Breeda Looney Steps Forth

by Oliver Sands

  Up ahead the traffic light turned red. Breeda watched as a young couple, both in their late teens, pushed a pram across the road. The orange-faced mother had several plastic shopping bags hooked over the handle of the pram. Breeda could make out the ready-meals, liters of coke, the sliced white, and the crisps. Not a single piece of fruit or veg in sight.

  That poor baby, thought Breeda. Already sentenced to a life of insulin, rotten gums, and leaving school at sixteen, to get a job in a supermarket two hundred meters from home, where it would end up stacking shelves with junk food for the next generation.

  Trailing a couple of feet behind the woman, the father held a cigarette in one hand and a super-sized can of energy drink in the other. As he knocked back the dregs from the can he spilt a little down his chin. He cursed as he wiped the front of his tracksuit top. The girlfriend turned to see what the fuss was about. As she turned back to the pram to shush the baby, she looked at Breeda. The woman smiled at her and rolled her eyes.

  Men!

  Breeda smiled back and felt an instant flush of shame. Who was she to judge these people? Weren’t they just doing the best they knew how? The light turned green and Breeda moved off slowly, straining to catch a final glimpse of the new family in her rear-view mirror, and silently wishing them the best of luck.

  A few minutes later Breeda found the street with the pub where she was to have her lunchtime meeting. She pulled into a space in front of a betting shop. It was still a few minutes until midday. She took a look in the mirror, gave her hair a quick brush, and fingered on some lip balm. She knew she still had time; still had time to change her mind, to start the car and drive back to Carrickross. Still had time to not make this whole thing worse than it could be. She looked at the front of the pub further along the pavement. But no, whatever she might or might not find out, she owed it to her father. She owed it to herself.

  She stepped out of the car. The hum of televised horse-racing droned out of the bookies onto the pavement, and Breeda stretched her hands overhead. An empty crisp bag cartwheeled past her ankle and she followed it towards the bridge. She trailed her hand along the rough pebble-dashed wall, and then stopped to look down on the slate grey river below, a murky graveyard of barely submerged shopping trolleys, abandoned bikes, and God-only-knows what else. Breeda closed her eyes, drew in her breath, and let the place wash over her – the wall under her fingertips, the chill breeze on her neck, the traffic noise in the distance, the smell of the algae from below – all of it. She wanted to be present, to remember this place and this moment, to lock it away in her sensory memory vault, in case she ever needed to return to the time before the Pandora’s box was opened.

  Over the rooftops the Cathedral bells commenced their midday clang. Breeda turned and walked quickly back down the street and pushed open the door of the pub before she could change her mind.

  Chapter 21

  Nora didn’t mind the gays. In fairness, they were few and far between up here in Carrickross. And anyway, the few that did exist kept themselves to themselves. Apart from a few years ago. Then, there’d been an awful rake of them, strutting around the village in their ‘YES’ t-shirts, demanding votes, and wanting gay this and gay that. Nora checked her watch as she rounded the corner onto Main Street. She had no doubt that most of Breeda’s generation considered her a dinosaur, a relic of another time. And they would have rolled their eyes behind her back and assumed she’d voted No in the referendum. Approaching the front of the wine shop Nora felt a smug little smile flit over her face. Well she hadn’t voted No. Nora Cullen was a progressive woman. She came to a stop outside the doorway of Cork! and watched George Sheridan lost in his cryptic crossword. He was standing at the counter with his tongue protruding in concentration, his poor belt straining to corral his generous paunch. What did Nora care if the likes of George Sheridan wanted to tie the knot with some fella? Not that he had a fella to walk him down the aisle anyway. Nora put her hand to the door. She hadn’t voted Yes either. But that wasn’t the point.

  The bell trilled above Nora’s head. George Sheridan looked up with a mild panic, and his hands moved to straighten the tie hanging over his belly. Nora suspected she scared the bejesus out of the man – and a part of her secretly delighted in the fact.

  ‘Miss Cullen – and how are you on this fine day?’

  Nora fixed him with a civil smile and moved towards the counter.

  ‘Mr Sheridan. I was wondering if I might have a quick word with Breeda?’ Nora sat her purse on the counter and started to remove her white gloves. She craned her neck to try and see beyond the man’s bulk into the storeroom out back.

  ‘Oh, it’s young Breeda you’re after? And I thought you might have finally rejected your teetotal ways.’ He forced a guffaw but seemed to instantly regret it.

  Nora looked him in the eye and felt her smile tighten. She hesitated for a moment and then sighed briefly – she could afford to throw the fool a scrap.

  ‘Breeda is moving in with me later today. I want to check everything is in order …’

  She folded her gloves neatly and laid them on the counter, then flipped open her purse and extracted a key. A small bronze figure of Saint Francis of Assisi dangled on the end of the key chain.

  ‘And I need to give her the spare key. Is she on a break?’ Nora tried to peer past the man again. ‘Where is she?’

  George Sheridan’s face had taken on a most unpleasant moist pallor. His lips parted, but his fat tongue lolled over to the side of his mouth, and for a fleeting moment Nora wondered if the man was having a stroke. A noncommittal hum left him and hung in the air between them.

  Nora flipped her purse shut, a fresh crease between her eyebrows.

  ‘Mister Sheridan, I said where is Breeda?’ She enunciated slowly and watched him closely. His beady eyes darted around the shop until he could avoid her gaze no longer.

  ‘Breeda called in sick this morning. Bit of a viral thing.’

  Nora stared at his chubby lips. ‘So she’s at home?’

  ‘She’s at home, yes. Tucked up and probably fast asleep. I dare say—’

  But Nora was already at the door, the bell shrilling dramatically above her head. She stood still and silent, her body half-turned to the street. Her eyes studied the pavement at her feet for a second, then she turned and set off briskly in the direction of the Looney house. She bypassed pavement dawdlers glued to their phones. This just wouldn’t do: the girl was scheduled to move in to Nora’s this afternoon. The spare room was ready. Nora had left out two pork chops. She slowed her pace.

  What if Breeda wasn’t shivering under a mountain of blankets at this very moment …

  What if …

  A storminess passed across Nora’s face. The toe of her shoe found a dip in a paving slab and she stumbled and lurched, then righted herself. At the side of the post office she stopped to catch her breath. Her shoulders heaved in her tight jacket and her hand troubled the crucifix at her chest. She looked up uneasily towards the house on Bayview Rise, then started up the hill.

  Chapter 22

  The chowder was a good recommendation – thick with fresh seafood, rich and comforting. Breeda wiped the last of her wheaten bread along the remaining cream and looked up from her bowl. Mrs O’Hanlon’s eyes crinkled back at her over the rim of her teacup. She still had the same ruddy cheeks and wild hair, the same couldn’t-care-less attitude, which had stood her apart from the other teachers back in the day. The woman sat her teacup down and burped softly into the back of her hand.

  ‘And you’ve never been back since?’

  ‘Not once.’

  Under their table the old lady’s golden retriever stretched and readjusted his heavy head against Breeda’s ankle. She patted his haunch distractedly and gazed at the flames in the fireplace in the corner. A log cracked, a spark shot out, and the dog raised his head for a moment before giving himself back over to the call of slumber. Breeda glanced around the dark pub, its swirly carpet and smoke-stained ceiling a remna
nt of another time. At nearby tables locals sat murmuring to each other over soup and sandwiches.

  ‘Well. It’s good to see you back now, Breeda. And I’m sorry to hear about your poor mother. She always carried herself like a real lady.’

  This brought a wistful smile to Breeda’s face. Margaret Looney was a lady.

  ‘But I have to admit to being a bit intrigued when I saw your ad in the paper. I do know—’

  Mrs O’Hanlon sat back from the table as a lithe teenage girl with long red hair approached to clear their plates. The waitress eyed Breeda, in a not-unfriendly manner, obviously trying to place her.

  Mrs O’Hanlon leaned in towards Breeda, once the waitress had left them again.

  ‘And I’ll be honest, Breeda. It was always thought strange. A family disappearing like that, and so soon after your father’s—’

  Breeda sat forward herself now. My father’s what? Drowning? Disappearance? His what?

  But Mrs O’Hanlon had gone silent again. The waitress was back with bloody dessert menus.

  ‘Thanks,’ Mrs O’Hanlon stood to button her jacket and untie the dog’s lead, ‘But I think we’ll take Coco for a walk.’

  Breeda stood too, suddenly feeling too hot and confined in the small low-ceilinged parlor. She’d be glad of the fresh air. And the chance to talk uninterrupted.

  Behind the pub, the street climbed, then narrowed, and led them to a walkway into the overgrown grounds of a long-abandoned convent. Nettles and dandelions stood on either side of the well-worn steep track, and, looking up, Breeda could see what looked like an old mausoleum, now covered in tags and graffiti. Mrs O’Hanlon launched a chewed tennis ball from her stick, and Coco bounded after it, towards some long grass up ahead. Breeda unbuttoned her jacket and watched the old lady push on up the hill, the steepness of the track no bother to her.

  ‘Nearly there, Breeda. There’s a bench at the top with our names on it,’ she said over her shoulder.

  Breeda’s breath was heavy and ragged. She stopped and rested her hands on her waist. ‘Be there in a sec. Save me a spot.’

  She turned to take in the view down below. Her eye was drawn beyond the briars and brambles, to the old convent building itself, down below her. Its walls were veined in dark ivy and the few unbroken windowpanes stared sullenly back at her, devoid of human life.

  As Breeda stared down at the stark facade of the building, a memory came to her.

  Hadn’t Nora spent some time in there?

  Above the weeds a Red Admiral flitted and tugged at her attention. Breeda watched its aerial dance, haphazard and angular, then looked back at the somber building below her.

  She had! Nora had spent a few months in there.

  Breeda’s eyes slowly scanned the upper floor of the building, and she wondered if Nora had slept behind one of those windows, wondered if Nora had found whatever it was she’d sought within those high stone walls?

  A wry smile played over Breeda’s face. It was funny the things that got lost along the way. But being back here was bringing stuff up, and now it felt like old memories were queueing for oxygen. Her senses were being stimulated, and the archives were opening. Maybe it was hearing the dialect, with its languid nasal drone, the smallest trace with which Breeda still spoke. Maybe it was the permanent cloud hanging over the valley, and the end-of-days quality it afforded the daylight. Or maybe it was just being here.

  Breeda turned to take in the wider tapestry of town down below her, the roof of the pub where they’d just had lunch, the bridge and the river, all now surprisingly distant. She followed the rooftops, from the spire of the cathedral, up a distant drumlin of squat, boxy houses. Her eyes fixed on a familiar roof. To an unfamiliar eye, just a random terraced house, but to Breeda, one with a million memories and twisted emotions. From up here she could see her old bedroom window. That very same window she had hidden behind, when a disgraced Father Peter Green had come over to try to make amends. Even now, she felt her throat rise and fall. She turned and carried on slowly up the track.

  Mrs O’Hanlon was sitting on the bench, with her legs stretched out, her ruddy cheeks threatening to explode.

  ‘Isn’t it a fabulous view, Breeda?’

  Breeda shirked off her hot denim jacket and collapsed onto the bench.

  ‘Sure is. Lovely.’

  ‘So. What do you want to know?’

  Breeda sat up straight. She could work with direct.

  ‘Well, you know I’m looking for information on my dad. Mal Looney …’

  ‘Mm-hmm …’

  ‘Well …this is going to sound weird, so bear with me …’ Breeda fidgeted on the hard bench and tongued at the dryness along her bottom lip. ‘You see, I feel a bit of a fool saying this …’ She rubbed her palms along the top of her jeans, ‘But I’m not convinced my Dad died when I was a kid.’

  Rita O’Hanlon extracted a packet of mint lozenges from her jacket pocket and slowly unfurled a wrap of foil, letting it dangle like pared apple skin. She popped a lozenge in her gob, and then held the packet out to Breeda.

  ‘No thanks.’ Breeda cleared her throat, a sudden need to keep things moving. ‘I found a card. A birthday card.’ The words slid out as her eyes fixed on her old roof in the distance. ‘My Dad sent it to me. I’m pretty sure he did. Anyway, my Aunt Nora—’

  ‘Is that oul one still alive?’

  ‘Yes. Aunt Nora tore—’

  ‘I can’t say I was ever a fan of Nora Cullen. She had tickets on herself, that one. Always a bit up herself, if you ask me. Wrecked my head any time I talked to her.’

  Breeda sat back and waited. The mint lozenge cracked under Rita O’Hanlon’s premolars.

  ‘Well, what about your Aunt Nora?’

  Breeda shuffled herself up straight again.

  ‘Nora burnt the card. My card.’

  At this, Rita O’Hanlon turned, aghast.

  ‘Why would she—’

  Breeda pressed on.

  ‘I can’t help but feel the card was legit, and if it is – was – then my dad might still be alive out there somewhere, not knowing I was kept in the dark. And he would most likely think I couldn’t be bothered getting in touch …’ Breeda paused and turned to look at the old teacher from her childhood. ‘Nora won’t help me. I’m kinda hoping you will …?’

  Coco chose that moment to exit the long grass and sit in front of them. He splayed his back legs and dragged his arse across the ground. Mrs O’Hanlon laughed, but Breeda looked on vacantly. She needed answers, not laughs. Mrs O’Hanlon flung the tennis ball down the hill, and the dog disappeared after it, leaving the two women sitting in silence once more.

  The old lady leaned forward, and twisted her wedding ring, modest and tarnished and fifty years old.

  ‘Breeda, it was always considered a wee bit queer how youse all upped and left – you and your Mam and Nora. Vanishing at the crack of dawn like that, in the middle of winter, and only days after your father’s death.’

  Breeda sat motionless, trying to ignore that last word, wanting Rita to continue.

  ‘I’ll be honest, I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Malachy Looney since you all moved away.’

  Breeda stared at the woman’s wedding ring, tight against the fleshy finger.

  ‘But if I was you, I’d trust my gut. I responded to your ad for a reason. Now, it might mean nothing …’

  At this Breeda turned to face the woman. She stared at her moving lips, not trusting her ears alone to deal with what words might come next.

  ‘There were rumors,’ she nudged Breeda with her elbow, ‘as there always are in wee backwaters like this. Anyway, apparently your Dad wasn’t backwards at coming forwards, if you catch my drift.’ A quick sideways glance at Breeda, ‘He had a bit of a reputation as a ladies’ man …’

  Breeda shook her head. ‘You mean …he—’

  ‘Yes. Your old man was a complete slut. He’d probably be diagnosed with some trendy condition today, and be off to sexaholics anonymous, or whatever it’s calle
d. Am I being a bit insensitive?’

  The color had drained from Breeda’s face and she was grateful for the seat beneath her.

  ‘No, you’re OK …I’m just …well, it’s all news to me. You know?’

  A sympathetic hand landed on Breeda’s knee, and gave it a reassuring pat. At the same moment her phone buzzed in her jacket.

  Nora.

  Breeda hit the Reject Call button and stuffed the phone back in her pocket. Mrs O’Hanlon had taken her hand off her knee and now Breeda noticed an insistent twitch in her own foot.

  ‘Anyway,’ the old lady continued, ‘And do not quote me on this, Breeda, or I will deny it… One of Malachy’s floozies was a bit tipsy a couple of years ago, when we were having Christmas drinks – at that very table in that very bar where we had lunch today …’ Mrs O’Hanlon made a funny grunt and took a moment to ingest the cosmic significance of this coincidence. ‘Anyway. She told me that she’d been back and forth over to London over the years, to see one Mal Looney.’

  Breeda’s legs now felt jumpy. She stood up quickly and paced.

  ‘You mean, since he …?’

  ‘Yes, love. Since he …’ The old lady did the air quotes, ‘died…’

  Breeda sat again, just as quickly.

  ‘So he didn’t …he’s still—’ Breeda closed her eyes against the view below her. Her hand tightened on the arm of the bench.

  ‘I believe he’s still alive, yes, love.’

  ‘And this woman, from the pub …?’

  ‘Mmmm …’

  Breeda cracked open her eyes and turned. ‘What do you mean – mmmm?’

  ‘What I mean is that you might be lucky to get any sense out of her these days. Poor thing has dementia,’ Mrs O’Hanlon blessed herself, and whispered please be to God to the sky. ‘But it would do you no harm to pay her a visit.’