He smiled. ‘Have you always been a fan?’
‘Not always. I was never that interested in it as a young girl. I followed the local team in Norrtälje, but half-heartedly. When I met Anders though – my ex-husband – he was very keen, used to go to matches most weekends. I had an idea that I should try to share his interests. I’d pretend to be very enthusiastic about upcoming games. Memorize facts about certain players.’ She lit a cigarette. ‘It’s no wonder he thought me a fool.’
Dermot said nothing.
‘It’s OK. He was right.’ She took a sip of her drink. ‘It’s hard to look back. My stupidity, you know?’ There was a long pause. She shook her head. ‘I have to be kind to myself now. That woman was punished enough.’
They sat in silence for a few minutes.
‘Dermot, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m saying this. I wonder, am I trying to give you the worst evening of your life?’
‘I don’t mind at all.’
‘It’s ridiculous. You have what my mother called a “listening face”. It must be a curse.’
‘It’s not.’ He looked around the bar. ‘You seem quite at home here. Are you glad you came to Lomaverde?’
‘I am. Is that surprising?’
‘I get the impression not many people are.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’ She hesitated. ‘Can I tell you a secret?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m glad Lomaverde has failed.’
He looked at her.
‘Please don’t misunderstand, I’m not glad about the unhappiness it has caused others, of course not. The people who can’t sell their houses, the people who lost money, the workers who never got paid properly, all the disappointments. I’m sorry for all those things.’
‘Of course.’
‘I came here expecting the same as everyone else. A new community, a fresh start in this beautiful place.’ She lit another cigarette. ‘My marriage was over. Thirty years of trying to turn a blind eye, of thinking my husband would change. That felt like a big mistake, a terrible waste of time. I thought I could come here and lose myself in a new place.
‘But imagine somewhere in which everyone is like that. So intent on happiness, on living a fairy tale. They have not emigrated from places with no work or money to a place with jobs and opportunities. No, they have left comfortable lives in search of somewhere even better. It’s a kind of greed, don’t you think? And if you’d have said that to me two years ago, I’d have said, “So what? Why not be greedy for happiness? What’s wrong with that?”
‘Shall I tell you what’s wrong?’
Dermot nodded.
‘Disappointment. That’s what’s wrong. If you’re greedy for happiness then you will always be hungry. You can’t just say happiness is in a certain place and move there, it doesn’t work like that.’ She put her hand over her mouth. ‘My God. “If you’re greedy for happiness then you will always be hungry.” I sound like a fortune cookie. This is all obvious, old as the hills. You know all this already.’
He gave a little shrug. ‘Maybe.’
‘The point is, no one would want to admit to their disappointment, it would be something shameful, something hidden. Imagine living in such a place? Where failure or regret or despair are inappropriate, where such feelings are not allowed, don’t fit with the blue skies and the sunshine. I would have lasted six weeks.’ She exhaled a long plume of smoke. ‘But that isn’t how it worked out. Instead Lomaverde is a failed dream. Do you know the word for it in Spanish?’
He shook his head.
‘“Ciudad fantasma” – a “ghost town”. It sounds beautiful, don’t you think? It is a melancholy place, crumbling at the edges, and I find that I love it. It’s a place where you can admit to mistakes, you have no choice but to. I think the lack of people makes it more human.’ She paused. ‘Is that mad?’
He took a drink of his beer and thought back to his childhood. Exploring empty cottages with Dominic, a certain exhilaration buried in the sadness, a sense of familiarity in the unknown. He saw she was waiting for an answer. ‘It’s not mad. I like it there too.’
She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Shall we head back?’
‘If you like. I’m sorry your boys didn’t win.’
‘It’s OK. It was good to see the game anyway. For all that he took away, my husband gave me three wonderful things: my son, Magnus, my daughter, Pia, and my love of football.’
‘You still love it, even when you lose?’
‘A good defeat can be better than a bad victory.’
‘Can it?’
She laughed for a long time at that. ‘You really know nothing about football, do you?’
27
Dermot sat on the futon apparently engrossed in one of his library books. Like many autodidacts the spread of Dermot’s knowledge was eccentric. Eamonn had long since stopped being surprised by the things that his father knew or took an interest in: Serbian heraldry, sheep husbandry, the films of Barbra Streisand. His knowledge, though broad, was shallow, usually just one documentary or book deep. He held his sources in great reverence, taking as gospel almost everything he read, assuming the author’s word to be the last word. Eamonn found his habit of quoting as fact the crackpot opinions of long-forgotten commentators often exasperating.
He bent down to read the title: Home Computing for You and Your Family. The cover showed a sinister-looking middle-aged man in tinted glasses, beckoning two children towards his enormous desktop computer.
Eamonn sat down next to his father. ‘Good read is that?’
Dermot looked up. ‘It is. Very interesting.’
‘Has the Internet been invented yet?’
Dermot thought for a moment. ‘They haven’t mentioned it, no.’
‘Right.’ He carried on staring at the cover for a moment before remembering what he’d come to say. ‘So, I asked around, and apparently the nearest church is in Poliver.’
‘I see.’
‘I don’t know the times of the services, but there’ll be one on at some point this morning.’
‘Oh yes, it’s Sunday, isn’t it? I’d lost track of the days.’
‘I’ll charge the car battery up and drive you over there. I could come in with you if you like. Obviously it’ll be in Spanish, so I could help you with the words – otherwise you’ll be standing up and sitting down at the wrong bits and you’ll get sent to hell.’
Dermot smiled. ‘Ah, no, honestly. Don’t go to any bother. There’s no need for that.’
‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ll find a bar and get a beer instead.’
Dermot turned a page. ‘No, I mean, there’s no need to go at all.’ He examined a flow chart. ‘I don’t really do that any more.’
‘Don’t do what?’
‘The whole churchgoing business.’
Eamonn laughed, as if he’d heard a joke. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I just don’t.’
‘Since when?’
‘I suppose since your mother died.’
‘You don’t go to church?’
‘It’s not such a big thing.’
‘Oh. I see.’ Eamonn considered this for a while. ‘So, you lost your faith?’
‘You make it sound more dramatic than it is. I didn’t lose my faith.’ He scratched his head. ‘I just stopped going to mass.’
‘But you still believe in God.’
Dermot was silent.
‘You don’t believe in God?’
‘Now, Eamonn, you sound like a priest.’
‘But you were always religious.’
‘I used to go to church each week with your mother, I’m not sure that’s the same thing.’
Eamonn was quiet for a while. ‘I knew she went on about it more than you, but I still thought you believed in it all.’
‘Everyone I knew growing up went to church, believing had nothing to do with it, it was just what you did. Your mother, though, she got more into that side of things as she got older. It just wasn�
��t worth upsetting the apple cart and making a big song and dance about it.’
‘Didn’t you feel a bit of a hypocrite, standing there every week?’
‘I wasn’t forcing anyone else to believe. I didn’t care when you threw it all in. Did you really think that everyone there attending church was thinking about Jesus’s blood?’
‘I suppose not.’ He was silent for a while, considering the implications. ‘I think I’ll make a drink. Do you want something?’
‘A cup of tea would be great.’
He stood with the box of tea bags in his hand and called through the hatch: ‘Do you remember old Father Maguire?’
‘How could I forget him? The hours I suffered listening to that voice. Honest to God, put a horse to sleep he could. That man was a terrible bore.’
‘I was wondering, when did he start at St John’s?’
Dermot thought for a minute. ‘I don’t know. In the 70s sometime. Your mother would have known. Why?’
‘Do you remember when I came home for Mom’s funeral and you asked me to go through the photos?’
‘I do.’
‘There was a pack of photos I couldn’t work out. A couple had Mom in, maybe on a parish trip somewhere. There was a group shot on a ferry, probably early 70s. Then there was a whole load of the same bloke. They weren’t all from one roll of film, lots of different shapes and sizes of photo, but all the same guy.’ He paused. ‘He was wearing a dog collar.’
Dermot said nothing.
‘I suppose he’d be the priest before Maguire, would he?’
Dermot had got up and was looking out of the window. ‘I don’t know.’
‘A youngish guy. Fair hair, big, wide grin? Would that be right?’
‘That sounds like him.’
‘Do you remember his name?’
Dermot took a while to answer. ‘Walsh. His name was Father Walsh.’
‘Oh, right. Well that solves it, then.’ Eamonn frowned and then laughed. ‘So why did Mom have so many photos of him?’
He came out of the kitchen with the tea, but Dermot had gone.
28
He waited with the others until the Sister came and let them in. Visiting time started at 6.30. She opened the door at 6.31. Third night in a row she’d kept them waiting. Still making her point.
Kathleen was at the far end of the ward. He went to the cot first.
‘Is he going to wake up soon?’
‘He’s only just gone off.’
‘Oh.’ He leaned over and kissed her.
‘He had his bottle and he was asleep within minutes.’
‘I thought I’d be able to give him his bottle tonight.’
‘Sister said it was better to get it out of the way before visiting time.’
‘She looks at us as if we’re litter blown in off the street. She’d be happier if there were no fathers to deal with at all.’
‘She’s an old boot.’
‘Have they said when you can go?’
‘Maybe tomorrow, or the day after that.’
‘You should both be at home. Not this place.’
‘I wish I was in the General. At least I’d have some pals there.’
He looked at the baby again. ‘How’s he been?’
‘Miserable most of the time. You’d think I was beating him. He pulls a face that would break your heart.’
Dermot smiled, stroking the baby’s face lightly. ‘What about you?’
‘Just a bit tired. Did you bring me anything?’
‘Some magazines.’
She looked at them.
‘What? Did I bring the wrong ones?’
‘No. They’re fine. I’m just sick of magazines. The same rubbish in every one.’
‘Also a box of Maltesers and a bottle of Super Jaffa.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Well, I thought they’d get a better response from you. Are you sure you’re OK? You seem down compared to yesterday.’
‘I’m fine. I just want to go home.’
‘I know, love.’ He looked at the cards on the bedside table. ‘Did you have any visitors this afternoon?’
‘Just Rita Barry.’
‘She talks enough for four people.’
She was quiet for a while.
‘She said something I can’t stop thinking about.’
‘What was it?’
‘She looked at him and said, “Well, God bless him. He’s a little miracle. Just what you were praying for all that time.”’
Dermot looked at her. ‘That sounds like Rita Barry all right.’
‘Is that what she thinks I was doing when she saw me down at church?’
‘What?’
‘Praying for a baby? Asking God for something? Like he’s a shopkeeper?’
‘This is playing on your mind? Something the Barry woman said? God’s sake, Kathleen.’
‘Maybe she’s right.’
He saw now she was worked up.
‘We had all that time. We both worked all the shifts we could and still there was time. I used to pray: if I wasn’t to be a mother, what was I to be? What was his plan? I helped out in the parish. I visited the sick. I typed the newsletter. I arranged flowers and spent hours listening to the twitterings of Rita Barry, Pat Quinlon and Margie Maher, which believe me would try any saint.’ Her voice was louder now. He worried others would hear them.
‘I don’t understand why you’re upset.’
‘But maybe it was all with an ulterior motive in mind. Do you see? Maybe it was all saying: “Look at me, God, I’m a good person, why can’t I be a mother?”’
He rubbed his face. ‘Well, what’s wrong with that? I thought you were supposed to ask God for things you wanted.’
‘Is that all prayer is? Begging letters. I thought it was meant to be a conversation.’
‘I don’t know what you want me to say. You seem to be arguing with yourself.’
‘I don’t want you to say anything.’
She was quiet for a moment before saying: ‘I hold their hand when they go.’
‘Who?’
‘If there’s no family. One of us will sit with them when they’re slipping away. I hold their hand so they’re not alone at the end. I sometimes wonder – is someone waiting to take their hand on the other side? When they pass I search their faces for any sign of knowledge, for a clue. What is it they see, Dermot?’
Nothing, he thought. Nothing at all. He pushed the thought away and took her hand, speaking quietly. ‘Should I talk to the doctor?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s not like that. I’m fine. I’m not blue. I’m happy, you know that, never been happier since he was born …’
‘But what?’
‘It just makes you think, doesn’t it? Birth, death. That’s when you think about these things. When I do anyway. About God. About what it means.’
He wanted then to tell her how much he loved her. He wanted to tell her to forget about God. He tried to think of something to comfort her.
‘Maybe you could try speaking to Father Phelan when you get home? Isn’t that what he’s there for? He must be there for something.’
She smiled at that. ‘I’ve tried to talk to him sometimes in the past, but he never seems to listen.’
Dermot was unsurprised. They didn’t listen. They had no answers.
‘Well, he’s not there for much longer. Maybe the new priest will be better.’
‘Probably another old relic who thinks women are there to make cakes and sing sweetly.’
‘You’ll soon disabuse him of that belief.’
She laughed and he felt a surge of hope. Maybe this was the push she needed. If the lack of a baby had led her to the Church, maybe now she would pull away. End her search for whatever it was she thought she was looking for.
He took his hand from hers and laid it on the baby’s back, feeling the rabbit pulse of his heartbeat. ‘What are we going to call this one?’
She leaned over and stroked the baby’s head. ‘I don’t k
now. We had so many prepared, but then you see him and none of them seem right at all.’
‘I had Peggy on the phone from the convent last night. She rang to offer her congratulations and tell us that he’d been born on the day of St Polycarp.’
‘Polycarp? What was he, patron saint of fish?’
‘Burned at the stake apparently. When the flames couldn’t touch him, they stabbed him to death.’
‘Good God.’ They both started laughing, becoming momentarily hysterical before getting control of themselves.
She looked at him. ‘I was thinking. If you want to name him Dominic, I’d understand. I’d be happy with that.’
Dermot thought. ‘No. He’s his own man. He deserves his own name.’ He hesitated. ‘But maybe as his second name. I’d like that.’
‘There we are, then. Halfway there.’
29
‘Your mother would have appreciated an incline like this.’
They walked along the shaded side of the street, the sun finally weakening its grip and sliding down the sky.
As with so much his father said, Eamonn could think of no particular response.
‘Was a time she was a devil for the slopes.’
‘Right.’
‘A real terror.’
‘Because she liked hills?’
‘On her bike! She was a devil.’
‘Mom? On a bike?’
‘“Handlebars Hegarty”, that’s what we used to call her.’
‘“Handlebars Hegarty”?’
‘Back when I first knew her, she was awful windswept-looking, like she’d just stepped in from the storm. She’d be out on it any hour of the night or day, cycle back on her own from a late shift at the hospital, she would, no lights, like a bat on wheels.
‘First time she agreed to go out with me, I was stood waiting for her down at the bottom of Corporation Street. It was hellish busy. Rush hour. I was getting knocked and nudged by everyone hurrying to get home for their tea and I was cursing myself for picking such an idiot place to meet. I was looking for her face in the crowd and then suddenly I spotted it, way off in the distance. There she was, on the bike, coming down the hill towards me, and there were cars and buses and people everywhere, but to look at her you’d think she was on some quiet country lane. Floating along, she was, without a care in the world, the wind blowing her hair back, the afternoon sun on her face. Handlebars Hegarty.’
Mr Lynch’s Holiday Page 14
