by Oliver Sands
The Looneys were in town!
Now back in the kitchen Breeda poured a mug of tea and tiptoed up the stairs. She tapped softly on the door of her mother’s old room.
‘Are you awake, Dad?’
She nudged the door open to find him on the bed, pulling on his socks, his face still puffy from sleep.
‘I am, Breeda, I am. Come in.’
‘Still milk with two, right?’
He smiled and patted a space on the blanket beside him. Through the open wardrobe door she could see his backpack. But as she glanced around at the sparseness of the room she felt a sudden embarrassment. The place was too stark. She wanted him to feel comfortable. Her eyes settled on the framed photos and watercolors on the wall. Mal followed her gaze.
‘She had a talent, did your old mum.’
‘She did, Dad. She loved the light here.’ Breeda walked over to the paintings and leaned in towards her favorites. She studiously avoided looking at the bare patch of wall with the lonely nail where the swimmer used to hang.
Damn Nora.
‘Yeah, we’d talked about turning this place into a B&B … thought it might be a good base for artists, or cyclists, or anyone wanting to escape.’ As Breeda sat back down on the bed beside her father, she thought of the For Sale sign stuck into the front lawn. ‘But, anyway, it’s not meant to be.’
‘Nora?’
‘Nora.’
She turned to look at him now. The lines from the pillow still creased his cheek, and his hands holding the mug looked worn and sore. She had a sudden urge to wrap her arms around him and promise to look after him forever. All those years when she’d been denied the chance to care for him were now coming to the surface.
‘Dad, what would you think if I had a couple of friends over this evening? I’ll make us something nice to eat.’
He fidgeted slightly beside her on the bed.
‘Don’t worry, just my best friend Oona and her husband Dougie. You’ll like them a lot.’
She thought of Aidan too, but would say nothing until they’d spoken.
‘Alright, love. But don’t go to any bother on my account.’
‘It’s no bother, Dad, really. It would be my pleasure.’
She caught him looking at his watch, and she gently nudged him.
‘Is there somewhere else you have to be?’
‘I just need to get to the bank at some stage. I don’t have any Euros.’
‘Well, I’m heading into town shortly to pick up a few bits for tonight, so I can always get you some cash, and you can sort me out later? Unless you want to come with me now?’
She noticed him frown and put a hand to his arm.
‘Are you worried about running into Nora? Don’t be. She changes the flowers at Saint Colmcille’s, every Wednesday morning, regular as clockwork.’ Breeda could just imagine Nora standing on the altar with her blocks of oasis and fresh stems, the ultimate martyr with her broken arm. ‘She won’t be anywhere near the shops, Dad, I promise.’
Mal stood and walked to the window, taking in the view of the bay down below.
‘No, I wasn’t thinking about Nora. It’s just a bit weird being back, that’s all. Listen, you go ahead. I might have another cuppa, then I’ll head into town on foot. I could do with stretching my legs after the drive. I might even have a flutter on the old gee-gees.’
‘OK. Well, if you’re sure …’
‘I’m sure.’
He turned and Breeda leaned in to kiss the grey stubble on his cheek. When she was a kid he’d joked that the odd bet on the horses was his only vice. Breeda cast a sly glance at him now, knowing that that wasn’t strictly true.
Nearly hidden behind the bedroom door, Breeda spotted her mother’s woolen coat. She unhooked it and headed downstairs. At the front door she paused for the briefest moment, wondering if she’d forgotten something, her fingers uncertain on the handle. She shook her doubt away, then glanced back up the stairs.
‘I’ll be back in an hour or two, Dad. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!’
Breeda pulled the front door neatly behind herself, leaving her laugh to echo in the silence of the hallway.
Chapter 37
The hanging baskets outside Flynn’s were bursting with color that morning and Breeda stood on tiptoes to take in an exquisite faceful of perfume. She smiled as a father came out through the automatic doors, his young daughter trailing after him in a bright pink princess outfit. Breeda’s gaze followed her, and then took in the jolly shop fronts behind her on sunny Main Street. It was as if someone had suddenly cranked up the saturation all around her, everything now more vibrant, life in Technicolor. This was probably how it had been all along. But now her blinkers were off, and here she was, Dorothy opening her door to the colorful land of Oz.
She picked up a basket from inside the sliding doors and grabbed a bottle of Veuve Cliquot from the chiller cabinet. At the butchery counter she ordered five grass-fed sirloins. To hell with the expense, she thought. This was the first meal she’d ever cook for her father.
As Breeda placed the steaks in her basket she fantasized how it would be to bump into Nora right now. Or Myra Finch. Or even Fuckwit Brian and Alex-from-the-Boston-Office. She was ready for them all. Nothing and no one could bring Breeda Looney down today, and as she walked past the boxes of breakfast cereals she felt invincible.
Breeda spotted the blonde ponytail a split second before Dervil turned and saw her. The two women froze, Dervil in mid-appraisal of an avocado, Breeda in mid-Pavlovian bowel clench. She could still turn to the display of porridge oats on her left, set her basket on the floor and scarper outside. She could, but she wouldn’t. Instead, Breeda stood her ground, an inner resolve arising from somewhere, and bringing an unexpected steadiness to her body. Breeda adjusted the basket on her arm and stepped forward. She had no clue what she was going to say. But she was going to say something. Dervil seemed to sense the shift, a disruption to their established dynamic, and coolly cast the avocado back onto the display. She turned to leave.
‘Dervil, wait. Please.’
The ponytail halted, and Breeda watched the shoulders rise and tense.
‘I just wanted to talk to you …’
Dervil didn’t turn around. Instead Breeda looked at the back of her black leather jacket and guessed at the curl of contempt on her lip. Over the intercom Mick Jagger was singing about seeing someone today at a reception, and in the background the self-scanner beeped with an irregular heartbeat. Breeda sucked in a deep lungful of air. This wasn’t going to be easy.
‘I know you hate me. Or at least, I know you think you hate me.’
Breeda saw the fists clench but decided to press on.
‘But the thing is, Dervil, I don’t really think your hate belongs at my feet.’
Dervil held her rigid stance and Breeda took a step forward.
‘Your Mam. My Dad. What they did all those years ago …’ Breeda watched the shoulders rise again, ‘What they did had consequences for you, for me, for Aidan …’
The woman in front of her had the look of a coiled spring, and Breeda sensed that at any moment she could spin and slap her face. She lowered her voice into a soothing tone and carried on.
‘And what they did hurt my mother. And your father too.’
At the mention of her father, Dervil’s shoulders seemed to drop slightly and a softening came to her fists. For a moment a loaded silence hung between the two women, and Breeda pondered just how exhausting it must be to carry around all those years’ worth of hate and anger. Breeda lifted a hand and let it hover a couple of inches from Dervil’s back, afraid of being scalded.
‘But you and I have a brother in common now …’
She took another breath, and gently placed her hand on Dervil’s shoulder, steeling herself for a whack from a flying fist.
‘I think it would be better if we could try and bury the hatchet? For Aidan’s sake?’
Under Breeda’s fingertips, through the black lambskin jacke
t, she was sure she could feel the smallest tremor in the woman’s shoulders. Suddenly Dervil pulled down her sunglasses and marched through the sliding doors. Aidan was watching on from the bakery aisle and now he looked from Dervil’s retreating back over to Breeda. He abandoned his trolley and rushed over.
‘What was that about?’
Breeda exhaled and turned to him.
‘I’m really not sure. Hopefully it’s the start of a thawing process. Time will tell.’
Aidan had a tiredness in his eyes that hadn’t been there at Oona’s barbecue. Breeda could only guess how challenging the last few days must have been for him.
‘You OK?’
He looked down at his feet and shook his head.
‘I’m getting there, but it’s been a tricky few days. We’ve had a couple of chats, Derv and me, and to be honest I think it’s been eating away at her for years, the guilt of knowing about my dad, but not telling me. I don’t blame her though.’
He looked Breeda in the eye now, needing her to hear him.
‘Do me a favour – go easy on her? I know you two aren’t exactly best buds, but she’s had it tough recently. Her husband died in January.’
‘What?’
‘Knocked off his bike. Not far from their house in Sydney. That’s why she’s back here, a fresh start …’
Breeda dropped her gaze. She thought back to Oona’s barbecue and the brief mention of a death in the family which Aidan had made. And now the Australian twang in Dervil’s accent made sense too. She looked back up at him.
‘I’m really sorry to hear that, Aidan. I had no clue.’
‘Yeah, well, she’s quite a private person is our Dervil. Just tread carefully around her, OK?’
Breeda nodded, then looked silently towards the avocado recently abandoned by Dervil.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Breeda, what is it?’
She looked up at him, at the same eyes as her father’s.
‘He’s here.’
Aidan frowned, then his eyes widened.
‘You mean—’
‘Yep. We came over together yesterday on the ferry.’ She put a hand to his arm now. ‘I’m sorry, Aidan. I couldn’t not tell you. Imagine you running into him in the street. Or being sat in Heeley’s, and discovering the old fella enjoying a pint beside you is your father.’
‘He’s not my father, Bree.’
‘I’m sorry. I know. You know what I mean.’
He gave her a tight smile as he rubbed the back of his neck.
‘So, how long is he here for?’
Breeda hunched her shoulders. ‘A few days. Maybe longer.’
Aidan looked down at the items in her basket.
‘And I’m guessing the fancy dinner’s in his honour?’
‘Yeah, I figured I’d make him something nice this evening. Oona and Dougie are coming over too.’
Aidan nodded, then looked off distractedly towards the exit, his other sister still weighing on his mind.
‘You look just like him.’
He looked back at her now.
‘I do?’
‘Yeah. You’re the spit of him.’
He looked down at his feet again, a trace of confusion on his face. Breeda put her hand to his arm again, a need to fix whatever he was feeling.
‘Listen, I know this might be clumsy of me, and way too rushed, but why don’t you come over for dinner tonight?’
His eyes were on her again and he took a step backwards. Breeda dropped her hand from his arm.
‘Dinner? With him?’
‘And me, and Oona and Dougie. Nothing formal. He’s looking forward to meeting you.’ Breeda heard the words leave her mouth and wondered why she’d said them.
Aidan blew out through his cheeks. He rubbed the back of his neck again and shuffled about.
‘Bree, I dunno. It’s all a bit—’
‘Just have a think about it. You can let me know this afternoon. No pressure, OK?’
He was biting his bottom lip and nodding silently.
‘OK, I’ll think about it.’
He’d looked back towards the street again.
‘Listen, I have to go check on Big Sis.’ He stopped as he turned, looking Breeda up and down. ‘Nice coat, by the way. Were you a Sesame Street fan?’
She looked down and smoothed her free hand over the bright yellow wool.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know, Big Bird!’
She reached over to slap him, but he jumped out of the way, the tiredness leaving his face for a moment.
‘I’ll call you later.’ He waved over his shoulder and hotfooted it out the sliding doors.
Breeda placed some corn cobs and broccoli into her basket, pondering what Aidan had just told her about Dervil. But something else had begun to nag at her thoughts too, and as she sidled off towards the check-out area she realised for the first time that other people could be impacted by her father being here too. She didn’t want to cause Aidan any upset, and as she picked up a second bottle of champagne, she tried to dismiss any concerns from her head. They were all adults, and if Aidan decided to come along then they would have a lovely evening. Unpacking her basket on the counter she attempted to revive the happy place her mind had enjoyed only ten minutes before.
‘Breeda.’
A packet of shortbread fingers was now waiting its turn on the conveyor belt after her groceries. Breeda recognized the chubby hands drumming the packet, the left fingers covered in ink.
‘Oh, hello Mister Sheridan!’
She waited for his ‘Call me George!’ comeback, the friendly quip as reliable as the sun rising in the East. But the moment passed, the silence only punctuated by the beep of the scanner and the swoosh of the sliding door. George Sheridan gave Breeda a tight smile, bereft of warmth, and returned his focus to his item on the counter.
Breeda looked down at her wrapped steaks on the conveyor belt, her cheeks suddenly burning. She had never seen that look in his eyes before – such a wariness, and a hurt. Was he miffed that she was buying champagne from here instead of from his wine shop? Surely the man wasn’t that petty. Then the penny dropped. George Sheridan would have seen Nora out and about, parading her broken arm around the village. Nora wouldn’t have blamed Breeda, of course – not in words, anyway. She was a paragon of subtlety when she wanted to be, practiced to perfection at throwing out a couple of dots and then handing someone a pen to join them. No, George Sheridan and Myra Finch and the whole damn place would be in no doubt as to whose fault it was.
‘That’ll be one-hundred and seventy-six euros and eighty cents please.’ The young redhead on the checkout already had her acrylic-nailed claw out.
Breeda squinted into the depths of her handbag, then gave its jumble of contents a good shake.
Shit.
She could picture her denim jacket, draped over the banister at home, her purse still nestled snugly in the pocket.
Beside her George Sheridan’s fingers were starting up an impatient tattoo on his packet of shortbreads. Breeda looked up at the unimpressed cashier.
‘I’m really sorry, my purse is at home. I’ll just nip back to get it. I’ll be five minutes, max. Just leave all this here …’
Breeda abandoned her items at the end of the conveyor belt, then rushed for the sliding door. She clipped her shoulder on the door and felt the heat return to her face, imagining them watching her, Acrylic-Nails and Mr Sheridan, rolling their eyes and exchanging looks.
She struggled the car door open, then pulled it shut behind her, taking in a deep breath and forcing herself not to look in the rear-view mirror. It would all be fine. George Sheridan was just having a bad day. He’d be back to his normal chipper self tomorrow, and then they could share a pot of tea, and she could ask him about those extra shifts, and the empty flat upstairs for herself and Mal. She jabbed the key into the ignition and turned it, but the motor only churned and grasped, churned and grasped, then nothing. Gripping
the steering wheel with both hands she closed her eyes tight against the world.
Not today. Please. Not today.
She would book the car in for a service tomorrow. But right at this moment she had the day to organize. Breeda turned the key once more, the motor churning and threatening to die for good. But it caught, and she exhaled into a soft relief. As she pulled out onto Main Street she couldn’t help but think of how George Sheridan had looked at her like she was a piece of dirt. Breeda shifted in her seat and punched on the radio. To hell with him, she thought, as she drove up the hill towards home. To hell with them all. Breeda Looney was having her own fresh start. She had a welcome dinner to organize for her father, and nothing or no one was going to spoil it.
Chapter 38
Nora was in a foul humor. Her broken ribs had caused her the worst night’s sleep and her arm had begun to throb in its itchy, clammy cast. She had woken up in a state of frustration and the morning had steadily gone downhill.
The flowers at Saint Colmcille’s – always her pride and joy – had been a right royal pain that morning. She’d had to fiddle one-handedly at the altar display, the stems not cooperating, the arrangement looking like a dog’s breakfast. She could only hope that Father McFadden wouldn’t notice her substandard work. She’d sensed herself slide into a sulky mood and had abandoned the flowers in a strop. In a shadowy corner of the church she’d stopped to watch a couple of parishioners sitting silently on a pew, awaiting their turn at the confessional. She’d watched the curtained lattice, imagining Father McFadden in his muffled darkness, channeling God’s forgiveness and doling out penances to his lowly flock.
And as Nora had stood observing, unable to snap out of her trance, a part of her suddenly became aware of a fissure ripping open in the murky depths of her memory. Something had echoed from below and was now coming to the surface, picking up speed on its way. Nora’s fingers found the little crucifix at her neck, and she rubbed at it frantically. She closed her eyes to block out the memory, but it was coming, demanding and defiant. She turned her face to the cool stone of the church wall, but it was here now.
