But now, the relief. She told him she’d got her old room back. And so today it was an Elizabeth Fannin day, and it was going to be just like old times.
Except it wasn’t quite like that. The house was the same although there was a lot of rubbish outside and a large skip filled with wood and concrete and plaster and all kinds of other stuff. Samuel had something in his bag. He wanted to get rid of it. He’d been carrying it around for days now, trying to find a hiding place. He’d cleaned it thoroughly. But he didn’t like having it with him. It reminded him. The sound of the hammer as it crashed into the judge’s skull. The sight of the blood bursting from beneath the skin, the eyes, falling out of their sockets. The tiny drops of blood on his shoes and his trousers. It made him feel sick. Although he knew he’d been right to do it. The judge needed to be punished.
Samuel peered into the skip. It was full of nooks and crannies. It looked good. But there were men working in the house still, going in and out with wheelbarrows, the roar and thunder as they emptied their loads. He’d wait until later, when it would be quiet again, and he could take the hammer from his bag. And he’d never have to look at it again. Ever.
Now he walked to the little red door. He pressed the little white bell. He waited. The door opened. Elizabeth smiled.
‘Come in,’ she said. She took him by the hand. She led him down the corridor. It was cool and dark. She opened the door. She stood back. He walked inside. He looked around. Two windows in front of him, barred. Elizabeth’s chair. His chair. The pictures on the white walls. He knew them well. The lemon tree with its yellow fruit hanging low. Another one with big red flowers. And his favourite, the blue mountains and the white cottages with the stack of turf.
He took a step forward, and felt his feet on the rug, red and blue and orange and black. He knew it well. He’d looked at the pattern so many times. It was worn in spots and he liked that about it. It felt the way he felt. Worn in spots.
Elizabeth waved him towards his usual place.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘is this better?’
He nodded and smiled. He sat down. His breath came out in a long sigh. She sat too.
‘Now,’ her voice was soft and comforting, ‘tell me Samuel, how have you been?’
The lorry pulled up outside the house promptly at 7.30 in the morning. The driver jumped from the cab. He hitched the skip to the long metal arms which hung down from the back. Then he got into the cab and put the hoist in gear. The skip began to lift from the ground. It hung suspended in mid-air. It rose higher. And the load shifted. Masonry, plaster, stone, suddenly tumbling from the skip so that it tilted, almost upending. A pile of rubble on the ground as the driver increased the pressure and the engine revved and rumbled and the skip levelled out and moved, slowly, onto the lorry.
The driver got out of the cab. He looked at the heap. He bent down and picked something up. A hammer, a wooden handle smooth to the touch. He shook it to see if the metal head was loose. Amazing the things that people threw away. Good tools were always worth keeping. He swung up into the cab and dropped the hammer on the seat beside him. He released the handbrake and drove away from the house. Good to get an early start. It was hot already, sunlight pouring through the windscreen. If the day stayed like this he’d get home early and take the kids to the beach for a swim. He leaned into his seat and began to hum. Such a lovely day.
Another lovely day. McLoughlin had been woken early by sun streaming around the shutters and the bang and clatter of the truck picking up the skip. He’d heard the sound of falling debris but by the time he got himself out of bed and down the stairs the truck had gone, leaving behind a large pile of rubble. He stood on the top step staring at it, then with a sigh of resignation he grabbed a wheelbarrow and a shovel and set to work cleaning it up. There’d be another skip coming later and there was no point leaving the mess for Ian to sort. He’d already done enough cleaning up after the guards.
He worked away, getting some kind of satisfaction from the restoring of order. The dog followed him onto the footpath. He stopped at the gate to Hegarty’s house, sniffed around, lifted his leg, sniffed again. McLoughlin watched him. He looked dejected, suddenly sad, his curly little tail drooping, his ears flopping forward, the expression in his brown eyes downcast. McLoughlin leaned down and patted his head. He was overwhelmed by a sense of sadness, a sense of loss.
‘There’s a good fella, there’s a good boy,’ his voice was soft and gentle. The dog looked at him and lifted his paw. McLoughlin took it and gave it a formal shake. He’d never had a dog. His mother hadn’t liked them. Or any other animals. And Janey had been a cat person. But now as he watched the little black poodle, he felt a warmth which surprised him. He’d better, he supposed, contact Hegarty’s daughter. She’d probably want the dog. Or maybe, he thought as he pushed the wheelbarrow out of the way of the steps and picked up the shovel, maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d wait for someone to come looking for him. In the meantime he could stay here.
He stood for a moment and looked up and down the terrace. Front doors were opening. Cars starting up and driving off slowly. People going to work. He pushed the wheelbarrow filled with rubble out of the way. He was hungry. The builders would be here soon. He went back into the house and made himself coffee, spreading butter and honey thickly on a piece of brown bread. He called the dog, and together they walked down the steps and into the back garden. He sat on a rickety garden chair. Ferdie ran up and down investigating the overgrown greenery. McLoughlin watched him with interest. He was surprised he wasn’t trying to get over the wall but he showed no inclination. He ran and panted and sniffed and every now and then would rush towards McLoughlin and sit before him, his eyes fixed on the piece of bread in his hand. Then rush away, ferreting through the overgrown grass and shrubs. And rush back again, this time with a balding tennis ball which he dropped at McLoughlin’s feet and stood, waiting, panting with excitement.
‘Go on, make his day,’ Ian stood at the top of the steps. McLoughlin got up and threw the ball in a high arc. Ferdie stood on his hind legs, balancing and watching as it flew, waiting, then running beneath it, leaping up and catching it in his mouth.
‘Woo hoo!’ Ian cheered and clapped, as the dog ran to McLoughlin, dropping the ball at his feet, stepping back a couple of paces and waiting.
‘Look what you’ve started,’ McLoughlin bent down to retrieve it. He juggled it in his hands. ‘I’ll be at this all day now.’
‘And what better way to spend your retirement,’ Ian waved as he ducked back inside.
‘OK, one more for luck,’ McLoughlin lifted the ball and threw it again, this time towards the house. It bounced crookedly and slammed against one of the basement windows. He cringed, waiting for the sound of breaking glass but the ball glanced off and the dog seized it and this time ran away, lying with it trapped between his front paws. The window opened and a voice called out,
‘Having fun?’ Elizabeth Fannin’s face appearing as he walked towards her.
‘Sorry,’ he stopped, smiling, ‘you’re here early.’
She held up a pile of papers and waved a pen at them.
He beckoned, ‘Come on out, lovely sunshine, come and enjoy it.’
There was another garden chair folded up against the wall and he opened it, placing it beside his. He sat down again as she appeared. Once again she was wearing loose linen trousers and a shirt. This time they were deep purple, the colour of the Morning Glory he had grown one summer up a wigwam of bamboo canes in his garden in Stepaside. He made a mental note. Next year he’d have them here.
He patted the chair beside him. ‘I won’t say it.’
‘Set a spell,’ she butted in, and smiled. And again the world was a brighter, happier place. She sat on the chair. It wobbled beneath her and she kicked off her leather sandals and braced her feet.
‘Not sure how reliable these are.’ She shifted a
nd the chair wobbled again. ‘We bought them years ago. One of my colleagues was very keen on eating his lunch outside. It must have been during those good summers back then, 2005, 2006, can’t remember which, but we went through a phase of having picnics. That particular guy, Tony was his name, he was a very good gardener and he kept it all beautifully. It was lovely,’ and she smiled again and leaned back, closing her eyes.
McLoughlin felt a surge of jealousy. He chided himself, don’t be ridiculous, but somehow just hearing her mention another man, another relationship, spoiled the moment. He looked over, taking the opportunity to examine her face properly. She must be in her fifties, he reckoned. She must have been very beautiful when she was young, when her skin was smooth and unlined, when her hair was dark. He looked at her hands, loosely clasped in her lap and her feet strong and tanned, her toes splayed out, her body relaxed. She was still beautiful, he decided, and not just when she smiled.
As if aware of his gaze, she opened her eyes and straightened up. She fanned herself with her hand. ‘It’s hot out here. The basement is always a lot cooler.’
‘Yes, cooler, probably downright cold.’
She shrugged. ‘It’s OK, I don’t mind. I bring a shawl for the evenings.’
McLoughlin turned slightly towards her. ‘Can I ask you, if I’m not being too nosy.’
‘What?’ she looked anxious.
‘Your clothes,’ he gestured towards her trousers, ‘always the same design and the colours, beautiful colours, strong, powerful, not a pastel in sight.’
‘Aah, you’ve noticed,’ she sat up straight.
‘Yeah, is there a reason?
‘Actually there is, kind of,’ she fiddled with the top button of her shirt. McLoughlin noticed that it was made of something like mother of pearl.
‘So? Tell? If you want to. If I’m not being too nosy,’ he smiled.
‘Well, the reason for the colours, well,’ she paused and looked away, ‘it’ll sound ridiculous to you I’m sure, but years ago when I was a student I was a disciple of the guru, the Bhagwan. Do you know anything about him?’
‘The guy the Beatles went off to visit?’
She smiled. ‘He was the Guru Maharishi, all beads and sitars. Mine was the Bhagwan. We were orange people. Remember now?’
A vague memory. ‘Not the Hare Krishnas?’
‘No, they were into chanting and selling magazines and incense on Grafton Street. I don’t know what we believed really, but we all had to wear orange, although it wasn’t just orange. There was a spectrum of colours from orange, through red, to crimson, and purple was OK too. I still like the colours and so in the summer, I wear them. They’re sort of positive, life affirming, they make me feel good.’
They sat in silence for a moment. Ferdie had given up on the ball and was lying quietly, snoring under the lilac.
‘You were a bit of a rebel?’ McLoughlin stirred. The chair wasn’t comfortable. But he didn’t want to move in case she would take it as a cue and get up and go inside.
‘Yep, I was the classic. It started with the guru. I ran away to London when I was very young. I lived in what was called an ashram, a kind of a commune,’ she shuddered. ‘God when I think of it. Someone had squatted a big house in Ladbroke Grove. A floating population. Lots of dope, lots of brown rice and lots of beautiful young men being waited on hand and foot by stupid young women.’
‘Really? Weren’t you all feminists then?’ He turned and looked at her again.
‘Far from it I’m afraid. I realised after a few weeks that it was just another con,’ she smiled. ‘When I think of it. The pill seemed such a good idea to begin with, but then, rather than giving us power it took our power away. And all those so-called communes. There was nothing communal about them. At the top was always a man, and us poor orangey girls were way down the pecking order. Cooking the food, rolling the joints, providing the comfort.’ She sat up straight in the chair and it wobbled dangerously from side to side. ‘But, going to London was great once I escaped from the clutches of the guru.’
‘Yeah? I didn’t do it. I was destined for the Guards and after my father was killed, well, I couldn’t leave my mother.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘My sister, Clare, she was the rebel, the runaway. She did a version of what you’re describing. But I think her squat was more political. Socialist Workers, all that kind of thing.’
‘Well I’m afraid I was a bit of a Clare.’ She paused and looked away. ‘I didn’t have any scruples. I don’t think I gave a thought about my poor parents. It was all fun, fun, fun.’ Her expression was suddenly sad. Her mouth drooped and her shoulders sloped. She crossed her legs, wrapping them tightly around each other. He wanted to reach out and touch her hand, but he wasn’t sure if he could do that. The silence this time was uneasy. Even the dog seemed to sense it. He got up and came over, nuzzling his curly head against McLoughlin’s knee. He reached down and scratched behind his ears and the dog whined softly.
‘You’ve a friend there.’ Elizabeth leaned over and patted him too. ‘I thought he’d gone to the family.’
‘He turned up yesterday, outside the house. He must have figured how to get here, clever boy. So I thought I’d just bring him in. Actually,’ he paused and stroked the dog’s neck, ‘I like him. He’s fun. I’ll wait until someone realises he’s gone missing and comes for him.’ He pulled Ferdie’s face towards his. ‘Won’t I little fella? Won’t I?’
Elizabeth uncurled her legs and straightened herself up. Colour had come back to her face. ‘I remember when the judge got the dog. We were all amazed. He didn’t seem the poodle type.’
‘No? You knew him?’ For some reason he was surprised.
‘Yes of course. I remember when he moved in. His wife had died. He’d retired. We were all pleased to have him in the house. It had got very rundown. Lots of different tenants, people coming and going. It wasn’t great really, so,’ she paused, and smiled, ‘it was a bit of a relief to have the judge in residence. He was very sociable. He had a party, invited all of us and pretty much everyone from the square. It was a great night. Food, drink, there was music too. He was a very good pianist. He could play the lot, Chopin to Scott Joplin.’
The piano. McLoughlin could see it. In the bay of the drawing room window. The dark wood gleaming in the daylight. The judge lying on the floor.
She shifted in the seat and again it wobbled and she braced her feet on the grass. ‘I remember an extraordinary moment. His children were there and his grandchildren too, and they all started to sing with him. ‘She Moved through the Fair’. It was incredible, moving.’ She paused, looked away. Her face clouded, her expression changed. ‘I just can’t understand what happened. To think of him up there,’ she gestured to the windows above, ‘he must have been so frightened.’ She stopped and looked away. Again he felt suddenly annoyed by her feelings for the judge. Stop it, he chided himself, just stop. Just move the conversation away to something else.
‘So, you were here in this house longer than he was next door. Is that right?’ He was pleased. He’d changed the subject.
She didn’t answer immediately. A robin hopped, springy-legged along the weedy concrete path. It stopped and looked up at her, its head to one side. She shifted again and folded her arms across her body. ‘Oh yes, oh years longer. This group of therapists, well they’ve been here for, I don’t know, forty years or so?’
‘So before you got involved?’
‘Oh yes, ages before,’ she sat back in her chair. ‘It’s a good story, if you’re interested.’
‘Fire away.’ He smiled at her. ‘This house. Now I’m living here I sometimes feel it has a life of its own.’
She began to speak. The house had belonged to a doctor. His name was Ben Bradish. Ben had joined the British Army during the Second World War. He had been appalled by the number of men who had suffered what they called then she
ll shock.
‘Post-traumatic stress disorder, PTSD really,’ she explained. ‘But it wasn’t recognised then. A lot of men ended up in hospital. Loony bins, that’s what they called them.’ She looked down at her hands and in what McLoughlin had begun to recognise as a habitual gesture, she twisted the rings on her fingers. ‘Cruel but accurate. Terrible places. Dumps for the incurables. They were locked in, prescribed huge amounts of medication, given shock treatment too.’
She explained. Bradish had worked in a number of such hospitals in England after the war. When he came home he had hoped to get a job in Dublin.
‘But all the good jobs had gone to the guys who stayed put,’ she shrugged, ‘understandable really. So Ben had to take whatever he could and he ended up working outside Dublin.’ She paused. ‘Shocking it was, truly shocking. People treated worse than animals. Filthy conditions, inhuman. And Ben, well, Ben was a pioneer. He started reading, thinking, studying and he became convinced that the answer lay with Freud. He went back to London and trained with some of the great therapists of the post-war era and then he returned to Dublin and started the Therapy House, here in his family home.’
She looked up, looked away. ‘He was before his time really. People were suspicious. The medical establishment closed ranks. They tried to get him struck off, disbarred from practising, but Ben, he just stuck to his guns.’ She smiled. ‘He was one of a kind. A rebel in other ways too,’ she said. ‘A genuine believer in what they used to call free love. Another commune.’
‘Here? In this house? My house?’ He couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice.
She nodded. ‘Yeah, it didn’t last. They’d high ideals, but you know, human nature?’ She laughed. ‘Of course we therapists don’t really believe in human nature, not in that determinist, essential kind of way. But there are certain patterns, characteristics.’
The Therapy House Page 11
