by Laura Elliot
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Joy
Horsetail is a horrible plant, rough and hairy. It keeps spreading, no matter how often Joy uproots it. The flowers on her mother’s grave are dead. She replaces the water and arranges the fresh stock. Every spring her mother planted it under the kitchen window. Miriam must have done so this year. The scent is heady at night, drenched with longing.
Her father drops to his knees beside her. ‘You’re crying,’ he says and helps her to her feet, stands with his arm around her shoulders. He never tells her not to cry and she’s been doing a lot of it since that day in Dylan’s office. A woman kneeling at the next grave covers her mouth. The grave is a mess and she keeps pulling at the horsetail, pulling harder and harder. There is blood on her hands. Joy feels sick, remembering.
‘It’s impossible to get rid of it.’ She did not mean to speak so loudly, to shout, actually, and the woman jerks her head to look up at her.
‘It’s horsetail,’ Joy explains more quietly. ‘It spreads everywhere.’
The woman touches her lips with her tongue and sighs. She sighs again, deep heaving breaths as if she can’t get enough air into her lungs. She tries to rise but sinks back to the ground. Her hands flutter, as if she does not know what to do with them when she is not pulling weeds. She reminds Joy of a droopy swan, except for her cropped black hair, which somehow looks all wrong with her long thin face and cat-green eyes.
‘Are you all right?’ Joy’s father asks. He bends forward to help her stand but she draws back and, this time, rises without difficulty. She stands still as a statue, staring at him.
‘Your hands are bleeding,’ Joy says.
The woman, noticing the blood, lifts her fingers and holds them like claws before her face. Then she lets them fall, as if all the energy has drained from her. A dying swan, Joy thinks, as the woman sways and sinks over her mother’s grave, collapsing so suddenly that Joy’s father is unable to reach her on time. The rose thorns snatch at her clothes when he lifts her from the grave. Her face and neck are covered with fine, red scratches. The crack and rustle of branches stirs a bird from the undergrowth and it flies upwards with a startled song. Joy’s heart thumps and the flashback comes: the deadly stillness of her mother when she drew her last breath.
The woman’s long legs hang over Joy’s father’s arms and her head lolls like the picture of the Michelangelo Pietà in Miriam’s room. He lays her down on a grassy verge and uses water from the container to revive her.
‘We need to bring her to hospital.’ He sounds frightened and is about to lift her again when her eyelids flutter open.
‘Please put me down.’ Her voice is a hoarse command, her face ashen. Even the back of her neck is white. She stares at the sky then turns her head to one side and buries Joy in her gaze. That is the only way Joy can explain it. Joy steps back, suddenly so nervous that the kitten claws start scratching at her chest again.
‘You fainted.’ Her father’s shadow falls across the woman’s body when he kneels beside her. ‘We should bring you to hospital.’
‘No, I don’t want to go near a hospital. It’s nothing…nothing. I’m fine, honestly.’ She refuses to allow him to help her up. ‘Don’t touch me,’ she snaps. ‘I’m perfectly capable of managing by myself.’
Why is she so unfriendly when all they are trying to do is help? Her face is no longer white. It’s red and angry and she looks as if she loathes them for interfering.
Joy gathers up the dead flowers. The stems are slimy, the smell unpleasant. She walks past the woman without speaking to her again and flings them onto the rubbish disposal dump.
‘I’m meeting Lucinda,’ she shouts across at her father. ‘I’ll see you later.’
Cold water gushes from the outdoor tap. She holds her hands underneath, runs it over her wrists. The woman walks towards her. Tight jeans emphasise the length of her legs and her red jacket, nipped at the waist, flares over her hips. Unwilling to speak to her again, Joy shakes droplets of water from her hands and heads towards the church gates.
‘Thank you for your help.’ The woman is breathless when she catches up with her. ‘I don’t know what came over me. The heat, I guess.’
‘Are you okay now?’ Joy asks.
‘Yes, I am. Everything is perfectly fine. Can I drive you to your friend’s house?’
‘It’s only down the road,’ she lies. Danny’s house is at least fifteen minutes’ cycle away. ‘I don’t want a lift.’
The woman stops and nods, turns back towards the graves.
After the silence of the cemetery, the village sounds reassuringly loud. Music blares from the record shop, Spinning Discs, and her friend Jacinta waves from the window of Bella Fashions, where she is working for the summer holidays. Joy cycles past Breen’s Estate Agency. She wonders who has taken her mother’s place and if they will win awards and bonuses for being brilliant at selling apartments. Further out along the road, a car horn beeps. Lucinda’s mother, with Lucinda in the passenger seat, pulls up beside Joy and stores her bike in the boot.
‘You two behave yourselves,’ she warns when she parks outside Danny’s house. ‘I don’t want a repeat of that last experience.’
‘Get a life,’ Lucinda mutters from the side of her mouth but, remembering the grounding that followed their night in Dowling’s Meadow, she makes sure her mother doesn’t hear.
Danny’s house is at the end of a sweeping driveway. It has two wings on either side, which Danny’s mother named the North and South Wings. Joy lies on a sunbed beside the pool and thinks about the woman collapsing. If her mother had sunk to the floor with the same silent grace, instead of hitting the dressing table when she fell, Joy would never have known anything was wrong. Not that it mattered in the end. The most awful part is that a lot of the time she really doesn’t miss her mother. Maybe that’s why, when she does, she feels as if her insides have been scraped out. Now that she’s at Danny’s place, she wants to go home. The boys are watching Lucinda, who has changed into a string bikini. They stamp and whistle when she dives into the pool. They are oafs, oozing testosterone. Her father must have been like that once, chasing and catching Corrine O’Sullivan. If he hadn’t caught her there would have been no Joey. She refuses to think about him. Only an E…stop…stop!
No one notices when she leaves the swimming pool and heads for home. She’s tired and hot by the time she reaches Miriam’s Glasshouse. She’ll take a lift home with her grandmother. Miriam has to catch up on her emails and will be with her shortly. Joy enters the Amber Café, which opened last summer at the back of the studio. The last visitors have left and Phyllis, who looks after the food, is closing the kitchen.
‘You look hot,’ she says when she sees Joy. ‘Fancy a Seven Up?’
‘Just water,’ says Joy and relaxes in the café until her grandmother is ready to leave for Rockrose.
Joy flings her bike into the boot of the car and settles into the passenger seat, glad to rest from the heat. No sign of Splotch as Miriam drives down the lane. Surprising that, considering he can usually hear a flea’s wings beating. A silver Toyota Avensis with a Dublin registration is parked behind her father’s jeep.
‘Visitors,’ says Miriam, parking behind the Avensis. ‘I wonder if Tessa and Jim have arrived?’
‘They haven’t,’ says Joy.
The front door is open. Sunlight spills into the hall, capturing dancing dust motes. The scythe, covered with grass and leaves, has been left outside.
Voices are audible from the kitchen. She hears her father’s laughter. The woman sits in the sofa beside the Aga. Splotch, his tongue lolling like a discarded rag, lies on his back, his legs jiggling the air as the woman trails her fingers up and down his belly. He makes no attempt to move, even when he notices Joy.
‘Splotch. Here, boy.’ The pang of jealousy is sharp. Joy slaps her hands off her knees and he drags his paws across the floor towards her.
The woman also stands. Grass stains are visible on her white T-shirt.
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‘We meet again, Joy.’ Her voice catches, the way it did in the graveyard, but she doesn’t sound as if she’s going to faint again. ‘I’m Clare Frazier. Your father has very kindly invited me to dinner.’
Her father had prepared a casserole earlier and it has been simmering for hours in the Aga. He’s set the table for four and uncorked a bottle of wine. ‘It’s the least I could do after all the hard work you did in the cemetery,’ he says.
‘I did very little,’ she replies.
‘You certainly know how to wield a scythe.’ Her father is smiling, really smiling, like he doesn’t have to pretend any more. ‘We cleared a large amount of weeds from the graves.’
‘About time someone took a scythe to that graveyard,’ says Miriam. ‘The Ramblers have been too busy rambling this summer to pay any attention to it. Is this your first time in Clare…Clare?’ She laughs and carries the tureen to the table.
‘I was here once as a child with my parents and my brother, Leo,’ says the woman. ‘We had a dog then too. His name was Miley. Splotch reminds me of him. The same collie breed but a different colour.’
Splotch, hearing his name, gambols over to her and leaps upwards, places his paws on her stomach. Fawning over a stranger. First her father, now her dog. And the woman doesn’t seem to mind his dirty paws on her T-shirt.
‘What a wonderful kitchen.’ Her head turns slowly as she stares around the kitchen. ‘It looks like the heart of the house.’
Her father seems pleased with the compliment. Joy’s parents used to argue over the kitchen. Her mother wanted fitted presses and marble countertops. She would have loved a large American-sized chrome fridge and freezer, like Danny’s mother has in her kitchen, but her father would say, ‘You’ve always done what you wanted to the house but you’re not changing a stick of furniture in the kitchen.’
He carved his initials on the inside of one of the wooden table legs when he was a boy. Joy did the same on her ninth birthday. He shows the woman the carvings and she hunkers down beside him. She traces her finger over Joy’s initials and grips the edge of the table to keep her balance when she stands.
‘You two obviously have a very close relationship.’ Her eyes make Joy nervous. Even when she smiles, they remain hard and glassy.
‘We’re pardners in crime.’ Her father puts on a fake cowboy accent and tugs Joy’s hair. ‘Isn’t that right, ole buddy?’
‘Sure thing, cowboy.’ She pulls an imaginary shotgun from an imaginary holster and aims for his heart.
He clutches his chest and staggers into a chair. The woman sits next to him and opposite Joy. It’s where her mother used to sit. Joy should be able to bring her to mind but she’s conscious only of the woman staring then looking away every time Joy catches her out.
Miriam lifts the lid off the tureen. Steam and the scent of thyme gushes out.
Hopefully, there’ll be enough food for four. Joy is ravenous and she does not want to share her dinner with a stranger.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Carla
The garden in the cottage Carla had rented was filled with gnomes. They peered from behind the bushes, stood to attention on either side of the porch, and splashed merrily in an ornamental pond. Inside the cottage, enchantment still held sway with pictures of fairies on the walls, and pixies, elves and delicate fairy figurines arranged on every available surface.
Carla, returning from Rockrose and aware that her own world had shifted to another dimension, felt totally at home among these tiny, other-world creatures. Reluctant to go to bed, knowing sleep was impossible, she pulled an armchair to the window and sat gazing out at the gnomes. Darkness had settled over the countryside but in the garden the solar lights glowed and she would not have been surprised if the gnomes had begun to move, to dig and strut, and to empty their water vessels into the lily pond.
‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practise to deceive,’ Janet used to chant at her children when they lied to her. If she realised how deeply Carla was mired in her own deception, she would chant it now, long and loudly, and remind her once again that she was breaking her father’s heart. And not just her father’s heart, Carla thought. A chain of hearts, soon to be wrenched apart.
She had lied to her lover and to a priest. In the echelons of sin, which one was graver? The lie had been cast in stone by the time Joy Dowling reached her and had hardened in the furnace of her anger as she faced the man who had stolen her child. She had no memory of collapsing. When she recovered consciousness, the clouds were heaving above her, forming strange, incredible shapes and she, caught in her own delirium, had turned to feast her eyes on a stranger who was her flesh and blood. Joy Dowling had looked askance at her. What had she seen? A demented woman, her face livid with hope and rage? Enough emotion, obviously, to send her cycling in the opposite direction.
David Dowling had started scything through the summer’s weeds by the time she had returned to the graveside. His ruddy arms had moved rhythmically in powerful, sweeping movements. Her hatred towards him was so intense she wondered if the hairs on the nape of his neck were quivering but he seemed oblivious of any tension between them.
He had stopped when he noticed her and lowered the scythe. ‘How are you feeling now?’
‘Fully recovered, thank you.’
‘Fr Davis said you’re doing some research on the Burren tombs.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re a writer?’
‘Nonfiction. Ghostwriting, mostly.’ She glanced down at the scythe. ‘Is it very difficult to use?’ she had asked.
‘Not very.’ He raised it again. ‘I’ll show you.’
She touched the blade with her fingers and shivered when she felt the keen edge. He had stood behind her and guided her arm through the sweeping movement, laughing when she sliced the heads from a bank of nettles.
‘I told you it was easy,’ he had said, and she wondered what it would be like to sweep it towards him, cut him down where he stood. She was calm by then, calm as ice over a raging river. She helped him rake the clippings and carry them to the rubbish dump.
‘Have you always lived in Maoltrán?’ she asked.
‘Apart from studying geology in Galway University, Maoltrán has always been my home,’ he replied. ‘But since I graduated I’ve mainly worked abroad.’
‘Then you must have spent a lot of time away from home during Joy’s childhood?’
‘More than I wanted to.’ He flung the last bundle of grass and weeds into the dump and wiped his forehead. ‘This is thirsty work. I’m stopping off at Molloy’s for a drink on the way home. Would you like to join me?’
‘Thank you, I will.’ She followed him along the narrow path towards the gate.
In the dimly-lit pub, they had sat on stools at the bar. She ordered a glass of cider. He drank beer, sighing with satisfaction after the first long sip. ‘I needed that. The cemetery is not an easy place to visit.’
‘I’m sorry about your wife. Joy must miss her dreadfully.’
‘We all do,’ he replied shortly and raised his glass again. Just before the silence became uncomfortable, he had said, ‘So, how far have you advanced with your book?’
‘I’m still at the early stages.’
‘Have you seen the Poulnabrone dolmen?’
‘Not since I was a child.’
‘I know the location of all the Burren tombs. I mapped them when I was a boy. I know, I know…’ He laughed and said, ‘I had a sad childhood. If you like, I can show them to you.’
She had swayed forward on her stool and gazed at the bottles ranged on shelves behind the bar. ‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘I’d enjoy revisiting some of my old haunts. What other books have you written?’
‘Too many to remember,’ she replied.
The bar door had opened and a group of hill walkers entered. They settled around a table, pulling chairs from the surrounding tables and raising the level of noise.
‘Is this the only
pub in Maoltrán?’ She was keen to steer the conversation away from herself.
‘There used to be more,’ he replied. ‘The country pub is a dying tradition. The smoking ban started the death knell. Now it’s the drink-driving laws. But Molloy’s has always been popular…too popular at times.’ He frowned into his glass. ‘Joy was drinking here one night.’
‘But she’s underage!’
Her reaction, instinctive and alarmed, startled him. He smiled wryly and said, ‘I kicked up hell with the owner. He’s lucky he didn’t have his licence revoked.’
‘Was Joy okay?’
He frowned and tapped the edge of a beer mat against the counter. ‘She was…eventually. I try to be an understanding father but it’s difficult at times. She’s had some issues since her mother died.’
‘They were obviously very close.’
‘She was our only child.’
‘A special child.’
‘Very special. And you?’ He glanced at her left hand then swivelled his gaze back towards the bar.
‘Divorced. We also had one daughter.’
‘Is she here with you? I’m sure Joy would love to meet her.’
‘We lost her at birth. Do you mind if we don’t discuss her?’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.’
She had drained her glass and slipped down from the high stool. ‘I’d better go. Thank you for the drink.’
‘Why don’t you come to dinner?’ he said. ‘Meet my mother. She’s due home from her studio soon and she loves company.’
That was the moment to make a polite excuse and leave; set events in motion with a call to Detective Superintendent Murphy. But instead she had driven behind him, her car bumping over the uneven surface of a narrow lane which, he had told her, would soon be levelled and widened. She had passed the cottage he hoped to raze and turn into a hostel. The front door of Rockrose was unlocked. Shoes and boots were neatly aligned in the porch. She had followed him into a kitchen that smelled of herbs and simmering beef. It was cluttered with the bric-a-brac of living but nowhere in that warm, steamy space had Carla seen a photograph of Susanne Dowling. He had removed magazines and newspapers from a sofa and gestured at her to sit down. A dog followed them into the house and laid his head on her lap.
