Three Little Truths

by Eithne Shortall

  When she got to the boys’ bathroom, she paused. She knocked loudly on the door. As expected, there was no response. Still, she did not enter. After another couple of seconds, she crossed the corridor to the classroom opposite and peered in. Mrs Leech, teaching sixth-year history. There was a trend for pink hair this year – neon dye and anorexia. A virus would take longer to spread through Saint Ornatín’s than a craze.

  She turned at the sound of echoing footsteps and watched as Gormless Paul and Brendan came towards her; Paul talking away, Brendan nodding slowly. The caretaker was carrying a large collection of keys in one hand and a massive workbox in the other.

  ‘Mrs Walsh.’ He inclined his head as they drew closer.

  ‘Hello, Brendan,’ said Trish, smiling. Brendan had been at the school longer than her and was one of the few faculty members she never had to worry about. ‘How’s Laurie?’

  ‘Arra,’ replied Brendan, throwing his head up and sniffing slightly. ‘Same as she ever was.’

  ‘That’s good.’ Although Trish wasn’t sure if it was or not. Brendan’s wife went through bouts of depression. She looked from the caretaker to the PE teacher. ‘Right. Shall we go in?’

  Emboldened by the presence of the others, she pushed open the door of the bathroom. The scent of teenage boy permeated the entire school but, as the door flapped back, the distinctive mix of aftershave and sweat intensified. Trish avoided breathing in through her nose.

  ‘It’s just–’ Paul side-stepped awkwardly around her, his Adam’s apple vibrating in his long, thin neck. He pushed open the door of the third stall. ‘Here.’ He stepped back, leaving plenty of space for Trish to enter the toilet cubicle. She glanced at Brendan who watched her blankly. She was the principal; of course, she would go in first.

  Trish stepped into the stall and caught the door as it went to swing shut behind her.

  There it was.

  Scrawled in black permanent marker on the cheap metal of the bathroom door. The handwriting was as scrawny and childish as the boy who’d no doubt written it, but the size of it, the confidence with which it took up so much space, made her stomach lurch again.

  She read through the list without taking in any of the names and only when she got to the end and exhaled loudly did she realise she’d been holding her breath. There was no mention of her youngest daughter.

  ‘Can I?’ Brendan raised his eyebrows and Trish shuffled out of the stall. ‘Jesus Christ,’ muttered the caretaker when he’d squeezed into the cubicle and closed the door slightly. ‘You think boys are getting better and then . . .’

  ‘So what should we do?’ asked Trish.

  Brendan shook his head ruefully. She didn’t even bother looking at Paul.

  ‘I think first things first, we paint over it,’ she said. ‘Yes?’

  ‘If you think so.’

  Brendan’s expression was impossible to read. Trish was terrible at taking orders – she’d identified a reluctance to delegate as her biggest weakness when interviewing for the principalship four years ago – but in this instance, she wished someone would just tell her what to do.

  Would painting over it be seen as destroying evidence? (Evidence! Oh Christ! Would they have to get the guards involved?) But she could hardly leave it up for students to see, and she couldn’t shut off an entire bathroom for more than a couple of hours. Every other toilet in the place would be blocked by lunchtime tomorrow. And she was not about to shut the school.

  ‘We’ll take a photo of it first,’ she said. ‘I’ll keep that as a record and I’ll make the board of management aware. But then, yes, I think we paint over it.’ The two men watched her; Gormless Paul twitching. It was herself she was really convincing. ‘Good. And we’ll lock this particular bathroom until the paint dries. Stick an out-of-order sign on it and hopefully by the morning, anyone who’s seen the thing will have forgotten. Boys tend to forget. You haven’t heard the students talking about this? Have you, Gorm — Mr Watson?’

  The PE teacher, who was now pointlessly staring at the frosted-glass window, jumped. ‘No. No, I haven’t heard anything. Well, not since yesterday, when one of the students mentioned it to me.’

  ‘Yesterday?’

  Trish raised a hand to Brendan, closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘I know. I know.’

  The caretaker let out a low whistle and Gormless Paul at least had the good grace to look sheepish.

  ‘Well,’ said Brendan, ‘I’ve got a small thing of white paint here. I could paint over it now.’

  ‘Okay, yes.’ Trish paused. Was she doing the right thing? If she made the parents aware of it, she’d risk making a deal out of some immature prank that would otherwise be forgotten. But if she didn’t acknowledge it and word had already spread, she could be accused of a cover-up. She’d take a photo, send it to the board of management; that way she’d have acted responsibly and the burden of knowledge would be spread around a bit.

  She reached for her pocket only to remember her phone was charging in her office. ‘Have either of you got your mobile on you? We need to get a photo first.’

  The two men shook their heads.

  ‘I, eh, I have a pen, if you wanted to copy it down, maybe?’ That was Paul, with his first useful contribution of the day, if not the school year.

  Trish remembered the loose paper she’d found on the corridor and pulled a sheet from her back pocket. ‘Right.’

  Paul handed her a fountain pen and she returned to the cubicle.

  ‘I can do it if you like.’ Brendan’s voice from the other side of the metal door.

  Trish smiled. She needed to see about getting that man more money.

  ‘I’m fine. Thank you.’

  She allowed the door to swing shut fully as she leaned the paper against the stall wall. She read through the list again. All the names belonged to fifth- and sixth-year students – as if that somehow made it better.

  The last one on the list: Sinead Costello. Wasn’t she from the new family on Pine Road? Trish felt an irrational wave of guilt. The poor girl had only been here a month.

  Trish paused and cleared her throat. Then, ignoring the tremble in her hand, she began to write.

  SEVEN

  ‘You know Mrs Ryan used to put her cats to bed? One night she forgot to close her curtains – the curtain rail may actually have fallen down – and myself and Mick saw her, in her bedroom, putting one of the cats into a cot. An honest-to-God human baby cot. Mad, or what? Very mad. Well, we thought it was mad anyway . . .’

  Martha was only half listening to Carmel’s ramblings as she navigated the station wagon down the narrow strip of Pine Road not occupied by parked cars. Getting off this road without clipping a wing mirror was stressful enough, never mind having three residents who possibly owned some of those wing mirrors in the vehicle with her.

  ‘Did she?’ gasped Edie, leaning forward from where she sat behind Martha and sticking her head in between the two front seats. ‘I never heard that.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Carmel, twisting about in the front passenger seat. ‘She used to take them on holidays with her too. Ruby, at number thirteen, met her one afternoon wheeling a suitcase out of her house and she got an awful fright when she heard this whining sound coming from the bag. “What’ve you got in there, Mrs Ryan?” she asks. And Mrs Ryan unzips the suitcase to reveal eight cats. Eight! All reaching up to Ruby with their little trafficked claws. She was off to stay with her sister in Carlow and she was taking the whole lot with her.’

  ‘Am I going right now, Carmel?’

  Her co-pilot glanced back to the road. ‘Yes, right and then right again at the very end of the main stretch. Eight little kitties in the suitcase, and nothing else! Not even a toothbrush. Literally, mad as a bag of cats.’

  ‘Gosh,’ marvelled Edie. ‘I hope it wasn’t an expensive suitcase.’

  Martha was out on Forest Avenue now and feeling a little more relaxed. It had been nice to wake up this morning and have somewhere she had to be. It was only slightly
ruined by how enthusiastic Robert had been about it. If he hadn’t said anything, if he just never talked to her, she thought she could go the rest of her life without thinking about what had happened.

  ‘Lovely car,’ observed Carmel, running her hand over the dashboard, then down along the side of her seat. ‘Some good quality material in this.’

  Martha kept her eyes on the road. ‘Thank you,’ she said, the words sticking in her throat. ‘We’ve had it a while.’

  ‘And why wouldn’t you?’ agreed Carmel. ‘Nowadays people get new cars at the drop of a hat. When we first moved here, there was probably four cars on the whole of Pine Road. Now, it’s more likely to be four cars per household. The only upside in my two never bothering their arses to learn to drive is now they’re back living with me, they haven’t brought extra cars with them.’

  Martha glanced in the rear-view mirror and caught Carmel’s daughter’s eye before she went back to staring out the window. Robin hadn’t said a word since they’d gotten in the car.

  ‘I noticed that man you were talking about, with the planks of wood and the chairs?’

  ‘Shay Morrissey.’ Carmel nodded. ‘What I’d like to know is who he thinks he’s reserving the parking spaces for. He hasn’t a friend to his name, and once his daughters moved out, they never looked back. He tries to charge for the parking spaces on match days. The tight git.’

  ‘I thought Daniel was going to deck him the other day,’ Edie piped up, her eyes like expanding pools. ‘Daniel sees him laying out his stupid planks and he goes mental. Red rag to a bull, especially if there’s nowhere else to park. And as soon as Shay utters the words “nine feet out from my property”, Daniel’s face actually starts to balloon. It can take hours to return to its normal size.’

  ‘Daniel’s a lovely chap,’ explained Carmel. ‘He’s a great mechanic. Isn’t that right, Edie dear?’

  ‘Oh yes! He’s the best.’ Edie stuck her head back into the gap between the two front seats. ‘He has his own place up in Glasnevin – Carmody Motors – but if you have any immediate trouble you should knock up to us. He’d be delighted to help.’

  ‘And tell me this now,’ said Carmel, ‘is he still trying to impregnate you?’

  ‘Mam! You can’t ask that!’

  Martha glanced in the rear-view mirror. Robin had torn herself away from the window and was looking at the back of her mother’s head in disgust.

  ‘Oh, calm down. Edie’s the one who told me. She doesn’t mind talking about it. Do you, Edie?’

  ‘I don’t mind at all,’ agreed Edie.

  Martha thought this was probably an understatement; she’d only met the woman once and even she knew about her procreation plans.

  ‘I’d say I dream about being a mam more nights than I don’t. The little toes and fingers! And Daniel will make a great dad. He’s not as obsessive about it as me, but that’s probably better. He’s a perfectionist. Doesn’t like to do anything by halves. Always wants everything to be just right.’

  Martha came to a line of large retail centres. ‘Is it this turn?’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Carmel, ‘straight through to the end of the complex. What are you after today anyway, Martha? A mattress, Edie was saying.’

  ‘And maybe a wardrobe. The ones in our old house were all built in.’

  ‘Where was that again?’

  ‘The house?’ Martha checked her blind spot. ‘Limerick.’

  ‘I know, but where in Limerick?’

  ‘Just . . .’ Martha frowned at a point somewhere between the speedometer and petrol gauge. ‘Outside the city.’

  The seat behind her creaked.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t a cheap move anyway,’ said Carmel. ‘The price of houses in Dublin is unbelievable. Fiona at number ten nearly wets herself every time the Dublin home value report comes out and Pine Road is up, but if you sell you’d have to buy somewhere else to live, so what’s the difference? Are you from Dublin originally or why was it you moved?’

  ‘We fancied a change.’ Martha pulled into a parking space.

  ‘Ah yeah, yeah,’ replied Carmel, her tone clearly saying, Cut the crap. ‘Why Dublin, though?’

  Martha cut the engine and glanced in the mirror. Edie was leaning forward. Even Robin was watching her. Martha searched for a truthful answer that wouldn’t invite more questions. She’d been asked it already, casually, by plenty of people: the school, the estate agent, the guys with the moving van. But it was harder to dodge when they had her surrounded.

  ‘My husband got a promotion,’ she said finally.

  ‘Bank of Ireland, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. And the new job was in Dublin. Right.’ She unclipped her seat belt. ‘Everyone good to get out?’

  ‘Our career guidance teacher was always pushing the bank,’ said Edie, closing the car door after her and brushing down her pink, faux-fur coat. ‘Nursing for the girls, engineering for the boys, and the bank for all.’

  ‘You know Edie was in Saint Ornatín’s at the same time as you, Robin?’ said Carmel, zipping up her windbreaker.

  ‘You probably don’t remember,’ said Edie quickly, blushing. ‘I was two years ahead.’

  Robin shook her head. ‘My memory is fried these days. But I’ve heard all about you. Great hair, sunny disposition, excellent collection of Agatha Christie novels.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ said Edie, clearly thrilled as she ran her fingers through her long, thick ponytail. ‘I don’t know about that . . .’

  ‘My mother’s a big fan. Aren’t you, Mam?’

  ‘The daughter I never had,’ agreed Carmel. ‘So anyway,’ she turned to Martha, ‘you moved here for his promotion . . .’

  ‘Jesus, Mam,’ said Robin. ‘Can you not take a hint?’

  ‘You’ll have to excuse my daughter. She’s not used to engaging with the outside world.’

  Robin rolled her eyes.

  ‘She was dumped a couple of months ago by an absolute chancer and, somewhere between moulding the shape of her arse into our settee and eating dry cereal, she seems to have forgotten how to behave in company.’

  ‘I wasn’t dumped, Mam. I left him.’

  ‘And you should be glad you did. A toe-rag.’

  ‘You don’t even know him.’

  ‘Arra, you’d know it just by looking at him. He had toe-rag eyes.’

  ‘What was wrong with him?’ asked Edie, eyes wide, voice hushed.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Robin.

  ‘Everything,’ said Carmel at the same time.

  Martha smiled politely. She didn’t like it when people bickered in public, even if it was in jest. ‘Shall we go inside?’

  The double doors slid open and the women were hit by generic elevator music and the scent of various aromatic diffusers. Martha surveyed the sea of beds, couches and dining tables that stretched as far as the eye could see. Two shoppers – or possibly just tired passers-by – were sitting on one of those L-shaped sofas that seemed to be all the rage as three staff members shuffled aimlessly nearby.

  ‘I love these places,’ whispered Edie. ‘They’re so peaceful.’

  ‘They’re peaceful because everyone’s doing their shopping online,’ said Carmel, as they walked up the central aisle.

  ‘But don’t they just make you feel calm?’

  Carmel looked doubtful. ‘No. They make me feel like I’m being fleeced. And it’s not a church, pet; you don’t have to whisper.’

  Robin started reading out the prices of some of the beds. No matter what number she said, Carmel reacted with breathless indignation.

  ‘Jesus tonight!’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Christ almighty!’

  ‘Is the house included in that?’

  ‘But look how much you’re saving,’ said Edie, stopping in front of a four-poster pine bed and reading out the price-tag, where the text giving the amount saved was printed three times larger than the actual, astronomical amount due.

  ‘Mmm.’ Carmel lowered her glasses
to read the sign herself. ‘It’s amazing how you always manage to be saving money in these places. They’d have you thinking they were running a charity.’

  ‘Oh!’ called Edie. ‘The bathroom section!’ She looked beyond Carmel’s disapproving head to the far right-hand side of the store and let out a swoony sigh. ‘I’ll be in Tiles if anyone needs me!’

  ‘I’m off to look for sheets,’ said Carmel. ‘See if they can’t convince me I’m actually making money.’

  Carmel strode purposefully through the dining tables in the direction of Linen and Martha glanced back at Robin.

  ‘Not so into homewares?’

  ‘Not really,’ said the young woman who, Martha thought, looked more like her than she did her own mother. Robin was tall and thin and good-looking in a way that was both plain and striking. Not that Martha would have called herself good-looking, not out loud, but you don’t get to forty-four without knowing how other people perceive you.

  ‘Your mum said you and your son are staying with her for a while?’

  ‘Mm-hmm.’ Robin looked around with the bored expression of the desperately cool.

  ‘It’s tough being a single mum.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I was one, for four years before I met Robert. I know what it’s like.’

  Robin frowned. ‘Oh no, I’m not—’ She stopped herself, looking at Martha now. ‘Shit.’

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘I’m a single mother.’ Then again, under her breath with more emphasis: ‘I am a single mother.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’

  ‘No.’ Robin shook her head. ‘It’s grand. I just hadn’t thought . . . Single mother. Right, okay.’

  ‘Well, if it’s any consolation, I loved being a single mum.’ The four years she and Ellis had spent living in a rented room in Limerick city felt like a fairy tale now, the curve of his little body in the rickety bed, the heat of him, curled into her, legs to the left, just as he had lain in her womb. ‘I almost resented Robert when he came along.’ Martha laughed. ‘Not for long, of course. We had the girls a few years later. You don’t have favourite children, of course, but,’ she smiled, ‘it’s hard to compete with that sort of bond.’