by Laura Elliot
Emily turned the pages: the girls older now, tank tops and bell bottoms, outrageous platform shoes, standing outside O’Callaghan’s pub. Mr O’Callaghan stood between them, an argyle jumper stretched across his imposing stomach. Everyone smiling, always smiling.
Emily pressed her nail into the last photograph. “People used to say I look like Virginia. But I can’t see the slightest resemblance, can you?”
Lorraine stared at the young Virginia, thinking to herself that the hoydenish grin did indeed resemble Emily in one of her more impish moods, but before she could reply Emily flung the album back into the crate.
“Live in the past if you want to. I’ve more important things to do with my time.” She entered her bedroom and defiantly turned up the volume of her stereo in a determined effort to separate herself from the poisonous, putrid prison her mother had imposed on her.
Lorraine could empathise with her daughter’s sense of dislocation. The local women smiled when they met her in the supermarket and asked how she was settling in. But it was the politeness they showed to a tourist, superficial conversations about the weather and the rising price of groceries.
“You probably intimidate them,” Emily had declared, shortly after their arrival. “They think you’re a celeb just because you were on the Late Late Show with your nudes. Naked, naughty, nauseating nudes. It’s so embarrassing.”
In Dublin she had basked in the brief notoriety that had followed her mother’s last exhibition but in her new surroundings she took no delight in being the daughter of an infamous artist.
The controversy that followed the exhibition had hardly touched Lorraine. Was Painting Dreams an erotic or a pornographic exhibition? Such an argument was always bound to evoke a strong reaction, offering a platform for anyone with an opinion – and there were many who had much to say. In a splintering world, how easily we are aroused by the unimportant issues, she had thought, listening to empty words, puffed up rhetoric, reviews that praised or criticised her work. As far as she was concerned, it was a trivial spat compared to the private battle she waged against herself and her fears.
By mid-May, her studio was complete. The exterior white-washed walls and green window frames had a crisp newness that demanded more than an indifferent nod of approval. She forced enthusiasm into her voice as she thanked the Donaldson brothers. It amazed her that she had once been unable to tell them apart. Brendan was the taller of the two, a tenor who played guitar in O’Callaghan’s lounge bar at the weekends. Con was a baritone and a skilled horseman. She had noticed a rough-and-ready jumping arena in the field where the holiday caravans once stood and sometimes saw him riding on the beach, horse and rider cantering through the incoming tide. He had offered to teach Emily to ride, a suggestion that reduced her to hysterical laughter at the thought of coming into contact with hideous, horrendous, horrible horseflesh.
The shelves Con had built in the studio looked solid, practical, like his posture on his horse. Into this high-ceilinged space with its white pristine walls, a sink had been plumbed and a table, shelves and presses built to Lorraine’s specifications. A small outhouse, adjoining the stable, was converted into a dark room. She could fill her new studio with clutter and colour if she so chose. But as the weeks passed the crates containing her painting materials remained unopened.
Emily arrived home from school one evening shortly before the start of the school holidays and announced that her art teacher had requested a meeting with Lorraine.
“He actually owns one of your paintings.” She cupped her hand around her mouth and hissed. “The one with Cherie. I nearly died of mortification when he told me. Of course he pretended it was meant to symbolise the universal repression of the anarchistic desire of the male species – but he wasn’t fooling me. Not for one single minute. I know a lap dancer when I see one.”
John Falmer, Emily’s art teacher, was far too handsome to instil knowledge into a class of pubescent girls, Lorraine thought when she sat down in front of him the following afternoon. He was quick to reassure her that Emily had adjusted well to her change of school and appeared to be enjoying her art classes.
“I’d an opportunity to view your last exhibition when I was in Dublin. An unusual concept. Well executed … provocative, to say the least.” He cleared his throat and briskly tapped his pencil off the desk. “Emily told me you used to give art classes. Have you heard about the adult education programme we run at St Peter’s?” Without waiting for her reply he added, “I hope to persuade you to run a series of night classes when we reopen in September. We’ve excellent facilities available, especially our studios. It would be an honour to have you as part of our tutorial team.”
Lorraine explained about the pressure of work. Commissions, deadlines, maybe some other time. He seemed genuinely disappointed when he shook her hand and said goodbye.
“So? How did it go?” Emily demanded on her return from school.
“He asked me to take on art classes in September.”
“Oh my God!” Her daughter screamed in mock-horror. “Promise me you’ll stick to still life. I’ll die if you start teaching the population of Trabawn to paint nudes.”
“You needn’t worry. Trabawn is quite safe. I haven’t the slightest intention of teaching anyone to paint.”
For the first two weeks of her school holidays, Emily lay in bed, her Walkman to her ears, appearing only to raid the fridge or watch the latest episode of Nowhere Lodge. In Dublin, as soon as each episode of the teenage series ended, it had been earnestly analysed on the phone with her classmates who formed the Nowhere Lodge fan club. She still watched it three times a week, blankly staring at the screen and displaying little pleasure in the antics of the characters whose lives had become as familiar to her as those of her best friends.
By the third week of her school holidays she began moving the crates containing Lorraine’s painting materials into the studio. She unpacked the paints and brushes, erected the easels, stacked half-finished canvases against the walls, filled the shelves with books and the compact discs Lorraine always played when she was working.
“Can’t you at least slosh some paint on the walls and let me know you’re alive?” she snapped one evening when she returned to the kitchen and found Lorraine lying on the sofa, a rug draped over her knees. “What’s the big deal about painting a picture? You’ve done nothing since your nudes. Am I supposed to face a life of destitution, deprivation and despondency?”
Lorraine sighed. “Emily, do me a favour. Turn the page to E.”
“Emotional, empty, enraged.” She chanted the words with grim determination. “Endurance, entombed, excrement. Would you like me to move to the F words?” Her smile was brittle, her attempt at humour barely disguising her fury as she glared at her mother. She lifted an empty bottle and held it upside down. A trickle of wine spilled across her fingers. She placed it back on the table and waved her stained hand before Lorraine’s face.
“When can I have my life back again? Are you listening, Mother – or am I communicating with a zombie? You turn my world upside down then lie around all day drinking and feeling sorry for yourself. I’m sick of it, do you hear me? Sick … sick … sick! I keep trying to help you but you can’t even be bothered thanking me. What do you think I am? Your skivvy?”
“I never asked for your help.” Lorraine pulled the rug across her knees. “Nor have I deprived you of anything, not now, not ever. All I’m trying to do is build a new life for us both –”
“No – no! Stop it right there. That’s a lie. You want a new life for yourself, no one else. I loathe living here but you keep treating me like some kid having a tantrum that will soon pass. Where do my needs come into any of this? I’ve lost my friends. They’re getting on with their lives while I’m stuck here with a mother who won’t even comb her hair in the mornings. I’m sick of it, do you hear me? I can’t stand what’s happened and, what’s even worse, no one cares how I feel. I don’t want to live with you any more.” Tears ran down her cheek
s. “I want to go back to Dublin and live with Sharon. She says I can share her room. Her mother won’t mind, I know she won’t … and that’s what I’m going to do so don’t try and stop me.” She ran from the kitchen. Her footsteps thumped against the stairs, her bedroom door slammed.
“What’s the sense in talking,” she screamed through the door when Lorraine tried to gain entry. “Nothing’s going to change. I hate you.”
In the bathroom where they were plumbing in a new sink the Donaldson brothers fell silent. Oh well – Lorraine collapsed back onto the sofa and closed her eyes. Let all of Trabawn know that the new arrivals drew blood when they fought.
Later, after the brothers had left for the evening, she entered Emily’s bedroom. Her daughter lay sleeping, her face buried in the pillows, crumpled tissues on the floor. Lorraine touched her hair, stroked the thick black tresses. A montage of family photographs had been mounted on one of the walls. A close-knit family of three, their arms around each other. A day on the beach. Another at one of Emily’s birthday parties. The candles on the cake numbered ten and Emily’s cheeks ballooned as she blew them out. All the small and big occasions, the milestones, the forgotten incidents, the oft-remembered excursions, they were all there; a constant reminder of how much she had lost. Lorraine left the room and silently closed the door behind her.
In her studio, she switched on the lights. How clinical it looked, the white walls and harsh overhead beams. Con had screwed a large mirror into the wall. She placed a chair in front of it and removed a sketch pad from the shelf. Using charcoal she began to sketch, her eyes darting from her reflection to the page. It was years since she had drawn a self-portrait, probably as far back as her student days. She had no idea how long she had been drawing, an hour, probably two if the darkness outside the window was any indicator. Some sketches were abandoned, others finished. Her movements grew more frantic as she slashed and scored the paper. She pulled the mouth downwards in exaggerated grimaces, added violence to the eyes, stretched the lips in a scream.
Finally, exhausted, trembling, she flung the sketch pad on the floor. Perhaps she would never paint again. The thought would once have terrified her, forced her to contemplate a vast emptiness in her life. But, as she looked towards the easel, the weight of a paint brush in her hand was more than she could tolerate.
Emily entered, wraith-like in a pale yellow dressing gown. She picked up the sketch pad and stared at the drawings. “Please tell me it’s going to get better.” Her voice was almost inaudible. “I need to find you again.”
“I’m still here, Emily,” said Lorraine and she held tightly to her daughter’s hand as they walked back to the house.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Brahms Ward
6 p.m.
Hi there, Killian. Let’s take a look at you. Maggie says you’ve been fretful today. How can she tell? She rattles her tea trolley and pronounces on the state of your moods with the authority of a pope. Your grandmother must have been here earlier. She’s left the glass snowball by your bedside. You’ll shake it again some day and watch the snowflakes fly.
I met Jean on the way in. We talked for a while. It’s a start. No, it’s more than that. It’s a bloody miracle. One thing we can both agree on is that the trail from the Great South Wall is dead. The police have no further information, no leads. The glass they found on the pier was further back from the scene of the accident so they don’t believe it’s a related incident.
Two guards came to my apartment that night. Boys masquerading as men. I’ve heard it said that the first realisation of aging comes when policemen and doctors cease to intimidate and start to imitate our children. But those young lads did not remind me of you. They were stalwart, square of chin, solidly earthed. They’d found my address in your pocket. The words they used were careful, regulation kindness, not overtly alarming. But I knew, oh yes, even as I ran towards the hospital entrance, I knew what I would find. Tubes and machines, monitors bleeping and you, my son, clinging grimly to life. I wanted to kneel on the floor, throw back my head and howl. Old women once wisely keened their departed but nowadays we need a canyon or a cavern, not a white sterile room, to calm the fury, make the pain more bearable.
I rang your mother from the hospital. Laura answered the phone. Your sister is only fourteen but she’s aware that late night calls come to her house for one reason only. When I asked to speak to Jean, she called her immediately. I listened to the sound of your mother’s footsteps hurrying nearer and had no idea, no earthly idea, how I would break the news to her. She hung up when she heard all she needed to hear and arrived at the hospital shortly afterwards. How shrunken she seemed, as if some vital vertebrae had been removed from her spine. Terence supported her against his chest. Laura and Duncan clung weeping to her. Your grandparents came also. A tight family circle. Nurses brought us tea and comfort, spoke in hushed nocturnal voices. A doctor with sleep grit in her eyes told us of horrendous decisions we might have to make. These are the memories I carry with me from that grief-filled night. They are memories I’ll carry to my grave.
I can’t stop thinking about that voice on the phone. Anonymous, of course, muffled by something, probably a scarf or handkerchief, but with enough clarity to send an ambulance speeding through the night. Does she have children, I wonder? Does she worry about them at night? Has she ever felt that hand clutching her heart when the knock comes to the door and she knows the fear, the bleak, terrifying moment that nudges her awake from nightmares, is about to come true?
At first it was impossible to imagine an hour passing, then two and three, a day, a week, months. But time is an indifferent monitor of grief and two weeks went by before Jean had the energy to come to my apartment. And when she came, she was ruthless in her need to apportion blame.
“You got your way at last.” Her anger was a wrenching cry, far beyond my comfort. It took nineteen years, she said, but I destroyed you in the end. I promised to look after you and I failed. I threw you out on the streets when I knew how desperately you needed my help.
“Tough love … what kind of love is that?” she demanded. “You never wanted Killian. Never! I don’t know how you can live with yourself.”
What use is truth when it’s buried in such anguish? She placed her head in her hands as if she couldn’t bear the sight of me. Her words didn’t hurt me. They were trite accusations compared to my own self-indictment. Like me, she is unable to rest at night. There’s no closure, Killian. You were born from a careless love and it tied us both in an enduring knot. We have two stories, same source, different strands. Some day soon I’ll write our story. Once upon a time there was a young man and a young woman. They made a homeless child …
There’s a grand stretch to the evenings. Soon it will be the longest day of the year. The cherry blossom is fading and the rooks are swirling past your window.
Homeless … home … less home … show way home … home on range … home sweet home … sweet Chariot … coming … carry me home … no home … Bozo …
CHAPTER EIGHT
Cars drawing caravans chugged through Market Street and banners advertising a country music festival appeared in the windows of the restaurants and pubs. Trabawn settled into a more leisurely pace as visitors in sun-dresses, shorts and t-shirts took over the pavements. In the supermarket a trim, bespectacled man in denim shorts and sandals stared openly at Lorraine as she approached the fresh bread counter.
“Lorraine Cheevers! My God, you haven’t changed a bit, not a bit. I’d recognise that flaming mop of curls anywhere.” He laughed at her blank expression. “Don’t tell me I’ve changed so much that you don’t recognise Máirtín Mullarkey?”
“Mad-Dog?” She tried to silence the laughter bubbling up inside her. “My God! It can’t be.”
He chuckled, raised a long, slim finger to his lips. Pale and instantly familiar blue eyes gleamed behind his glasses. “Shhhh! I’m a respectable science teacher these days. Emily is one of my pupils, as a matter of fact. I hope you’r
e not going to fling my past at me now, are you?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Master Mullarkey.” She lowered her voice to a dramatic whisper. “As long as you’re not giving my daughter any lessons in horticulture, especially the grow-and-roll-your-own variety.”
“Perish the thought. I’m a rock of respectability these days, with five daughters to keep me in hand. How’ve you been?”
“Oh, you know. Getting by. One daughter, one broken marriage and a career in painting.”
“I saw you on Artistically Speaking. Interesting documentary. But I’m sorry to hear about you and Adrian.”
She shrugged. “It’s water under the bridge now. Life goes on.”
“That’s a fact, sure enough. Whatever happened to the gorgeous Virginia?”
“She’s in the PR business.”
“A spin doctor, is she? Well, who’d have thought it. I always imagined her in films or on the catwalk. I was mad about that woman. Is she still breaking hearts?”
“Oh yes, I suspect she is.” Lorraine moved her trolley to one side and allowed a woman to pass them by.
“What about her brother, what’s his name?”
