‘Ah for Jaysus’ sake,’ Carla said under her breath. Then she seemed to notice Peggy’s empty glass on the Smithwick’s coaster next to her. She picked it up and smelled it, before making a face and leaving it down again.
‘Oh Peggy, now I can see what the problem is.’ She stood up straight and stretched, as if the whole episode just past had been no more than a boring interlude. ‘You know you shouldn’t drink gin. How many have you had?’ She put her own glass and Peggy’s into the sink. ‘You don’t want to end up like our darling mother now, do you?’ she said, turning on the tap and rinsing the glasses.
Peggy opened her mouth and closed it again. She looked from her brother to her sister and back, and then she very deliberately left down the poker against the fireplace, before dropping her gaze to the floor and running behind the bar, past Carla and through the door into the house. She could hear them start to scream at each other as she went into the kitchen, but their voices got lost in the thick stone walls of the bar as she ran upstairs into her room.
SEVENTEEN
Sunday, 28th September 1975
‘So nothing back from Washington yet then, sir?’
‘Nothing yet, Frank. We did have a little bit of luck though.’
‘Sir?’
‘Hugo Casey. The brother of the family helping you with your investigation? Turns out he works in the embassy in London.’
‘He does?’ Frank was surprised at this revelation. Peggy hadn’t mentioned Hugo worked in the embassy.
‘Yes. One of the lads here recognized the name. Anyway, he put in a call for us last night, to one of his colleagues in Washington. It might help, you know, speed things along a little.’
‘I see. But nothing back from them as yet?’
He could hear his superior officer bristle a little all the way up in Dublin.
‘It is Sunday you know, Frank. It’s bound to take a little longer than usual. Not enjoying your weekend break then? Anxious to get out of the sticks, are we?’
‘No, of course not, sir.’ Frank glanced over at Garda O’Dowd seated at the only other desk in the little station room. ‘It’s just; well it would obviously help a lot. With the investigation. Specifically with the timing of the victim’s demise.’
‘Are you getting anywhere with the locals?’
Frank leaned back in his chair. ‘There is one man here. He … he has raised some suspicions. Nothing concrete, but I would like to question him again.’
‘This, Coleman Quirke man you mentioned?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘No one else?’
Frank leaned in over the desk. ‘Well until I have a date on the body or a lead on the dog tags, sir … ’
‘Yes, yes. All right Frank. I get it. Look as soon as we have anything, I’ll get on to you there.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘And don’t worry, Frank. We won’t abandon you in Crumm. If it comes to it, I’ll send some good men in to get you out.’
Frank could hear the older man chuckle at his own joke before a loud click told him that he had hung up his receiver. Frank replaced his own handset and leaned heavily on the desk.
‘Everything all right, sir?’
Frank looked up to see Garda O’Dowd watching him.
‘No leads on the tags so, sir?’
‘Not yet, Michael.’ Frank picked up a pencil and tapped it on the arm of his chair. The space was cramped with the two desks in it. He guessed the second one had been dragged in from some other place for Frank’s own use. Frank didn’t envy Garda O’Dowd his working conditions. It was obvious that the building had never been meant for use as a Garda Station. Two small sash windows leached what little light they could into the room, not helped by the half net curtains suspended across each; curtains that looked like they could do with a good wash.
‘Did you know that Hugo Casey worked for the Irish embassy in London, Michael?’
Garda O’Dowd stood and went over to a small kitchen unit in the corner of the room to a shiny electric kettle. ‘I didn’t, sir,’ he said, flipping the red switch. ‘But then I can only say that I have met the man once or maybe twice in my time in Crumm.’ He turned to look at Frank. ‘He’d rarely be here, sir. I knew he worked in London all right. He seems not to be too interested in visiting his home place. To my knowledge, sir.’
Frank nodded his head and leaned back into his wooden chair. ‘And how long have you been stationed in Crumm, Michael?’
Garda O’ Dowd turned and took two mugs from a shelf. ‘Just eighteen months, sir,’ he said, putting two spoons of tea from a packet into a small brown teapot.
‘Your first posting?’
‘Sir.’
Frank thought about the decision to put a rookie guard into a one-man station in the middle of nowhere. He guessed Michael must not have any relations with any pull in the force. That, or he had done something to annoy one of his training officers.
‘Your father a guard?’ he asked.
‘No, sir.’ Michael stirred the pot and poured two mugs of tea. He brought one over to Frank’s desk, and left a small bottle of milk down beside it. ‘My father died when I was sixteen. It’s just my mother. And I’ve five younger sisters, all still at school.’
‘I see.’
Michael turned away from him. Frank watched as he put three sugars into his own mug of tea before turning back around to face him. ‘They rely on me, of course,’ he said.
‘Of course.’ Frank considered Garda O’Dowd. In an instant he had gone from being the young local guard, still wet behind the ears and a source of comedy for the locals, to being the sole provider for a large young family. He watched him slurp his tea, his tall frame hunched over as if the ceiling might be too low to fit him. He wondered if the other people in Crumm knew about his family. He wondered if Peggy knew.
‘So you’d like to question Coleman Quirke, sir?’ Michael nodded his head towards the phone on Frank’s desk.
‘I think so. I mean, yes.’ Frank tried to refocus on the case. ‘I’m not convinced that he has done anything wrong now,’ he said. ‘I just think it would be worth bringing him in. Asking him a few questions.’
‘Right so, sir. Will I go over to his place now? See if he’s there?’
Frank looked at his watch. It wasn’t yet nine. ‘It’s still very early. Let’s give Dublin Castle a couple more hours. See if they have heard anything back from Washington. A lead on the dog tags could be very helpful.’ Frank swallowed a mouthful of his tea. ‘Coleman Quirke isn’t going anywhere.’
EIGHTEEN
‘And the national school’s cake sale after Mass last Sunday raised twelve pounds for the black babies in Africa. Well done, girls. Although, I might ask that you don’t do it too often.’ Father Francis patted his belly. ‘I’m going to have trouble fitting into my Christmas vestments at this rate.’
Peggy rolled her eyes while polite laughter broke out around her. Across the aisle, the national school’s principal was grinning like a fool.
‘Wednesday evening will be the annual whist night in Our Lady’s hall. This year we are raising money for Mrs. O’Shaughnessy’s new wheelchair, a most worthy cause, I’m sure you will agree. And,’ he looked up from his notes, ‘I might repeat that, should anyone have any information as to what might have happened to Mrs. O’Shaughnessy’s first wheelchair, they speak to me at any time, in confidence. Indeed,’ he said, ‘I find that the confessional box is a very suitable place for such, confidences. So,’ he went on, ‘I’ll leave it at that. But remember,’ he added, apparently unable to leave it at that, ‘Mrs. O’Shaughnessy has been without a chair for six weeks now, and unable to attend the bridge for as many weeks as a result.’
The usually cool church had been warmed by a summer of unbroken sunshine, and Peggy found herself starting to doze off. She was being propped up by shoulders on either side, so full were the pews. And she hadn’t slept much.
‘And anyone who has not put their name on the list for the bus to Knock, could they do so tod
ay please. A place cannot be guaranteed if your name is not on the list.’
Peggy’s eyelids were gradually falling. She could just about make out the back of Martina Griffin in the pew in front of her. She noticed how nice her plait was, roped around her head in a way Peggy had seen done in a magazine. As she dozed she thought how maybe there was another person who read fashion magazines in Crumm after all. She could hear Father Francis droning on in the background.
‘Finally, today, I want you to join me in a special prayer. Perhaps we might kneel.’
Peggy jolted awake as the two warm bodies either side of her were suddenly no longer supporting her weight. All around her, the faithful were on their kneelers, heads bowed. Peggy followed their lead, a little disoriented. For a moment, she thought she had slept through the whole consecration.
‘As many of you will know, the body of a young woman was found on the shores of the lake, only a few short days ago. She has since been removed to Dublin. Now, whereas we pray that there was no devilry at play, it does seem at this stage that it might have been some evil-doing that resulted in this … ’, he looked up at the congregation, ‘this tragedy. And so’, he bowed his head, ‘let us take a moment in silence to pray for the soul of our sister. And on this eve of the feast days of Saints Michael and Gabriel and Raphael, archangels of the Lord, let us pray that our sister might at last receive a proper Christian burial, and that these, most holy angels of the Lord, might see her safely, at last, to the gates of heaven.’
The priest paused, and Peggy noticed many heads bow in silent prayer for this person whom they had never known. She too dropped her forehead to her hands, but her mind turned straight to Frank.
‘And may the Lord guide the Gardaí and those tasked with finding out the truth about our poor unfortunate sister.’
Peggy held her breath as the whole town prayed for Frank around her. She wondered if he was present, and she lifted her head to look towards the back of the church. As was customary, many of the men of the village stood there. She scanned their faces, searching, hoping, but he wasn’t amongst them. As she turned back, she caught Carla’s eye: Carla, who had not been up in time to walk to Mass with her as was their usual Sunday routine. She must have come late, Peggy thought. She was sitting closer to the rear. It surprised her to see what seemed like a genuine smile on her sister’s face. A smile perhaps tinged with apology. Peggy looked away. Then it struck her that she had not seen Coleman standing at the back of the church either. She turned again, and looked at the water font, where she and all her siblings had been baptized. That was his usual spot. It was there that Coleman could be found most Sunday mornings, grunting and muttering his way through Mass until Holy Communion, when he would be gone as fast as his bockety old legs would carry him.
Something made Peggy feel uneasy. It was highly unusual for Coleman not to be standing there. Unless he had somehow acquired a ticket for Croke Park and was already on the road up to Dublin to see the game with the rest of them. He might have got a lift with the Maher brothers. Not many would have taken him with them, but Fergal would have.
But no, Peggy knew that it was a very unlikely scenario. She thought of how he had left the bar so abruptly the previous night. Now that she had the opportunity to dwell on it, she could see how really strange that had been. Someone must have said something to him. Or what if he were sick? Peggy started to worry. She wondered if Coleman had made it home at all. His brother wasn’t here, from what she could tell, but he never came to Mass unless there was a funeral, and even then he rarely crossed the threshold. What if Coleman had been feeling unwell? What if that was why he had left the bar? What if he had had a heart attack or something on his way home? She was fairly certain that the two brothers didn’t have a phone in the house. Desmond might not have noticed that his brother was missing until this morning, and even then might not have noticed.
Peggy felt very claustrophobic all of a sudden. She sat and knelt with the rest of the people in the pew, but she heard very little of what the priest said, and she certainly said no prayers herself. As she stood to join the line filing up to receive Holy Communion, she considered turning right instead of left and leaving with the others who took this part of the proceedings as their cue for joining the exodus. But then she reconsidered. She was probably over-reacting. She’d get Jerome to drive over to the old man’s cottage after Mass, just to check in on them. In all likelihood, Coleman was fine.
‘There’s a rumour going around that ye might be showing the match in Casey’s?’
The whisper came from behind her left ear. She was only three people away from Father Francis in line, however, so she couldn’t turn her head to see who was speaking.
‘In colour?’ the voice said.
‘Body of Christ.’ The priest waited for Peggy to stick out her tongue.
‘Amen.’
On her way back to her seat, Peggy turned and saw Jim Coneeley’s balding head bent over as the priest reached up to give him his Communion. As she squeezed her way into her pew, she saw that Carla was sitting in her place, staring straight ahead of her. Peggy knelt next to her for a moment, more out of habit than intent. She couldn’t clear her mind enough to pray anyway, and it felt disingenuous praying that Frank Ryan would somehow need to return to The Angler’s Rest one more time before leaving for Dublin. So after a moment, she sat back beside Carla. Their shoulders were touching. Neither of them said anything. They watched the priest finish his ablutions on the altar.
‘I hear the match is being shown in Casey’s this afternoon?’ A gravelly voice breathed foul-smelling air into Peggy’s ear. Before she had a chance to reply, Carla twisted slightly in her seat and leaned back towards the source of the query.
‘It would be more in your line to be saying your prayers, Joseph McGowan,’ she said.
Even her whisper could cut you dead, Peggy thought, impressed.
‘I’d be praying no one tells the priest that they saw yourself and one of the Hogans having races down the main street in auld Ma O’Shaughnessy’s wheelchair after fifteen pints between ye at Grogan’s.’
Peggy sniggered loudly, and felt the removal of the foul air from her shoulder. She caught Carla’s eye and her sister winked at her.
‘Let us pray,’ the priest said from the pulpit, and the two Casey sisters knelt side by side.
Outside the church, the talk for the most part seemed to be about the body found at the lake. That, and whether or not Kerry could pull off the double later that day in Croke Park. The two Caseys hurried past the hand-shaking priest and walked off down Crumm main street, past the little houses and shops. Every door was shut, excepting McGowan’s, which was open to sell the papers. They walked just out of the town, as far as the right turn down towards the lake, without a word passing between them.
‘Your sign could do with a lick of paint,’ Carla said as they turned off the main road, passing the ridiculously large wooden hoarding that advertised The Angler’s Rest.
‘It’s as much your sign as my sign.’
Carla chuckled. ‘I’m sorry about last night. About what I said,’ she glanced sideways at Peggy as they walked. ‘No one wants you to be miserable here,’ she went on. ‘If you ever wanted to leave, well, we’d just have to cope.’
Peggy wasn’t sure which she was more shocked at – her sister’s belligerence the evening before – or the quiet compassion she was showing to her now.
‘I’m leaving, Peggy,’ she said.
‘What?’ Peggy stopped walking. ‘What do you mean you’re leaving? Leaving where?’ She watched Carla’s back as she kept walking on down the hill. ‘Carla?’
Carla stopped and turned. ‘It’s not working out,’ she said. She stood there, drawing circles in the gravelly path with her runner. Peggy thought how young she looked, her hair pulled into two, thin pigtails over either shoulder, her long legs stretching out from beneath her grey corduroy skirt. She could have been seventeen, from a distance. Up closer, whatever demons Carla strug
gled with made her look all of her twenty-four years. The eyes don’t lie.
‘With Tom,’ she said at last. ‘It’s not working out.’ She crossed her arms and stood up straight. ‘Look, Peggy, I think we all know it was never going to work out. Maybe I thought it might have. Once.’ She turned her eyes sharply on her sister. ‘He really isn’t happy at home, you know.’
Peggy started walking slowly towards her. They continued together on the path towards their home.
‘So,’ Peggy said, ‘where are you going?’
‘Australia. Sydney. I think.’
‘What?’ Peggy stopped for the second time. ‘Australia? What are you talking about? Why would you go to Australia?’
A middle-aged man walked past them, the Sunday paper under his arm, a pint of milk in his hand.
‘Girls.’
‘Hello, Tommy,’ Peggy said, distractedly. She waited until the man was a good way ahead before she spoke again.
‘Australia, Carla? Are you serious? Who do we know in Australia?’
‘No one,’ Carla said. ‘That’s exactly the point, sister dear. And they’re looking for teachers over there. And the pay is good.’ A breeze blew up the road from the lake, and she crossed her arms again. ‘Better than here, anyway.’
‘But Australia?’ Peggy was torn. Last night she would have gladly seen her sister sail off into the sunset to Timbuktu. She would have bought her the ticket herself. But as was always the way with Carla, when it came to it, she couldn’t stay angry with her. She was blood. And that’s all there was to it.
‘So you see; I won’t be here anymore. At weekends. Not from Halloween anyway. The school year starts there in January. I’ll probably have to leave next month.’ She pulled at her pigtails. ‘I haven’t all the details worked out yet.’ She looked over at Peggy walking beside her. ‘Not that I’ve been much help to you anyway,’ she said. ‘I know that.’
Peggy didn’t know what to say. They were almost at home now. She could see someone had turned on the lanterns either side of the front door, even though the day was bright. Probably Maura. She was always knocking against the switch with her duster.
The Lake Page 14
