Life's What You Make It

by Sian O'Gorman

  ‘And your problem is?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I should talk to him. I just have to work on being nicer.’

  ‘You are nice.’

  She pulled a face. ‘Not nice-nice. Not generally nice.’

  ‘I didn’t think we had to be nice any more,’ I said. ‘I thought feminism had rid us of all that.’

  ‘It has,’ she replied. ‘And so has work. Sometimes I forget how to be when I’m not working. How the real Bronagh Kelly is, not Bronagh Kelly the architect.’

  ‘You need to have more fun,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t know how,’ she said. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Well, let’s make the midsummer festival as fun as we can make it.’

  She nodded. ‘Anyway, I have a little bit more time on my hands now I don’t have to endure conversations about some kind of film franchise which takes place in space.’

  ‘You mean?’

  She nodded. ‘Yup. Paul finished with me,’ she said. ‘After Sammy’s funeral. As if my life can’t get any more ridiculous. I just happened to fall asleep in front of that infernal film and he shook me awake to say he said didn’t want to be with someone who he couldn’t share in all her life… that he knew I was faking it…’

  ‘Faking it? You mean your…?’

  ‘My interest in Star Wars, yes. And apparently, it’s Star Trek. Did you know they were two completely different things?’

  ‘I think so,’ I said. ‘I mean, I am sure they are. I’ve never given it too much thought.’

  ‘Nor had I,’ she replied. ‘I had no idea I was watching an entirely different franchise to the one I thought I was watching. Sorry, not franchise. Universe. Although I have probably got that wrong as well.’

  ‘Galaxy?’ I suggested.

  She shrugged. ‘So, I’m back to square one, just me. A little bit lonely…’

  ‘Oh, Bronagh…’

  ‘At least I have my perfect cat Mies van der Rohe.’

  ‘And me,’ I said. ‘You’ve got me.’

  ‘Thanks, Liv,’ she said. ‘But don’t let me feel sorry for myself. I am so lucky, I have so much in my life. I didn’t want to go out with Paul, not really. We had nothing in common. And being alone is empowering and self-sufficient.’ She paused. ‘Isn’t it?’ She tried to smile and she suddenly looked so sad, and so defeated. It was so wrong that someone so ridiculously successful, so clever and talented and such a wonderful person could feel lonely.

  ‘It totally is,’ I said. ‘I like being single. And we’ve got each other.’

  ‘I just want someone on my side,’ she said. ‘I mean, I know I can do my work, and I live a great life. I have my cottage and Mies and my business is going well.’ She shrugged. ‘I need a little bit of love. And okay, so Paul wasn’t perfect… but it was something… Am I asking for too much if I say I want someone on my level, who is interested in what I am interested in and also likes cats?’

  ‘No, you’re definitely not asking for too much,’ I said. ‘But it sometimes feels like we are. If you’re not prepared to settle.’ I thought of Jeremy and again silently thanked Cassandra for calling me. Without her, how long would that relationship have lurched on for?

  ‘So are you going to try and track down your father?’ said Bronagh.

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘One day. It’s not my priority. Mum is. I’m just glad I came home.’ And then I thought of Mum… but really I had thought of little else. The idea of her being so alone made me feel so protective of her. And I felt guilty about being so annoyed with her for so long.

  Bronagh nodded. ‘I bet she is too.’

  I had also been thinking about Joseph Delaney. I had an image in my head of him, a man with long hair and leather jacket. I looked a lot like Mum, but there were other things – my wide mouth and big hands and feet – that I had thought were just mine. Perhaps I shared those with someone? I’d never thought about this before and I liked the idea that somewhere out there, there was someone a little or a lot like me.

  And I still hadn’t answered Jeremy’s misspelled text from earlier, he was already feeling so long ago, so far away, and yet he was intruding on my thoughts and my time here in Ireland. ‘Jeremy messaged me this morning,’ I told Bronagh. ‘I could have him reported to the Irish bureau of cultural insensitivity. He said to say hello to leprechauns.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘I know.’

  We both looked at each other for a moment.

  ‘And he can’t spell “isle” and he accused me of stealing his cufflinks. I spent six months of my life with him and I wonder what the hell I was doing. Sometimes you try and convince yourself that someone is better than no one.’

  ‘I called Mum today after Paul’s phone call,’ said Bronagh, ‘because I thought that she might just say something nice to me… I don’t know why I don’t ever learn.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘I did tell her about the fact I’ve been nominated for the Arbroath Prize… I suppose I was looking for her to say she was proud of me, or that she and Dad would come to the fecking ceremony… I don’t know why I went to her for a little bolstering. But she said she and Dad were too busy and that Mark is moving home because he has lost his flat again, and she has to get his room ready… and… well, the usual excuses…’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ I said. ‘For the ceremony. When is it?’

  ‘But you’ll be in London.’

  ‘I’m coming,’ I said. ‘I’ll be there. Just put me down as your plus-one. Okay?’

  ‘Okay. Right! And it’s in September.’ She was smiling.

  ‘I can’t wait.’

  17

  Jeremy: Are you there? Or have you been stolen by leprechauns? Haha! Just to say the cufflinks turned up! Just one more thing, my umbrella… I know I lent it to you… but I don’t think you returned it??????

  Roberto: What are you doing?

  Me: Walking home. You?

  Roberto: Thought you’d never ask. Trying a new recipe. Actually.

  Me: What is it?

  Roberto: A Swiss roll. Used to be my favourite. Have bought jar of posh strawberry jam. Will send photographs.

  Me: I am so impressed!

  Roberto: So am I! How is the running going?

  Me: Still doing it! Loving it more and more. Have bought some nice new leggings and top.

  Roberto: Sorry, have I been texting the same Liv O’Neill I used to know? Hates exercise?

  Me: Haha. Love you Prince Roberto.

  Roberto: Love you Princess Liv xxx

  It was Thursday evening and Mum and I were on our way to the house on Sandycove Avenue.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ I said to Mum, getting into the car beside her.

  ‘Nervous,’ she replied. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Same.’ I was excited about seeing the house and knowing that the woman whose photograph I was wearing around my neck had lived there. I could imagine them in the kitchen or walking up the path; my grandmother was becoming real in a way she never had before.

  And… I was excited to see Will. I’d seen him a few times while running and he’d waved at me, but to invite Mum to look at the house was so unnecessarily kind. He didn’t have to, he could have politely sent us on our way, but he obviously understood how much it meant to Mum, sensing the house was more than bricks and mortar, that those bricks were steeped in memories and feelings.

  ‘I’m a little worried, actually,’ said Mum, as we waited for the traffic lights to turn green at the end of Bird Road, ‘that I will feel the ghosts of Mam and Dad. He died in that house. She was dying in it.’

  ‘Do you think they are going to jump out at you and shout “boo”?’

  She laughed. ‘No, of course not…’ She paused as we started driving and turned into Sandycove Avenue. ‘Well… actually, that’s exactly what I’m worried about.’

  We parked and we walked across the road – Mum was only
using one crutch these days – and through the small wrought-iron gate, up the path, and stood in front of the yellow door.

  ‘Ready for the ghosts?’

  She nodded. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Now, you know they are ready to jump out…’

  ‘Olivia, please!’

  And then Will suddenly pulled open the door, making us both jump and scream at the same time.

  ‘I saw you parking,’ he said, beginning to laugh. Pablo was at his heels, glaring at yet another intrusion. ‘Would you like to come in?’ he said, still seeming amused, as we stepped inside the house.

  ‘We’re so sorry. It was Olivia’s fault,’ said Mum. ‘She was putting all sorts of notions in my head, about ghosts…’

  ‘Ghosts, is it?’ Will said, closing the door behind us. ‘Well… I may have a few stories…’

  Mum looked at him, panicked. ‘In this house?’

  ‘No, no, nothing here,’ he said, smiling. ‘It’s such a quiet house. There’s actually a calm energy and after being in Brooklyn for eight years, it’s like a retreat. It’s so peaceful. I can hear the birds from my kitchen table. The odd lawnmower in summer. I love it. And Pablo snuffling about, playing with a bone or going upstairs to take a nap on my bed.’

  But Mum wasn’t listening, she was staring around the hall, from the skirting boards to the coving, her eyes taking everything in. ‘I like the wallpaper,’ she said, feeling it. ‘It really suits the house. And the ceiling rose looks as good as new. And the bannisters…’ She traced the wood carving with her finger and then she put her palm flat on the ball of the finial. ‘I used to do this every morning. I had to do it or I wouldn’t get good luck.’ She beamed at us briefly, her eyes far away, before continuing to sweep her gaze all around, like a lighthouse. ‘And the little door beneath the stairs is still here.’

  ‘It’s a bathroom now,’ said Will. ‘I put one in.’

  ‘Is it?’ Mum went over. ‘May I…?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Mum went inside. ‘It’s lovely,’ she echoed from within. ‘Such a good idea. We used to keep all the cleaning supplies there and Dad’s shoe-shining box, the Christmas decorations, Mum’s sewing machine… that kind of thing.’ She reappeared again.

  ‘Where would you like to go first? Upstairs or down?’ asked Will.

  ‘Up, I think… if you don’t mind?’

  ‘Not at all. Lead the way.’

  Mum went first, then Will and Pablo, then me. Will was right about the energy in the house, it felt like somewhere you were safe. I thought of Mum growing up here, running up and down the stairs, coming in and out of the front door, playing hopscotch on the tiled path.

  At the top of the landing, Mum stepped into the front bedroom. ‘Do you mind?’ she said.

  ‘Please… go right ahead.’ Will turned to me. ‘All right?’ he said, smiling.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ I said. ‘It’s so nice of you to let us come. And it’s a gorgeous house. You’ve done a lovely job.’ And it was. Three bedrooms and a nice bathroom. Walls painted white, some lovely art on the wall.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘It’s my first house of my own and I just feel so lucky. The moment I walked in, I loved it. It was the pink glass in the front door and then all the things your mother loves… the ceiling rose and the coving. And I was so ready just to have my own house, somewhere for me and Pablo to just… to just stop.’

  We all needed that one place, I thought, where we could stop. That’s what a true home was, when you closed the door behind you, you were safe and you could take a break from the world.

  There was a large black-and-white photograph of a housing project in Brooklyn hanging at the top of the stairs and another of a New York bodega.

  ‘These are good,’ I said, peering at them. ‘I like the man in the hat.’

  Will laughed. ‘I used to buy my coffee from him every morning on my way to work,’ he said. ‘He was Spanish, he’d escaped Franco. He’d been in New York for half a century and yet his accent was still so strong.’

  ‘You took these?’ I asked.

  He nodded. ‘They’re just snaps,’ he said, ‘but I really liked this one so I had it enlarged. It’s not very good, but it reminds me of New York energy. Whenever I might think that Sandycove is small, I can look at this and remember the sheer size of New York, the immensity of it all. I joined a photography club while I was there… just as a break from the hospital and everything else that was going on. Taking photographs means you can focus on things outside of your own little world.’

  ‘Literally,’ I said.

  ‘And metaphorically.’ He pointed at a tiny Yorkshire terrier in the photograph who was at the heels of the man in the hat. ‘See the dog.’

  ‘Pablo?’

  ‘Pablo’s mother,’ he said. ‘She had puppies and I couldn’t resist taking one. Alexei gave me Pablo as a present, and he was just another reason to come back to Ireland. It’s a good place for a dog to grow up.’

  ‘You wanted him to have an Irish accent, do his Holy Communion, put on the green jersey on match days?’

  He laughed. ‘Yes, he even barks with an Irish accent. But he didn’t like the trip home as he had to be put in the hold of the airplane and still hasn’t forgiven me.’ He looked down at Pablo, who was looking up at him. ‘Have you, fella?’

  ‘He does look as though he is still holding some residual anger,’ I said. ‘He’ll need therapy.’

  Will laughed again. ‘He’s always looked like that, though,’ he said. ‘He just has one of those faces.’

  On the wall at the top of the stairs was a huge photograph of the sea in close-up, and within the ripple, at the top of the frame, was a blurred figure swimming. It was the kind of picture that made you feel as though you were in it, swimming or drowning or doggy-paddling or whatever, but the water was visceral, the ripples, the reflecting light, you could feel the cold shooting through your body.

  ‘Is that one of yours as well?’

  He nodded. ‘It’s Sandycove,’ he said. ‘Closer to home. I took it last summer.’

  ‘It’s beautiful.’ We stood looking at it for a moment.

  ‘Do you swim?’ he asked.

  ‘Never,’ I said. ‘Not here, anyway. Way too cold.’

  ‘It is far too cold,’ he agreed. ‘But I’ve been doing it since I’ve come back. My brother Dermot goes and brings my nephew down.’

  ‘Why do you go if you hate it?’

  ‘Because it’s good for me,’ he said, grinning. ‘It’s like eating muesli or not getting too drunk… you have got to stay on the right side of everything. And then, once you’ve eaten the muesli or not drunk a whole bottle of gin and gone for your arctic swim, you don’t feel too guilty when you do indulge and have a bar of Fruit and Nut…’

  We both looked back at the photograph. ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about seaweed lately,’ I said. Why did I say that? I thought. What kind of weirdo says they have been thinking about seaweed?

  But if Will thought it was a strange, he actually looked interested. ‘Really?’

  I nodded. ‘I mean, I do think of other things, but it’s just that I’ve had an idea… well… it’s an old idea… I used to make beauty products and sell them…’ I glanced at him, briefly, feeling a little embarrassed. ‘And I always wanted to do something with seaweed…’

  But he was nodding, listening intently.

  ‘It’s so good for you, you see,’ I said. ‘Seawater, seaweed. It’s all those minerals. I used to use flowers oils but I’ve always wondered about seaweed. It’s so full of good things.’

  ‘John B. Keane’s The Field,’ he said. ‘The greenest field in Kerry because of the seaweed.’

  ‘I just never thought people would put it on their faces. Fields, yes, but faces? I always thought people would be disgusted by it.’

  ‘Disgusted?’

  ‘Repulsed.’

  He laughed. ‘People are repulsed by seaweed?’

  ‘You know when you are at the
beach and you have to walk through seaweed and it’s the most horrible thing, all wet and slimy…’

  He nodded. ‘You never know what’s lurking underneath, some monster that could grab your ankles.’ He paused. ‘That at least was what was going on in the very strange mind of the young William Butler.’

  ‘I used to take it and tear some of it open and rub the… whatever it is, the gel on my hands.’

  ‘You should meet my nephew, Jake,’ Will said. ‘He is one of those kids who is utterly obsessed with things and becomes an expert in a matter of weeks. We’ve been through dinosaurs, the night sky, a cordon bleu phase where he spent four weeks making cheese soufflés, and there was his poetry phase. Anyway, to cut a long story short, he’s in his seaweed phase now. Knows all the names of them… there are hundreds, apparently. Draws them, colours them in, collects them and dries them on his bedroom windowsill. Dermot and Catherine have had to buy him a special table for his collection.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Nine, nearly ten. He’s a really great kid. We all love him to bits.’

  ‘So you grew up in Sandycove?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Went to St Jarleth’s. Which school did you go to?’

  ‘The Abbey.’

  ‘It’s funny we never met before.’

  ‘I think I know your brother,’ I said. ‘He was the year above me.’

  ‘I never went out,’ he conceded. ‘That might have something to do with it. I was a little too studious.’

  ‘I was the opposite,’ I said. ‘I had a hobby which took all my spare time.’

  ‘A hobby?’

  ‘My own market stall,’ I said, just as Mum appeared from the back bedroom.

  ‘I used to love the view of the trees at the bottom of the garden,’ she said. ‘That’s the thing with nature, it doesn’t change.’

  ‘Ready to go back downstairs?’ asked Will.

  Mum led the way again, down the stairs, through the hall and into the front room.