by Siobhan Dowd
‘Hi, Fergus.’
Fergus quickened his pace.
‘Fergus?’
‘What?’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow what?’
‘You know.’
‘Not again?’
‘Yes again. Or else.’ Michael beamed as he mimed a throat being cut. He nodded over to where the soldiers were climbing aboard their Bedford truck. ‘You know what.’
I know. Fergus nodded and walked past, fast. He turned into the close and let himself into the house. It was silent in the hallway. Dust motes floated in a stream of light. He shut his eyes, listening to the quiet. It was as if his ears were preternaturally sharp. There was a faint scrabbling, as of underground rats in the bungalow’s foundations. He felt his way down the hall, fingering the rose petals of the textured wallpaper, then crept into his room, shutting himself in.
He opened his eyes with relief. From a paperback on the bedside table he retrieved the two postcards he’d hidden between the pages. They’d arrived that morning, his secret. It was a miracle he’d got to the post before anyone else. He stroked the two glossy photographs. He put one of them up to his nose and sniffed it as if to catch the heady fragrance of another place. Both cards were from Rome, dated two weeks ago. One pictured the Colosseum and read:
Dear Fergus and family,
Wish you were here to see the layers of history. Ancient times, Renaissance and Mussolini cheek-by-jowl. On to Pompeii tomorrow. Could we book in for Tuesday August 2nd? We have an important meeting arranged with Professor Taylor regarding Mel. See you then.
All best, Felicity and Cora.
The other was of a nude nymph, sitting cheekily on the lap of a hairy, pagan Pan. It read:
Soon, sooner, soonest…
Maximus kissus resumus.
Thirty-one
When the alarm beeped the next morning, Fergus jolted awake and remembered. He groaned, stuffing a pillow over his head. Another packet delivery day. He dragged himself up and got into his running things.
Outside, the weather continued fine with a soft white sky. The village nestled in the valley’s side, dormant. The first bee of the day explored some hedgerow clover.
If it weren’t for these bloody packets… Fergus ran from the close and down through Drumleash without limbering up. If it weren’t for Joe… He vaulted the Forestry Commission gate, picked up the packet, ran without bothering to hide it in his shorts. He stopped for a splash in the stream that was now a trickle. If it weren’t for the Troubles… He stuck to the tarmac road and went straight past the sentry hut. He hardly cared if he was caught. He swapped packets at the dry-stone wall and ran back the way he’d come. If it weren’t for Ireland breaking off from Britain, aeons ago, or Britain breaking off from Europe…
He froze. A strange sound emanated from the sentry hut: a high note, caught, strangulated. For a moment he thought it was a strange breed of cattle. He looked around. The note fell downwards into a perfect scale. It didn’t belong here on the mountain. It wasn’t the wind, or an animal, but an instrument. He stopped and listened. Silence. Then the breeze brought over to him another snatch, a broken chord, mounting with rising sadness. He remembered TV footage he’d seen of President Kennedy’s funeral eighteen years before, the year of his birth: the small child saluting, the lament of the bugle, a nation in mourning.
He shoved the packet down his front. Not a moment too soon. A figure emerged, walking into the open, playing a silver instrument, now with circus-like cheeriness. Pad-da-tum-tum-pom, pad-da-tummy-tummypom.
The player was Owain. He was dressed in regulation trousers, but his khaki shirt flapped open. At the sight of Fergus, the instrument jerked away from his lips. ‘Oh. Phew,’ he said. He smiled, gesturing with his trumpet, or whatever it was. ‘Just you.’
‘Just me.’
‘How’s it going, Fergus?’
‘Never better.’
‘You must be fit for the Olympics by now.’
Fergus shrugged. ‘Not quite.’ He gestured to the instrument. ‘What’s that?’
‘This? A trombone.’
‘Never knew you could play.’
Owain looked at the trombone like an old friend of whom he was weary. ‘There wasn’t much else to do in the Valleys but join a silver band.’
‘D’you still play in one?’
Owain shrugged. ‘Off and on. More just on my own, to practice. Sometimes I fill in for the locals here. The UDR fellows are always short of a trombone. I’ve a concert booked with them next Wednesday.’
‘The UDR? You’d be shot for playing with them round here,’ Fergus warned.
‘You’d be shot for breathing these days.’
Fergus thought of the packet hidden in his shorts, the lowering of Len’s coffin, the keenings of Mrs Sheehan. He nodded. ‘True enough.’
‘It’s a bloody mess, this whole place.’
‘Bedlam.’
‘At the funeral, yesterday. We were that close.’ Owain held out a finger and thumb, as if only the thinnest sheet of paper would fit between. ‘I saw you there. Were you a friend of the dead man?’
‘Len Sheehan? I knew him. In a place like Drumleash, you know everyone. He was three years older than me, more a friend of my brother’s.’
‘Your brother? Was he there too?’
‘No. He’s…away. In Rome. For the holidays.’
‘Lucky him.’
‘Yeah. Lucky him.’
Owain shook his trombone to get the spit out and blew on the mouthpiece. ‘Those hunger strikers. I don’t get why they do it. It’s not like we’re torturing them. Or sending them off to the salt mines. Do you get why they do it?’
Fergus stared at Owain, then looked out across the valley. ‘No.’ Fermanagh rolled serenely away, its green lands tumbling into the pale horizon. ‘I’ve no idea. Unless it’s this.’ He gestured across to the view.
‘What?’
‘Land. Freedom. Whatever.’
Owain smiled. ‘If it was the Welsh Valleys, y’know what?’
‘No.’
‘Guess.’
‘You’d fight to the death too?’
‘Hell, no. I’d say, welcome to it, slag heaps ’n’ all.’
Fergus smiled. ‘Owain?’
‘What?’
‘Play us another tune.’
‘No.’
‘Go on. Please.’
Owain shrugged. ‘OK. But promise you won’t tell?’
‘Who would I tell?’
‘Dunno. But I’m supposed to be on duty. Not practising the bleeding trombone.’
Fergus grinned. ‘I won’t tell.’
Owain put his lips to the mouthpiece and started on a slow, rollicking waltz. The tune was familiar. It gathered pace. It brought to mind ball gowns, chandeliers, frock coats, champagne. Fergus shut his eyes, smiling. He and Cora were dancing, her in a silken amber dress with layers that floated like feathers as she turned. Her shoulders gleamed like living marble, her eyes were dark, sleepy. They were whirling around the crumbled ruins of the floodlit Colosseum, the mosaic-tiled floor empty just for them. Onlookers circled around them, clapping with white-gloved hands…Then the tune changed to a lyrical, hymn-like air. Fergus recognized it from an old TV advert for sliced brown bread. He opened his eyes and lounged up against the rock he’d sat on the last time he’d met Owain. Soon he couldn’t help but hum along. The trombone notes crescendo’d upwards to a bittersweet conclusion, as if a question posed by the tune was being answered, but not as expected. The final chord died away amid the nearby baas of sheep. The wind settled.
Jesus. The man’s a genius.
The trombone fell from Owain’s lips. ‘Sorry.’
‘Sorry? What for?’
‘I changed the ending. I went into the minor key. Dunno why. It felt right somehow.’
‘Sounded fine to me.’
‘D’you know what they call it when you finish sad like that?’
‘No. What?’
‘A feminine ending.’
‘Feminine? Why feminine?’
‘Guess it’s like the pop song says.’
‘What pop song?’
‘Only Women Bleed.’
Fergus grinned. ‘Alice Cooper. I thought that was all about you-know-what. Periods. That stuff.’
‘Nah. It’s about women getting a raw deal. Being beaten up.’
‘Never.’
‘’S true.’ Owain grinned. ‘Only all the women I’ve ever known give the men the hard time. Not the other way round. You should have seen my mam. She went for Dad once, with the flat side of the iron. That’s Welsh women for you.’
‘Sounds like Irish women. The beginning and end of all sorrow.’ It was what his da said when he wanted to bait Mam. ‘Irish women and this bloody place, all rolled together. It’s enough to make you weep.’
Owain put the trombone to his lips and did a short rendering of Only Women Bleed. When he stopped, a nearby sheep baaed shrilly. It sprang up the mountain, veering off to the right and left as if in panic.
‘What’s got into that fella?’
‘Dunno. Must have been scorned in love.’
They laughed, then stopped at the sound of an army Land Rover coming up the hill.
‘Better put this away,’ Owain said.
‘Yeah. You better had.’ Fergus started to run on the spot, tensing up. He checked the packet, flapped his sweatshirt. ‘Gotta run myself.’
‘I’ll say. Never seen anyone train so hard.’
‘Owain?’
‘What?’
He thought of the lie he’d told about Joe being in Rome, Len’s coffin being lowered, the hopelessness of it all. He’d a desperate need to talk to somebody. Anybody. The approaching Land Rover changed gear as it climbed. ‘Nothing. Bye.’
Owain waved with his trombone. ‘Bye.’
Fergus sprinted down the road, trying to make cover before meeting the oncoming vehicle, but the vehicle was soon upon him. He stepped onto the verge, almost stumbling in the gorse. Against the sun, he could see silhouettes of broad shoulders, bristling rifles, army berets. The horn beeped. The Land Rover sped up past him. He ran down the hill and didn’t stop until he reached the place where the view of the entire lough opened up. He paused, panting. Nobody could see him now. He felt like taking the packet from his waistband and hurling it as far as he could down into the wilderness. Maybe it would land in the forest and blow up and start a fire. Or maybe it would arc outwards, land in the lough and sink, to be eaten by unsuspecting fishes. Or maybe it would reach Drumleash and land bang! on Rafters’ head and kill him outright.
Land. Freedom. Whatever. He ran down into the Forestry Commission and flung the packet in the abandoned tyre.
Thirty-two
Mam had the garden shears out when he got home. She clipped at the lawn’s edge, thrapp-thrapp, with a face to send Jack the Ripper running.
‘There you are. The wreck of the Hesperus.’
‘Mam?’
‘What?’ Thrapp-thrapp.
‘I had a card. From Felicity and Cora.’
‘So?’
‘From Rome.’
‘Lucky them.’ Mam scraped a strand of hair behind an ear. ‘I always wanted to go to Rome. Father Doyle used to run the pilgrimages. But money. Time.’ Mam shrugged as if to say, Never enough. ‘This place,’ she sighed.
‘Maybe you can still go, Mam. After. After—’
‘After what? After Joey’s died? Is that what you were going to say?’ She stood up and attacked a rose bush, snipping off buds along with the dead heads. ‘When Joey’s dead,’ Mam said, ‘there will be no afters. No trips. No messing. No nothing.’
Thrapp-thrapp. The shears, wide-open, flopped from her grasp, threatening to stab her leg. Fergus grabbed them and steadied her as she swayed. ‘Oh, Mam. Please.’
She pushed him away, eyes closed. ‘I wish to God I’d never met your da. That I’d never crossed that border. That I’d never come anywhere near these Troubles.’ Then she opened her eyes and nodded at the shears. ‘Shut them,’ she said. ‘They’re a menace. On a fine day like this. A bloody menace.’
Fergus blinked, confused. He eased the handles of the shears together. The rusty blades scrunched up with difficulty. ‘There.’
‘That’s better.’ Mam spread out her hands over the mangled rose bush, as if granting it absolution. She breathed out. ‘What was it you were saying?’
‘Sorry, Mam?’
‘About the Dublin ladies?’
‘They want to stay again. Next Tuesday.’ When Joe may still be alive. Or not.
Mam shook her head. ‘No, Fergus. We need the money badly, I know. But I can’t deal with them. Not now.’
‘I’ll look after them, Mam. I’ll get the breakfasts. Please. If nothing else it will be a—’
‘What?’ She was glaring again.
He mouthed the word instead of saying it. Distraction.
Mam must have lip-read it. ‘I’m distracted enough, Fergus.’ Then suddenly she relented, smiling. ‘You’ve taken a shine to that young girl.’
‘Cora? How d’you know?’
‘I know. I’m your mam. I’ve known you all your life. That last morning, when I came in with the breakfasts. You were gazing at her over the rashers.’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘You were. Pie-eyed. The same look you used to have when I’d cut up the Christmas cake. You were mad for the marzipan, remember?’
‘Yes, Mam. I remember. I liked the marzipan, but Joe preferred the royal icing. So the two of us would do a swap.’
Mam stared, tears gathering.
‘Sorry, Mam. Didn’t mean to—’
‘Don’t be sorry, Fergus. It’s a nice memory.’ Joe might as well have already been dead, the way she said it.
‘Mam?’
‘What?
‘Can I phone and tell them to come then?’
‘Who?’
‘Felicity and Cora.’
Mam sighed. ‘Do what you want, Fergus. I’m beyond caring. If anything happens while they’re here, we can send them over to stay at the Metlins’.’
‘OK, Mam. That’s what we’ll do.’
‘What’s the time, Fergus?’
Fergus looked at Joe’s watch. ‘Nine forty-five.’
‘Sweet Mary. I must fly. I’ve an important meeting.’ She rushed indoors, almost skidding on the doormat. Fergus followed, watching as she grabbed her handbag, keys, a tube of Polo mints. ‘Fergus. Take the girls out. Swimming. Anything. To give the Caseys a break.’
‘OK.’
She was out the door in a whisker, with the car roaring to a start. She turned hard right out of the drive, nearly scraping the passenger side on the gatepost. She zoomed off, an accident waiting to happen. He could see the newspapers, in a whirling sequence of cinematic headlines, like a game of consequences. SON ON HUNGER STRIKE. WORRIED MOTHER IN CAR CRASH. GRIEF-STRUCK DA KILLS HIMSELF.
He knuckled his eyeballs to get rid of the images.
‘Theresa, Cath,’ he yelled. ‘D’you fancy a swim?’
From their bedroom at the far end of the hall he heard a rumble, like horses’ hooves pounding over the plain. He braced himself. The door flew open.
‘Fergus,’ Cath wailed. ‘My costume stinks. Mam never washed it.’
‘Fergus,’ Theresa shouted. ‘I’ve a new stroke invented.’
‘Have you? What’s that?’
‘It’s called Killer Shark. You use your elbow as a fin.’ She bared her teeth and swam up the hallway. ‘It’s good, Fergus? Isn’t it?’
ORPHANED GIRLS ESCAPE FOSTER HOME AND TAKE TO CRIME. ‘Terrifying, T. Makes Jaws look a tadpole.’ Oh, Joe. The consequences. On you, on us, on all of us. Did you think of them? Did you?
Thirty-three
That night, he rang the Dublin ladies. The previous time they’d left, he’d carefully inscribed their phone number under the ‘O’s for O’Brien in the address book, but he’d never dared dial it before. Cora answer
ed.
‘H’lo?’ she said, sounding as if she was munching something.
‘It’s Fergus.’
The munching stopped. ‘Fergus.’ The ‘r’ in her voice was like a rug unrolling inside him. Words deserted him.
‘Are you still there, Fergus?’
‘Yes. Cora?’ His blood was pumping in his temples. ‘How was Rome?’
‘R-R-Roma.’
The way she said the ‘r’ again made his ears burn. ‘OK. So how was Roma?’ He couldn’t roll his ‘r’s, so he stressed the ‘a’ instead.
‘Romantic.’
‘Never.’
‘It was. There were motor scooters everywhere.’
‘Did you ride one?’
‘Mam would have had a fit. But guess what?’
‘What?’
‘You couldn’t hail a taxi.’
‘Why not?’
‘Dunno. Some rule to do with the mafia or something. You had to call up from a phone box.’
‘What about the Vatican? The Sistine Chapel?’
‘Awful.’
‘Awful?’
‘I got a crick in my neck from staring up. The ceilings dripped with blood and gore and gold.’
‘Yuck.’
‘Telling me. I liked Pompeii best. The whole place is frozen at the precise hour, day, year that Vesuvius erupted. AD seventy-nine. All the bodies are turned to statues.’
‘Christ.’
‘Telling me. And, Fergus?’
The ‘r’ did him in again. ‘What?’ he gasped.
‘When we got back, the radiocarbon-dating result for Mel had arrived.’
His heart skipped a beat. ‘Don’t tell me. Was she—?’
‘Mam was so nervous reading the report, her hands trembled. She was sure Mel would turn out to be Victorian or something awful like that. But it was AD eighty. She nearly had kittens with relief.’
‘AD eighty? Oh.’ For some reason, Fergus had cleaved to the idea that she’d walked the earth at the same time as Jesus. ‘How accurate is it?’
‘Dunno. Pretty accurate. Ask Mam.’
‘I will. Cora?’
‘What?’
‘About Tuesday?’
‘Yeah?’
