Fragile Lies

by Elliot, Laura

  Chapter Ten

  “I’ve fallen hopelessly in love,” Emily announced one evening, stamping mud from Donaldson’s farm on the back doorstep. “It’s incurable, indestructible, indescribable –”

  “Just give me the facts, Emily. Obviously his name begins with I.”

  “Do you mean Ibrahim O’Doherty?” She blew coyly up towards her fringe and laughed loudly. “Don’t be ridiculous. My true love is a she. Her name is Antoinette and she has four legs.”

  “Come again, Emily?”

  “She’s my horse.”

  Lorraine set a dish of lasagne on the table and sectioned it onto their plates. “Are we talking rocking horses or the ones who eat oats and live on Donaldsons’ farm?”

  “Ha, ha. Very funny. Want to see me riding her?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Absolutely.”

  After they finished their evening meal they walked to the end of the lane and entered the farmyard.

  “Shut up, Hobbs,” Emily ordered the dog and hunkered to fondle his ears, a gesture that caused Hobbs to pant devotedly and press his head against her knees. Before Lorraine could stop her, she lifted the latch on the back door and walked into the farmhouse. Noeleen, reading a newspaper at the kitchen table, greeted her so casually it was obvious she was used to Emily’s unannounced entry. She noticed Lorraine hovering in the open doorway and gestured. “Come in, come on in yourself. I’m just about to wet the tea.”

  Emily joined the brothers in the room adjoining the kitchen where they were watching a soccer match on television.

  “You’re settling into the old house all right then?” Noeleen pulled out a chair from the table and invited Lorraine to sit down.

  “More or less.”

  “It must seem strange after the city. It did to me when I first came here.”

  “I remember that time. Celia called you a townie.”

  “Sure you must have been only a tot then.” Noeleen moved around the kitchen with quick, light steps, setting mugs and plates on the table.

  “It doesn’t seem all that long ago. You were originally from Tralee, if I remember rightly.”

  “Born and bred. But I went to London when I was fifteen and lived there until my mother became ill. I came home to nurse her. She didn’t live long afterwards, God rest her, and I met Frank at a dance in the town about a year later. The quietness really got to me in the beginning but I’d Frank to warm my bed which helped settle me down.” She stopped, suddenly flustered, and busied herself pouring tea. “Not that a warm bed is everything. Many’s the woman managed on her own and made a far better fist of rearing her kids than if she had a man hanging out of her apron strings. Emily’s coming on grand, despite everything. She told me about the art classes you’re going to start in September. We’ve had some grand night classes altogether here. Computers, pottery and salsa dancing. I loved the salsa. But no painting until now. When do we start enrolling? I can guarantee you at least four other women who’d be delighted to get out of their houses at night.”

  “Noeleen, I don’t know what Emily’s been saying but she seems to have given the wrong impression to people. I didn’t agree to do the classes. I’m too busy –”

  “The furthest I’ve ever got to painting is dipping a brush into a bucket of whitewash.” Noeleen swept her excuses aside. “I’d like to tackle something like portraits. I’ve no interest whatsoever in landscapes. God knows I spend enough time looking at the scenery around here.”

  “But I haven’t agreed to do the classes.”

  Noeleen sighed, tilted her head to one side and surveyed Lorraine. “I’m sorry to hear that. You think you’ve all the time in the world to do the things you want but then you suddenly realise the clock’s running ahead of you. Suppose I’ll never get to paint a portrait of Frank now.”

  Despite her exasperation, Lorraine smiled. “Noeleen, are you trying to manipulate me?”

  “Why would I want to do a thing like that?”

  “That’s what I’m asking you?”

  “You need to mix with people again, Lorraine. You’re here nearly six months now and you’ve hardly moved outside the house except to walk the beach. Emily worries about you.”

  “Does she talk about what happened between myself and her father?”

  “She doesn’t have to. I see it in her face. But yes, she did tell me. I wasn’t trying to pry.”

  “I know. And I appreciate your concern.”

  “You’ll do the classes then?”

  “I’ll think about it,” Lorraine promised.

  “Keep yourself busy,” Noeleen advised. “I usually find it’s as good a reason as any for rising in the morning.”

  Voices came from the dining-room, where a heated discussion had broken out. Emily laughed at a remark made by one of the brothers who had loudly expressed his opinion on the mental state of the referee.

  “It’s great having a girl around the place again,” said Noeleen. “I’ve two daughters in the States and one in London. I miss them something terrible.” She sat in silence for a while, a half-smile playing across her lips. Her kitchen had a comfortable feel, despite the modern built-in units which her sons had installed. A dusty St Brigid’s cross hung above the door and she had kept the old-fashioned range in preference to a modern oven.

  “It’s a relief to hear Emily laughing again.” Lorraine stirred her tea and wondered what it would be like to wave goodbye to children as they boarded a plane to begin a new life elsewhere. She listened to Noeleen talking about her daughters, relaxed in the company of this friendly woman who had been the first to welcome her to Trabawn.

  When the match ended, Lorraine accompanied the brothers and Emily to the stables. Con led an old mare forward and stood back, observing Emily as she saddled the horse. Sitting gingerly on the saddle she rode Antoinette in a wide, slow circle around a fenced-off sand arena, waving excitedly at her mother when she passed her by. Con spoke in a low voice, obviously encouraging her to relax, and her posture settled. Her smile grew more confident as the mare responded to her commands. To Lorraine, watching from the sidelines, it was obvious that the love affair was well underway.

  “Of course, Antoinette’s very old,” Emily explained when they returned to the house. “But Con says I can practise on her until I get a proper pony. Do you think there’s any chance of that happening? If I’m going to be a culchie I might as well have the trappings.”

  “We’ll see what’s possible down the road. For the moment, though, it’s out of the question. All this is costing an arm and a leg.” Lorraine pointed towards the central-heating pipes which had been delivered that afternoon. She needed to start earning again. With the sale of the house and her Painting Dreams collection, she was financially secure for the time being but the costs of repairing her new home and setting up the studio were making serious inroads into her savings. “We’re going to Dublin for a few days,” she said. “You’ll have a chance to see your friends again … and your father, if you want to?”

  “I’ll meet him in McDonald’s. Isn’t that where all the Saturday dads hang out?”

  “You can meet him anywhere you like.”

  “Seeing as how you refuse to let him set foot in this house, McDonald’s will do fine.”

  Lorraine moved to the window and stared out into the gathering dusk.

  “Bat watch time again, is it?” Her daughter yanked open the fridge door and removed a plate of left-over lasagne. “I’m going to feed Antoinette. She may be old and bony but at least I can rely on her not to wreck my head.”

  It was dark when she returned from the farm. “I’m sorry.” She came straight over to Lorraine and hugged her. “I can’t get used to it. I just can’t.”

  “It will get easier.” Lorraine brushed her daughter’s hair back from her forehead and kissed her. “I don’t know when … or how. But I know it will.”

  On Wednesday evening, Emily flung herself into the car and waved out the window at the Donaldson brothers w
ho intended painting the bathroom Bravado Blue while they were away.

  Brendan stopped singing “If Tomorrow Never Comes” and closed the gate behind them.

  Back in familiar childhood surroundings, witnessing the pleasure with which her parents greeted them, Lorraine felt guilty over her long absence. After dinner, when Emily had persuaded her grandfather to drive her to her friend’s house, Donna had an opportunity to speak alone to her daughter.

  “Teenagers are resilient.” She cleared dishes from the table and stacked the dishwasher. “Emily looks well and she appears to be settling down. I’m glad she’s decided to meet Adrian again. Her birthday must have been difficult for you.”

  “I got through it. There’ll be other occasions. It’s something I have to accept.”

  “Have you been able to make any decisions about –” Donna’s voice quavered then strengthened again. “Are you going to look for a divorce?”

  “As soon as it can be arranged.” Saying the words gave authenticity to her decision but the words had a dream-like quality, as if some other person, someone cold and empty of emotion, were uttering them. Later, trying to sleep, she forced herself to think about tomorrow’s meeting with the Sheratons. Her distracted thoughts were not helped by the sounds of road-works on the pavement outside her parents’ house. The road was an artery into the city, busy during peak hour, and an emergency had arisen that meant the work had to be carried out during the night. The interminable trench was cordoned off by red and white striped plastic barriers, and leaflets delivered to each house on the crescent had apologised in advance for the inconvenience. She covered her head with a pillow but the noise penetrated. She had no idea who was responsible; electricity, gas, telephones, they all seemed to operate independently. At last she slept but her dreams were disturbed by crashing sounds, thuds and the relentless thump of heavy machinery.

  Chapter Eleven

  Brahms Ward, 8 p.m.

  Killian, I know what happened that night. I want to weep but I’ve no tears left. Bozo Daly gave her an identity. He put flesh on her bones and turned her from a phantom into a living, breathing being who can be traced and be held accountable. He’s ill, I’m afraid, very ill. A nurse rang to tell me. She referred to him as Luke Daly. Did you know that’s his real name? Neither did I until she described him. He wanted to see me urgently and so I went immediately to his bedside. He’s in the Mater Hospital, frail and old in his striped pyjamas. I can’t imagine him as a Luke. Too biblical. But he’s sober for a change and his nose, that humped and cratered structure that belongs to an alcoholic, not a clown, no longer resembles an angry weal. It was the first time we’d spoken since your accident.

  Lorraine Cheevers is her name. I wonder if she noticed a clown on the pier that night? Probably not. Bozo Daly is used to being invisible. But he saw her take her lover’s hand and pull him back into the safety of her car. It’s a crazy story, Killian, and will be impossible to prove in a court of law, not that Bozo will ever get that far. From the look in his eyes I’d say he’s already hearing the beat of angels’ wings. He refuses point blank to talk to the police. He’s well-known to them and they, for their part, have little faith in a clown with selective memory lapses. I could go to them myself but what can I say? A robbed bracelet, a television programme and the opinion of a wino who lived the last ten years of his life on the edge of a river.

  Remember Artistically Speaking? Talking heads and boring art farts, you used to say. They made a programme about her. I know the producer. We shared a flat for a few months when we were students. He used to wear knitted bedroom slippers. Now he wears Gucci loafers. We’ve all moved on, I guess, since those days. He gave me a copy of the tape.

  Last night I switched on the video. Red hair, blue eyes. Her neck is long and slim. I could fit my hands around it easily. I could squeeze it until the life fades from her eyes and they are lustreless, empty. Like your gaze, Killian. So far removed from us. Yet you weep tears. I see them ooze from the corners, trickle down your cheeks. Where do they come from, those tears? Are they the last ripples in a dried-up riverbed, flowing heedlessly from a wasted reservoir? Or do they signify emotion, the possibility of hope, the glimmer of a nightmare ending?

  Jean touches your tears and signs the cross on your forehead. I see them fall and I think of revenge. Last night I watched Lorraine Cheevers. I studied her face, her willowy frame, her smile, her white, straight teeth. I switched off the machine and waited for the mist to pass from my mind.

  * * *

  Misty man … Mister Men … Mr Dizzy … Mr Bounce … Mr Bump … bump … smash … crash … whirr-whirr-whirrwhirr …

  Chapter Twelve

  “Mount Subasio” was engraved on a granite slab outside the gates of the Sheratons’ residence. Lorraine drove slowly along an avenue that curved into a wide-angled view of the house. The style was mock-Georgian, or had started off as such, but other influences had created a startling edifice of pillars and turrets. A flag with the Sheraton crest hung from one such turret and gave the building the appearance of a massive but ill-designed conference centre. Stone lions crouched like sentinels at either side of the steps and, as Lorraine approached the entrance, a massive studded hall door opened to reveal Andrea Sheraton.

  She waited until Lorraine mounted the steps then lightly brushed her fingers, coolly establishing the fact that this was a business rather than a social lunch. Gold hung from her neck, gleamed on her wrist and fingers. Her hair fell to her shoulders, sleek and flawlessly blonde. She led Lorraine into a dining-room where the windows offered a spectacular view over the Dublin mountains. Throughout lunch she toyed with an avocado salad, unable to hide her impatience whenever she glanced at her son.

  Lorcan Sheraton had the fidgety unease of a landed fish, flapping and helpless under his mother’s scrutiny, his shoulders twitching involuntarily every time she addressed him. He crumbled a bread roll on the damask tablecloth and replied in monosyllables to Lorraine’s questions. He was not going to be an easy subject to paint. From his comments it was obvious he hated the idea of a family portrait. She would have to work on him, reassure him without sounding patronising, focus on his strong features which, looking into his woebegone eyes, could be difficult. His father, after a few failed attempts to include him in the conversation, ignored him completely.

  Andrea insisted that Lorraine paint from photographs rather than sketches. “Photographs will give a truer representation of our family, don’t you agree?” She gave up all pretence of eating and lightly dabbed her lips with a napkin.

  “Whatever you wish.” Usually Lorraine preferred to work from sketches but on this occasion she was determined to spend as little time as possible with this family, whose combined unease in each other’s presence was unnerving.

  “And I insist on seeing all the preliminary work,” Andrea continued. “I adore your work, Lorraine, but ‘quirky and cheekily Cheeverish’ is not what I’m looking for on this occasion.”

  Lorraine winced away from the affected laughter of the woman sitting opposite her. The phrase had been used by the presenter of Artistically Speaking and it had annoyed her as much then as it did now.

  “Just as well you won’t be organising regular sittings.” Bill glanced at his son and grinned wryly. “As you can see, Lorcan wouldn’t be capable of sitting still even if he was encased in cement.”

  His attempt at humour settled wearily across the table and was rewarded with a glare from his son. When the meal finally came to an end Lorraine made excuses and left, after arranging to return the following day for the photographic session.

  Throughout the night, the road-works continued outside her parents’ house. She stood by the window staring down at arc lighting which illuminated the workers in their yellow jackets and hard hats. The lateness of the hour added a surreal image to a scene she would have passed without a glance during the day. She remembered the old night watchman from her childhood who used to guard the cordoned-off trenches and how he called out to h
er when she passed him by, his hunched figure sitting before a glowing brazier, his gloved hands clasped around a tin mug of tea.

  Before she could change her mind she slipped on her clothes and took her camera outside. The foreman was defensive at first, believing she had come to complain and was using the camera as a means of gathering some evidence of wrongdoing on his part. But she was persuasive and after consulting with the workers he gave permission. As she approached the crew she realised one of them was a woman. She worked silently alongside the men and paid no attention to Lorraine, who moved among them as unobtrusively as possible.

  When they stopped for a tea break she was still photographing them. They began to talk to her, the men striking macho or provocative feminine poses, asking if they were going to feature in a Playboy centrefold. When they heard she intended painting them they whistled and sang “Mona Lisa”, the woman joining in, a husky voice, one of the lads. She looked wiry and skinny against their hulking masculinity. Lorraine studied her tough face with its give-as-good-as-you-get expression. Did she suffer sexual harassment? Was her bottom pinched, patted, stroked? Had she been lewdly teased? She did not look like a woman who would suffer silently. Lorraine took their addresses and told them she would send invitations if the painting was ever exhibited.

  Bill Sheraton fretted about time-wasting. Lorraine fretted about missing the light. Lorcan, glowering and inflamed, fretted about her close scrutiny of his skin. Andrea piled clothes on the bed and fretted over the most suitable outfit to wear. A hair stylist and beautician attended to her hair and make-up. Tempers were frayed by the time the photographic session started.

  Lorraine photographed the family in the garden, grouped before a copse of blazing redwood trees, in the drawing-room, in the conservatory and at the foot of a curving staircase. Lorcan’s head jerked defensively whenever she approached him for a close-up shot. His bottom lip was cracked as if he had bitten down hard on it.