by Tara Heavey
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;
I pulled away the remaining ivy to reveal the rest of the verse.
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.
It seemed like an odd choice of verse for a tombstone. Who did the grave belong to? I scraped away the moss at the top of the stone.
Mary Power
of Power’s Cottage, Ardskeha, Ballyknock
Died 16 May 1986, aged 84
R.I.P
And her daughter
Ellen Power
Died 10 January 1940, aged 6 weeks
R.I.P.
‘Happy anniversary, Mary,’ I whispered. It seemed important not to talk too loudly. Somehow, I wasn’t rattled; I was just overcome with sympathy. Poor Mary, to lose a child like that. I felt I should say a prayer or something. I blessed myself and said a quick Hail Mary. Then I just sat for a long time.
The sun beating down on my head seemed to be willing me to stay. So did the birds, the trees, the bluebells – the silent inhabitants of the cemetery. I felt as if I was melting into my surroundings. And it was at that precise moment that I admitted to myself the knowledge that had been building up inside me for some time now. I had been feeling it every time I looked at Terence, or Slinky. Or the other day, when I’d been planting flower seeds in the garden of Power’s Cottage and had seen that they wouldn’t bloom until September, when I’d be long gone. When I caught my first glimpse of the cottage every time I drove up the hill. When I looked across at the rolling hills, the river valley, the mares and foals in the fields. Even when I tasted Patricia’s jam or sat in on the sessions in the pub.
I didn’t want to go back to the city. I wanted to stay here – to make this place my home.
The thought, once acknowledged, didn’t overwhelm me as I would have expected. Rather, it was a relief to get it out in the open.
I must have been sitting very still, thinking these thoughts: a butterfly that had been flitting around the graveyard alighted delicately on my knee. I felt that she was staring at me, but that was ridiculous. I stayed still as a statue for several minutes until she flew away. My eyelids heavy from the unrelenting sun, I lay down on a bed of moss and bluebells and closed my eyes.
I’m not sure how long I slept, but when I awoke, the sun had travelled right across the sky and was beginning to drop. I shivered. The cold must have woken me up. I sat up and rubbed my eyes. Terence was lying beside me, panting lightly, looking at me intently and waiting for my next move.
‘Why didn’t you wake me?’
He sat up and licked my hand in response, then looked at me again, head cocked to one side. The downward tilt of his eye, the upward tilt of his ear ... I could have sworn that he was smiling at me.
‘Come on, boy,’ I said, struggling to my feet, ‘let’s go home.’
Slinky was there to greet us when we arrived back at Power’s Cottage. She ran along the fence like a gymnast on a beam and made a perfect dismount, before wrapping herself around my legs and meowing hungrily up at me. It was way past her dinner-time.
I’d only intended to be out for half an hour, so I’d left every window in the house wide open – something else I couldn’t do in Dublin. I opened the front door and went inside, the two animals hot on my heels. The gust of wind I brought in with me made the wind chimes inside the door jangle. In fact, the whole house felt breezy, as if the inside had become the outside. And it smelt so fresh, so fragrant – although it wasn’t just fresh air; there was some sort of flowery scent.... I inhaled deeply. Roses.
Up ahead, Slinky stood motionless in the doorway to the sitting room. Then she arched her back, her fur standing on end, and spat viciously.
‘What is it, Slinky?’
She flew between my legs and back out the half-open front door.
‘Who’s there?’ I called out.
I advanced slowly and peeked into the sitting room. Terence whimpered and hid behind me, his tail between his legs. There was nobody there, but the scent of roses was more intense. I moved cautiously into the room and glanced above the fireplace for Mary Power’s reassuring image. The picture was crooked – as if someone had taken it off the wall and failed to replace it properly.
I went over and adjusted it. Mary Power and I smiled at each other.
‘Thank you,’ I said – or did I just think it?
Because now I knew exactly what I had to do.
Chapter Twenty-nine
I didn’t arrive in Dublin until well after eight that Friday evening. I had called the office, but there was no reply. Tyrone wasn’t answering his mobile, either, so I chanced calling around to his house.
Tyrone lived in Ranelagh, in an elegant red-brick building with a well-established, well-manicured front garden. It was a shame he didn’t have someone to share it with. I felt an unexpected wave of pity towards my boss. For all I knew, that pity was misplaced. He chose to live this way; maybe he liked it. And, besides, what was I doing wasting my sympathy on a man who lived in a house worth over two million? It was amazing that he and his money hadn’t been snapped up by some manipulative minx a long time ago. There was no way he was short of offers. Much to his amusement, his name often cropped up on ‘Most Eligible Bachelor’ lists.
As luck would have it, he appeared to be in. At least, the light was on in the front room. I rang the doorbell and peered in at the bay window; I could just make out a shadow moving behind the heavy curtains.
Tyrone opened the door a few seconds later. He was still wearing his work shirt and suit trousers; his jacket and tie had been replaced by an enormous, grey, hand-knitted cardigan. He was holding a crystal tumbler containing dark-orange liquid and ice. I was sure he wasn’t meant to be drinking scotch, but tonight wasn’t the night to bring it up.
‘Hi. Nice cardie.’
‘Lainey? What are you doing here?’ His unkempt silver eyebrows were raised in surprise.
‘I thought I’d check up on you. Find out what you really get up to on a Friday night.’
‘Is something wrong?’
‘No.’
‘You’d better come in.’
He held the door open wider for me and I entered the long, dark hallway. On the rare occasions when I had visited Tyrone at home, I had always got the same feeling. It wasn’t anything I could put my finger on, exactly, but the place needed a woman’s touch. Not a woman like me, obviously. I meant one with proper home-making skills. Personally, I wouldn’t have had a clue where to start.
Tyrone hurried ahead of me into the living room. I followed him in, just in time to catch him hiding something behind a stack of books. Judging by the aroma in the room, it was probably a dirty ashtray. But I wasn’t going to say anything about that either.
‘Drink?’
‘Got any whiskey?’
‘Um ... don’t know. I’ll have to check.’
‘I’ll have a whiskey and 7-up, if you have it.’
This made him wince, as I had known it would; I knew how much it irked him to dilute his precious firewater. But I couldn’t resist. He went off to fix my drink, turning the volume down on the stereo on his way out of the room.
Not for the first time, I was struck by the similarity between my boss and Inspector Morse – although, while Morse had ice-blue eyes, Tyrone’s were molten brown; and, while Morse listened to opera, Tyrone existed on a strict musical diet of diddly-eye. You could take the man out of the bog....
He returned. ‘There.’ He pressed the drink into my hand. ‘Enjoy – although I don’t know how that’s possible. Anyway, cheers.’
We clinked glasses and he sat down opposite me in his armchair, a quizzical look on his face. ‘Are you planning on telling me what this is about, or am I going to have to guess?’
‘Can’t a girl pay her boss a friendly visit once in a while?’
‘Come off it. What have you done? Have you sold somebody the wrong house?’
‘No!’<
br />
‘You called the district court judge a grumpy old bastard and he held you in contempt?’
‘No.’ I was laughing now.
‘What, then?’
‘Tyrone, I’ve been thinking.’
‘This should be good.’ He leaned back in his armchair and took a large gulp of his drink, as if steeling himself.
‘Well, you know I’ve been in Ballyknock for about seven months now –’
‘Let me stop you there. I think I know what you’re going to say. I understand you must be dying to get back to your life in Dublin; but I swear to you, I only need you there for a couple more months. And I won’t forget what you’ve done.’
‘It’s not that at all.’
‘What, then?’
‘Well, the thing is ... I really like it down there. I was thinking I might like to stay.’
Tyrone blinked at me a couple of times. I took the opportunity to keep babbling.
‘I mean, business has been booming – there’s plenty of work for two solicitors. And you wanted to cut back on work; I’d be there to take the pressure off whenever you needed me. You’d be able to take lots of afternoons off to play golf or go fishing.’
He interrupted, ‘I was planning on doing that anyway.’
‘I know. I mean, obviously, you’re the boss and you’re entitled to do whatever you want. But me being there would make it easier for you to get out and about. What do you think?’
Tyrone took another gulp of scotch and stared off into space. I sat there, breath bated. I couldn’t tell whether or not he was trying to make me sweat.
When I couldn’t stand it any more, I said, ‘Will you even consider it?’
‘No. I won’t consider it –’
‘Oh, Tyrone, why?’
‘Because I don’t need to. You’re hired.’
‘Really! Oh, thank you!’ I jumped out of my seat and clapped my hands. ‘Can I hug you?’
‘Best not. An old fogey like me might get funny ideas.’
‘Oh, Tyrone, this is brilliant! I can’t thank you enough.’
‘There’s no need to thank me. A girl like you might come in useful around the office. You can make my coffee and type up my letters when Patricia’s off sick.’
‘Very funny. Seriously, though, you won’t regret this.’
‘I know I won’t. I only hope that you don’t.’
‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.’
I had decided to stay with my parents that night, on the basis that I couldn’t stomach Iseult. It was near ten when I arrived home. The house was in darkness and the driveway was empty. Shit. I’d forgotten my key. I fumbled around in the rockery in the front garden.... Bingo. Mum still kept a spare key under the ornamental Buddha.
I let myself in, turned on all the lights and looked around for clues to my parents’ whereabouts. I was filled with childish indignation that they weren’t home when it suited me. So what if they didn’t know I was coming? Where were they, anyway, at this hour on a Friday night? My parents never went out any more. They were far too old for that sort of thing.
It wasn’t until the next morning that the mystery was solved. I stumbled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and dishevelled, at about half past nine, wearing a white towelling robe that I’d owned since the age of sixteen. My mother was already up and about – showered, dressed, made up and clattering about the kitchen. She was humming a tune I didn’t recognise.
‘Morning, Elena. Sit down and I’ll make you a nice healthy breakfast.’
I didn’t like the sound of that. Past experience indicated that this would involve lots of bran. I’d munch on a few spoonfuls to keep her happy, then buy a Danish on the way out.
‘Aren’t you surprised to see me?’ I asked.
‘No. Sure, isn’t that fancy car of yours parked right outside?’
‘So where were you last night? I didn’t even hear you come in.’
She beamed at me as she busily opened and closed presses. ‘We went ballroom dancing. It’s your father’s new hobby.’
Dad? Ballroom dancing? Never! ‘Was it his idea?’
‘No, it was mine. Last night was his first night, but I really think he’s taken to it already.’
The image of Dad doing the foxtrot, wearing a monkey suit and a snooty expression, was too bizarre to contemplate. I’d only seen him dance once before – when he’d got pissed at my cousin Eileen’s wedding. He’d forced the mother of the bride to jive with him, humiliating her thoroughly before putting his back out. I hoped Mum wouldn’t be too disappointed when this particular hobby fizzled out after a couple of weeks.
‘Now! Get that down you. Wait till you see all the photos we took in Beijing.’
She all but ran out of the room, but not before handing me a bowl full of something that looked as if it should have been served in a nosebag. She returned seconds later, smiling broadly and carrying no less than five packs of photos.
‘Someone was busy.’
‘It was your father with his new photographic equipment. You know, we had to pay a fine at Heathrow – two hundred and fifty euros for excess baggage, just because of him and all his gear. I don’t know – that man!’ Mum shook her head. But I knew her, and she didn’t sound the tiniest bit annoyed to me.
And so for the next hour – or so it seemed – we looked at baby photos. I had to admit that my niece was adorable, even though I said so myself. I could claim no connection to the jet-black spiky hair, the cinnamon skin, the massive brown eyes; but the nose.... Was it possible that she had my nose? There were a variety of poses: LuLing sleeping; LuLing crying; LuLing smiling (wind, apparently); LuLing staring at the ceiling; Tatiana and LuLing; Chen and LuLing; Tatiana, Chen and LuLing; proud granny with LuLing; proud granddad with LuLing.... Need I continue?
I chose a few photos to take back with me. They weren’t bad. Maybe Dad had a latent talent. Then I stood up. Enough was enough.
‘Where are you going?’ Mum looked disappointed.
‘Upstairs, to get dressed. Then I’m going into town to meet the girls for lunch.’
‘So soon! I was hoping you could help me put the photos into albums. I bought ten new ones, you know.’
‘I’d love to, but I promised to meet them and I can’t let them down. I’ll help you with the photos later on.’
‘You’ve hardly touched your breakfast.’
‘Ah, Mum. You know I don’t eat that mush.’
‘It’s not mush. It’s a nutritious, high-energy cereal, packed with fibre.’
I gave her a look.
‘Oh, have an apple, then.’ She knew she wasn’t going to win this particular argument.
To appease her, I grabbed an apple, rubbed it a couple of times against my ragged bathrobe and took a bite.
‘Are you regular these days, Elena?’
‘Mum, please!’
It was nearing midday when I pulled up outside the end-of-terrace house in Sallynoggin. The only remarkable thing about the grey, pebble-dashed building was its southside address, which lent it a market value of six times its true worth.
It felt weird being here again after all this time; strange, yet familiar. The Child of Prague – head intact – still stood sentry in the downstairs window. The front door was slightly ajar, held open by a thick green wire that led to an extension lead on the front path. I rang the doorbell a couple of times, but there was no reply. After a while, I tentatively pushed open the door.
‘Anybody home?’
The only person who appeared to be home was Pope John Paul II, who smiled benignly at me from his ornate gilt frame on the wall. I followed the green wire along the narrow hallway and through the galley kitchen. It disappeared out the back door. As I followed it, an electrical whirring noise grew louder. I pushed open the back door.
Paul was strimming the hedge, his ears encased in bright orange muffs. I couldn’t figure out a way of getting his attention without risking him cutting off an arm, so I sat down on the step outside the bac
k door to wait for him. I was prepared to be patient, but, as it turned out, I didn’t have to be; a few seconds later, Paul inexplicably turned and looked right at me. After a puzzled stare, he turned off the machine, pulled the earmuffs down around his neck and walked slowly towards me. He was wearing a pair of old combats and a U2 T-shirt that I happened to know he’d owned since he was seventeen.
He didn’t stop walking until he literally loomed over me. I had to crane my neck and shade my eyes in order to look at him properly. Not that this helped me any. His expression was illegible.
‘What are you doing here?’
I was being asked that question a lot lately. I was going to have to stop popping up unannounced all over the place.
‘I was in the area, and I thought I’d call in and see how you were doing.’
‘What were you doing in the area?’ Still the stony countenance.
I didn’t blame him for being suspicious. He of all people knew what a consummate liar I was. But I wasn’t worried: I had my story learnt off pat, as usual.
‘I was at the hairdresser’s I used to go to – you know, the one above the Spar in the village. I wanted to see if they could fit me in.’
‘And could they?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe I can help you out.’ He held the strimmer above his head and revved it theatrically.
I laughed. ‘You’re okay. It was a wash and blow-dry I was after, not a full decapitation.’
To my immense relief, Paul smiled and sat down on the step beside me.
The truth, for those of you who are interested, was that I’d remembered that his mother routinely got him to come around on Saturday mornings to do various odd jobs (‘The devil makes work for idle hands, Paul’).
I watched Paul shyly as he made small talk. The veins in his hands and forearms were protruding in the heat. A rivulet of sweat ran down his forehead, his temple, his cheekbone, his jawline, his sinewy neck, before disappearing in a trickle down the frayed neck of his T-shirt.
