‘But we’re doing an arts degree. We’re going to be teachers,’ I said.
‘Well, you can be a teacher over there. But I want to work in Bloomingdale’s or Saks.’
‘I’m not sure what I want to do when we finish our degrees,’ I said.
Maeve sighed and I knew she was getting annoyed with me. ‘Don’t tell me you want to work in the pub?’ She threw her eyes to the heavens in case I missed the tone of annoyance.
Our family had owned Nellie’s pub in Kilmore Quay for generations. We’d grown up in that pub. And it was in my blood. Maeve hated being there, but it was different for me.
Michelle, the mediator for us two when we began to bicker, as only sisters can bicker, quickly said, ‘Right, what did we say when we applied? If we’re not in, we can’t win. Let’s see if any of us got lucky …’
4
LUCY
May 1992
The American Embassy, Dublin
A few years back, one of our neighbours from home was holding a charity night, to raise money for their little cousin who had cancer. It was incredibly sad and the family were broke from all of the time they had to spend in hotels in Dublin while their boy had treatment. I went along to the fundraiser, but Maeve, Michelle and most of our friends couldn’t make it. Instead they each gave me £10 to spend on raffle tickets. In all, I bought £110 worth of tickets for us. I had hundreds of numbers in front of me. And as every business in County Wexford had donated something, there were prizes for practically everyone in the room.
But even so, I didn’t win a single thing for me, or for any of the tickets I was caretaker of. You see, I am the unluckiest person alive and it’s a truth known to everyone that I wouldn’t win an argument with a baby. But despite this, the one raffle I wasn’t even sure I wanted to win … you guessed it, I came up trumps.
Both Maeve and I opened our letters to find out that we were picked in the draw and now, one month later, I’m sitting in a long corridor waiting my turn to be interviewed by the American Embassy. Maeve said that the fact we both were chosen was further proof that the finger of fate wanted us to go. Michelle was relieved when she opened her letter and it was no. Tadgh worked for the council and had ambitions to be a TD one day. Since he’d confided this to Michelle, it was clear she had ambitions to be his First Lady. I should have known that both Maeve and I would have come up though. She had this will that was impossible to say no to. Even the American Embassy couldn’t resist her.
We had yet to share the news of our possible emigration with our parents. They would be devastated. We figured we’d see if we passed the interview before we mentioned it. They relied on us both to work in their pub, Nellie’s, at the weekends and throughout the holidays. We’d been doing that since we were kids. At first, we collected and washed glasses. Maeve and I would sit on the end of the bar, dangling our legs in front of us and polish the glasses with a tea towel. Mam and Dad would then check our handiwork to make sure there were no smears before they placed them on the racks above the bar. The regulars often gave us their small change too, which we placed in a silver tankard beside the till. When it filled up, which it did most Christmases when people were full of the festive spirit, literally, Dad would swap the change for notes.
By the time we reached the double digits of ten, we could both pull a pint and reach the optics to pour a vodka or gin. We didn’t work in the pub officially back then, but on a Saturday night if there was a lock-in – there usually was – we’d sneak in and help out. If anyone got too drunk, Mam would usher us out the door down the corridor towards our house that was next door to the pub. But rows were infrequent and either ways we thought they were great craic. We were placed on the payroll on our eighteenth birthdays and had worked in the bar every weekend since then.
Mam and Dad assumed that, once we’d finished our finals, we would go home to Wexford for the summer. Then we would get jobs in a local school. That way we could still both work in the pub with them as we’ve always done in our spare time. It had never crossed their minds that we might leave Ireland. To be fair, it hadn’t crossed mine until Maeve suggested it. The whole thing felt surreal to me. I couldn’t really see us ever leaving Ireland.
One of the criteria for the application was having an American sponsor on board. Someone who guaranteed us a job when we arrived over there. While half of Ireland had family in New York, we’d nobody. Our family didn’t have the imagination or bravery to emigrate either in the famine, or the Fifties, Sixties and Eighties when thousands bailed. The Mernagh tribe stuck it out. But the little detail of having no sponsor did not deter Maeve. With the help of Michelle, who knew someone who had a cousin who worked for a catering company, we were sorted. Two pages of headed paper were posted to Michelle, who passed them on to us. Maeve wrote the letters, offering each of us a full-time position with a decent salary. It was some of the best fiction I’d ever read. We’d practised our cover story over and over, so much so that I almost believed it.
I checked my Swatch. Maeve was late. But then again, she was always late. And as if the mere thought conjured her up, she came running in through the double glass doors, her long brown hair flying out behind her.
‘Jesus, the traffic was horrendous. I swear the bus driver fell asleep at one point, he was stationary for so long! Have they called you yet?’
‘No. I’m next, I think. Shut up for a minute, I’m trying to hear what’s going on with the guy who’s in there now. The window is open, look.’
A low murmur came out through the open window and we strained to hear the conversation.
‘Uncle … job … pub …’
‘He’s got a job in his uncle’s pub,’ Maeve translated.
I gave her a dig. ‘Shh … have they started to whisper? I can’t hear a word now …’
We gave up eavesdropping when it became apparent there was nothing to be learned. ‘Do you have all your documents?’ I pointed to her folder.
Maeve opened it up and held up her letter from the Guards, her job offer and her chest X-ray and blood test results. ‘Check, check and check.’
I looked through my own folder for the tenth time to make sure I had all of mine.
Maeve said, ‘I was sweating buckets waiting for the blood tests to come back. Remember that young fella from Bridgetown, the Clancy boy? Did you hear that he got chlamydia? The shame! And I thought, imagine my luck if I had it too.’
‘Someone in the pub was talking about that last week. Poor fella. But when did you sleep with him?’ I thought I was privy to every dalliance Maeve had had.
‘I didn’t sleep with him. As if! He’s not my type.’
‘I heard he got it from a wan he met when he was in the Canaries after he got his Leaving Cert results.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I heard too. Anyhow, all that talk got me thinking. What if that guy I rode from Australia last summer had something.’
‘But you used a condom that night!’ That was one of our Three Amigos rules, a non-negotiable one at that.
‘I know the rule. Ride who you like, but only if you have a saddle on,’ Maeve said, and we both giggled. We’d made that up one night when we were fifteen and wanted to be twenty-five. None of us had gone further than a quick grope from a boyfriend then. But sex was on our minds a lot and we talked about all possibilities. It was good to be prepared.
‘As it happens the saddle was on for all three rides that night!’ Maeve squealed, and that was it, we were gone. Tears from trying not to laugh leaked from the corners of our eyes.
‘Stop!’ I begged, to which Maeve answered by saying ‘Giddy up, Cowboy!’ That made me worse, I had to double over, to stop myself from howling.
It was only when we heard two chairs scrape against the floor that we stopped. We watched the door to the interview room open and a small guy who looked like he was wearing his communion suit came out.
‘Ladies.’ He nodded at us both, then shook his head with a sorrowful look on his face. ‘They put you through your p
aces in there. Watch yourself.’
‘Lucy Mernagh.’ A voice called out. Stern. Like the kind of person who would trip you up. Especially if you had fake documents.
‘Oh shit, Maeve, I don’t know if I can do this. I’m a crap liar. You know I am.’
‘You’ll be grand. Just tell them what we rehearsed. That fake job is rock solid. Go on.’ She shoved me through the door and I took a deep breath.
5
BEA
New Year’s Eve 2019
Innisfree, Prospect Avenue, Brooklyn
The beer wasn’t enough for me. I decided to go upstairs to raid Grandad’s whiskey stash. As I walked up the stairs into the hall, the house echoed with the emptiness I felt inside.
Over the last five years, life at home in Innisfree had changed so much. It started when Gran and Grandad, the King and Queen of the Irish social scene in Brooklyn, both began to fade. They preferred to stay at home to watch their favourite shows on TV, rather than go out to socialize. Normally one of them would talk the other into going out for a drink, using some cheery line like, ‘we could be dead next year.’ None of us could ignore the fact they’d lost a little of their colour over the past year. But between Dad, Uncle Mike and me, we figured we could take over some of their workload without them realizing what we were up to. I took kitchen duty. Tricky, because it was Gran’s territory and she hated anyone interfering. But I knew the dishwasher was difficult for her; bending down made her back ache. Even though I rarely ate with them, I started to call up to visit after mealtimes, so I could load and unload for them. They knew what I was up to, Grandad said as much, but they didn’t stop me all the same. Never mind water-cooler moments. We had dishwasher moments. Oh how I treasure those conversations with them now.
Gran went first. We didn’t have time to grieve her because two weeks later we found Grandad dead too. And while everyone agreed that it was for the best, because neither of them wanted to be here without the other, the pain was unbearable. I still feel winded by it now, when I think about the hole they left in my life.
They were our anchors in this house. And since then, we’ve all been adrift. Sometimes a wave sends us towards each other, but weeks and months can go by without Dad, Uncle Mike or me sitting down to eat together.
I threw the bundle of post and my pink letter on the table beside my beer. First things first, I checked the dishwasher’s status. Full and clean, so I began to unload, then realized that if I believed Gran’s New Year’s Eve theory, I would be cleaning for the rest of the year. Well, feck that, as she would say. I stopped what I was doing and sat down at the dining table, running my fingers over its many scratches and indents from years of meals and living. When I was a kid, Dad always went to the library to write. So it was Gran who collected me from school, bringing me back here to do my homework. She coaxed and bribed me, matching my stubborn refusal to learn my times tables with an even more stubborn insistence that I do.
‘I was a bloody nightmare then. Sorry, Gran,’ I said to the ghosts of Innisfree. If Gran was annoyed with me though, she never let me see it. I think she understood that for me there were so many more exciting things to do, to explore, rather than learn algebra. A milestone year for me was when I turned twelve and was allowed to make my own way home. Gran said that independence put years on her. Because I always found something to distract me. A poster on a telephone pole looking for a missing dog was all it took to make me forget about going home. Instead I would begin to search for clues to the beloved pet’s whereabouts. I’d eventually remember where I should be and, knowing they’d be worried, I’d run all the way to the house, breathless as I stormed into the warm kitchen. I smiled as I remembered the look they always had on their faces when they saw me arrive. Love and pride, with a little annoyance thrown in, because I’d worried them with my tardiness.
‘Slow down!’ Grandad would say, a big grin on his face as he held up a hand to steady me, and stop me from falling and skinning my knees. You only realize how often someone was there to catch you after they are gone.
‘You’ll be late for your own funeral, Bea O’Connor!’ Gran would shout, but she’d smile as she reprimanded me. I knew she wasn’t really cross. And to milk the situation and get maximum laughs from my grandparents, I’d pretend to die, in a long dramatic fall to the linoleum floor in their kitchen, adding in plenty of moans and groans for effect. I liked to make them laugh, and laugh they did at my antics. They wrapped me in a blanket of warmth and safety, those two. Another swell of sadness threatened to topple me over. Five years gone and I could still be caught off guard. This is a truth I’ve learned – you never get over losing someone, you learn to live with it.
I opened up the pantry, moving the cookie jar to one side, then the cereal boxes, until I found Grandad’s bottle of Irish Midleton Whiskey. This had been his hiding space ever since he moved into Innisfree. He’d take it out for special occasions. And in times of sadness it made an appearance too. When his brother died at home in Ireland in a farming accident, I saw him cry for the first time as he sipped a measure of this Midleton. I was only four or five, no more than that. I hadn’t started school, because I was at home when he got the call. I crawled onto his lap as the tears fell onto his jumper and I cuddled him as he had cuddled me so many times when I hurt myself. He couldn’t get home to Ireland to attend the funeral because he couldn’t get time off work. And I suspect now, as an adult, money was a factor too. I poured a good-sized measure into a Waterford Crystal cut-glass tumbler filled with ice, the same way my grandad always drank it. Then I raised my drink in an Irish toast to my family and all the memories we had in this kitchen. ‘Sláinte!’
As the words echoed around the kitchen, I could almost hear my grandparents answer me back, ‘Sláinte, Bea.’
The smooth liquid burned my throat. But it did the trick and I felt my earlier tiredness disappear. I grabbed the post, ignored the bills and picked up the mystery pink envelope. I ripped it open and found a postcard and another envelope inside.
The photograph on the postcard was a black-and-white fingerprint with a quote from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, ‘There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.’ I liked that. On the reverse was a short note.
Dear Bea
When I saw this postcard, I thought of you. I hope you like it. I often think of you and wonder how life turned out for you. Do you remember the time capsule we made?
Well, as promised, I have posted all of the letters to the future selves of the students in the class of 2003. It feels like yesterday that Rudy Giuliani came to visit us in St. Joseph’s and you all placed your letters into the chest. I hope you enjoy reading your letter.
Please give my best to your dad,
Warmest wishes,
Corinne (Dryden)
After all these years, Ms Dryden had kept her promise. I hadn’t thought about her or this letter for the longest time. Stephanie and I figured she’d chuck them all in the trash. But that wasn’t Ms Dryden’s style. Of course she kept them. I bet she went to some trouble to find the right postcard for each student too. I read her note a second time and felt a stab of regret. She thought of me often. I didn’t deserve that. I wondered if Dad thought about her?
6
BEA
New Year’s Day 2019
Innisfree, Prospect Avenue, Brooklyn
I decided to open the letter in my childhood bedroom. That seemed apt somehow. It was still decorated as it had been when I was a kid. Pink, with large white furniture, from the Olsen twins range. Full House really had influenced me back then. I flicked on my neon bedside lava lamp and watched the blue bubbles make their way up and down. I’d suggested to Dad that he should turn this room into a writing space, but he’d declined. He preferred to write in the New York Public Library. I think this room is another example of his stubbornness to leave things as they were. I worry about that for a moment. Was he stuck in the past? And if so, is that somehow my fault?
I flopped onto my bed, opened the
envelope and pulled out a thick bundle of pages, folded in half. My heart raced in excitement as I flipped them open and began to read words I’d written seventeen years ago.
Dear future me
Hello from the past! This is Bea. You. Me!
As I read the pages, I couldn’t help but look back and wonder at my innocence. And I laughed more than once at the foolish things I’d stated. Especially the bit about saving the president. Why was I so worried about George Bush? I wondered what my younger self would say about Donald Trump ending up in the Oval Office. I marvelled at my penmanship. I couldn’t possibly write like that now with beautiful flounces and twirls on every letter. I spent hours perfecting it when I was a kid. But it had only taken an instant to forget. Which was a great pity really. But in addition to my amusement at my naivety, there was sadness too. My words formed a bridge back to my childhood, to a time when I thought Gran and Grandad would live forever. And back to a time when I could talk to my mom in my head. I don’t remember the day I stopped doing that, but I suppose it must have been a few years after I wrote the letter. And then I felt another rush of emotion as I remembered the day that Stephanie gave me the Mom scrapbook. She’d been such a good friend to me. The best of friends. Yet, now, we rarely saw each other.
Well, younger me, at least I never ate any brussel sprouts. But I had fallen for the dubious charms of nicotine. All because I wanted to impress a boy too. What was his name … Joel or Doug? No, not Joel, that was one of Katrina’s conquests. It was definitely Doug. Whatever his name was back then, he said he liked me because I was sophisticated and looked much older than the other girls that he knew. How on earth had I ever fallen for such baloney? Why didn’t I say no? He showed me how to light it. I thought it was romantic. If I could go back in time, I’d tell whatever his name was to go shove his cigarettes where the sun doesn’t shine.
The Moon Over Kilmore Quay Page 3
