Three Little Truths

by Eithne Shortall

  ‘Yes, no – thanks, Edie. Probably not tonight but I’ll keep it in mind. Thanks,’ she said again. ‘Have a good evening.’

  ‘You too, Trish!’

  Finally, the footsteps started up, growing fainter, and Trish stuck her key in the lock. When the door opened, she heard the familiar blare of music from Emily’s bedroom, but she did not feel the usual surge of irritation or concern for the neighbours. Turn it up, Trish thought, picturing Bernie next door, a glass of wine in one hand, the other clacking over the keyboard as she sent off yet another ‘Dear All’ to the parents of Saint Ornatín’s student body.

  Trish turned on the kettle and powered up her laptop. She had her own ‘Dear All’ to send. The Department of Education had emailed through instructions right at the end of the day – they always did that so Trish wouldn’t have a chance to come back with queries until the morning – or in this case, after the weekend. But Trish wouldn’t be leaving it until Monday. She was sending off the calming – she hoped – missive tonight.

  Brrring!

  The doorbell went and Trish heard Emily thundering down the stairs. She mustn’t have heard her mother come in. Emily never bothered to open the door, or answer the phone, if someone else was in the house to do it. Her argument was that it was never for her. ‘Only old people don’t message before they call,’ claimed Emily. ‘It’s basic manners.’ It was a relief, at least, to know she did bother to answer when she thought she was alone.

  Trish moved closer to the kitchen door and stood to the side so her shadow wouldn’t be detected through the frosted glass. She couldn’t make out the voices over her daughter’s music, which was louder now she’d left her bedroom door open. Then she heard the front door close again. Presumably Emily had told whoever it was that Trish wasn’t home and sent them off. She was about to go inform her daughter that she was in fact here, though no need to spread it around, when the kitchen door opened on her.

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Walsh, didn’t see you there.’

  ‘Mum. I didn’t know you were home. What are you doing?’

  Emily and Declan Reilly, Bernie’s son from next door, came through the kitchen door just as it collided with Trish. Her daughter was still wearing her uniform, though Declan had changed into a tracksuit and was carrying a shovel and a large container of something industrial.

  ‘The garden, of course,’ said Trish, ignoring her daughter’s question as she sidled out from behind the door. ‘I completely forgot. Thanks for calling.’

  ‘Well, you’re here so I’ll just . . .’ And Emily sauntered back out of the kitchen without bothering to finish her sentence. It was amazing to think Declan and Emily were in the same year. Not only did Emily look older, but she acted like a woman who’d seen all the world had to offer and was bored by it already, while the only bit of the world Declan seemed to see was whatever few inches of it were in front of his feet.

  Trish smiled kindly, lowering her head slightly in an attempt to catch Declan’s eye. ‘Everything all right, Declan? You doing all right?’

  ‘Yeah, sound,’ he said, glancing up at her, then watching his shoes shuffle again. ‘Will I . . .?’ He inched towards the back door.

  ‘Please. Thanks, Declan.’ She watched him cross the kitchen towards the patio doors, dragging his feet slightly. He’ll be good-looking, she thought, when he’s older; he looked like his father and while Bernie’s husband was a lazy lout who’d lie on the floor if there was work in the bed, he was handsome. Drink hadn’t ruined that. ‘How are your parents?’

  What was wrong with her? The last person she wanted to talk about was Bernie Watters-Bloody-Reilly.

  Declan stopped at the back door. ‘Yeah, sound.’

  Trish nodded and turned her attention back to her laptop, happy to leave it at that.

  ‘You know I told Mr Watson about that list in the jacks? In the toilets, I mean.’

  ‘Did you?’ said Trish, casting her mind back to the day Gormless Paul came to her office and started this ongoing headache. She’d never asked which student had told him about it. She closed her laptop and looked at Declan, still standing at the back door, still staring at his feet. She felt sorry for him. We don’t choose our families, do we? ‘Well, thank you, Declan. That was the right thing to do.’

  ‘You haven’t caught anyone, have you? I heard there were suspects.’

  If only rumours came from truth. ‘Not yet, no. But we’re investigating.’

  ‘Does my mam know?’

  Trish almost laughed. ‘About the list? Yes. She definitely knows.’

  ‘No. That I’m the one who found it?’

  ‘Didn’t you tell her?’

  Declan shrugged.

  Trish frowned. ‘Do you want me to tell her?’

  Declan shrugged, and Trish waited. ‘She’s pretty mad about it,’ he said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And she’s even more obsessed with my sister now.’

  ‘With Sylvie? But she wasn’t on the list.’

  Shoulders up, shoulders down.

  Trish imagined what life must be like next door. The two women always shrieking and shouting about something; Bernie’s husband pretending he couldn’t hear any of it; Declan trying not to disappear in the middle of it.

  ‘She’s gone to the police.’

  ‘About the list?’ You wouldn’t think Bernie had a day job, but she did. She worked part time at an old folks’ home up the road, as well as writing her column. Anyway, she could join the queue. The guards were more pissed off than anything else that they were being dragged into what they saw as a school affair. Even if the list had been written in a public bathroom and they had the culprit right in front of them, there wasn’t much of consequence they could charge him with. While relieved to know she wasn’t dealing with a criminal situation, Trish hadn’t been entirely happy with their attitude.

  ‘No, about my sister. And the dog.’

  ‘The—’ Trish recalled some talk of Sylvie crying wolf, or dog, from the Pine Road Poker WhatsApp thread. She largely ignored that conversation; she was in too many group chats as it was. If it wouldn’t have made her a social pariah on Pine Road, she’d have left the group long ago. There were several times this week when she’d been seriously tempted. But Sylvie was always exaggerating about everything. She’d accused Ruby’s sausage dog of biting her last year and Madeline, Ruby’s wife, had nearly decked Bernie when she threatened to have the animal put down.

  ‘Sylvie didn’t even want to go but Mam said she had to. They went and made a formal complaint but when they came home, Mam was even madder and was calling the guards all these names. Sylvie said the officer in charge had laughed at them.’ Declan grimaced, something between irritation, embarrassment and hurt. ‘They said they couldn’t do a lot without a better description of the animal, so Mam got this sketch artist to come around. He’s there now. He’s asking Sylvie exactly what the dog looked like and then Mam’s going to make posters.’

  Jesus. That woman. She’d be on the wine now too. Trish must have done something seriously bad in a previous life to end up with the head of the Parents’ Association for a neighbour.

  ‘That’s . . . a lot.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Declan. ‘That’s why I’m early. She said I had to get out so Sylvie could concentrate.’

  ‘Well, I’m delighted to have you here, Declan.’

  The boy looked up at her. He smiled hesitantly, then flinched.

  ‘Nobody does as good a job on the garden as you do – not even Mr Walsh.’

  Declan gave a full grin now. ‘I was going to do the weeding and put down a bit more poison. No sign of a rat now for weeks, but you can’t be too careful.’

  ‘Exactly what I was thinking,’ said Trish, smiling now too. ‘And you know if there’s ever anything you need to talk about, you don’t have to be gardening to call in.’

  Declan pushed open the patio doors and lifted the shovel after him. ‘I’m sor
ry the whole bathroom thing happened.’

  ‘Not your fault, Declan.’

  The boy nodded as he hunched forward and stepped out into the garden.

  EIGHTEEN

  Edie carried the glasses carefully into her living room. She’d broken out the special-occasion champagne flutes, even though this was definitely a casual get-together. ‘Impromptu drinks,’ was how she’d put it to Robin, in her best breezy voice. She’d been dreaming of having the kind of neighbour friends she could invite over for ‘impromptu drinks’ since they moved to Pine Road.

  The glasses had been a wedding present from Daniel’s cousin – the son of the woman who gave them the Waterford Crystal bowl. Edie wasn’t that gone on these either, but the cousin had yakked on about their ‘unique origins’ for so long that Edie was now an expert on the things. She thought they looked deformed, not that it mattered; other people seemed to love them.

  Carmel took two glasses from Edie and handed one to Robin. Martha carefully extracted the flute that was wedged between Edie’s elbow and waist. She’d really rather have used a tray but the only one she could find had an oil stain down the middle of it. She’d almost texted Daniel when she saw it – he had a steel tray specifically for his tools, why did he always have to use the good ones? – but they’d been on a fight-free streak for a couple of weeks now and today was the first day of her fertility window.

  ‘Cool glasses,’ said Robin. ‘Retro.’

  ‘They’re art deco. From the Rhone region, of France, circa 1921.’

  Robin made a face that definitely said she was impressed.

  ‘Cheers!’ Edie beamed as she raised her glass. ‘To impromptu drinks of a Friday evening.’

  Edie had met Robin in Island Stores that morning and asked her over for a glass of bubbly on a whim. When Carmel emerged from the cereal aisle, she invited her too. Then she thought it might be weird if it was just her, a target pal and that target pal’s mother, so on the way home, she knocked into Martha and asked her around for a drink too.

  Edie could scarcely believe she was now the kind of person who ‘knocked into’ neighbours!

  The three women followed her lead and sat. Edie had cut a bit of lavender from the garden, tied it with ribbons and left it in a jar on the coffee table. She was considering handing it out as party favours but wasn’t sure if that would undo the free-and-easy vibe she had spent an hour cultivating through strategically placed ‘clutter’: fashion magazines positioned at an angle, blankets thrown on the arms of couches, a selection of good shoes taken from the bedroom and lined up by the front door. Would party favours be too much? She’d play it by ear.

  ‘Where is this famous husband of yours?’ asked Martha, settling into an armchair. Edie had been considering getting that chair reupholstered but now Martha sat in it, honest to God, it looked like those worn bits of leather were supposed to be there. ‘The best mechanic this side of the Shannon, by all accounts.’

  Edie beamed. She loved when people said nice things about Daniel. ‘He had to meet his brother for a bit,’ she said, trying to copy the elegant way Martha positioned her legs, not so much crossed as draped, one over the other. ‘I’m meeting him for a drink at eight.’ One drink here, one drink in the pub – that was her limit – then home for some strategic love-making. Everything was so much nicer now things between them were good again. ‘Sorry to have to kick you all out so soon.’

  ‘I love coming to things with an end time,’ said Carmel. ‘Otherwise you don’t know where you are. Is it just the one drink or am I going to be scuttered? Do I need to have dinner beforehand or can it wait? If I put the potatoes in the oven, will I be back in time to take them out? With an end time, you know where you stand. Anyway, I’m on babysitting duty. Lover Girl here has a hot date.’

  ‘The hipster journalist?’ enthused Edie, clapping her hands. ‘You’re still seeing each other?’

  ‘Oh, so he’s a hipster, is he? Well, well . . . You didn’t mention that. She tells me nothing.’

  ‘You don’t even know what a hipster is, Mam.’ Robin raised her glass to her mouth but it didn’t quite mask her smile. ‘This is our fourth date.’

  Edie beamed. ‘How did he take it when you told him about Jack?’

  ‘No deal breakers so far, so . . .’

  Edie knew it. She was good at reading people – that wasn’t her being boasty, everyone said it; it was her detective gene – and she knew a decent lad when she saw one, even if it was from a distance, when slightly inebriated, in a badly lit pub.

  ‘I’m just happy she’s not seeing that other pup,’ said Carmel.

  Robin rolled her eyes. ‘Mam’s not a fan of Jack’s father.’

  ‘He’s a toe-rag,’ said Carmel, draining her first glass of prosecco and pushing it, not so subtly, towards Edie. ‘A two-bit thug who thinks he’s Al Capone.’

  ‘You know when you had Jack . . .’ called Edie, hurrying into the kitchen to fetch the bottle and cursing herself for not having a second one cooling in the fridge. Everyone would think she was stingy. And there was nothing worse than being stingy. ‘Did you . . . did it take much persuading of Jack’s dad?’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘To . . .’ Edie blushed as she returned to the room and tipped the bottle into Carmel’s glass. ‘To make a baby.’

  ‘Little more, Edie love, little more . . .’

  Robin laughed. ‘It wasn’t a decision. Both of us nearly shit ourselves when we found out I was pregnant.’

  ‘Little more . . .’ Carmel only put her hand out to say ‘stop’ when the prosecco was about to go over the brim.

  ‘Oh,’ said Edie. ‘Of course.’ She should have known Jack hadn’t been planned. Robin must have been twenty-one when she had him, and she hadn’t seemed like the kind of girl who was chomping at the bit to start a family. She’d been far too cool for that. Unlike Edie.

  ‘Does Daniel take a little convincing?’ asked Carmel gently.

  ‘No,’ Edie replied immediately, wrinkling her nose and shaking her head. ‘Gosh no. No, no. He wants a kid. Definitely.’

  ‘But maybe sometimes he’s not so sure?’

  ‘Well, I mean, maybe he’s questioned it once or twice, but not now . . .’

  ‘That’s normal,’ said Carmel decisively. ‘That’s just men. Mick didn’t think he was ready either. But they’re easily convinced. When we were trying for Robin, if Mick wasn’t in the mood, I used to put on this pair of red—’

  ‘No,’ shouted Robin, holding her hand up in the direction of her mother. ‘No! No! No!’

  ‘So what’s this hipster journalist like, Robin,’ asked Martha, undraping and draping her long legs. ‘Is he good-looking?’

  Robin gave a half-smile. ‘I would describe Cormac as very handsome, yes.’

  ‘Oooo, Cormac,’ cooed Edie and, though Robin rolled her eyes, her face had gone full grin. Edie remembered how exciting it had been to say and hear Daniel’s name in the early days – even ‘Two Straps’ had made her giddy back then. ‘He was very good-looking as I recall,’ she said, only too delighted to big up her target pal’s new man. Who knows? If things went well on all fronts, she might end up invited to Robin actual Dwyer’s wedding. Maybe she’d even have to arrange a babysitter so she could go. Imagine! She was giddy now. ‘Tall, dark and handsome,’ she confirmed.

  ‘Well, tall-ish,’ allowed Robin.

  Martha gave a murmur of contentment. She’d finished her prosecco too. ‘Robert’s barely my height. The only place I get tall, dark and handsome is at the cinema.’

  ‘Oh, actually,’ said Carmel, ‘I meant to say, I switched phone providers last week and now get free cinema tickets for Monday nights – only myself and Mick go dancing on Monday nights. So if any of youse ever want them . . .’

  ‘That’d be great,’ said Martha.

  Edie was practically bouncing in her chair. This was going brilliantly. Look how relaxed they all were! In her house, at her impromptu drinks. And then, as if things couldn’t get a
ny better, Carmel uttered those eight magic words . . .

  ‘Will we start a WhatsApp group for it?’

  ‘Yes!’ Edie just about caught her glass as her knees leapt up. Robin frowned at her; she composed herself. ‘That’s a great idea.’

  ‘I have your number, Edie, so you just put yours in here . . .’ Carmel handed her phone to Martha. ‘How, ah, how is Sinead getting on? I heard her on the radio.’

  ‘I think the whole road heard her,’ said Martha, returning Carmel’s phone. ‘She’s fine. She’s threatening to organise a mass school boycott if feminist studies aren’t made mandatory for all male students but other than that, she’s fine.’ Martha reached for the bottle Edie had left on the table. ‘Can I?’

  ‘Oh yes, of course.’ Edie winced as Martha poured the dregs into her glass. Why, oh why, hadn’t she put another one in the fridge?

  ‘It’s given her something to focus on, at least. She had a rough enough time before we came here.’

  The silence that followed that declaration was enough for Martha to look around at the other women. ‘After the burglary,’ she clarified.

  Edie stared at the empty prosecco bottle and concentrated on trying to remember the Harry Potter spell that made vessels fill with liquid. She was acutely aware that nobody else was talking either.

  ‘Ah ha,’ said Carmel, so pointlessly that everyone turned to look at her. She brought her flute, already empty again, to her lips.

  The prosecco in Edie’s own glass fizzled.

  Carmel made a faint humming sound.

  Somewhere, a floorboard creaked.

  ‘We know!’ Edie blurted out. She’d never been able to keep secrets, not even her own. They ate away at her until they burrowed a route to her mouth.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I’m sorry but we know, about the tiger raid. I looked it up online and I found an article about what happened and Robert getting that medal and it sounded awful and I’m sorry, for what happened but also for invading your privacy. I didn’t mean to invade your privacy; I just thought I could help. Although it would be disingenuous to say I wasn’t also being nosy. When I get the whiff of a mystery, something takes over, and when you said about them breaking in in the morning . . .’