by Oliver Sands
Mal jostled the backpack on his shoulder and rubbed the wetness from the back of his scalp.
‘Well, it’s been nice to see you, my girl. But I shouldn’t have come. There’s nothing for me here.’
Breeda bit her lip and nodded slowly, his words hitting their target perfectly. It did sting, after all. Mal suddenly seemed aware of the other people watching the drama unfold from the front hall, and he now looked impatient, his departure overdue.
‘Just be careful not to turn out to be a looper, like your mother.’ He raised his voice — a posturing fighter with one more round in him — then looked beyond Breeda into the shadows of the hallway, ‘Or a whore, like your aunt!’
He turned his back on them, satisfied with his parting quip, and sauntered towards his van. As he reached the gate he noticed the blonde with the tight ponytail staring at him from the pavement. Through the soft rain Breeda could see a look of puzzlement hanging on his face as he drew closer to the stranger. He was struggling to recognize her, and she continued to stare boldly at him, as if daring him to look away. And as he got closer to her she said something. Breeda watched Dervil’s lips move and a moment later saw Mal drop his gaze to the ground. He tugged his ear, then turned for his white van, and as he slammed his door shut Dervil walked up the path and stood with the others on the top step. She said nothing and stared determinedly ahead.
In the background, Myra had managed to get Nora onto her feet. The two women were now back in the kitchen and Breeda could hear Nora blubbering at the table as a bewildered Myra attempted to console her. Myra was calling for the others to come in out of the cold for tea, and Dervil, then Oona, headed back towards the kitchen.
Breeda and Aidan remained at the front door, looking out through the soft rain at the white van. The engine turned and a cough of black smoke belched from the exhaust. Breeda watched as her father’s side profile seemed to consider something before he turned and looked at her one last time. Through the falling rain she could see something on his face now — regret or sorrow, she couldn’t tell. Mal Looney held his daughter’s eye and as his lips moved silently she wondered if he was praying to whatever God he believed in. Breeda watched as he brought his hand slowly to his mouth. And as he tossed the imaginary apple towards her she felt a searing ache echo in the depths of her heart as the years fell away and a million memories rushed to the surface. She buried her face in the warmth of Aidan’s shoulder, the sad sight of her father suddenly too much. The engine revved and the tyres screeched and Breeda looked up just as the Looney & Sons van sped off around the corner and took Malachy Looney out of her life.
Aidan leaned in closer towards her and they stood quietly for a moment, side by side. Breeda closed her eyes and strained to hear the dying sound of the van’s engine in the distance. But it was gone, swallowed by the wind and the rain. She pulled closer on Aidan’s arm, freshly aware that out of the whole shambles at least one great thing had come into her life.
Myra’s voice called out from the kitchen once more, and Aidan cleared his throat.
‘Come on. We should go in. You’re soaked through.’
He moved off but turned when Breeda didn’t follow.
‘What’s up? Don’t you fancy a restorative cup of tea? We can sit around the table and Oona can give us all post-traumatic stress therapy.’
Breeda smiled and shook her head. ‘You go ahead, Aidan. I’ll be there in a sec.’
She stood alone in the hallway and looked up from the painted seascape leaning against the wall. From the kitchen came the trace of their voices, attempting to make sense of what had just happened. She should go into them, she knew, try and calm them, and check on Nora. But still she stood there, hesitating. Breeda swept her damp hair back from her face and buttoned up her mother’s yellow coat. Overhead the sky rumbled again, and she stepped outside onto Nora’s front path. She tilted her face to the heavy curtain of rain, and let it wash over her. She would see this storm through.
Chapter 41
The day after Mal Looney drove out of Breeda’s life she received a phone call from Oona.
‘Bree, do you have a rucksack?’
‘What?’
‘And a good pair of walking boots.’
‘Oona, what are you on about?’
There was a brief pause down the line.
‘Bree, you need to get away for a while. I’ve spoken to Mister Sheridan. I’ve rescheduled my clients. It’s all organized. You can’t say no.’
‘What? No.’
‘And you’ll need insect repellent too. Get packing.’
And so, the following Monday morning, Breeda and Oona landed in Spain in virgin walking boots to start a three-week trek along the Camino de Santiago.
Breeda found herself savoring the fresh air and the wide skies, welcoming the satisfying ache in her body each night which would bring instant sleep under a thin cotton sheet. Some days there were long stretches along wooded pathways and rural roads, when the two friends would amble in solitude for hours on end. And sometimes, in those quiet moments, Breeda’s thoughts would turn to Mal Looney.
Breeda knew it would be too easy to lay the blame for the whole sorry episode at her father’s feet. After all, the Nora Cullens and the Mona Sneddons of the world had played their parts too. But the sins of the father were now out in the open – something to be aware of as they sniffed around the periphery of her life – and they would be a burden that Breeda Looney would carry no longer.
One morning, as the path climbed gradually out of a verdant dell near a farmstead, Breeda decided to open up to Oona about the true extent of the blackness. Oona was shocked, and unable to hide her hurt at being kept in the dark. But she listened and helped Breeda begin the slow process of unpacking it all.
‘You’re like a coke bottle.’ Oona had stopped to peel a hard-boiled egg, as Breeda wrestled a pebble out of her walking boot.
‘Come again?’
‘A coke bottle. Years of bumps and being shook up and you were never taught how to express your emotional needs. No wonder you sometimes feel like it’s all too much, you know, that sense of overwhelm.’
Breeda flicked the stone away and applied some sunscreen to her nose. She knew not to interrupt Oona in mid flow.
‘Therapy would be like a slow untwisting of the cap, a gentle release, not a messy explosion.’
Oona knew a woman – someone she’d been on a course with once – who was said to work wonders with anxiety disorders. She would give Breeda her details, but it would be up to Breeda to make contact. The thought of opening up to a stranger scared Breeda senseless, but she had to admit the time had come. As far back as she could remember she’d felt like she’d been driving through life with the handbrake on. Breeda made a promise to herself that she’d make her first appointment as soon as she got home.
And it wasn’t long after she arrived back from Spain that Breeda spotted Aunt Nora in the village. Nora had blanched at the sight of her niece, turning on her heel and scuttering down a cobbled laneway into Madigan’s cafe. So it came as a surprise, two weeks later, when a message from Nora flashed up on Breeda’s phone. She invited Breeda to dinner in town one Thursday evening in the middle of July. It was a clunky dinner, the conversation stilted, with all-things-Malachy-Looney given a wide berth for now. As they’d perused their menus, Breeda discreetly raised her gaze for a moment and watched her aunt’s expression of concentration, seeing faint flashes of her own mother sitting at her easel. Breeda could see the beginnings of a subtle transformation in her aunt: the crucifix still hung at her neck, but the buttoned-up tweed two-piece had been replaced with a blouse and cardigan and comfortable slacks. And it occurred to Breeda that the woman across from her might have finally begun to relax into her life a little, had maybe started to leave her shame behind.
Outside the restaurant, as the two women stood awkwardly, Nora looked off up Main Street.
‘I’ve spoken to a solicitor.’
‘Oh. OK …’
‘About the house.’
‘Right …’ Breeda wondered where this was going.
‘I still need to work out the tax implications for the transfer of deeds. But it’s what your mother would have wanted.’
‘Sorry, Aunt Nora. You’ve lost me.’
Nora turned to Breeda now, the old familiar flash of impatience quick to her face.
‘Bayview Rise. It’s yours.’ Nora looked up the street again, her eyes darting to points in the distance, as she struggled with whatever she really wanted to say.
Breeda looked to the pavement. That house had been her home for twenty-five years. But deep down she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was tainted goods now, financed by a falsified life insurance claim.
‘Aunt Nora, I’m not—’
But Nora had turned to look at her now, a pained plea in her eyes.
‘I’ve made a mess of things. We both know that. I’m not saying this will make things right. But it’s a start …’
A lump came to Breeda’s throat, and she too looked off up Main Street.
‘OK, Aunt Nora. Let me think—’
But Nora had turned, already walking briskly in the direction of home. Breeda sighed, and set off slowly in the opposite direction, wondering what sort of relationship herself and her aunt might cobble together in the future. But as she walked further along the coast road, concerns about Nora fell away, and Breeda became aware of an insistent pull in her step, a quickening in her veins. She tried to hush the thoughts swirling in her head as they competed to be heard. She’d sleep on it, she told herself, try and temper the giddiness that was roiling inside her belly. But no sleep was to be found that night. About three a.m. she sat up in bed with a notepad and pencil. Breeda knew what she wanted to do and for once she wasn’t going to stand in her own way.
With the remains of her savings Breeda started the transformation of the house. Dougie and Aidan were eager to lend their skills for free, and Finbarr joined in too, having finally finished the tinkering on his own roof. Over the course of two and a half weeks, work carried on until well after sunset. Bathrooms were reconfigured, walls were freshly painted, the kitchen was renovated, and additional lighting, signage and smoke alarms were installed. Breeda found a steely focus she never knew she possessed. She sought permits, uploaded a web page and placed her first ads. And on the fourteenth of August Breeda picked up the phone and accepted her first booking for a three-night stay at her modest guest house.
Ard na Mara — the Hill by the Sea — was open for business.
On the evening before her first guests were due, Breeda sat with Finbarr on his backstep, a daily ritual they’d fallen into over the past few weeks. They drank tea as they watched the shadows of the old stone walls slowly stretch across the patchwork fields down below. Pepper’s face rested on Finbarr’s thigh, Ginger had draped herself across Breeda’s lap, and the companionable silence surrounding them was broken only by the cat’s resonant purring. Down on the bay, the early evening sunlight glinted on the waves, and Breeda’s eyes came to rest on the stone pier and the tied-up trawlers. It was all exactly the same, yet all so different. And Breeda realised that the elusive other version of her life – the one where she would feel content and complete – might just have been hiding here all along, waiting patiently for her to unearth it.
Later, after bidding Finbarr goodnight, Breeda stood quietly in the kitchen doorway. Six dining chairs which she’d sanded and painted, now sat expectantly around the long gnarly table, awaiting her first guests. Breeda nodded to no one in particular, flicked off the lights, then headed along the hallway with Ginger padding alongside her. As she turned for her bedroom, she noticed something outside, leaning against the frosted glass of the front door. It was a parcel, rectangular in shape, and neatly wrapped in brown paper and twine. Breeda looked up the driveway and beyond, but there was not a soul to be seen. The parcel had just a simple gift tag attached, one word in precise birdlike handwriting.
Breeda
Standing by her bedroom window, she carefully unwrapped it, letting the paper fall to her bare feet. She sat on the edge of her bed in the fading evening light and gazed at the painting in her hands. The familiar swimmer regarded her from his choppy Atlantic seascape. But this time, as her eyes settled on his face, Breeda noticed something for the first time: he wasn’t looking at her, but at a point beyond, at something in the distance behind her.
And in that moment Breeda was no longer simply an observer.
She was with him in the sea.
She was the rise and the fall.
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank my editor, Bernadette Kearns, for holding my hand as I killed multiple darlings. A huge thank you also goes to Emma Finn, for providing invaluable feedback and sharing her considerable publishing nous.
A shout out to Jack Smyth for agreeing to take on the cover design for this, my debut novel.
My tireless team of ‘beta readers’ – Sally Harding, Deborah Wiseman, Deirdre Conway, Fiona McGrath, Ashley Casey, Elaine Fitzpatrick – your feedback was priceless and you’re all amazeballs.
To the teachers and writing crew at The Writers’ Studio in Bronte for providing guidance, imparting wisdom, and instilling the ‘daily discipline’ mantra. I got there in the end…
To Ged, for his unwavering support, and for making room on the path for me. You’re the best and I love you!
To my family for their genuine interest, curiosity, support and faith. Thank you – it doesn’t go unnoticed.
To the amazing independent writers and publishers out there who constantly strive to improve, challenge, learn and share. A rising tide lifts all boats, and I’m honored to be sailing alongside y’all. I’d particularly like to acknowledge Jane Friedman, Dave Gaughran, Michael Anderle, Craig Martelle, Kristen Lamb, Derek Murphy, Dave Chesson, Joanna Penn and Orna Ross (and the team at the Alliance of Independent Authors). I couldn’t do it without your emails, FB groups, cheat-sheets, Q&As and knowledge sharing.
And finally, my heartfelt thanks to you, Dear Reader. Writing a novel is a leap of faith, an often-lonely road peppered with self-doubt and procrastination, so to know that you’ve picked up this book – out of the millions available – makes it all worthwhile. Thank you.
For Ged
Copyright © Oliver Sands 2020
First published by deGrevilo Publishing 2020
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cataloguing in Publication details are available from the National Library of Australia www.trove.nla.gov.au
Creator: Sands, Oliver
Title: Breeda Looney Steps Forth / Oliver Sands
ISBN: 978-0-6487448-1-8 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-0-6487448-0-1 (ebook)
Editing: Bernadette Kearns (Book Nanny Editing Services)
Cover design: Jack Smyth
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. The characters contained within its pages are wholly imaginary. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The village of Carrickross and the town of Du
nry, although both loosely based on real places, have been re-imagined to suit the convenience of the story. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s own.
For more information on the author and his books visit www.OliverSandsAuthor.com
