Three Little Truths

by Eithne Shortall

  ‘Trish!’

  Ted was calling her from the kitchen. He never disturbed her when she was in the middle of something, he just kept the dinner warm. But he knew. Ted always knew.

  ‘I’m sorry, Bernie. I have to go. We’re having dinner now. If you want, you can phone the office tomorrow.’

  She shut the door and, after a minute alone in the hall, followed Ted’s voice and the smell of fish through to the kitchen.

  ‘That seemed to go well,’ he said, holding out the wooden spoon for her to taste.

  ‘Did she hear?’ asked Trish, looking out to their back garden where Emily was playing with a neighbour’s cat. Edie Rice’s, probably, or maybe Ruby and Madeline’s. Ordinarily Trish, who was not a cat person, would have shooed the animal away but ever since she’d seen that rat hole in her flower bed, she was happy to have a feline visitor.

  ‘If it doesn’t have paws she’s not interested.’

  She shot Ted an appreciative smile. Then the doorbell went.

  ‘Not again.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Ted. ‘You stir the parsley sauce.’

  There were voices in the hallway, then Ted stuck his head around the kitchen door. ‘It’s not Bernie,’ he said, and Trish put her free hand to her forehead in exaggerated relief.

  ‘It’s Martha Rigby,’ he said. ‘From number eight.’

  Trish squinted as she tried to think.

  ‘Sinead Costello’s mother,’ Ted supplied. ‘She was one of the girls on the list.’

  ‘The new girl. Right.’ Trish nodded. ‘Oh crap.’ She’d spoken to most of the girls’ parents that afternoon – better to play offensive than defensive – but the only contact number they had on file for Sinead was for her brother. Trish had forgotten to pursue it further.

  ‘She’s in the front room.’

  Trish hurried up the hall and into the main family room where a tall, slim woman with thick dark hair to just above her shoulders was examining a family photograph taken at Laura’s college graduation.

  ‘Martha, hi, I’m Patricia Walsh. Call me Trish.’ She held out a hand and the stranger turned to reveal a woman in her early forties. Good-looking, just like the WhatsApp group had said, if a little formidable. She reminded Trish of the mother from The Addams Family, the name momentarily escaping her.

  Martha took her hand, which was something at least.

  ‘I’m very sorry. I meant to get in contact this afternoon but we didn’t have a number for you, only your son.’

  ‘Ellis,’ supplied Martha.

  ‘That was it.’

  ‘The girls stayed with him the first week of term.’

  ‘Right, well, I thought it best not to discuss this with him before I’d had a chance to talk to you. I’m so sorry I haven’t been in touch yet.’

  ‘I wanted to get the facts. Sinead has told me, of course, several times now; she’s quite worked up, but she can get . . . lately, she’s been quicker to . . .’ Martha shook away the half-formed sentences. ‘You heard about what happened to her and her sister?’

  ‘It’s in their file.’

  Martha nodded, the skin at the tip of her chin crinkling slightly. ‘I just want the facts.’

  ‘Of course.’ Trish gestured for them both to sit, removing Emily’s recorder from her armchair. ‘I’d say what Sinead has told you is the truth, unfortunately. It’s a serious matter and I want you to know we are treating it as such.’

  Martha nodded again, and Trish continued. She told her how the list came to her attention and showed her one of the photocopied images that had been hung in the school that afternoon. ‘We don’t know who took this photo, presumably whoever wrote the list. Once they’re caught, this is likely to lead to an expulsion.’ Trish didn’t mention that she had no idea how she was going to catch them. She told Martha the matter had been reported to the relevant authorities and that there was no need to believe it was anything more sinister than a terrible prank and that the male students were just as aware as the female ones that this was no laughing matter.

  Only when Trish had stopped giving her speech did she realise it had been a speech.

  ‘All right,’ said Martha, taking a moment to weigh it up. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Oh no,’ insisted Trish, relieved not to have had another shouting match. ‘Thank you for being understanding.’

  ‘It sounds like you’re doing what you can.’

  ‘I’ve only been principal there a few years. I like it most of the time, but sometimes I miss teaching.’

  ‘Like now?’

  Trish smiled. ‘Yeah.’ She nodded. ‘Like now.’

  Martha stood. ‘I should get home before Sinead starts an online petition to get the school shut down. No, sorry,’ she said, seeing the horror on Trish’s face, ‘I’m joking. I hope. No, no, I am joking. But she has most likely called her father and brother by now. I’ll go stop her before she calls my mother; she’ll give her a heart attack.’

  ‘I was particularly sorry Sinead’s name was on the list,’ said Trish, walking her to the door. ‘It’s not exactly a warm welcome from your new school. She’d only been there a month. I suppose she had the novelty factor.’ She grimaced apologetically.

  ‘Sinead loves a cause. If there’s any positive to this, it’s that it’ll give her something to focus on.’

  Trish wasn’t sure she’d have been as understanding if it was her daughter, especially after what this family had been through. She opened the door for Martha and they shook hands again. It felt strange to do something so formal in her hallway. She was suddenly very aware that she was wearing a pair of Ted’s old hiking socks. She wished she’d kept her blazer on, at least.

  ‘You’ll keep us updated?’ said Martha. ‘Let us know when you find the student?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Trish.

  She waited until her neighbour had exited the garden and was walking back down Pine Road towards her own house before shutting the door. Then she went back into the kitchen and stood on the tiled floor until Ted came over and engulfed her into a giant hug.

  *** Pine Road Poker ***

  Bernie:

  Apologies for the delay, ladies. As you now know, I was dealing with serious Parents’ Association business. I don’t want to say too much at this time but I will confirm that the Parents’ Association has made advances to senior school staff and we are, thus far, entirely unsatisfied with the response we have received. We won’t be commenting further at this time. Regards, Bernie Watters-Reilly

  Ruby:

  Is that a WhatsApp message or a press release?

  Ellen:

  This is not a time for your gags, Ruby. I have spoken to Bernie and poor Sylvie is very upset.

  Ruby:

  Sylvie? She wasn’t on the list, was she?

  I don’t even think she’s in the same year.

  Ellen:

  That’s hardly the point. Maybe you’ll understand when you have children. Sorry, IF you have children.

  Ruby:

  [Is typing]

  [is typing]

  Ellen:

  I don’t get it. A walnut whip? What’s that supposed to mean?

  Ruby?

  @Ruby ???

  FIFTEEN

  Robin was dilly-dallying outside the bar, trying to decide whether to go in or to wait at the door, when the phone she was self-consciously turning over in her hands beeped.

  Be there in four and a half minutes. Waiting for the smoke alarm TO DESIST.

  Robin grinned. She slid it back into her coat pocket and took the opportunity to give the hem of her dress another tug. She’d wait out here for the Guy from the Bar – that was how she had him saved in her phone. Johnny, who was babysitting Jack, had been unimpressed that she did not know the name of the man with whom she’d be spending the evening.

  ‘Sure, I’ve slept with women whose names I didn’t know. But I’ve never gone out with one, not sober. This fella could be anyone, Robin. He could be an axe murderer.’

  ‘K
nowing his first name wouldn’t make that any less of a risk.’

  ‘Or maybe he didn’t tell you his name because it’s really awful,’ her brother had mused, as Jack emptied his box of farm animals on to the sitting-room floor. Two sheep went flying under the couch. Robin ignored them. This dress wasn’t made for retrieving plastic animals from beneath furniture. ‘Maybe his name’s Adolf.’

  ‘A twenty-something Irish man called Adolf?’

  Johnny shrugged. ‘It happens.’

  ‘I really don’t think it does.’

  She hopped from her left foot to her right and gave her dress another pull. He – the Guy from the Bar – was making them dinner. But first, they were going for a drink. This was both practical (he lived above a wine bar) and preferable (it allowed them to start on neutral ground).

  Robin watched a group of similarly aged women file into the bar and a couple of men in business suits come out. The door swung back and forth to let them all pass through.

  ‘Mam’s always saying . . .’

  ‘. . . London on Thursday.’

  ‘. . . in before next Christmas . . .’

  ‘. . . working for Peter now . . .’

  A hand on her shoulder. She jumped.

  ‘Hi.’

  Slightly taller than she remembered, he was wearing the same clothes but in different colours; his jeans were dark green and his faintly checked shirt was black. Same sleeve-roll to halfway up his forearms, same hipster facial hair, same nothing-to-hide smile.

  ‘You look great,’ he said, and she squinted slightly in the glare of his delight.

  ‘Not really . . .’ she said, uncharacteristically self-conscious.

  ‘You do.’ He leaned in to kiss her cheek, his face brushing against hers. The hairs of his moustache tickled and he smelled of clean sheets. ‘You’re cold.’ He was at her ear now. ‘Sorry I kept you waiting.’

  He pulled back and looked at her again. His joy was so genuine, so unguarded – did he know his head was shaking? – that she laughed. It came out like a splutter, all at once. She couldn’t help it.

  ‘What?’ he said, beaming away, the left cheek dimple back in position. He lifted the collar of his shirt and sniffed. ‘Do I smell like dinner? The whole flat stinks of onions. You’ve been warned. I had to leave the windows open.’

  Robin shook her head. ‘You smell good, actually.’

  He frowned slightly but grinned more. Butt of the joke or in on the joke, it was all the same to him.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she said, laughing again. ‘I honestly don’t know. Don’t mind me; let’s go inside.’

  ‘You’re just deliriously happy to see me? Is that it? That’s it, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, taking the door from him and following him inside. ‘That’s exactly it.’

  The wine bar was busy and, as their dinner was simmering upstairs, they only had time for one. Robin didn’t think they were going to get a table. They’d have to go straight upstairs. The prospect didn’t seem quite so daunting now she was here, but still she’d rather—

  ‘Here we are.’ Her date had stopped in front of a high table with a ‘reserved’ tag. He crumpled up the cardboard sign and pulled out two stools.

  Robin looked around. ‘Can we just—’

  ‘It’s ours. They reserved it for us.’

  ‘For one drink?’ she said doubtfully.

  But he was already taking his seat. ‘The Merlot’s good, if you drink red.’

  ‘Hey! Cormac!’ cried a waitress, coming towards their table. ‘Didn’t think we were seeing you this evening.’

  ‘It’s just a quick drink tonight, Riley. This is Robin.’

  The waitress, Riley, smiled at Robin and she smiled back.

  ‘The Merlot, right? You’re mad for that Merlot.’

  Her date shrugged. ‘It’s very good.’

  ‘And for you?’

  ‘Oh.’ Robin looked from the waitress to the menu in front of her. She didn’t know anything about wine. She only ever drank white and even then, she usually mixed it with 7 Up. ‘Yeah, the same. Thanks.’

  ‘All right.’ Riley nodded. ‘Two Chateau de Vieux-Moulin coming up.’

  Blatantly out of her comfort zone, Robin turned to the Guy from the Bar and instantly adopted the tone she used around Eddy and his friends, that sarcastic, detached way of speaking that implied she didn’t really care about anything she was saying and thus nobody’s response could hurt her. ‘So, Cormac,’ she mocked. ‘I’m very impressed.’

  ‘By my name?’

  ‘No, by how you seem to be some sort of aristocrat. With your special treatment at your local wine bar and your poncy Merlot ordering.’ She flicked her hair over her shoulder. ‘You’re definitely straight, right?’

  He looked at her with bemusement, his smile didn’t falter but the rest of his face scrunched in confusion. ‘Yeah. I mean, I’m pretty sure . . .’

  She shook her head. ‘Sorry.’ What was wrong with her? It was like she was still trying to impress the kind of person she no longer wanted to attract. ‘I don’t know what my problem is sometimes.’

  ‘It’s probably your selfishness.’

  She risked looking at him. He was grinning. ‘You’re probably right,’ she said, relieved. No more, Robin. She started again. ‘So, you come here a lot?’

  ‘For work, mainly.’

  The waitress returned and put the glasses in front of them.

  ‘They’re on the house.’ Riley winked and headed off again.

  Robin sucked in her cheeks and widened her eyes. ‘La-di-da.’

  Cormac laughed, blushing slightly but still entirely at ease.

  ‘So, what do you do then, for this work?’

  ‘Lots of things,’ he said, lifting his glass and clinking it with hers. ‘I’m a journalist, mainly.’

  ‘Oh yeah? What kind of thing do you do?’

  ‘I’m trying to get into theatre reviews at the moment. I do a bit, and I’m trying to specialise in them. But I do lots of stuff.’

  ‘And you meet your sources here, right? Like some old black-and-white film.’

  Cormac laughed. ‘I wouldn’t exactly say I have sources . . .’

  ‘Ever interviewed anyone famous?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Like who?’

  He took another sip. ‘Like . . . Pierce Brosnan?’

  Robin gave a mock gasp. ‘The star of Mamma Mia 2.’

  ‘Yeah, and James Bond.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’m joking.’ Though the flippant way she’d said it was still ringing in her ears.

  ‘And you? What do you do?’

  Robin paused. How had she not prepared for this? ‘I’m a nurse,’ she said, taking a long, slow sip, trying not to wince at the bitterness.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Mm-hmm.’

  She couldn’t tell him the truth without explaining that she had a child and a complicated relationship with her ex. Surely she was allowed one date before she had to divulge all that? She was working on swapping flippancy for honesty, but she was hardly going to become a new person overnight.

  ‘Paediatrics,’ she added, thinking of it as a half-truth. She did care for a four-year-old, after all. She pictured Carmel rolling around the floor in hysterics at that. Her mother, who’d spent thirty-six years as a nurse, said Robin had the bedside manner of a tax inspector.

  Cormac went to ask another question, but Robin got in there first. ‘So you like the theatre?’ she said quickly. ‘I’m more into sport.’

  Was that even true? Eddy had loved that she insisted on watching soccer matches and found it sexy when she got into arguments with his friends about what manager needed to be sacked. She always found a reason to mention to men that she liked sport because she thought it made her more attractive. She drank beer for the same reason, even though she preferred spirits. But she hadn’t watched a single game of anything since she’d moved home and there was no longer anyone to impress.

  �
��Well, I don’t know anything about sport, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Plays make me cringe,’ she countered. At least that was true.

  ‘Cringe? Why?’

  ‘Too fake.’

  ‘Well, they are acting.’

  ‘I know. But does it have to be so obvious?’

  Dimple, dimple, delicious dimple. ‘I’ll bring you, some time.’

  ‘You’re grand.’

  ‘To something good. I promise.’

  ‘All right.’ She held out a hand and felt a tingle up her arm and down her back as his fingers gripped around hers and didn’t move. He didn’t shake on the deal at all; for a second, he just held her hand.

  When they had finished their drinks, they walked out of the bar, another waitress waving to Cormac.

  ‘Are you sure we don’t have to pay?’ Robin whispered as he held the door open for her.

  ‘Yes,’ he whispered back.

  Robin followed as he turned immediately to the right and opened an adjacent door. She trailed him through the doorway and up the stairs to his first-floor flat.

  She was on a date. This man liked her and she liked him and though she didn’t like herself a whole lot since she’d left Eddy’s flat, she couldn’t be completely awful if someone who was so clearly good saw something in her. She watched Cormac climb the stairs, his legs pushing against the material of his trousers, revealing how thin they were. She imagined them wrapped around her, and hers wrapped around him. She pictured his open face taking in her naked body and she did not feel embarrassed. The thought made her want to push herself against him here in the stairwell.

  He brushed his dark fringe from his eyes and slotted another key into another lock. The concentration on his face was disproportionate to the task and Robin grinned. He had skin like cream and she wanted to eat it up.

  ‘All right?’ he said, dark eyebrows rising, cheeks crinkling as he paused, key in lock.

  Robin bit the insides of her cheeks and nodded.

  His fringe flopped down again and the latch clicked open.

  Three things hit Robin at almost the same time. The first was the sound of Villagers blaring – that was good, she thought, they had similar musical tastes; the second was the overpowering smell of roast chicken – that was okay, she liked chicken, although possibly not as much of it as he seemed to be cooking; and the third was smoke, layers of grey mist billowing out towards them now they’d provided an escape.