The Lake (2 page)

Almost three hours after leaving Dublin, Frank saw the first sign for Crumm. Not a signpost for the village, but a large, wooden, homemade-looking sign for ‘The Angler’s Rest, Crumm’. Frank pulled in just ahead of it. Resting his arm on the passenger seat, he looked over his shoulder, let a Morris Minor pass, and reversed back to take a better look. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble over the sign. ‘The Angler’s Rest, Crumm’ it said in stencilled black paint across the top. Beneath, the words ‘Casey’s Bar’ were scripted. A sprightly looking fish leapt up from the bottom left-hand corner, and the words ‘Food Served All Day’ were diagonally across the right. Frank knew nothing about angling. He had no idea what type of fish was pictured, but he knew he was hungry, and that the chances of two places serving food all day in Crumm were slim. The final pieces of information on the overcrowded sign were an arrow and the words ‘turn left after two miles’.

Frank indicated and pulled back out onto the road. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Ten to three. He should probably go straight to the station. Garda O’Dowd would be waiting for him. His stomach growled and he regretted not stopping along the way to eat something. With his arm resting on the open window, he concentrated on not missing the turn for Crumm. Although it was the last weekend in September, it might have been mid-August. The sun was lower in the sky, but felt just as strong. The breeze on his bare arm was warm, full of the smell of cut grass and hay. The air smelt different away from the sea. Heavier, sweeter. Frank filled his lungs with it. There were certainly worse places to be on a Friday afternoon, he thought, although the image of Rose thumping him with indignation at the sentiment immediately popped into his head.

He might easily have missed the small sign for the village, were it not for a second billboard beneath it reminding road users of the food served ‘All Day’ at The Angler’s Rest. Frank slowed to make the left turn, and was met by a flood of brown, as a herd of cattle made its way across the road in front of him. The animals spilled from a gate to his left, pushing against each other like drunken ladies in stilettos. They ignored Frank; although he noticed one or two of them skip away at the sight of a nervous-looking dog just ahead of his car. A scarecrow of a man followed the last animal out of the field, stick held aloft in one hand, the other pulling the gate closed behind him. He nodded in Frank’s direction. The cattle jostled their way along the road a little before turning right into another field. The farmer followed the last one in, and his dog paced the open gateway like a sentry, as Frank drove slowly past.

The main road from Dublin had been no racetrack, and the Crumm road was worse. Frank winced as his tyres bounced over craters and ruts. Wherever it was given the opportunity, grass did its utmost to reclaim the land stolen by the tarmac. After about a mile, the sound of high-pitched voices broke through the background noises of the countryside. Frank slowed again, and in a clearing to his right, a grey, single-storey building appeared; an alien structure in the blanket of green. Outside, small groups of uniformed teenagers congregated; bags at their feet, jumpers tied around their waists. More walked in pairs and threes through the gate towards the road, chattering, laughing. The sweet freedom of a sunny Friday afternoon in September. Many heads turned or looked up as Frank approached, watching him as he cruised past. One face caught his eye, a tall girl with bushy blonde hair. Her eyes met his, and he gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. Frank knew how it was. There probably weren’t many Ford Capris in Crumm, fewer being driven by a twenty-something-year-old bloke with no one in the passenger seat. He could almost hear the hush descend on the yard as he picked up speed and drove away. They’d probably assume he was an angler up from Dublin. Or maybe they had heard about the body and were expecting the Garda. Frank checked his rear-view mirror, but the road was empty. There were certainly worse places to be on a Friday.

Then he sat a little straighter in his seat. This was not some weekend break on the lake. Some poor git was dead, and whether or not the body was ancient, as they suspected, Frank needed to remember why he was there. The third sign for The Angler’s Rest was so enormous that he first glimpsed it almost half a mile before he arrived at it. He kept the engine idling at the fork in the road where the sign urged him to turn left down towards the lakeshore and the food, before pulling out and heading right towards the village of Crumm. He had better go straight to the station and put the poor guard out of his misery. The Angler’s Rest would have to wait.

About the time that Detective Ryan was pulling into the Garda Station in Crumm, Peggy was leaning over the bar at The Angler’s Rest, flicking through a magazine; her head propped up on one hand; her long dark locks pooling on the counter over her shoulder. Her other hand, she alternately lifted to her mouth and swept with venom across the colourful pages of tall, thin, tanned girls in short dresses and bell bottoms. Peggy knew that her weekly magazine purchase was a form of subliminal self-torture, but she was afraid to lose her primary contact with the world outside of Crumm. So each Friday lunchtime, she made the pilgrimage to McGowan’s General Supplies. She was fairly sure that the magazines had been delivered on Thursdays for weeks now, but that Mrs. McGowan had neglected to inform her in order that she herself might keep up-to-date with the latest styles and make-up trends at Peggy’s expense.

Peggy snorted aloud at the sight of a model in a pair of denim dungarees and a cowboy hat. Maybe she should wear a cowboy hat behind the bar. That would give her customers a laugh. They would all think she was losing her mind, when in actuality she would be the only fashionable person in Crumm. She stood up straighter, challenging the model looking back at her. Well at least she herself had good hair. Although it would be better if it were blonde. But the Caseys were all dark. Two girls with hair like thoroughbreds traversed the next double-page spread, clad in turquoise jumpsuits. She swivelled to see her reflection in the mirror running along the back of the bar, bringing the flat of her hand against her face, and flicking back the front of her hair like the girls in the picture. But as soon as she glanced down again at the pages, her hair fell into its usual place. She needed layers. If she had layers, she would be able to flick it out properly. A round brush and a squirt of hairspray would do it. She held back the end of her hair to try and recreate the effect, but dropped it again in resignation. She’d die before asking Mrs. Byrne to cut layers into her hair. As if Mrs. Byrne would even know what that meant. And she shuddered at the idea of bringing the picture with her to the salon. They’d have a great laugh. That Peggy with her big ideas. Food in the bar. Layers in her hair. Whatever next?

Peggy sighed at her reflection; mottled and tarnished in the old mirror. Sure what was the point, anyway? She might have good hair, but her pale skin and rosy cheeks were nowhere to be found on the pages of her magazine. And she’d have to lose two stone to be anywhere near as skinny as those girls. Like Carla. Carla could wear miniskirts and little dresses. Carla had legs like stilts. But she doesn’t have my hair, Peggy thought meanly.

She glanced at the clock on the wall. A quarter past three. She would be here soon. Peggy looked back at her own reflection, processing her feelings. Right now, she was looking forward to her sister’s arrival. The week was quiet with only Jerome’s unpredictable appearances to bring life to the place. But she knew it wouldn’t last. It wouldn’t be long before she’d hear Carla’s little car pull up outside, and the neighbour’s dog would bark, and Carla would bark back at it. She’d come through and into the bar, stooping a little at the archway, and they’d smile at each other. And it would be all downhill from there. No matter how sincere Peggy’s sisterly love was for Carla, she knew that by Monday morning there would be no sound more pleasing to her than that of her sister’s car pulling away on its early return journey to Wexford.

But then, she also knew that her hard-wired sibling sensibilities would contrive to rebuild an eager anticipation of her sister’s return the following Friday. And then Carla would appear, and the cycle would repeat itself. Peggy had long thought that, were she and Carla mere school friends, they would have parted company years ago. They were simply incompatible. And yet, every week, she fooled herself into thinking that things might be different.

The silence of the bar was suddenly broken by the telephone’s ring. Just as she reached to answer it, Peggy heard a car on the gravel outside. She looked at the clock again. Carla was early.

‘Angler’s Rest? Hello?’

‘Peggy? Is that you? ’Tis Bernie here.’

‘Hello Mrs. O’Shea.’ Peggy instinctively pushed the phone closer to her ear. It was unlike Bernie O’Shea to pay for a phone call when she could send Enda over on foot with a message. ‘Everything all right?’

‘Yes, yes. I will be having Detective Ryan from Dublin staying with me tonight, and I wanted to check that you would be serving food this evening. I can of course prepare something for him here, but it would have to be cold. It’s bridge night at the Corcoran’s. And who knows what time he will come in from the lake, or whatever it is he will be doing.’ Bernie O’Shea’s game of bridge was clearly not going to be disrupted, even for a dead body. ‘Can I direct him to you? Will you look after him?’

‘Of course, Mrs. O’Shea.’ Peggy waved at Carla who had stalked into the room, and dropped her bag against the wall. Carla stuck her tongue out at the phone when she heard the name. Her low opinion of Mrs. O’Shea had been honed during the summer of 1970 when she and Enda O’Shea Junior were secretly courting. At least, until such time as Mrs. O’Shea had caught them fumbling in one of her guest bedrooms.

Peggy glared at her sister. ‘I’ll be sure to feed him, Mrs. O’Shea. Thank you for the referral.’

Carla snorted as she stooped to grab a Coke bottle from the shelf behind her.

Peggy replaced the receiver. ‘What?’ She looked at Carla. They were already on their slippery slope and she wasn’t in the bar thirty seconds.

‘Referral?’ Carla sniggered, and took a swig from the bottle.

‘What about it?’ Peggy lifted a clean glass from a shelf and placed it on the counter.

Carla ignored it. She walked around and sat on one of the high stools like a customer. ‘Who is she referring to anyway?’

‘A guard up from Dublin.’ Peggy picked up a cloth and started polishing pint glasses. ‘A body was found down by the lake last night.’

Carla’s eyes widened. ‘You’re jokin’!’

‘Yeah. Some anglers, pulling in their boat. Apparently they saw it buried at the shore.’

‘Jesus.’ Carla straightened her neck. ‘They saw an actual body?’

‘Well, no. I don’t know exactly. The waterline’s so far back; the lake’s lower than it’s ever been. I think they saw the outline. Of the body. It might have been a coffin.’ Peggy could sense the shock-factor of her news diminishing. ‘I’m not really sure.’

Carla’s shoulders slumped. ‘So it could have been there since the valley was flooded?’

‘Maybe. They don’t know.’

Carla swigged from the bottle. Peggy noticed her fingernails were painted a deep pink. What was a schoolteacher doing painting her nails midweek? It was a nice colour though.

‘Sure it’s probably just one of the graves they moved before the dam went up,’ Carla said. ‘Or rather, one of the graves they should have moved.’

‘But the graveyard was on the other side of the valley. Close to where the new one is.’

‘Hmm.’ Carla considered this. She drained her bottle and handed it to Peggy. ‘Sure we might hear more if your referral appears looking for his dinner.’

Exasperated
. That’s a good word to describe how she makes me feel, thought Peggy, as she slid the Coke bottle into an empty crate on the floor next to her. Carla reached for Peggy’s magazine and sat looking at the pages, all the while pushing back her cuticles with a pink talon. Peggy tried to distract herself with thoughts about the Irish stew she had prepared that morning. She would need to get it back into the Aga by four. The phone on the wall rang again.

‘Angler’s Rest? Hello?’ If she had it in by four, it would ready for five. Half past at the latest. ‘Hello?’ she said again to the silence on the line.

‘Eh, hello. Would Miss Cas … eh Carla, be there please?’

Peggy turned to Carla who had lifted her gaze and was questioning her sister with her stare. She shrugged and pointed to the receiver in her hand. ‘Who should I say is calling?’ She waited. Carla was shaking her head violently. Peggy noticed the colour of her cheeks change. ‘Eh, no Tom,’ she said. ‘Carla hasn’t arrived yet, although I am expecting her. I will of course. She has your number?’ By now Carla was making angry hang up gestures at her. ‘I will of course. Thank you, Tom.’ She hung the handset back in its cradle.

‘Jesus, I thought you were going to ask after his family,’ Carla spat. ‘Couldn’t you just have said, “she’s not here”?’

Indignant
. There’s another word for how she makes me feel, thought Peggy. ‘What’s your problem?’ she threw back at her. ‘Who is Tom anyway?’

Carla looked at her, and retreated. ‘No one,’ she said.

‘Tom.’ Peggy wasn’t in the humour to give her sister any easy ride. ‘Not Tom Devereux? Your school principal?’ Carla said nothing. ‘Maybe I should have asked after his family.’ Peggy couldn’t help feeling shocked, and Carla’s reddening cheeks were doing little to allay her suspicions. ‘He is married, isn’t he?’

Carla flicked a little too quickly through Peggy’s magazine. ‘And why are you assuming he wasn’t calling about work?’ She didn’t raise her eyes from the pages.

Peggy reached out and rubbed her thumb over one of Carla’s painted nails. ‘I assumed you would take the call if it was just about work,’ she said. Carla pulled her hand away. Peggy drew the cloth from her shoulder and resumed polishing the glasses.

‘I’m not judging,’ she said, after some moments of silence.

‘Good,’ Carla replied, hopping off the stool and picking up her bag from the floor. She stood for a second, fiddling with the strap. ‘Thank you.’ The words were barely audible. She made her way towards a door in the back of the bar, leading to the main house. ‘I’m going inside,’ she said.

‘I’ll need you later,’ Peggy said. ‘Jerome’s staying in Dublin tonight.’ She waited for a tirade of complaints and bitching about her and her brother’s inability to manage the family business. It didn’t come.

‘Okay,’ Carla said. ‘That’s another Casey on a shady road to iniquity.’ Peggy looked up from her work to see if Carla’s face betrayed her true meaning, but all she saw was her sister’s back as she disappeared into the house.