by Oliver Sands
Now, watching him through his window, Breeda wondered if his music, like her own mother’s painting, was his way of managing his pain. As he continued to play he closed his eyes and Breeda suddenly felt improper. She shouldn’t be trespassing on this private moment. She dropped her gaze and stepped back softly into the shadows where she turned her face towards the stars overhead. Finbarr’s fiddle music wavered dizzily and took flight into the night sky above her and Breeda found herself wondering if there was anyone out there untouched by the burden of a heavy heart. She hugged herself for a moment, the air around her suddenly chilly, and turned slowly back towards the warmth of her own house.
Just out of earshot, Breeda’s laptop chimed once on her kitchen counter. An email had arrived from her past, and a can of worms had well and truly been opened.
Chapter 15
Saturday morning was sunny and blustery, one of those perky days to blow away the cobwebs. Breeda’s limbs felt fizzy as she walked the length of the pier, seagulls circling and swooping overhead. Her mind raced as she turned at the end of the pier, then retraced her steps back towards the village. Up ahead, potted nasturtiums twitched happily on either side of the red door to Grounds for Divorce. Breeda was in the mood for a coffee, and maybe a slice of cake. She allowed herself a small smile. The online ad she’d placed in The Dunry Examiner the previous evening had already got a response.
The email had come from Rita O’Hanlon – a name and a face Breeda hadn’t thought of in many years. Dear old Mrs O’Hanlon. She’d taught Breeda for a while back in Dunry, in those days before Dervil Sneddon had made Breeda’s school days hell.
Breeda picked up her pace. She would grab a skimmed latte and sit quietly in the back corner of the cafe and plan her reply to Mrs O’Hanlon. The woman had invited Breeda back to Dunry for lunch on Monday. Her email had been warm but pared back, and it was obvious she didn’t want to put anything relating to Malachy Looney in writing. Breeda had been flustered with excitement since reading the email, her brain buzzing with a million questions. But now, as the thought of returning to Dunry settled in, she found her footsteps slowing a little. Dunry. The place she was born. The place they’d left hurriedly at the crack of dawn twenty-five years ago. A place full of pain and confusion and god-knows-what-else. Only three hours drive from Carrickross, it might as well have been a thousand years and a million miles away. She never thought she’d return to the place, and now the prospect of going back there made her a little queasy.
Breeda put a hand to her stomach and decided a pot of tea would be better than coffee. The cafe door opened as she approached. She heard his voice, that booming laugh of his. Another voice too. The American woman. Breeda grabbed her phone from her pocket, and stuck it to her ear, just as Brian and Alex-from-the-Boston-Office stepped out into the morning light. They stopped abruptly, all startled eyes and rictus grins. Breeda gave her best smile to them both, then talked into her mobile, as if mid-conversation.
‘No problem, Mister Sheridan …’
Brian and Alex-from-the-Boston-Office were still standing at the door, waiting. Breeda looked at Alex-from-the-Boston-Office’s pristine white sneakers and willed them on.
‘OK, Mister Sheridan. That’s absolutely fine …’ Breeda was good at this. Maybe she should do an improv course. She looked at Brian and rolled her eyes. Would Mr Sheridan ever stop yakking.
Breeda stood to the side, hoping they’d take the hint and walk on. Brian had his hand in the small of Alex-from-the-Boston-Office’s back, encouraging her to walk on, not wanting a scene. But the woman was resisting. Breeda could guess why. She was going to check that Breeda was okay after the humiliating episode in the pub the other night. Breeda couldn’t face that – not sympathy from a relative stranger – well-intentioned as she might be. Breeda smiled again, and turned her back towards them, making nonspecific mmms and ahhs into her phone.
And then it rang. Her bloody phone rang. Brian and Alex-from-the-Boston-Office stood watching as Breeda’s face turned crimson.
‘Mister Sheridan, I’ll have to call you back, I’ve another call coming through …’
Breeda turned, and pushed through the cafe door, the phone still ringing in her ear, her neck a network of prickles. She walked straight to the back corner and glared at the screen.
Nora.
Breeda jabbed at the reject button and stuffed the phone into her jacket packet. She sat heavily at the table and craned her neck towards the window. Brian and Alex-from-the-Boston-Office were walking slowly off down towards the beach. She could see him shaking his head, no doubt making a wisecrack about crackpot Breeda.
From her jacket pocket the phone rang.
Nora – again.
Whatever she wanted couldn’t be that urgent. She could just bloody well wait. Breeda kept her finger pressed against the off button, then relaxed back into her seat, as she watched the phone screen pulse then die.
Chapter 16
After lunch Breeda glided around her bedroom. She hummed to herself, as she dropped random items into a tote bag, which gaped up at her from the top of the bed.
Knickers - check
Phone charger - check
Smart outfit - check
Casual outfit - check
Comfy shoes, toiletry bag, sunnies. Check. Check. Check.
She stood in her dressing gown, looking down into the bag, her hands on her hips and her damp hair wrapped in a turban towel. She gave a satisfied nod to no-one in particular.
When she’d gotten home from the cafe, she’d quickly composed a reply to Mrs O’Hanlon’s email, and shot it off before she could change her mind. No going back now. Breeda would have to call in sick to Mr Sheridan on Monday morning. She’d do it on the three hour drive down the road. She felt her buzz die a little at the thought of lying to him. He’d been more than decent to her, always flexible with her shifts, up to and following her mother’s death. She pictured herself being spotted by him – or worse – by Nora, or Myra Finch. She’d just have to set off a little earlier than required on Monday morning, and get back after dark.
As she pulled the bedroom door behind her, Breeda could hear Finbarr start up his hammering and banging next door. She smiled. For once she didn’t mind. But as she came down the stairs, something felt not quite right. The hammering noise. It wasn’t coming from Finbarr’s roof, or even his side of the common wall. A blurry movement caught Breeda’s eye through the opaque pane of the front door.
‘What the …?’
Johnny Nesbitt, from O’Donoghue’s Estate Agents, was in Breeda’s front garden, dressed in a skinny navy suit, and smiling down at her from atop a three-step ladder. As he dropped his mallet onto the grass, he grabbed the post he’d been hammering with both hands and gave it a good shake.
‘Now. That should hold. And a very good day to you, Breeda. I hope I didn’t disturb your bath?’
Breeda stared up at him, open-mouthed.
‘So, I’d expect quite a lot of interest. Good time of year. Exceptional views. Decent sized plot. Yadda yadda …’ He jumped down, picked up the mallet, and turned sideways to her, practising his winning golf swing on an imaginary course. ‘Nice!’ He turned back to her. ‘Floor plans are booked in for Monday afternoon. We’ll do the photos then too - do try and clear away any clutter and tatt, OK? And we’ll aim to get some viewings mid-week …’ The young man pressed his card into her hand, picked up his ladder, and headed off. ‘Cheers for now, Breeda. You have yourself an awesome day.’
Breeda looked up at the For Sale sign, then at the back of Johnny Nesbitt’s retreating suit, then up at the For Sale sign again. And then she heard herself laugh. She wished Oona was here to see this.
‘Johnny - sorry - I think there’s been a mix-up. You see I’m not selling …’
She walked after him now, his branded car parked cheekily across her driveway. The Estate Agent grabbed a file from his passenger seat and turned to Breeda as he riffled through the dossier of paper-clipped pages. Breeda found hers
elf momentarily distracted by the slick hair and the brilliance of his teeth. The guy was a walking cliché. Well, his cocky smile was about to vanish.
‘Yep. Here we are. Vendor’s name: Nora Cullen. That would be your Aunt Nora? Look - she signed here – just this morning – all legit and above board.’ He leaned in towards her. ‘I have to say though, I’ve never seen someone so keen to get a place sold. Weird she didn’t mention it to you though?’ He flashed the smile again and tossed the folder back in the car. ‘Anyhoo, I’ll be in touch.’ He climbed into the shiny black car and buzzed down the window. ‘Remember Breeda - de-cluttering is our friend.’ He winked and gave his horn a jaunty toot. ‘Ciao ciao now.’
Breeda stood looking after the car as it sped off in the direction of town. With the sound of the engine fading, a surreal silence settled over the garden and even muted the birds. Breeda saw herself, as if from the perspective of a hovering drone, standing halfway along her driveway, the hem of her dressing gown being buffeted in the early afternoon breeze.
She turned to look up at the For Sale sign. So Nora must have heard about the ad in the paper. And now she was trying to thwart Breeda’s attempts to find her father. But this? Who the hell was Nora Cullen to try and sell Breeda’s family home from under her? These four walls had been Breeda and Margaret’s home for the past twenty-five years. Nora had lost the plot – this wasn’t her house to sell. Breeda pictured a version of her future - the one Nora fancied - mapping out in front of her. A future spent in Nora’s poky spare room with its creaky single bed and the crucifix hanging above it. Breeda would rather die than live a claustrophobic life under her aunt’s watchful eye. She looked down to her slippered feet and shook her head.
A low cloud had moved overheard and drained the light from the ground around Breeda. And now as her chest tightened, she felt her pulse quicken. A fiery ball of anger pounded at her rib cage. The years of put-downs and insults and judgements - Breeda had had enough. The woman needed to show her some respect.
Breeda pulled the phone from her dressing gown pocket, her anger level surging, and marched towards the sign. She hit the dial button.
‘Pick up … Pick up!’
With the phone clamped to one ear she used her other hand to pull and push the signpost, but it wouldn’t budge. A few more rings, and Nora’s voice mail greeting kicked in. Breeda hung up and kicked the post as hard as she could in her slippered feet. She kicked it again. And again, harder this time. She flung the phone on the grass and took a run at the stubborn bastard of a sign, determined to get the thing out of the ground and off her property. She ran full pelt at it, hit it at the wrong angle, and landed heavily in the flower bed. A rock hidden among the daffodils jabbed into her lower back. But she lay still, her panting the only noise. The cloud moved off, and she closed her eyes against the glare of the sky. And then she heard it, a throat being cleared. A shadow flitted above and she looked up. Finbarr was observing her from the roof, his face etched with confusion.
‘Miss Looney? You’re not selling …?’
Breeda sprang to her feet and glared at him, her face like thunder.
‘Selling, Finbarr? Selling, my arse!’
Finbarr flinched, startled at her anger, and stepped backwards on the roof. But Breeda had no time to feel bad. She stormed into her front hall, her heart thumping, and grabbed her car keys from the hook by the door.
Nora Cullen had crossed the line.
Chapter 17
Nora squinted up at the sky above St Colmcille’s church, and seemed satisfied that there was no rain on the way. She smoothed the starched white cloth on the trestle table in front of her and felt the warmth of the reflected sunlight catching her face from below. Standing in the neatly maintained church grounds she imagined she looked beatific. She surveyed the clipped bushes and tidy lawn in front of her book stall and allowed herself to relax a little. Everything was in order. It was all going to be fine.
She leaned over to straighten up Nelson Mandela in the memoir section, and then, with her heel, firmly slid a box of undisplayed books – tatty and questionable donations – further under the table. It was tempting to crawl under the table herself, to stretch out amid the cool shadows and close her eyes. It had taken ages to get to sleep the night before, worries about her wayward niece needling her thoughts and chasing comfort from the bed. But at two thirty in the morning, Nora had settled on a plan, making a note on the pad by the bed – Call Estate Agent – after which she’d plumped her pillow and fallen fast asleep. Breeda would just have to learn who was boss. The absolute audacity! Asking for information on Malachy Looney in The Dunry Examiner. Did she really think she could get anything past Nora Cullen?
Nora pulled at a button on her tweed jacket and looked up at the sky again. The day was warming up, and her mouth was now officially parched. She looked across the heads of the middle-aged parishioners who were starting to arrive.
Where was Myra with that cup of tea?
‘Splendid as always, Nora.’ A man’s voice. A rich baritone.
Nora turned, a hand to her heart.
‘Oh, Father McFadden. Isn’t it only a glorious day …’ She knew her cheeks were pink. The priest flashed her a smile and walked a couple of well-manicured fingers along the spines of a few books, humming a hymn to himself. There was something about Jim McFadden which slightly undid Nora. He was over six-foot-tall, and his thick dark hair was greying at the temples. Nora looked up from his hands to find him smiling at her.
‘Nora, where would we be without you?’
‘Father McFadden … what do you mean?’ She raised a hand to her ear and knew her cheeks were blushing.
‘You’re an absolute trooper, Nora. The fundraising, the committee, the meals on wheels …’
She let the priest continue. Nora hadn’t done meals-on-wheels in years. But he was on a roll. He was talking now about an interdenominational weekend next month. Nora watched his lips move and nodded. His foot seemed to connect with something under the table, and he bent down to move whatever it was out of the way. When he stood back up, he was holding some of the tatty paperbacks from one of the donated boxes. He proceeded to stack them on top of Nora’s good gardening section. He continued to talk – fixing Nora with his dark eyes – about the importance of cross-border initiatives. His hands found one of the books, and he picked it up absentmindedly, and bounced it lightly on top of the stack as he spoke. The back of the book was facing Nora. She squinted and turned her head ever so slightly. The back cover had a naked woman with her hands in cuffs and a ball gag in her mouth. The blood drained from Nora’s face. With every fibre in her body she willed the priest to not look down.
‘So, what do you think?’
‘What’s that, Father?’
‘The fundraising walk? Would you be able to donate a couple of hours?’
Father McFadden had raised the book, and was now tapping it lightly against his chin, his bottom lip curled over the top of it, his puppy-dog eyes daring Nora to turn him down. Nora’s gaze darted between the naked woman and the priest’s mouth, feeling like she’d stumbled into a kinky threesome. She nodded furiously to the priest, her heart pounding beneath the tight tweed jacket.
‘Good, good. I knew I could count on you, Nora.’
Mission accomplished, the priest sat the book back down, patted the table and headed off with a winner’s smile – next stop Mrs Kelly and her homemade chutneys. Keeping her eyes on the milling crowd, Nora nimbly grabbed the offending item and the other tatty books and flung them back into the cardboard box under the table. She wiped her hands on her jacket and stood up straight, willing herself back into a state of chaste composure. She rubbed her silver crucifix between thumb and forefinger, and at last there was Myra with her cup of tea.
‘The queue, Nora! The queue!’
Myra handed her a cup (no saucer) and placed her own cup clumsily on the table, where it slopped over the rim and onto the white linen tablecloth.
‘Oh, for goodness sake
, Myra Finch, have you no sense …’
But Myra wasn’t listening. A stirring amongst some of the meandering crowd had caught her attention, and she followed the gaze of a few well-coiffed heads, now turned in the direction of a commotion at the churchyard entrance.
Chapter 18
Breeda had arrived in a satisfying spray of gravel and as she crunched up the path towards the church she locked eyes on her target. Parishioners scattered, a Red Sea parting to make way for the crazy woman in her muddy dressing gown. Myra Finch was mouthing something to Nora – nothing new there – and now Nora was looking up too.
It was a thing of beauty to witness. Nora’s mastery of her reactions was exceptional, better than any Vegas poker player. As Breeda marched towards the book stall it was as if Nora could conjure up some Wiccan hocus-pocus and stretch the very essence of time to compose herself. Within a second of seeing Breeda storming towards her, Nora had worked through shock, fear, and penny-dropping, and was now planning damage limitation and dignity retention. Before Breeda even got to open her mouth Nora had raised a guiding hand in the direction of the side of the church.
