The Therapy House

by Julie Parsons

  ‘Yes,’ McLoughlin stretched out his legs. ‘My father was from near here. He’d talk about all the old shops. And I remember my Aunt Bea, there was a hat shop she worked in. Not sure where that was.’

  ‘When I was at school, my best friend, Pam and I, we used to love trying on hats,’ Gwen pursed her lips, ‘but the shop here, the hat shop, it was owned by a Protestant family,’ she paused and fiddled with the sugar spoon, ‘and they didn’t employ Roman Catholics. They’d have nice Church of Ireland girls up from the country. They’d live in. Actually, to be honest, many of them weren’t treated well. They went to our church on Sundays, and they all looked miserable. Half starved, pale and thin.’

  ‘Really?’ McLoughlin looked at her. ‘You mean my lot didn’t have a monopoly on abuse?’

  She smiled. ‘Human nature I’m afraid.’ She picked up her mug. ‘Any more? I’m feeling much better.’

  McLoughlin lifted the jug and poured.

  ‘Actually,’ she took the spoon and stirred again, ‘I remember one of those girls running away. She was going out with a Roman Catholic boy. It was a bit of a scandal. She was friends with the Lane girls.’

  ‘The Lane girls?’

  ‘Yes, the people who lived in this house. I knew them well. The Lanes. Richard Lane, their father, he was a junior manager in Lees, which was the big drapery shop, on the corner.’

  The big shop on the corner. Solid, red brick, wooden floor which bounced when you walked on it. Wide mahogany counters, polished. Drawers filled with socks and underwear. Shop assistants, clean white shirts, dark ties, suits, hair slicked back. Bolts of cloth and rolls of ribbon. Shoes, brown and black in neat rows.

  ‘Actually I don’t remember Mr Lane. He died before I was born.’ Gwen leaned back in the chair which wobbled dangerously. McLoughlin watched her anxiously.

  Works in Lees. Every morning at 8.30 he walks along the Square, good morning, good morning, good morning, down to the main street, the town spick and span. The post boxes painted red. He lifts his hat to the ladies as he passes. His suit is pressed. His shoes are shined. He has a white handkerchief in his top pocket. He stops to buy a paper, The Irish Times at the newsagents on the corner. Buys a packet of cigarettes, Craven A with the black cat. Scans the front page. The news isn’t good. IRA attacks, army responses. But safe here, in the Pale. The town supports the King. Still.

  ‘Yes, he died before I was born. 1921. His poor wife was pregnant with Cecily. Cecily, now, she’d have been about the same age as me.’ Gwen swirled the coffee in her mug.

  He walks along the main street. It is July, high summer, warm, so he feels hot in his starched collar, his tie, his jacket, his trousers. He doffs his hat, hallo, good morning, good morning. The children are on holidays. Harry who is ten, Bobby who is eight, Jean who is five, Marjorie who is two and his wife, Elsie, has just told him that she is expecting again. This afternoon she will take the children to the park and then down to Sandycove where they will paddle.

  ‘Well I suppose,’ again McLoughlin stretched out his legs and raised his arms above his head. ‘Well those days, life expectancy, it wasn’t what we’re used to. No antibiotics, TB, rheumatic fever.’

  She shook her head. ‘It wasn’t anything like that. He didn’t die that way.’

  Richard turns into the shop. The morning passes slowly. It’s a quiet day. Then just before they close for lunch two men come in. Richard recognises one of them. He comes from the cottages down by the harbour. He approaches them but they brush past. They rush through the shop towards the door that leads to the yard behind. And then two policemen appear at the counter. One of them asks Richard, ‘Have you seen a couple of men here?’

  ‘Yes,’ Richard replies. He doesn’t notice the way some of the assistants and the customers turn their faces away. Pretend to be busy. Pretend they have seen nothing.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘two men. Paddy Keane was one of them.’

  ‘And where did they go?’ The policeman asks.

  ‘They went that way,’ says Richard and he points, out into the back. And the policemen run. Richard hears shouting. And the next thing the two policemen come back. They rush around to the side of the building. People stop in the street and watch. More policemen come and eventually everyone sees, the men from the shop, handcuffed.

  Richard goes home for lunch. He goes home for lunch every day. Elsie makes soup. Richard has his lunch. He reads the paper. He has a snooze in his chair. He goes back to work.

  ‘No?’ McLoughlin looked at her. She turned her face away.

  ‘We don’t talk about it much. We’re careful who we tell.’ Her voice dropped to a hush.

  Richard leaves the shop at a quarter to six. He always leaves at a quarter to six. The Angelus bell is ringing as he walks along the main street. He sees people stop, bless themselves. He gets home in time for dinner. Elsie minces the leftovers from Sunday’s roast. She makes Shepherd’s Pie. For pudding afterwards she stews apples, served with custard. After dinner the children go out to the square to play. Richard helps Elsie with the washing-up. Tomorrow Mrs Hegarty will come and clean the house from top to bottom. Mrs Hegarty is a good worker. Richard isn’t sure about her son. He thinks Dan’s getting mixed up in all kinds of trouble. He’s seen men coming out of the basement next door where the Hegartys live. He saw Paddy Keane from the cottages a few times.

  Elsie goes to call the children in from the square. It’s so bright outside. They don’t want to come. They sit at the kitchen table for their supper. A glass of milk and a piece of bread and dripping. And then, there is a knock at the door. Richard goes to answer it. Elsie hears voices, loud voices in the hall. She puts her head out to look. She sees men. They are dragging Richard away. She sees men she knows.

  Richard shouts, ‘Don’t worry, dearie, I’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Yes?’ McLoughlin looked at her. Her face was pale again.

  ‘You see, it was the IRA, they took him.’

  They take Richard out into the square. It’s quiet now. All the children are inside. A horse-drawn cab is waiting. They push him into it. He tries to resist and one of the men hits him on the head with a heavy stick. Blood drips down his face. He slumps forward. The cab drives off.

  ‘Took him?’

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘Took him.’

  Elsie waits up. She falls asleep in Richard’s chair in the parlour. She wakes in the cold light of dawn.

  ‘Richard,’ she calls his name.

  There is silence. Silence for four days and then a boy walking his dog on Killiney Hill finds the body of a man. His hands are tied. There is a jagged wound in his face and the marks of a beating on his body. A policeman comes to tell Elsie.

  ‘Why,’ she screams as the children crowd around and begin to cry, ‘why?’

  ‘Why?’ McLoughlin sat up straight and looked at her. Gwen shrugged. She gazed out at the garden.

  ‘The word in the town was that he was an informer. Because he had told the policemen about the men in the shop. They said he was being paid by the Castle. That he was keeping information on people.’ She shifted in her seat.

  People from the town stood outside the house. They shouted nasty things. Someone put a rat through the letter box. Some of the neighbours decided to go. They were frightened. The relations in Belfast would help. There was a cousin in London. A cousin in Bristol. An aunt and uncle in Londonderry. They would go.

  ‘So the family, what became of them?’

  Gwen got to her feet. ‘I’ve said enough. I’m tired. I think it’s time to go home.’

  ‘Of course,’ he stood too. ‘Here,’ he held out his arm. She took it. He folded her hand over his forearm and guided her back into the house. They walked through the hall. He opened the door. He looked over his shoulder. A woman’s face. He could see her. Pale, frightened, a child at her skirts. His hand
on the lock. The old lock, heavy brass. As he closed the door behind him he looked back. At the heavy brass knocker. Beneath his feet the granite front step. The boot scraper still intact. The men had stood here. They had knocked on the door. Bang, bang, bang. The door had opened. Richard Lane, aged thirty-five, junior manager in Lee’s drapery, married with four children and another on the way. Dragged down the steps, these steps, where McLoughlin walked now, Gwen Gibbon clinging onto him. Stood at the bottom, over the metal cover to the coal hole, where the coal man dumped his sacks, down into the space beneath the steps. Dragged him through the metal gate, the gate which now he pushed open, which squeaked loudly, which squeaked then and Richard thought as McLoughlin thought now, I must get out the Three in One and oil it. Dragged him to the horse-drawn cab, standing where now his car was parked. Hit him when he resisted, a thump on the head. McLoughlin looked down at the ground. There would have been blood, here on the footpath, the same stone slabs now as then. The police would have come. Now they’d have taken samples, got DNA; then, he didn’t know.

  They crossed the road and walked beneath the trees, Ferdie running ahead.

  ‘You know,’ she stopped and looked back. ‘Being called an informer. It was then and it is now a terrible slur. It made me think, when,’ she paused.

  ‘When,’ he looked down. The pink of her scalp showed through her white hair, pulled back into a neat bun, held in place with long pins.

  ‘That nice policewoman came to see me. Isn’t it wonderful,’ she looked up at him, a sudden smile lighting up her thin face. ‘Wonderful that women can do the same jobs as men now, really wonderful.’

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded, ‘and some do them better than men. You know, thorough, careful, great attention to detail.’

  ‘Yes, she was very thorough, very well prepared. She had her computer. She put it on my table. I didn’t think it would work but she knew what to do.’ She started walking again, slowly, watching where she was putting her feet.

  ‘And what did she want?’

  ‘She showed me photographs. Said there was someone who they needed to identify. Asked me to look at the pictures and see if I could recognise anyone. And do you know,’ she looked up at him, an expression of surprise on her face, ‘I did. I saw someone whose face I’d seen before. And I was just about to point him out. And then I thought. Hold on a minute. What are you doing?’

  ‘Yes,’ McLoughlin nodded, ‘it’s a big responsibility, but it’s your duty to help the guards if you can.’

  ‘That’s what she said,’ Gwen nodded. ‘And then she told me that they thought they might have a suspect for the murder of poor John Hegarty. So…’ they had reached her gate. She reached out and grasped it and hung on tightly.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, I told her yes, I recognised him.’ She turned towards him. ‘I was supposed to visit the judge the day he was killed. I was invited for six o’clock, but I fell, ended up in hospital. If I hadn’t fallen that day, what do you think? Do you think the judge would have been killed if I’d been there?’

  He took her hand and helped her along the path to her front door. ‘I tell you what I think Gwen, if I may call you Gwen?’ She smiled and inclined her head. ‘I think it was lucky you weren’t there. I think whoever shot the judge was determined to do it. Here,’ he took the keys from her hand, ‘it was nothing to do with you, so don’t feel bad about it.’ He opened the door. ‘Now, are you OK? Can I do anything for you?’

  She turned to him and smiled. ‘I’m fine, thank you Michael for coming with me. I think I’ll lie down for a little bit.’

  He sat her on the sofa, found her a blanket, kissed her cheek. He left his phone number, scribbled on the margin of the phone book. He’d check on her later. Later, before he went to meet Elizabeth, to sit in her garden and have a drink. Sit in the sunshine and enjoy her company.

  He walked across the square, Ferdie at his heels. As he reached the trees his phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket. He pressed the answer button.

  ‘Hi Tom, thanks for getting back to me. You got my message. Let me explain.’

  It was just after six when McLoughlin left the house for his dinner date with Elizabeth. The square was filled with children. A birthday party had spilled over from a nearby garden. He could hear Ferdie barking, faintly, and see him pressed against the front window. He was leaving him behind.

  He hurried down the front steps, then stopped for a moment and looked around. Sunshine dappled through the trees, children playing, everything bright and gay. And for a moment he saw the square, all those years ago, 1921 Gwen had said, a horse-drawn cab in front of his house and the men, pushing, shoving, beating Richard Lane as they drove him to his death. He shivered and for a moment it was dark as a cloud drifted across the sun. He turned away, turned his back on it and moved into the noise and bustle of the town.

  First stop, the wine bar. This evening it was full, the noise level high. Anthony greeting him with a smile, then looked around.

  ‘No Ferdie?’

  ‘No,’ McLoughlin shook his head, ‘not tonight.’

  ‘Ah,’ Anthony smiled and put his index finger to his lips, ‘hot date, is that it?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ McLoughlin smiled in return. He scrutinised the shelves. ‘Now, something a bit special, I think. Something cold and sparkling.’

  ‘Now,’ Anthony cocked his head to one side, ‘I have just the thing.’ He reached out and pulled a bottle from the chill cabinet. He wrapped it in red tissue paper. McLoughlin took the bottle, nodded his thanks, handed over his credit card. Then stepped out into the sunshine again, stopping outside the florist next door and scanning the flowers in their metal buckets. Irises, he thought. Tall, purple blooms. They reminded him of Elizabeth.

  He walked back through the town, looking for the turn to Elizabeth’s street. And saw how he was outside the shop where Richard Lane had once worked. He could see himself in the plate glass windows. Bottle in one hand, flowers in the other. He straightened. He didn’t look too bad. He’d found the iron and the ironing board and pressed his linen jacket. He’d put on his navy blue linen trousers and polished his shoes. But as he stood and looked at himself, a shadow crossed over his reflection. A man, younger than him, smaller, thinner. Short dark hair slicked back from his forehead. Neat and tidy in his dark suit, a white handkerchief in his breast pocket. And the vinyl and plastic of the new shop giving way to the chrome and wood of the old one. The ring of the till and the click of shoes on the hard floor. The men rushing in from the street.

  McLoughlin walked around the corner. He could see where the building ended. Where the small yard began. No way out. Trapped, they would have been. The wall high, well over ten feet. As he stood and looked he could imagine their shouts, see the men of the Dublin Metropolitan Police with their caps and their whistles and their truncheons. And a crowd gathering to watch.

  It wasn’t far to Elizabeth’s house. Tucked in beside the Mariners’ Church. Pots with nasturtiums trailing over the front steps, scarlet, orange and yellow. And the door painted a glossy black, with a brass knocker, letterbox and around the doorknob a beautiful brass sunburst. As he leaned forward to inspect it, the door opened.

  ‘You’re here,’ Elizabeth put out her hand and drew him in. ‘We’re in the garden.’

  He held out the bottle.

  ‘Thanks,’ she took it and ran her fingers over the tissue paper. ‘Great, it’s cold. I’ll get glasses.’

  ‘Take these too, they probably need water.’ He held out the irises. She smiled, then leaned forward and kissed his cheek. Her touch was gentle.

  It was warm in the garden, the limestone paving giving back the sun. The beds were filled with flowers, Elizabeth’s colours, he thought. Oranges, reds, crimsons, purples, dark blues. He recognised the same poppies as the ones in the judge’s garden, with the black splodge in the centre. There was a scen
t in the evening air. Strong and sweet. He sniffed appreciatively.

  ‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’ The young woman sprawled on a deck chair looked up. ‘It’s from the Nicotiana.’ She pointed towards the tall plant, whose white, trumpet-shaped flowers drooped down. A small figure, with bouncing curls, appeared from behind the flowerbed.

  ‘Hallo Michael,’ she held out her chubby hand and he took it and bowed.

  ‘Leah, how do you do?’

  She smiled and curtseyed, wobbling as her little legs bent. ‘I do fine, Michael.’ She pulled him towards the chair. ‘This is my mummy. And my baby brother’s in her tummy. Come and say hallo.’

  The young woman sat up and reached out to shake his hand. She too had curls, dark and exuberant.

  ‘I’m Jess, I’m Elizabeth’s daughter and Leah’s mother.’ She smiled, her mouth curving upwards, but her eyes were covered by large sunglasses. She was, as Leah had said, heavily pregnant. She fanned herself with a newspaper. ‘Sit down. Do.’ She pointed to a wooden bench.

  They sat in the sun. Elizabeth came out from the house with a tray, the wine poured into tall glasses. McLoughlin sipped. The child played at their feet, singing to herself as she hopped and skipped and jumped.

  ‘The baby,’ McLoughlin nodded towards Jess. ‘Any day now?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jess shifted uncomfortably. ‘Any day now. Can’t come soon enough.’