dust, and that boasted not the art nouveau figurines that their mother had collected, but a battalion of empty bottles and sticky-looking glasses and dirty ashtrays. ‘Maybe we should write a misery memoir,’ she said. ‘We could go on
Oprah
or
Richard and Judy
and make a fortune.’

Dervla and Río turned to each other, but this time they didn’t laugh. ‘Poor Dad,’ they said simultaneously, each reaching for the other’s hand.

And then they had their arms wrapped around each other, and they were crying, and Río was saying, ‘I’m so, so sorry about the thing with Shane.’

And Dervla was saying, ‘Don’t be sorry–sure, wasn’t it ages ago and wasn’t he an awful eejit anyway. And weren’t we the
awful eejits to let something as petty as a teenage crush mess us up.’

‘And for so long!’ exclaimed Río. ‘Twenty stupid, stupid years we’ve wasted, acting like characters in a Dostoevsky novel.’

‘Except in a Dostoevsky novel the characters would never kiss and make up.’

‘Is that what we’re doing?’

‘I think so. Don’t you? Don’t you think it’s possible to wipe a slate clean after twenty pointless bloody years of resentment and strop?’

‘Yes,’ said Río. ‘I do. I’m so sorry’ And leaning forward, she gave Dervla a kiss on the cheek.

Dervla kissed her back. ‘I’m the one who should be sorry, for overreacting the way I did.’

‘No, no–I’m the one who should be sorry for stealing him.’

‘No, no–you didn’t steal him. He was never mine anyway.’ And then they were laughing again, but it was a kind of snuffly laughter.

‘Do you have a tissue?’ Río asked finally, wiping her cheeks.

Dervla undid the clasp of her shoulder bag, and passed over a packet of Kleenex.

A plaintive mew from the doorway made them turn. There, arching his back and rubbing his muzzle against the door jamb was W.B., their father’s cat. His marmalade fur was bedraggled, and the leather collar dangling loosely round his neck told them he’d lost weight.

‘Oh, W.B.!’ cried Río, bending to scoop him up. ‘Poor you! I’d forgotten all about you–you must be starving. Let’s see if there’s anything to eat in the kitchen, puss cat.’

‘Apart from mouse pie, you mean?’ remarked Dervla.

‘Ew. I’d forgotten about them. You’d better go first, since you’re so used to them.’

Dervla moved down the hall. A lozenge of light on the tiles indicated that the kitchen light was still on. Inside, the big table
in the centre of the floor was covered in detritus. More bottles and glasses, half-empty mugs of tea with mould floating on the surface, cereal packets, milk cartons, a box of Complan, empty tins, books, newspapers and magazines.

W.B. pitter-pattered into the room and immediately leaped onto a work surface upon which boxes of dried cat food were stacked alongside a wine rack.

‘Wow,’ said Dervla. ‘There’s an entire bottle of wine in there. He actually left us some drink. Fancy a glass of Dutch courage?’

‘Definitely.’ Río moved to a drawer, rooted among its haphazard contents for a corkscrew, and reached for the bottle. ‘Merlot,’ she said, deftly inserting the corkscrew. ‘Chateau-bottled, interesting vintage.’ There came a
plop!
as the cork slid out. Río sniffed it. ‘Mm. Plum pudding fruit, spicy vanilla oak, peppery nose, a touch of stewed mulberries.’

Dervla gave Río a curious look, as she poured cat food into W.B.’s bowl. I didn’t know you were a wine buff.

‘I’m not, I’m just spoofing. It’s plonk. Here’s a challenge for you. Find a couple of clean glasses.’

‘There aren’t any.’ Dervla moved to the sink, which was piled high with dirty dishes. There were half a dozen or so dead bluebottles on the inside windowsill, and half a dozen or so dead snails on the outside one. She selected two of the least disgusting wineglasses, and rinsed them under the tap. ‘Well,’ she said, clearing a space on the table and setting the glasses down. ‘That’s interesting. Dad was still able to do the cryptic crossword.’ She picked up a backdated copy of the
Irish Times
and scrutinised the Crosaire. ‘There’s only one he missed,’ she said. ‘“Sounds like fifty ended like this.” Eight letters, second letter “e”.’

‘Deceased,’ said Río. ‘Here’s to him.’ She sloshed red into the wineglasses, then passed one to Dervla.

‘Here’s to our daddy,’ said Dervla, raising her glass.

‘And to our mama.’ Río raised hers likewise. ‘We’re officially orphans now, Dervla.’

‘I’ve felt like an orphan for years,’ Dervla observed, matter-of-factly. She took a sip of her wine and made a face. ‘Ew. Nasty.’

‘Very nasty,’ agreed Río. ‘But don’t let that stop us from finishing the bottle.’

Dervla sat down at the table and looked around the room. The framed photograph of her parents on their wedding day hung, as it had always done, next to the dresser full of their wedding china. Dervla noticed abstractedly how intact the dinner service was; but then, she supposed, throwing plates had never been their mother’s style. ‘Here’s hoping Ma and Pa don’t run into each other in the big blue hereafter,’ she remarked.

‘Oh, I dunno,’ said Río, taking the seat opposite her sister. ‘I reckon Dad yearned always to be reunited with her, like Heathcliff and Cathy. I don’t think he ever stopped loving her. I wonder what made her put up with him?’

‘She stayed put because of us, of course,’ said Dervla.

‘I suppose this is where we give each other thoughtful looks and start reminiscing about the past.’

‘Somebody once said that the past’s another country. Let’s not go there.’

‘Unless we can travel first class. And this ain’t no luxury stateroom.’ Río looked round the kitchen with distaste. ‘How could he have
lived
like this?’

‘You’d be surprised at how many men who live on their own, live in squalor. I could tell you stories that would make you puke.’

‘Houses you’ve seen?’

‘Yes. Sometimes I’m scared that I might actually puke, then and there, all over the kitchen floor. One woman used to cook pigs’ feet for her husband every evening—’

‘Gross!’

‘And because he was incontinent, he smelled perpetually of wee. I used to have to spray the house with Jo Malone before every viewing.’

‘Business must be good if you can afford Jo Malone.’

‘It is. Very good. I’m going to have to recruit another girl.’

‘Is someone leaving?’

‘No. I’m expanding. I’m going to offer my clients a home-staging service.’

‘A home-staging service? What’s that?’

‘For an extra charge, I turn the house into a really desirable property–the kind of place where a prospective buyer will walk in the door and say, “Wow! I simply must have it!’”

‘How could you possibly do that in a house that smelled of pigs’ trotters and wee?’

‘That one was a challenge, all right. But some places can be really dramatically transformed. Statistics prove that a house that has been home-staged is far more likely to sell than a house that hasn’t.’

‘Isn’t it a waste of money for the owners, since they’re going to be moving out anyway?’

‘Not if it guarantees a sale. And makeovers don’t need to cost a fortune.’

Río gave Dervla an interested look, then leaned her elbows on the tabletop. ‘Really? What would you do with this place?’

‘Clean it. Paint it. Highlight the original features–the fireplaces, cornices, coving. Perhaps hire a few good pieces of furniture, plants, some paintings. Tidy up the garden.’

Both women looked towards the window that framed the view of overgrown ferns and rampantly rambling roses and leggy geraniums.

‘It’s like a Rousseauesque jungle, except not as pretty,’ observed Río. ‘I looked after it as best I could, but gave up on it a couple of years ago. He just wasn’t interested. The garden was Mama’s domain.’

Dervla took a thoughtful sip of wine, not noticing this time how disgusting it was. ‘Shane took a picture of us on the lawn, once, by the pond. Do you remember? We were trailing around in our dressing gowns. It was shortly before Mama died.’

‘I still have that photograph. I found it just this morning.’ Río turned remorseful eyes on Dervla. ‘I meant what I said earlier, Dervla. I am beyond sorry about what happened with Shane.’

‘I know you are. And I’m sorry too that I didn’t accept your apology. I should have been bigger than that. We were going through such a horrible time then. I guess neither of us was thinking straight.’

‘Were you in love with him?’

Dervla considered. ‘No. I barely even knew him. I was just insanely infatuated–like a woman possessed, or a demented fan of some rock god. Were you?’

‘In love with him? No. I just thought I was. He was so good to me when Mama died.’

‘He was in love with you?’

‘I guess so. He was so supportive. I couldn’t have got through that time without him.’

‘I did pick up the phone to you a couple of times, you know, to say let’s make amends,’ said Dervla. ‘But you didn’t answer.’

‘I tried phoning you too. And then I got pregnant, and I couldn’t bear to tell you that Finn was Shane’s baby’

‘I knew he was. He takes after his dad, does Finn. He’s a good-looking boy–and charming, to boot. Any time I meet him on the street he’s full of chat. I’m glad you never put an embargo on him fraternising with his auntie. I’d have hated him to cold-shoulder me.’

‘He’s my best friend,’ said Río. ‘I adore him. I’ve been very lucky, to have produced something so fine when there are thousands of delinquents roaming the country.’

‘Does Shane have much input?’

Río shook her head. ‘No. Finn’s practically all my own work. Shane sends money from time to time, though he’s always broke. We keep in touch by Skype and e-mail’

‘When was the last time you saw him?’

‘About five years ago. He had a small part in a movie being made in Killary.’

‘Was he as winsome as ever?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you weren’t tempted?’

‘No. I had a man in my life at that stage. But he was a waster too. That’s why I had my tubes tied. I couldn’t bear the idea of having another child with an irresponsible father.’

‘We’ve got a lot of catching up to do,’ said Dervla. As she reached for the wine bottle, she wondered who Río might have talked to when she made the decision to undergo surgery; who might have picked her up from the day ward; who might have made her a cup of tea afterwards. She guessed that it would have been Fleur, and wished now that it might have been her. ‘I know hardly anything about you, little sister. Tell me more.’

‘There’s not much to tell,’ said Río. ‘I work hard, but at nothing in particular. I guess I’m a jack of all trades.’

‘What do you mean, jack of all trades?’

Río shrugged. ‘Sometimes I work in O’Toole’s—’

‘In the restaurant?’

‘No, downstairs in the bar. Sometimes I drive a taxi, sometimes I work in other people’s gardens. I do Fleur’s window display for her. Sometimes–if I’m lucky–one of my paintings might sell—’

‘You’re still painting?’

Río nodded. ‘Mostly landscapes. Some portraits. I’d prefer to do more portraits, but tourists tend to go for the landscapes.’

‘Where do you sell them?’

‘Fleur’s opened a little wine bar at the back of the shop. Some of my stuff’s on display there.’

‘Does she take commission?’

‘No. She does it for me as a friend.’

‘I knew you were driving,’ said Dervla. ‘And Fleur told me you were doing her window. But I never knew about the gardening. Where did the green fingers come from?’

‘I guess I inherited them from Mama.’

Dervla gave Río a speculative look. ‘You were wrong, you know, when you said there wasn’t much to know about you. There’s lots to know.’

‘Not as much as there is to know about you. I’ve been keeping tabs on you.’

‘You have?’

‘Yep. I know, for instance, that you have no man in your life right now because you’re “married to your career”.’

‘What? How do you know that?’

‘I hired a private investigator. Joke. I read a profile in
The Gloss
magazine when you were up for Female Entrepreneur of the Year, and I saw you on breakfast television, and I heard you being interviewed on Galway Bay FM last week. And your picture’s always cropping up in the society pages.’

‘You don’t strike me as the type of gal who bothers with the society pages.’

‘I have to sit in the dentist’s waiting room same as everybody else. Sometimes I even have my hair done, and get to read
VIP
magazine.’ Río took hold of a strand of her reddy-gold hair and examined the ends ruefully. ‘I’m way overdue a cut.’

‘W.B. looks as if he should have a wash and blow-dry too. What’ll we do with him?’

‘Maybe Mrs Murphy would like him as a memento of Dad.’

‘I’m sure there are other mementoes she’d rather have. Maybe we should go take a look at our inheritance.’