‘Oh my God, did you just make that up?’
‘Yes! It just came out. Genius? No?’
‘No.’ But she smiled at me.
*
I had no choice but to leave her when I went to school and that morning, the first face I saw was Christy, sitting in one of those large picnic chairs, a mug of tea in the cup holder, notebook on his lap. When he saw me, he signalled to Leaf to give him a hand up and she hoisted him to his feet. ‘Tabitha!’ He hobbled over to me wearing a t-shirt which had a vaguely recognisable face on the front and the words Leonard Cohen is how the light gets in.
‘Beautiful day,’ he said, when I’d rolled down my window. ‘The kind of day that makes you feel like you don’t ever want the day to end.’
I nodded, I supposed it was. ‘Nice t-shirt, Christy,’ I said, getting out of the car to talk to him properly.
‘Red bought it for me,’ he said, ‘from California. He knows I am a disciple of the great man.’
‘And what would Leonard Cohen have made of Nora’s Last Stand?’
‘My poem or the point of principle?’
‘Both.’
‘He would have been impressed by the latter and I would say encouraging about the former. He might give me a few tips, though, on how to write a great poem. It’s a very creatively inspiring space, Tabitha, I have to say.’
‘Really?’ Was heating Heinz tomato soup really so inspiring? Forming a human blockade, pitching mother against daughter, really so exciting. I was feeling decidedly weary regarding the whole thing. ‘That’s nice for you. It’s great, Christy, it really is that so many people are having the time of their lives while making mine really difficult.’ I thought of Rosie at home. She’d cried that morning when I said I had to leave, making me promise that I would be home at lunchtime to check on her.
Christy nodded. ‘You’re right, Tabitha,’ he said, gently. ‘It seems very unfair, doesn’t it?’
I nodded. ‘Yes it does. And how am I meant to make a rational decision in either direction under these circumstances?’
‘I don’t know. But you will.’
‘What?’
‘Make the right decision – whatever it is. If it’s to sell the land, then I know it is the right decision.’
‘Why?’ I said suspiciously. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve always admired you, young Tabitha,’ he said. ‘You are one of those people who aren’t afraid of anything.’
‘Thank you, Christy.’ If only he knew. I had lived my life based on fear.
‘As Leonard would say,’ he went on, ‘poetry is just the evidence of life if your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.’
Did he expect me to start writing poetry now? Just being me was struggle enough. ‘I think I’ll leave the composing and the musing to you, Christy,’ I said. ‘And I’ll…’ I’ll what? Carry on being the bad guy? The one on the wrong side every time?
But he chuckled. ‘You’ll do the right thing,’ he said. ‘Whatever it is, you’ll do the right thing. You know it’s much easier to be us,’ he said, pointing to the protestors. ‘We’re just speaking out. We don’t have anything else to do. You are the one with the weight of decision on your shoulders. You are the one with the weight of responsibility.’
I shrugged noncommittally.
‘This situation…’ He gestured to the protestors. ‘And all you can do is find a place of peace.’
‘Peace?’ I said, sulkily, but realising how much I loved Christy. He was right. Fighting never got anyone anywhere. This was democracy and however much I would have like to live in a totalitarian state, we didn’t and I would have to suck it up. Also, the energy I had for the sale of the land and all the improvements was waning. Our pupils, were, on the whole happy. If I didn’t make any more speeches which would make them cry, then we weren’t doing too badly. Rosie was alone and upset. All anyone needed was love. Soppy but true.
‘Have you written any more about the protest?’
‘I have a few,’ he admitted. ‘Well, more than a few. Seeing these people, never giving up, standing up for what they believe in… it’s been quite the inspiration.’
‘Really?’
‘Really,’ he said. ‘And that’s what I want to talk to you about. You see, my book is going to be published and I wanted to know if I had your permission.’
‘For what?’
‘To publish it. Nora’s Last Stand could be out by Christmas. I’m finishing a few poems off and I have one more to write. But it won’t happen unless…’
‘Unless what?’
‘Unless Nora’s Last Stand has your blessing. I won’t publish it if it makes you unhappy or uneasy or uncomfortable.’
‘Congratulations,’ I said. ‘That’s great news.’
‘And your blessing?’
‘Why not?’ I couldn’t think of any reason why I wouldn’t give it. It was slightly irksome but if something good, such as Christy getting a book published could come out of this, then who was I to prevent it?
*
‘I have something to ask you,’ Mary said, standing at the door of my office. ‘I need to go away. I know it’s short notice but…’ She looked at me pleadingly.
‘Come in,’ I said. ‘Come and sit down.’ We were two weeks to the end of term. Something must be wrong. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I am so sorry, Tabitha,’ she said, sitting down in the chair in front of my desk, her hands twisting in her lap. ‘But I have to go. I don’t have a choice.’
‘Okay…’
‘But,’ she said quickly, ‘everything’s in order. I thought that I might have to go and so I’ve been getting everything ready just in case. Just in case. The school reports are ready to send out, all the notices for next term, the filing… everything’s done. I stayed late, all night, actually, yesterday. It’s all done.’ She looked at me. ‘Please?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘If you have to. But what is it? Where are you going? Are you ill?’
She shook her head. ‘No, not ill. I’m fine but I can’t tell you, Tabitha, but I will, as soon as I’m home again I will. I just can’t. It’s too important and…’ There were tears in her eyes. I’d never seen Mary well up before. ‘I can’t tell anyone anything. Just in case…’
‘Just in case what?’
‘Just in case I jinx it.’
Maybe it was financial trouble? She wasn’t about to join the Sisters of Charity? Never to be seen again without a wimple.
‘It’s all I’ve ever wanted,’ she said. ‘I can’t tell you what it is because you’ll tell me not to do it or that it’s too risky and I’ll only get hurt like the last time…’
‘If there’s anything I can do to help you… anything at all… Please call me. Money… whatever you need.’
‘Tabitha, you make it sound like I’m dying.’
‘You’re not are you?’
‘My time will come but, as far as I’m aware, it won’t be anytime soon.’
‘You will look after yourself, won’t you? And call me, any time. Please?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve never been so nervous in my entire life,’ she said, standing up. ‘Wish me luck, Tabitha. Wish me luck.’
‘Good luck Mary.’ It was like she was off to war. Oh Jesus. She wasn’t heading off to fight terrorists, was she? I went over to her and we grabbed each other’s hands and hugged tightly, her tiny body shaking like a leaf.
Chapter Twenty
The situation with Rosie just didn’t compute for Michael. He arrived home in a state of near hysteria forcing Rosie, who I’d managed to coax out of her room, like a shy animal, to retreat, and close her door behind her.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘How could she not do her exams? She should at least give it a go… she could fail…’ He blanched at the thought but carried on gamely, ‘but it would be better than not doing them. There was a lad in my year. Failed the whole lot. Estate agent now. Makes a packet. Lives in the South of France, drives some tiny,
red car and roars about Villefranche.’
‘And that’s what you want for Rosie?’
‘No! It’s just that even if you don’t think you are going to do well, you should just do them. Never give up. Don’t cop out. Failure is not an option. Us Fogartys…’
‘Fogartys can’t give up. Fogartys are made of sterner stuff. Fogartys aren’t allowed to be seen to fail, is that right?’
‘Well, it’s just that Lucy…’
‘Lucy? What’s her advice? Lucy is just like you, Michael. She never shows weakness, vulnerability, never puts a foot wrong. She’s not going to know what to do…’
‘Lucy suggested it was vegetarianism. Don’t look at me like that. Hear me out because I think she might have a point. Milk. Does Rosie drink milk? Big glasses of it?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said wearily. ‘She has it in tea and on her granola, but…’
‘Lucy says all the young ones like to drink almond milk or whatnot.’ He put his hands up as if to present an open and shut case. ‘Is that what she’s doing?’
‘Michael,’ I said, ‘I don’t think milk is the answer.’ He looks shocked as though I’d said that the sky wasn’t blue or Brussels wasn’t the centre of the universe. ‘I think it’s something that will take a bit of time…’
‘Time… but we don’t have time. Life is short. She…’
‘She needs time. Things are going well with her counsellor…’
Michael’s brow furrowed. ‘Counsellor… clap trap. Milk would be better Vitamins and minerals and a good dose of protein. I think Lucy might have a point...’
*
All week, before I left for school, I’d check on Rosie. She was permanently tear-streaked and washed out. At lunchtime, I’d come home to make her something to eat, and later find the sandwich only half eaten or the soup untouched. But she was getting a little bit stronger. The school had been immediately responsive, full of empathy and practical support and organising a counsellor which Rosie had seen on Friday. She hadn’t said too much about it but she had appeared slightly brighter yesterday evening and had watched the news with me.
This day, when I stood at her bedroom door, my heart broke at the sight of her, still in her pyjamas, lying on her bed. She didn’t seem to be doing anything not reading, not watching television, just sleeping or staring into space.
‘Why don’t you talk to Alice?’ I said. ‘Give her or Mary a call.’
‘I can’t. They’re working.’
‘But a quick phone call or a pop round would be okay, surely?’
She nodded. ‘The counsellor said I should tell people.’
‘And why don’t you?’
‘Shame,’ she said. ‘Apparently. It’s what stops all of us from doing emotionally healthy things. And I’m quoting. That’s what she said. I’m to tell people and that will rid me of shame.’
‘So?’ I asked. ‘So, are you going to tell people? You could call Alice. Call Mary. Put it up on Facebook.’
‘That’s what I should do. But I’m working towards it.’ She looked at me. My battered and bruised baby.
‘I’ve got to go out. Board meeting. I’ll be two hours. No longer.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’ I smiled at her. ‘Love you Ro.’
‘Love you too.’
*
‘Sister Kennedy, these are for you.’ Brian placed a box of Black Magic in front of her. ‘A little bird told me you were partial to something sweet…’
We were at the board meeting to come to a final decision about the selling of the Copse.
Brian had a formal offer that he was waving around. ‘We’ll sign all the documents next week,’ he said, slipping it back into the inside of his jacket. ‘My lawyers and Freddie Boyle’s lawyers are drawing everything up. All ship-shape.’ He smiled his crocodile smile, his tiny teeth poking over his thin lips.
I’d finally received my formal valuation of the land this morning. It was worth three times what this Freddie Boyle was offering. But the money seemed so unimportant, suddenly. We would survive another winter with a leaky roof. We’d make do with the chairs we had. The playground would remain a little bit gravelly. The children could share the creaky computers we already had. Selling the land was wrong.
And there was something about Brian that I didn’t like or trust and I knew he would have known the land’s real valuation. I may not have concrete proof that he was conning us but my suspicions were enough. I was going to trust my gut. It was time to halt the plans.
‘Chocolates… how lovely.’ Sister Kennedy took the box. ‘I am most partial to something sweet, Mr Crowley,’ she said, going slightly pink. ‘How… how kind of you.’
‘And for you, Noleen.’ He presented Noleen’s gift with the flourish of Launcelot to Guinevere. ‘A Chocolate Orange by the chocolatiers known as Terry’s…’
‘Thank you, Mr Crowley.’ She took it from him, eyes shining, examining it as though it was the Noor diamond. ‘They are my favourite. The last time I had one of these was Christmas 1985. Do you remember, Sister Kennedy? Santa paid a visit to the school and he gave all the children one of these and there was one left over. And he gave it to me.’ She stopped. ‘Obviously, it wasn’t the real Santa, just the caretaker dressed up. I’ve never forgotten it.’ She looked misty-eyed and lost in memory. ‘He was made to leave, though, soon after. He’d been stealing from the lost property. Selling the items on a market stall at the weekend… such a shame… he was a good man. A very good man…’ She drifted away, lost in 1985.
Brian ignored her and turned his attention to Brendan. ‘And for you, sir, I’ve bought you some whiskey liqueurs. A man like you must like a tot from time to time. You have, I would imagine, a palate for fine Irish whiskey.’
‘Well… I would like to think… oh, well, that’s, that’s very kind of you, Mr Crowley.’ Brendan looked so pleased that it was as though he’d never been given a present before.
‘I’m afraid, I don’t have anything for you Tabitha,’ he said to me. ‘Your office is well stocked with sweet things as it is. I don’t think you need any more.’ He smiled, baring his miniscule teeth. ‘All those biscuits I see waiting to be scoffed.’
‘Brian, I don’t think gifts are appropriate at this meeting. They are unnecessary and could be construed as bribery,’ I said.
‘Should I ask for them back?’ he smirked. ‘Is that what you think? Take them back from these good souls here when all I want to do is bring some sweetness and light into people’s lives.’
Sister Kennedy, Noleen and Brendan were clutching their gifts. They looked at me as though they were children and I was trying to take away their Christmas presents.
‘It’s a very nice gesture,’ said Noleen, going pink and looking to Sister Kennedy for approval. ‘Very kind, Mr Crowley. Very kind of you indeed.’
‘Very kind,’ said Sister Kennedy. ‘You remind me of one of the Magi.’ She took him by the hand. ‘The kings who traversed afar to give gifts to the Holy Child.’ She smiled. ‘Such a simple act, to give a small gift to someone else. But a beautiful one. Thank you.’ She picked up the chocolates. ‘And the name of them…’ she laughed. ‘Black Magi… so appropriate.’
‘They’re Black Magic,’ I tried to correct her. ‘The chocolates. Black. Mag-ic.’ I had lost this one and all I was achieving was making myself into someone seeming jealous and Grinch-like. ‘Let’s just not make this a regular part of the meetings,’ I ended.
Sister Kennedy bestowed upon Brian her most beneficent of smiles, as though he was the naughtiest boy in school but also her favourite. ‘I’m going to share these with my meditation group. I think that a small chocolate each wouldn’t go against any rules. I think that Tabitha is warning us against bribes and incentives, but we all know, Mr Crowley, you’re not trying to influence us. They are hardly brown envelopes, which I think is the preferred way of doing business in this country. Or so I hear on the radio.’
‘Envelopes full of cash can be arranged,
’ winked Brian and the two of them shared a laugh.
‘Can we get on?’
‘Yes, I can’t stay late either,’ said Sister Kennedy. ‘Regretfully. I have a most pressing arrangement.’
‘Not before one of these,’ said Brendan who was opening his liqueurs and passing them around. ‘We’ll be drunk if we’re not careful.’ He held the box in front of me. The smell was overpowering, the Proustian experience of a 1970s Christmas.
‘No thank you, Brendan. I really want to get down to things.’
‘Some lady’s in a hurry,’ said Brian, who had two liqueurs in his mouth, one in either cheek, the words barely discernible over the chocolate and whiskey mushy spittle. ‘Well, maybe I’ll take over… hmmm? This meeting is to bring the board up to speed, vis a vis, ergo, veto the situacion the sale of the rubbish ground, erstwhile known as the Copse. Not cops. That’s something else entirely…’
This was met by polite smiles from Brendan and Noleen as Sister Kennedy looked merely confused. Brian continued, unabashed by the lukewarm reception to his attempt at humour. ‘As you know we have our buyer – or Good Samaritan, Sister Kennedy…’
‘You are clever Mr Crowley,’ she said carefully laying her liqueur in front of her to enjoy later. ‘
‘These chocolates are a celebration, really. And he’s a perfect buyer. Freddie Boyle is his name. I think, if you don’t mind me saying, Sister Kennedy, I think that you would particularly like him. Boyle has a priestliness to him. A spiritual quality that would not look out of place giving Mass on a… on a…’ For a moment, he looked confused, as though he couldn’t quite remember the usual day for Mass.
‘Sunday?’ I suggested.
‘Yes! Sunday!’
‘I had a dog called Freddie,’ said Noleen. ‘When I was young. Lovely little thing he was. Used to wait for me to come home from school. We had to put him down in the end.’
Together Forever Page 19
