‘It’s OK, Da.’ She rises and gives him a peck on his bald head. ‘I’ll go and help Ma.’
‘I see you’ve got the philosophy shelf, too,’ says David, after she has closed the door behind her.
‘Aye, well, that’s all down to Martin.’ His tone contains a hint of wistfulness. Momentarily subdued, he looks away from David at the lower shelf, then perks up. ‘I stick to the history myself.’ He smiles.
In the kitchen, Rosa bastes a topside of beef.
‘Ma, you shouldn’t be spending money on that,’ Maire chides her.
‘Course I should, love. Any friend of yours needs a proper welcome.’ They’re both silent as she concentrates on the juices and returns the joint to the oven. ‘He’s a fair-looking wee man.’
‘I’m glad you think so, Ma.’
‘You like him?’
‘Yes, Ma, I do. He’s fun.’
‘Is he kind?’
‘Yes, he’s kind.’
She takes a tray of roast potatoes – they seem a vast amount – and carefully revolves them, inspecting every side for brownness. While she’s returning them to the heat, with her back to her daughter, Rosa mumbles, ‘Not like us, is he, though?’ She turns to Maire, wearing a worried smile.
‘Does that matter, Ma?’ asks Maire gently.
‘Not if you really like him, love.’ She pauses. ‘And his intentions are good.’
Lunch, which takes place around the kitchen table, is not the ordeal Maire’s imagined. Her mother’s food is always delicious and David relishes it. He is, she knows all too well, a practised charmer and he and Stephen range over twentieth-century history, which David explains was his special course during his degree – something he’s not previously told her. They even compare Ireland’s Gaelic football teams, another area of expertise he’s not previously laid claim to. He’s shameless, she tells herself, but can’t help admiring him for it. By the time pudding, a massive apple pie with ice cream, has largely disappeared, he has his mother and father dangling on a hook. A half-bottle of cognac is even produced to accompany coffee.
A key rattles the front door lock; she tenses. Martin walks in, hangs up his coat and joins them in the kitchen. ‘Don’t get up,’ he commands. ‘Jeez, Ma, smells cracking.’
‘I’ve kept you a plate,’ she says. ‘Wasn’t sure youse were coming.’
‘Aye, I meant to be earlier but something come up.’ He looks over at David.
‘This is my friend David,’ says Maire.
Martin offers his hand, ‘Pleased to meet you, David.’ David jumps to his feet to shake it. Martin’s face is a blank, neither warm nor cool. ‘Just a slice of that there apple pie would be great, Ma. Then I’ll need to away.’
‘No beef?’ She sounds disappointed.
He pats his stomach. ‘Gotta watch myself.’
Maire catches David’s eye. ‘Almost time to go if we’re gonna catch that bus.’
‘I’m just beginning to enjoy myself. You’re no sooner come than gone,’ Stephen says. ‘Go on, stay. Stay the night. David can go in Martin’s room. He’s living out the house now.’
‘No, Da,’ Maire interrupts, ‘honestly we’ve got to—’
David cuts across her. ‘I don’t need to get back, Maire.’
She casts him an icy stare. ‘There we are,’ says her father.
‘I didn’t pack,’ says Maire.
‘I’ll have whatever you need,’ says Rosa. ‘Be nice if you stay, love.’
With a flourish, David produces two objects from his jacket pocket. ‘Toothbrushes,’ he announces triumphantly. ‘Never travel without them.’
‘Looks like you’re beaten, love,’ says Stephen.
Martin has been listening quietly. ‘Sure, that’s OK, I’m never sleeping here now.’
Early winter darkness is setting in. ‘Fancy a walk, David?’ asks Maire. ‘Show you the neighbourhood.’
‘That’d be nice.’
Her parents nod in approval. ‘You two go on,’ says Rosa, the mother orchestrating the young lovers to have their time.
They walk in a cold silence that matches the air. The Black Mountain is a silhouetted line in the dark, lowering over them; the streets deserted, neighbours huddled behind closed doors watching television in warmly lit rooms.
‘You shouldn’t have done that.’
‘Done what?’ he replies with the innocence of angels.
‘You fucking well know what, David,’ she snaps.
‘Good God, you’re really angry, aren’t you? Is this going to be our first row?’
He’s refusing to take her seriously; this time the charm and the grin won’t work.
‘You planned it,’ she accuses him.
‘No, not planned.’
‘What about the stunt with the toothbrushes? How stupid do you think that made me feel?’
‘I was prepared, that’s all.’
‘Not good enough, David. I told you, I didn’t wanna stay here long. I don’t like this place.’
‘Why? It’s your home town.’
‘You dunno anything, do you, David?’
‘Not if you don’t tell me, no, I don’t.’
‘And I thought you fucking understood history.’
He addresses her with a deadly earnest. ‘Maire, I meant what I said. For us to be one, I have to be one with them. This is my chance to overcome that history. I know it’s costing you. But I’ve got to grab it.’
‘You tricked me.’
‘Maire, look at me.’ He’s imploring her. ‘I love you for God’s sake.’
She allows the word to linger. A sliver of moon is showing, occasional stars dotting the sky between the street lights. ‘You always have an answer, don’t you?’ she says.
‘Love’s not a contest.’
Tea, as her parents call it, or supper, as David does when with her, is mushroom omelettes with home-cut chips. The front door latch sounds. She hears the voice of Martin reappearing and a second set of footsteps behind. She immediately knows.
Martin pokes his head around the kitchen door, followed by Joseph. He’s still the lanky, beguiling figure with long dark hair, but now a cigarette stuck in his hand and a gauntness in his cheeks. She’s cold with fear of him.
‘Hello, Maire,’ he says. ‘Been a while.’
‘I’ve too much work ever to get away.’ She wants to be anywhere but here. ‘It’s good to see you, Joseph.’ She doesn’t want to touch him and introduces him to David.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ says Joseph. ‘You’re a lucky man. There’s plenty like to be in your shoes.’ David grins while Joseph makes a show of inspecting him up and down. ‘Good luck to you. Any true friend of Maire’s a friend of mine.’ The chill in the word ‘true’ is unmistakable.
After tea she and David go up to her room. David admires her trophies: the silver cup for ‘outstanding academic achievement’, the photograph of her in the school cycling team, family photos of windswept holidays on the Atlantic coast.
‘Mum and Dad insist on keeping them there,’ she says. ‘I’d get shot of them all.’
‘You can see how proud they are of you,’ he protests. He peers at a portrait photograph of the teenage Maire in her school uniform.
‘So who’s our friend Joseph?’ he asks idly.
‘Why do you wanna know about him?’ Her reply is not warm.
‘He can’t take his eyes off you.’
‘Unrequited adoration, I expect.’ The sarcasm tells him not to pursue it.
At 11 p.m. she packs him off to bed in Martin’s bedroom with a promise that he’ll stay there. Even if she’s in the mood, she can’t spend the night with him in her childhood home.
And then they come.
CHAPTER 12
One a.m. The turbulence of the day sabotages her sleep. She hears the front door click open, the flick of a light switch and tiptoeing footsteps. A minute later, a tap on her bedroom door.
‘Maire.’ It’s Martin whispering.
She rubs her eyes, sw
itches on the bedside light and pulls the door ajar. She’s wearing her pants and shirt.
‘Whaddya you want, Martin?’ He puts a finger over his lips and shushes her.
‘Just come down for a minute, kid.’
‘Why?’
‘Just do it, Maire, OK.’
It’s an order not a request; she puts on her sweater and jeans and follows him down.
Three figures are grouped in front of the gas fire. Joseph Kennedy is one. She recognizes the other two from occasional visits to the house in past years: Sean Black, denim jacketed with sleeked back, jet black hair; Brendan O’Donnell, narrow brown eyes darting about, pallid cheeks below. She nods to them all. She is in the presence of men with blood on their hands – men who won’t turn a hair at disposing of anyone they deem an enemy or traitor.
‘Sorry to disturb you, Maire,’ says Joseph. ‘Nothing to be alarmed about, I’m sure.’
‘Something’s come up,’ says Black. ‘We need to check it out.’
O’Donnell takes over; it strikes her that they’ve rehearsed. ‘Your friend David. There’s a question of identity,’ he says more roughly.
Martin takes charge – as he has always done. ‘The name rings a bell,’ he says.
Maire instantly remembers what David’s told her about his father. ‘Whaddya mean?’ She sounds as puzzled as she can.
‘Vallely,’ continues Martin. ‘As I say, it rings a bell.’
‘It’s just a name,’ she says. ‘What sort of bell?’
‘It’s not that common, though, is it?’
‘It’s another Irish name,’ she says.
‘But he’s a Brit, isn’t he?’ interrupts Joseph.
‘Yes, Joseph, he’s English,’ says Maire. ‘Is that a sin?’ She gets no answer.
‘The thing is,’ says Black, ‘your brother recalls the name Vallely as having a military connection. A Brit soldier.’
‘I dunno what you’re talking about,’ says Maire. ‘When was this?’
‘That’s the trouble,’ says O’Donnell. ‘Your brother can’t place the timing.’
‘Can’t my brother’ – she stamps the word with heavy emphasis – ‘speak for himself?’
‘Don’t get angry, Maire,’ says Joseph. ‘It’s for your own good.’
‘That’s why you were inspecting him, then,’ says Maire, scornfully rounding on him.
‘I’m still looking out for you, Maire.’
‘I can look out for myself,’ she snarls.
‘Actually, you should be grateful to Joseph, Maire,’ says Martin, watching her closely. She’s reminded how much she has come to dislike his assumption of authority over her. ‘He doesn’t remember the name like I do. Do you, Joseph?’
‘That’s right, Martin, I don’t. Doesn’t ring a bell to me.’
Maire shivers. She’s grateful for the excuse of the cold house in the middle of the night. She looks at the four of them, in their different ways all living reasons not to return to this place.
‘I’ll tell him what you say,’ she says. ‘but he won’t know what you’re talking about. What’s the big deal, anyway?’
‘We’re not saying there is one, Maire,’ says Black, ‘but unexplained Brits lurking in our home territory . . .’
‘He’s not a lurker,’ says Maire, ‘he’s my friend. I’m not such a fool.’
‘You need to know something, Maire,’ says Martin. She senses her brother about to embark on one of his lectures. ‘These are delicate times. Treacherous times. There are men in the leadership wanting to give up the struggle. Talking about some kind of peace process with the Brits. We’ve got to hold the line. We four have committed ourselves to do that. We’ll do whatever’s necessary. So we’ve got to be careful, keep our eyes and ears open. This is a situation which breeds traitors and spies.’
‘He’s a student,’ she says. ‘He lives a hundred miles away. He’s a nice boy. I like him. Maybe he’s happy-go-lucky, maybe his big stupid grin’s sometimes too wide. But those are sins I can put up with.’ She’s trying to stay calm. Desperation is her most dangerous opponent.
‘OK,’ says Martin, ‘we’ll decide overnight if any further action is necessary. That’s it. Till the morning, anyway.’ He looks hard into her eyes. ‘And youse keep an eye on him.’
Joseph follows her out to the hallway, planting a restraining hand on her shoulder.
‘You got away OK, didn’t you, Maire?’
‘Whaddya talking ’bout?’
‘Just that.’
‘You’d best make yourself clear, Joseph.’
‘Never even said goodbye.’
‘Jesus Christ, what the fuck did you expect?’
Kennedy neither answers nor lets her go. ‘Handsome, your Brit, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, he’s handsome.’
‘Need to be careful.’
‘Whaddya saying, Joseph?’
‘A lotta touts around.’ He cast her a curious smile. ‘Know what I mean?’ He puts a finger to his nose as if to imply a shared secret.
‘I dunno what the fuck you’re talking ’bout, Joseph.’ He raises his eyebrows and removes his hand from her shoulder. She swivels on her heel and climbs the stairs as swiftly as quiet allows.
Reaching the landing, she thinks she sees the door of Martin’s room, where David is sleeping, silently closing. Perhaps it’s her agitation. The burble of voices below is audible for a few minutes, then the sound of the front door opening, footsteps departing, and the latch snapping slickly shut.
She realizes she’s at a crossroads in her life. She makes her decision – after it, there can be no turning back.
Instead of retreating to her room, she eases open the door she thinks she saw shutting. He’s lying in bed, apparently asleep.
‘David?’ she whispers.
He’s instantly alert. ‘Yes, Maire.’
‘Listen to me. Just for once don’t speak, don’t ask questions, don’t argue, don’t try tricks. In thirty minutes, you and I’ll leave this house silently. That’ll give them time—’
‘Give who time?’ he interrupts.
‘Just shut up, would you?’ she hisses. ‘We’ll give them time to split up and get to their own homes. We’ll then walk to the Europa bus station. We’ll look like late-night lovers. It’s only a few miles. We’ll not take a local bus there, or a taxi. The early bus for Dublin leaves at four a.m. We’re catching it. Understand?’
‘Yes, Maire.’ It’s the first time he has complied with her so instantly. ‘What about your parents?’
‘I said don’t ask questions.’ She tiptoes from the room, turns into her own, and puts the rest of her clothes on. Her and David’s overcoats are on hooks in the hall downstairs and will have to wait until they’re ready to leave the house. She puts on her bedside lamp, angling it onto the floor to throw as little ambient light as possible. Her old school desk is still in the corner – in it she finds a scrap of paper and a biro. She picks it up, recoils at its childishly chewed end, and writes:
Dear Ma and Da
Sorry David and I had to away early. Forgot we’re meeting friends down south for Mass tomorrow. Been great to see you and thanks, Ma, for the great food. See you soon and will ring, love Maire xx.
She doesn’t know whether to feel pleased with herself or ashamed.
She leaves her room, closing its door tight. David hears her, creeps out onto the landing, and closes his. Her father’s snoring drifts through the house. It is helpful cover. Downstairs, they collect their coats and slide into the night. Maire pulls out a woolly hat and stretches it down over her ears and forehead. She unfurls David’s coat collar and pulls it as far as she can up his neck. She whispers in his ear.
‘So we’re lovers. Been drinking the night through, staggering home, a bit far gone. No one talks except me.’
At one point, she sees a man in the distance, pushes David against a hedge and kisses him passionately. After the man has passed, she brusquely withdraws and marches on. They pause in dark corners
to allow time to pass and arrive at the bus station at 3.40. She places them on a bench and they conceal each other in long hugs. The time comes to board the coach. It is a quarter full. They sit together and continue the burial of each other in embraces. As the bus pulls away, she speaks.
‘Don’t look out of the window.’
‘OK,’ he says.
‘Shush.’
The coach follows its slow meandering route, past pickup points heading out of Belfast via Lisburn. The motorway offers protection, but there is still the Newry stop to come. Much of the time Maire tells herself she’s being paranoid. It seems preposterous that some kind of revenge against a long dead British soldier could be visited on the son. But she knows these men. And she remembers Martin’s severity – her brother, now disunited in blood. She tries to forget Joseph speaking in riddles. She disobeys her own instructions and glances at overtaking cars.
It is still dark when they cross the border and turn into Dundalk, the last stop before Dublin. The driver announces there will be a fifteen-minute wait.
‘I need to stretch my legs, Maire.’
‘No.’
‘I need to piss.’
‘No.’
He sits in silent pain.
‘Jesus Christ,’ she whispers. ‘Stay.’ It’s a command to a dog. She steps out, woolly hat back over her head, and heads towards a kiosk in the bus station. He watches her negotiate with a toothless old man encamped in the stall and return with a plastic shopping bag. The other passengers are sleeping or taking a break outside. She hands him the bag.
‘Use this.’
‘Is this really necessary, Maire?’
‘Shut up. Use it.’
He undoes his fly zip and she leans over him while he fills the bag.
‘Give it me.’
She takes the bag, trying to catch any leaking drips in her hand as she dismounts the bus. She walks over to a garbage can and throws the bag in. She wipes her hands with distaste.
An hour and a half later they’re in Dublin. It is nearly 8 a.m., the early-morning cold and damp.
‘I wanna walk along the river,’ she says.
‘I’m famished, Maire,’ he answers. ‘Any chance of some breakfast?’
‘Walk first.’
‘Did you remember my lead?’ he asks.
Woman of State Page 10
