The Lake

by Sheena Lambert

  Frank watched Peggy’s expressionless face stare at Hugo across the bar. He wasn’t sure, but it looked like Maura might be bearing her weight. He extended his arms towards them just before her knees seemed to buckle under her.

  ‘Peggy? Peggy? Are you okay? Peggy?’

  Carla reached across the bar to her sister, but Peggy suddenly stood up straight, elbowing Frank and Maura’s supporting arms away. Coleman stayed bent over the bar, as if his own demons were already too much for him to bear, as if he couldn’t bear to look at her, but the rest of them just stared, gaping at Peggy, Hugo’s revelations like a solid thing in each of their mouths, preventing any words being formed. Peggy’s gaze fell to the floor for a moment.

  And then she bolted. The sudden movement surprised Frank, and before any of them could react, Peggy had reached the front door of the bar, flung across the lock and disappeared outside, sending the door crashing against the wall of the porch in her wake.

  Frank locked eyes with Jerome for a second, and then he looked at Garda O’Dowd. ‘Stay here,’ he ordered, pointing at Coleman’s rocking frame, and without another word himself and Jerome ran out of the pub.

  Outside, the sun blinded him. He stopped and scanned the area, but there was no sign of her.

  ‘The lake,’ he heard Jerome say, and Frank turned and raced after him down the track he had walked with Peggy only the previous afternoon. The two men ran without speaking. There was no sign of her ahead, and Frank was beginning to worry that they were running in the wrong direction, when they suddenly reached the shoreline, and he could see the form of a woman running on ahead of him over the muddy silt, long black hair trailing after her.

  ‘The burial site. She’s going to where the body was found,’ he panted, and he slowed his pace.

  ‘Jesus,’ was all Jerome could manage.

  The two men were now walking, Jerome just a little ahead of Frank, their sights firmly set on Peggy who had now also stopped running, and seemed to be half walking, half stumbling to the place where she and Frank had stood less than twenty-four hours before. They watched as she got closer to the site where the silt was still disturbed, a long narrow indentation in the sand that had held the broken body of a young woman she had never known, a woman long forgotten. They watched as Peggy fell to her knees only a few feet away from the place where her mother had been concealed from her for so many years, the place where Peggy’s truth had been squashed into a jute postbag, and left to be forever entombed by the water of the lake.

  The sight of her splayed on her knees in the sand made the two men start to run again, but there was a sudden rush of colour and flying hair, and Carla sprinted past them both towards Peggy. She fell to her knees on the sand beside her, dragging her sister’s languid body to hers, cradling her like a baby. The sight made Frank’s stomach contract. He longed to go to Peggy and hold her too, but he paused a little away from where the women were, leaving Jerome to walk slowly towards them. The place hadn’t changed since he had been here with Peggy a day earlier: the same eerie stillness hung around him like a threat, the water in the lake dark and menacing even under the sun, which still beat down from the unremittingly cloudless sky.

  The scene was made all the more distressing by Peggy’s silence. No wailing, no crying, no screaming was to be heard. She was simply thrown in Carla’s arms at the edge of the shallow grave; their bodies rocking slowly to and fro. Frank realized that she would be in shock. He was in shock himself. He felt the uneasiness of someone who just simply didn’t know what to do, and Frank was unaccustomed to not knowing what to do. He watched from a few feet away as Jerome stood over the two women, his hands in his hair, shaking his head as he stared down into the disturbed sand at their feet. Then a noise from behind Frank made him turn, and he saw Hugo striding towards them. He never took his eyes from his siblings as he walked past Frank and straight to where Peggy was. Without a second’s hesitation, Hugo crouched down, put his arms around Peggy, and gently lifted her from the sand. Frank stepped back a little, and watched as Carla and Hugo, with Peggy supported between them, made their way back towards the shore, where Frank could see Maura standing with her hand to her mouth. Jerome lingered a moment longer, before casting a vitriolic stare at the lake and all around it. The he turned and followed his siblings back across the sand.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Thursday, 5th June 1952

  Hush, hush little one! Mammy’s here. And Daddy’s coming! It’ll be all right now, my darling. We’re not long for this godforsaken hovel. You and me, my love, we’ll soon be on our way across the ocean, yes, on a big boat, my love, across the ocean to America. You’ll be an American girl, my little Peggy. Just like Peggy Lee. Isn’t that right, baby girl? Oh little Peggy, it is a good day, just like Peggy Lee said. Look at the sunshine? And Daddy is coming, and we’ll soon be away from this wretched place. You are destined for greater things, my love. Wait until Daddy sees how beautiful you are. We’re going to America, my sweet, away from Crumm, and Ballyknock, away from all the people that don’t love us, Peggy. Far away from the mill, and the blown up houses, and the empty fields. Let them drown the lot, little Peggy, it’s all the place deserves. We won’t be here to see it.

  Here we are. Hush now, alanna, Mammy won’t be gone long. Nice Mrs. Brady will mind you and I’ll go and bring Daddy, my love. Oh just wait until he sees you. He will love you so, just like I do, my precious girl. Now, how does Mammy look? Am I nice? Daddy once said that red suits me – do you think Mammy looks nice, my love? His two beautiful girls, that’s what he will call us, Peggy. His two beautiful girls. Oh, I love you, alanna. Be good until I come back with Daddy. And then we will be on our way to America, the three of us together, my darling. Be good now, Peggy. Mammy won’t be long. I love you, my sweet.

  TWENTY-TWO

  ‘So I will be back up tonight, but it’ll be very late.’ Frank looked at his watch. ‘After midnight at this rate. I just wanted to let you know. I’m sorry Rose, but there was nothing I could do about it.’

  ‘No, no Frank. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been nagging you. It’s your job. Of course you had to stay down. I understand.’

  Frank’s heightened senses picked up on the note of desperation in Rose’s voice. No doubt her mother had been advising her to back off. Not to run the risk of scaring her Detective Sergeant away before she had her claws inextricably into him. But then he felt bad. It wasn’t Rose’s fault. He could hear the line forming in his head already … it’s not you, it’s me, but he knew better than to have that particular conversation standing behind the bar of The Angler’s Rest.

  ‘So I’ll see you tomorrow?’ The line crackled loudly. ‘Or whenever,’ she added with extra emphasis. ‘You’ll give me a call?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Frank moved closer to the wall to allow Jerome to pass behind him. ‘Sure. Okay. Bye Rose.’

  He replaced the handset and stood for a moment, watching Jerome flick metal caps off two mineral bottles with one hand before plonking them on the bar.

  ‘Woman trouble?’ Jerome said without turning his head.

  ‘Eh, no. Not really, no.’ Frank could hear how unconvincing he sounded.

  Jerome grinned at him over his shoulder. ‘See?’ he said. ‘You’re better off without them.’ And he walked around the other side of the bar and lifted the drinks he had prepared, winking at Frank before turning and bringing them over to a table where two middle-aged couples sat, laughing amicably. Frank saw the couples smile at Jerome, the men patting him on his back, the women making jokes about how one of their daughters was still single and wouldn’t herself and Jerome make a lovely couple. Jerome laughed it off, oh, sure who would want to marry a publican, wasn’t it a terrible life. Frank watched him standing there, running his fingers through his silky hair, chatting with his customers. He was a natural, Frank thought. He’d do well with a bigger place up in Dublin.

  Jerome picked up some empty glasses and came back around the bar. Some sort of truce had evolved between them over
the course of the afternoon, and Frank felt at least that Jerome had taken him out of his sights for the moment. Even if his finger was still on the trigger.

  ‘Will you have something?’ Jerome tipped his head towards the bar taps.

  ‘No. No, thanks. I’ll drive back this evening. I’d better keep a clear head.’

  ‘You’ll be against the traffic at least.’ Jerome opened a bottle of Coke and poured it into a glass. ‘Kerry are some outfit.’

  ‘They are.’

  ‘They’ll be celebrating that for a few weeks.’

  ‘They will. They will.’

  The two men stood next to each other, looking out over the bar, both talking about football, when Frank knew that they were both thinking about Peggy.

  It had been some afternoon. Frank had put his own expertise to good use by staying in the bar while the family had taken a very shaken Peggy inside to the house. Frank wasn’t sure exactly what had gone on there, but when a red-eyed Carla, face bloated from crying, had come back into the bar to fill a glass with brandy, he had heard guttural sobs coming from the kitchen beyond. By then he had dispatched Garda O’Dowd to the station with a list of calls to make to Dublin Castle and Washington. He had almost felt excited for the boy as he went off, full of his own importance, to carry out the first proper police work he had ever probably had the opportunity to do. Hugo had already driven Coleman home to get some rest.

  ‘They’re banging on the door to get in,’ Frank had said to Carla.

  ‘Well, let them in so,’ she had said indifferently, and had gone back inside the house to comfort her sister.

  Her sister.

  Frank could hardly get his head around it himself. Standing behind the bar alone, he thought he knew the right thing to do. Not as Detective Sergeant Frank Ryan, but as Frank Ryan, friend of Peggy Casey and the extended Casey family.

  So he stood on a table and pressed the button. And on it came. The grass was as green as any field he had driven past on his way to Crumm on Friday afternoon, just two days before. And there they were. Dotted around the pitch, each man facing the tricolour, the Artane Boys Band playing ‘Amhrán na bhFiann’, and the sound of sixty- thousand voices with them.

  Frank had hopped down from the table and surveyed the scene before him. A country pub, a family pub, warm, comforting, welcoming; an establishment any publican could be proud of. And up high in the corner, on a dark wooden shelf, the All-Ireland football final, Dublin versus Kerry, about to begin.

  Frank had heard a tap- tapping on a glass pane, and had turned to see someone peering in the window next to the porch. The face was smiling, and pointing up at the television. Then there was another bang on the door, and Frank had turned and opened The Angler’s Rest for business. Halfway into the first half of the match, Frank had found that he simply couldn’t cope. Such was the interest in the game, that it seemed most of Crumm and half of Ballyknock had arrived and were drinking bottles of orange and Cidona, and pints of shandy and plenty stronger. Every stool had a posterior on it. When Frank had spotted the red curls of the O’Malley kid whom he had met down at the lake gravesite, he had beckoned him behind the bar.

  ‘Keep your eye on things for a minute,’ he had said to him, and had gone through the door to the house, leaving the boy gawping, terrified behind the counter. Frank had tapped on the door at the other end of a short, dark corridor lined with boxes of Tayto crisps and paper serviettes. Hugo had answered it.

  ‘I need you and Jerome in here,’ Frank had said, and Hugo had nodded. Behind him, Frank could see the backs of Maura and Carla, their arms around Peggy, leaving the kitchen through a far door.

  ‘She’s going for a lie down,’ Hugo had said and Frank had just nodded.

  After that, the three men had worked all afternoon, feeding the punters pints and crisps until the crisps ran out and the final whistle blew, and Frank decided that they could cope, leaving the pub to go and check on Garda O’Dowd back at the station.

  Now he was back, and things had calmed.

  ‘Thanks for today,’ Jerome turned to Frank. ‘I mean, this afternoon. And well, just, thanks.’

  Frank nodded at him. ‘You know, Jerome,’ he said. ‘If your friend has any trouble in the future. With any of the boys up in Dublin.’ He glanced at Jerome to see if he understood. ‘Let me know. You can mention my name. Anytime. If I can help you, well, I will.’

  Jerome looked as if he didn’t really believe Frank, but hadn’t the bad manners to say so. ‘Thanks,’ he said, and turned away.

  The place had emptied out now. Most of those in for the match had left for home and their dinners after watching Pat Spillane raise the Sam Maguire for Kerry. The usual Sunday fare of baked ham and vegetables had not been served in The Angler’s Rest that day, and if anyone had noticed, they hadn’t said anything. The television had been distraction enough. Frank walked back around into the bar towards where Carla and Maura sat with Peggy harboured between them. They had stopped drinking tea now, and had moved on to glasses of cider after Carla had announced that she couldn’t stomach another cup and that they all needed something stronger.

  As Frank approached Peggy’s table, he was a little thrown by the warm smile Carla gave him.

  ‘Here he is. Sit down Detective Sergeant.’ She pulled a stool over between herself and Peggy, and moved to allow him space to sit. ‘Here’s a man who’s done a full day’s work.’

  Frank searched for a hint of sarcasm and was genuinely shocked to find none.

  ‘Are you back up to Dublin tonight? Sergeant?’ Maura smiled across the table at him.

  ‘I am,’ Frank said. Peggy kept her eyes on her glass and said nothing.

  ‘Well, you’ll be against the traffic at least,’ Maura said knowingly.

  Frank smiled. ‘I will,’ he said. ‘I will.’

  The four of them sat in silence. Frank could see The Waltons had started on the muted television.

  ‘Well,’ Carla said at last, ‘Maura and I were just going inside to make a few sandwiches.’

  ‘Oh no, I couldn’t eat,’ Maura started. ‘My stomach is still sick.’

  Carla glared at her.

  ‘Oh yes!’ Maura said, laughing nervously. ‘You know, I’d ham baked this morning. I’ll slice it up and sure couldn’t we all have some of that on brown bread?’

  ‘You’ll eat something before you leave, Frank,’ Carla said and put her hand gently on his.

  ‘Thank you, Carla,’ Frank said. ‘That would be great.’

  ‘Right so.’ Carla stood and waited until Maura did the same, then she ushered her away from Peggy and Frank, towards the bar and the door into the house.

  They sat at the little round table in silence, Peggy never moving her hand or her stare from her almost untouched glass of cider; Frank leaned over, elbows resting on his thighs, hands clasped between his knees, his eyes never moving from her face. No one approached them, and Frank could sense Jerome’s protective guard up, watching them, ensuring they weren’t disturbed. They sat for what felt to Frank like a long time.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last.

  The shadow of a smile pinched Peggy’s lips.

  ‘Maxwell,’ she said.

  Frank said nothing.

  ‘That’s my name.’ She looked up at him for the first time that evening. ‘Peggy Maxwell. Not Peggy Casey. Peggy Maxwell.’

  Frank knew that none of it was his fault. But he also knew that it was very likely Peggy would blame him anyway. For now. Everything had been fine until he had arrived. And now … now this young woman’s life had been totally turned upside down. Until the passing of time gave her a clearer perception, she would blame him. And Frank knew that the best thing he could do for Peggy right now, was to let her.

  She looked back at her glass. ‘My name is Peggy Maxwell. My family were the Murphys who ran the old mill that’s under the lake. And my father murdered my mother when I was only a few months old.’

  Her voice was calm and steady. It unnerved Frank a
little. It didn’t sit well with the red eyes or the pale, blotchy skin that told him a story of trauma and upset. But then she looked up at him and his heart broke to see no mania in her lovely eyes, only utter sadness. She reached out and took Frank’s hand and held it on the table between them.

  ‘I’m not angry’, she said, ‘with you. You probably think I am. That I blame you. I don’t. At all.’

  She stared at their hands on the table. Once again Frank knew he was crossing a line between Frank Ryan, Detective Sergeant, and Frank Ryan, the man, but the pull was too strong, and he squeezed her fingers gently in his.

  ‘I just need to say it out loud,’ she said. ‘I can’t with the others.’ She glanced quickly at the bar, and then back to their clasped hands. ‘I can with you.’

  They said no more for a moment. Frank summoned every bit of willpower not to look towards Jerome who he knew must be staring at them, sitting there, holding hands. He suspected Jerome would think Frank was taking advantage of Peggy. He concentrated on not looking up.

  After a minute he spoke. ‘Peggy, we don’t know for certain yet what happened to … to Bernadette,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I realize Coleman’s story sounds plausible. But we don’t know for sure. Not yet.’

  Peggy smiled through watery eyes. ‘But you know she was killed, Frank,’ she said. ‘She was murdered. She was buried in a sack.’ She kept her eyes on their entwined hands. ‘Is he still alive?’

  Frank knew what she was asking. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He’s living in New Jersey. His wife,’ he stopped suddenly. He knew he had to be gentle. ‘His wife is dead. But he has children. In the States. And grandchildren.’