by Laura Elliot
I load the last of my possessions into the van. Before I leave I tear the photograph into small pieces and replace them in the envelope. I leave it where it belongs, on the hall table with the key and the junk mail. A jigsaw for Jake to solve.
The wind is brisk, the clouds scudding above the estuary. A lone windsurfer, rigid as an exclamation mark, shoots across the water. Canoeists in colourful safety jackets flash their paddles in rhythmic movements as they approach the shore. Alaska stripped the resin from my marriage, separated me from the glue of a shared life. When I drive from Sea Aster I know I’ll never return.
Jake rings when I’m on the ferry. I see his name on the screen and turn off my phone. He’s a liar who sleeps with the woman who slashed my paintings. Who, even now, all those years later, seeks to sink a blade into my flesh.
‘Ring me back, Nadine.’ He leaves a message on my answering machine. ‘I need to talk to you immediately.’ His tone is authoritative, not apologetic as I would have expected. Its urgency alarms me. I lean into the buffeting wind and ring him from the deck. He answers immediately. He’s found the photograph, joined to dots, so to speak.
‘Why didn’t you let me know you received it?’ he asks.
‘Let you know what? That you lied about not seeing her again?’
‘I didn’t lie – ’
‘Are you telling me the camera never lies?’
‘Of course the camera lies. It can orchestrate whatever it likes. Anything connected with her, no matter how slight it seems, you must talk to me.’
‘She’s been to Brian’s pottery twice.’
‘Twice.’ His sharpness adds to my fear.
‘Did you know?’
‘I knew she was there once.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I was trying to keep things under control.’ His breath is hard, heavy.
‘What else has she done? You must tell me everything, Jake.’
I hear about his discovery in her apartment, the pieces from our lives she assiduously assembled in my son’s beautiful ceramic box.
‘You’ve no idea how sorry I am…’ he attempts another one of those hopeless apologies.
‘That doesn’t matter now.’
The ground is shifting, draining my bitterness away. Whatever has gone before is of no importance. Karin Moylan is spreading her spores through our family. Must I wait helplessly until she strikes again or confront her? The ferry churns the water, distancing us.
When I return to Wharf Alley I google her. Kingfisher Graphics. I ring her number and listen to her voice on the answering machine.
Hi there…thank you for calling Kingfisher Graphics. I’m still enjoying the weekend and am unable to talk to you right now.’ Her laughter is dark, throaty. I imagine how Jake would have responded, charmed by its contagious inflections. ‘Please leave your number and I’ll ring you first thing in the morning.
I hang up without speaking. Soon there will be a reckoning.
CHAPTER 49
JAKE
Five musicians standing on a roof. Arms akimbo, folded, plunged in pockets or suggestively clasping a hipster belt. Brooding expressions. It was all there. The five members of Shard staring from the cover of Core. Jake bought the magazine in Malahide Village and entered a café. He had been opposed from the beginning to the band featuring in the magazine but Mik Abel had overrode his objections.
‘It’s free publicity,’ he insisted when Jake argued that Core was a tabloid rag. ‘They’re interested in the band’s progress. Otherwise they wouldn’t have approached us. We can’t afford to look a gift horse in the eye.’
‘Mouth,’ said Jake. ‘You don’t look a gift horse in the mouth but on this occasion we can.’
‘No, we can’t,’ Mik replied. ‘I’ll look a gift horse in the arse if it gives the band free exposure. Your personal view of Core is not shared by its readership which is massive.’
Last week a photographer had arrived to Sea Aster astride a Harley Davidson and introduced herself as Lucky. She chose the barn as the backdrop location for the photo shoot. The weathered stone walls and deep-set windows would add an uncompromising grimness to the photographs, she believed, but then she changed her mind and ordered them up on the roof. Jake felt ridiculous as he folded his arms and stared into the camera. He was getting too old for such posturing but Lucky refused to release them until she was satisfied she had achieved the perfect configuration.
Jimmy French, the journalist from Core, was a small, wiry man who studied Jake through raddled eyelids and asked a few basic questions about the band. His lack of interest was obvious as he twisted his shoe on the butt of a cigarette and drove away. He left Jake with an unsettling feeling that this was not going to end well.
Lucky’s cover shot could not be faulted. The band looked menacing and rebellious, apart from Feral, who could usually brood on command but seemed dreamily preoccupied. He ordered an Americano and opened the magazine. His misgivings rushed to the fore when he turned the pages and saw the ominous headline. His unease turned into dismay as he read through the feature.
Son of Right-Wing Politician Revives Satanic Band
Those who hung out in the Baggot Inn or Toners in the mid-eighties will remember Jake Saunders and his band, Shard. Now reformed, Saunders had taken Shard back on the road again with their new album, Collapsing the Stone. The Shard line-up remains the same apart from one change. Instead of drummer Bad Boy Barry Balfe, who emigrated to Canada, Shard now has a female drummer. With this new addition they can no longer be called a ‘boy band’, a tag that also conflicts with the aging process of its members.
The younger Shard were often accused of performing Satanic rituals on stage and indoctrinating their young fans into devil worship through brainwashing lyrics. This added to their brief notoriety but the band broke up when Saunders married his then seventeen-year-old pregnant girlfriend.
Saunders is the son of Eleanor Saunders, the leader of First Affiliation. She was unavailable for comment when contacted by this reporter. She also refused to comment on her son’s impending divorce. His wife, Nadine Saunders, is currently in London seeking the dissolution of their marriage. Yet she and her soon-to-be ex-husband attended last year’s conference where Eleanor Saunders, in her keynote address, presented them as a perfect example of marital harmony. The conference was interrupted by a protest led by gay rights activist, Maggie Doyle, and her wife Feral Childe, drummer with Shard.
Politics and hypocrisy are inseparable. Like love and marriage they go together but an inside source within the party insists that the double standards displayed by the leader of First Affiliation will no longer be tolerated. A vote of confidence in her leadership is expected to be held shortly.
* * *
Jake’s coffee was cold when he tasted it. His phone rang. It had to be Eleanor. If she had not already read the article she was sure to have heard about it. Shard’s hyped publicity, the link between him and Eleanor that would be established, the threat to her position, she had known it would all come true. Sweat broke out on his forehead as he answered the phone but it was Mik Abel calling, apologetic and apoplectic.
‘It’s too late now.’ Jake cut him off in mid-rant. ‘I need to go and see my mother… try to explain.’
He was driving along the Howth Road when his phone rang again. This time it had to be Eleanor. He let it ring. Better a face-to-face confrontation than a blow-up over the phone. The ringing stopped then started again. On the third call he pulled into the side of the road and checked his ID screen. The three calls were from an unfamiliar number and added to his anxiety as he rang the caller back.
‘Jake, is that you?’ The voice was high-pitched, shaky but vaguely familiar.
‘Who is this?’
‘It’s Cora. I’m with Eleanor. We’re waiting for the ambulance.’
‘What’s wrong. Is she – ’
‘She’s going to be fine, Jake. But you need to go directly to the Mater Hospital.’
&n
bsp; ‘I’m nearly at her house. I was coming to see her.’
‘Okay… but hurry. I’m expecting the ambulance any minute.’
‘What’s happened to her?’
‘It’s just a little turn.’ Cora failed miserably to sound unconcerned. His mother must be listening. Jake switched on the ignition and was about to pull into the traffic when he heard the siren. An ambulance raced by on the outside. His heart raced with it as he gave chase.
Eleanor was being carried out on a stretcher when he arrived at the bungalow. On this occasion she made no effort to pull off her oxygen mask. Nor was she shooting impatient orders at the paramedics. Her fine, black eyebrows, those arrogant, intimidating arches, had collapsed in a slack, downwards slide. Her mouth was pulled to one side. Jake had seen enough television advertisements to recognise the signs of a stroke.
In the ambulance he held her hand. She was still conscious but he had no idea of her awareness. Her words were slurred and indecipherable when the female paramedic asked her name.
‘You’re doing real good, Eleanor.’ She adjusted the oxygen mask and took Eleanor’s pulse. ‘We’re nearly at the hospital. There’s an expert team waiting to look after you. You’ll be in excellent hands.’
At the hospital she was immediately whisked into intensive care. Cora, who had followed in her car, joined Jake in the waiting room and told him what he had already guessed. Eleanor had read the feature in Core shortly before Lorna Mason phoned to inform her that a vote of confidence was being organised as soon as possible.
‘I drove over to her as soon as I heard.’ Cora’s cheeks quivered as she pulled her handkerchief from her sleeve and sobbed into it.
‘I’m glad you were there.’ Jake put his arm around her and waited until she was able to speak again.
‘She kept saying the story had legs but she seemed okay after Lorna called. You know Eleanor… she loves a fight. But then she suddenly collapsed. I thought she was going to die right there in front of me.’
‘Thanks to you she arrived here on time for them to give her that clot busting drug. It’s going to make all the difference to her recovery.’ He felt queasy, shivery. ‘She’s lucky you were there with her.’
‘Lorna Mason and her lot have had it in for Eleanor since she changed her mind about Sea Aster. They were just looking for an excuse to attack her.’
‘What change of mind?’
‘The planning permission.’ Cora looked at him in surprise. ‘Didn’t she tell you?’
‘Tell me what?’
‘That she changed her mind after it was granted. Oh, dear, I shouldn’t have said anything – ’
‘When did this happen?’
‘As soon as you and Nadine moved into Sea Aster. I was the only one she told about your marriage. She kept hoping…’ She dabbed her eyes, squeezed her handkerchief into her fist. ‘Poor Eleanor. She’ll have to resign. What will she do without the party?’
‘Let’s get her better first. We’ll worry about the party later.’
Three tabloid journalists rang. They wanted information on the various angles covered in Core, particularly on the Satanic aspects of Shard. Eleanor was right. The story had as many legs as a centipede. He gave them Mik’s number. Let him use his publicity skills to kill it.
Cora was running rosary beads through her fingers when he went outside to ring Nadine. Her shock reverberated back at him. ‘I’ll organise a flight and be with you as soon as I can,’ she said. ‘Had she been unwell? Were there any signs?’
‘I’m responsible.’
‘Why… what happened?’
‘A stupid magazine feature about the band. All that Satanic nonsense was dragged up again.’
‘But why? That’s ancient history.’
‘We were mentioned, you and I… our marriage break-up and that conference Eleanor organised.’
‘Oh, Christ… poor Eleanor.’
‘It’s typical Core.’
A young girl in a wheelchair almost knocked him over as she pushed past him.
‘Fuck off outa da way,’ she growled, her eyes lost in the fug of drugs.
‘Did you say Core?’ Nadine asked.
‘Yes. I told Mik – ’
‘Who wrote it?’
‘Jimmy French. I should have followed my gut instinct and refused to have anything to do with it.’
‘Stop beating yourself up. Core thrives on that kind of sensationalism. Liam Brett is a creep and Jimmy French is cut from the same cloth.’
‘Liam Brett? I thought he was the editor of Lustrous.’
‘He edits both magazines.’
‘I see…’
‘What is it?’ Her voice quickened.
‘Nothing.’
‘Don’t fob me off, Jake. Has she anything to do with this?’
‘I don’t know… it’s possible.’
‘We’ll talk about all that when I see you,’ said Nadine. ‘Go back to Eleanor. She’s all that matters for the time being. I’ll be with you as soon as possible.’
‘I’ll be waiting for you.’
CHAPTER 50
NADINE
Tears roll down Eleanor’s cheeks when she sees me. Her mouth moves but she’s unable to speak. She’s silent for the first time since I’ve known her. Helpless, silent and scared, my poor, bewildered mother-in-law has suffered an ischemic stroke. Hopefully, there’ll be no lasting damage but looking at her lying there it’s hard to equate her with the woman she was. I want her back: whole, healthy, bossy and insufferable. She’s a warrior and that determination will bring her through. I tell her this as I sit beside her bed. The need for Jake to be on standby in case of a crisis has passed but I’m only allowed a brief time with her. I’m not sure she recognises me or, if she does, how quickly she will forget me when I leave.
He met me at the airport. He was exhausted, older looking, his hair greying. When did that happen? He opened his arms to me. I ran towards him and we hugged like old friends, not lovers, but it was good to feel his familiar embrace. He’d parked the Shard band wagon on the roof of the car park. I noticed the logo. Designed by Feral’s wife, he said. It lacks the eye-catching power of the previous one but neither of us make mention of this fact.
‘How long will you stay?’ he asks when we leave the hospital.
‘Until Sunday.’
‘I appreciate that.’
We are once again on the bridge, holding our breath in case it cracks beneath us.
We stop to shop in The Pavilions. This is the first time we’ve shopped together since we moved into Sea Aster. But we’re not really together, as our separate shopping trollies signify. We head off in different directions but keep meeting in the same aisles, exchanging strained smiles and making a ‘fancy seeing you here’ jokes. We queue together at the check-out. I take sneak peeks into his trolley to check if his taste buds have changed. The contents look familiar, the usual staples. Nothing that suggests his appetite has been influenced by her. Karin. My teeth clamp on her name but we never speak it. She or her, that’s our reference point.
When we return to Sea Aster I read the feature in Core. I remember Jimmy French. Weasel eyes and fingers stained with nicotine. He was a cypher for this sensationalist piece of journalism, nothing more than that.
Jake makes our evening meal and talks throughout. This loquaciousness is new. It worries me. He never talked for talking’s sake, and, now, he skirts around the main subject. He drinks too much wine and it allows him to finally show me the drawings she did for First Affiliations.
When I was seven months pregnant on the twins I went into premature labour. The urge to save them was the most primal emotion I’ve ever experienced. They were born after an emergency caesarean section and, afterwards, looking at them in their incubators, I was filled with the same joy and unconditional love I experienced when Ali and Brian had been laid in my arms. That same protective love surges over me when I pick up my phone and ring Karin Moylan.
She doesn’t seem surprised to hear my
voice. Has she been waiting for this moment, knowing we’d face each other sooner or later? She suggests we meet tomorrow and take afternoon tea in the Westbury Hotel. What a novel idea. Business affairs are sorted out over lunch. Affairs of the heart belong to candle-lit dinners but afternoon tea is a civilized ritual and, so, we will behave accordingly. But I’m a lioness whose cubs have been threatened and civility is a luxury I can’t afford.
* * *
Elegant armchairs are arranged around tables laden with tiered cake stands and plates of finger sandwiches. She’s seated when I arrive, her legs crossed, her hands joined and resting on the white tablecloth. Demure is a word that comes to mind until I look into her eyes and see the glitter. It’s hatred, disguised under a cataract of guile. But I recognise it, embrace it. The past does not heal. That’s the cruellest myth of all. It lies in abeyance until time pulls the trigger on memory. Three six nine, the goose drank wine… the words beat a rhythm in my brain. I remember us kneeling on my bed, hands clapping, challenging each other to be the first to miss the beat… our hands moving faster, faster… frantic and furious like the beat of my heart. I resist the urge to run and sit down opposite her in a soft armchair. My neck is damp and the flush that rushes to my face is, I hope, invisible behind the layer of makeup I applied before I left Sea Aster.
‘I’ve already ordered,’ she says. ‘I hope you don’t mind. I’ve an appointment in an hour.’
As if on cue a waiter arrives with the afternoon tea selection. The clinking of cups and plates makes conversation impossible for the next few moments. Jake has told me about the van. My teeth water as I imagine the gouging she did with her dainty hands. I hear the screech of a knife on metal, the hiss of tyres imploding. Here, in this muted atmosphere where footsteps are silenced on thick carpets and conversations murmur, I want to scream and shatter the illusion that we are having coffee and a catch-up chat about old times.
