by Laura Elliot
“When did it start?” she demands again and again. When, where, why, how often, how could you … tell me … tell me! Her voice rises to a pitch that would normally horrify her. There should be power and energy in an unsuppressed scream but her screams are weighted with defeat and the knowledge that forgiveness is impossible. Perhaps if he had skulked in shadows with a stranger whom she would never know they could have managed a painful journey back together. Their marriage might have been secured with forgiveness and a wisdom that comes from understanding the dangerous underbelly of deceit. But as she reels back from her husband’s confession, she understands only that her perception of the past and her expectations of the future have changed utterly. How can mere words bring about a reconciliation? What gesture can repair such a rupture to the heart?
How quickly decisions are made, driven by a manic energy that has taken possession of her. In the turmoil following her discovery, Donna rings with the news that Celia Murphy is dead. At the age of ninety-seven, she sold her field to Frank Donaldson and died a week later. Her demise is marked by a notice in the Irish Independant and a well-attended funeral.
Lorraine is among the mourners who fill the small church and walk behind the coffin to the graveyard. After the funeral, she sups on soup and sandwiches in O’Callaghan’s pub, its dust and upright benches replaced by well-sprung maroon armchairs and stained-glass partitions. Celia’s nephew, Eugene Murphy, introduces himself to her. He has seen her on television, something to do with an exhibition. He knows little enough about art, he admits, but he recognised her at once and remembers playing with her on the beach when they were children. His aunt’s house, which he inherited, is now on the market. It will sell cheap and need refurbishment. Lorraine leaves the hotel and drives with him to view it. When she expresses an interest in buying the house, Eugene assumes she intends using it as a holiday home. On hearing she is moving permanently to Trabawn he makes no attempt to hide his astonishment. “That’ll be some lifestyle change.”
In the kitchen he stands back from her, his hands clasped behind his back, puzzlement written across his face. She knows he is summing up her lacklustre eyes and strained expression but she is beyond caring what people think. They shake hands on the deal.
And so she comes to Trabawn. A flashback to childhood summers when pain was confined to stubbed toes and jellyfish stings. Ralph visits her before he leaves for London.
“Virginia always demanded more than I could give her.” His emotions remain hidden behind his hawkish features. “But I was arrogant enough to believe she would never betray me with my best friend. They’ve moved in together.”
Lorraine paces the floor, unable to stay still. Every part of her gnaws, burns, shivers and the weeping, she is convinced, will never stop. The business partnership of Strong–Blaide Advertising is over. Virginia will keep Blaide House. Their house in Howth now belongs to Ralph. The spoils of war, he calls it. His matter-of-fact acceptance of all that has happened diminishes her grief.
“I wish you wouldn’t be so calm,” she cries. “You’d discuss the break-up of a failed merger with more emotion.”
He gathers her against him, forces her to a standstill. “Believe me, Lorraine, it’s hatred that keeps me standing upright, nothing else.”
But the person Lorraine hates most is herself, poor deluded, pliable, pitiful, gullible fool, hiding in the hidey-hedge, hiding behind the sand dunes while Virginia skipped over the rocks and away with the prize.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Ferryman
(an extract from Michael Carmody’s memoir)
The phone call from Bozo Daly came two nights after my last meeting with Killian. “F-f-erryman’s d-d-down on the wa-wa-wall. Better co-come, mate.” As usual, there was much stammering and puffing of breath. But I got the message. He hung up before I could ask questions. I wanted to roar into the silence that followed, strike the nearest object with my fists. I was weary of my son’s endless destructive games.
I drove along the quays. The peak traffic had long dispersed but the trucks still headed for the ferry terminals. I drove towards the South Port and into the industrial zone. Boulders positioned on sections of the road prevented travellers parking their caravans. But a few defiant families had managed to penetrate this fortress and closed their curtains against the settled world. I passed empty warehouses. Bulky containers and giant oil drums were visible beyond high walls. Outside the gates of the ESB generating station, a row of cannons offered a silent salute. My headlights swept over the pier, hoping I’d find Killian running wild, chasing the moon, perhaps. I walked the pier, searched the shadows. Apart from the silver car parked close to a shed, the place was deserted. I drove to a small car-park overlooking the bay and removed a torch from the boot. Its beam was a feeble light in the vast abyss my son had created between us.
The last car was leaving the car-park when I climbed over the rocks banking one side of the South Wall. Seaweed squelched beneath my feet. I slipped, my foot wedging between rocks, and imagined Killian sliding, falling, his mind lost, wandering back to his childhood when he had my steady hand to guide him back to safety. He played my emotions like a mandolin, strumming my love with brutal fingers. Yet I remembered those same fingers clasped in mine as we explored the murky green depths of rock pools, coaxing crabs from under the cover of seaweed and following the rippling flow of minnows.
From the pier I heard a car door slam. Footsteps sounded, voices argued. On a quiet night sounds carry. I saw them walk out of sight behind the high walls of the shed. I left them to their pleasure. If only I’d stayed a while longer. If only … only … ten minutes more could have made a difference. Two hours later the guards came to my apartment.
Since that night, medical terminology has become a familiar language. Killian’s neuro-surgeon uses words with a casual ease that terrified us at first; CAT scans, trauma, brain-stem damage, occipital lobe, Glasgow coma scores, the remote possibility of a “reawakening”. We’ve become attuned to the nuances of meaning, the pitch of his information. His skill at breaking bad news into small digestible pieces is well honed. Temporal-parietal subdural haematoma. How’s that for a mouthful? Killian was operated on in Beaumont Hospital and transferred to the Hammond Clinic when he was stable.
I saw Bozo Daly a few times after the accident. He walked past, his head down, not replying when I called his name. He had nothing to say or, to be more accurate, was incapable of saying anything. But he too had been searching that night for Killian. A short-lived search that ended when he found a shelter and settled down with a bottle. He heard the car alarm and later, against a skyline of high cranes and towering chimneys, he saw my son’s fallen body.
He was yellow-skinned and wizened as a tough old nut when I visited him in hospital. Finally, nearing his end, he was willing to talk. Our last conversation was not an easy one. He was dying with a stammer on his lips. It was no longer a hindrance to our conversation but lent authenticity to words that must be true when they took such an effort to produce. As he spoke the walls of the hospital ward seemed to bend towards me and straighten again. A woman in a blue overall came with a trolley and poured a cup of tea, handed it to me. But I couldn’t drink it and Bozo shifted on his hard hospital mattress, wishful, I suspect, for a sagging armchair in a dockside squat. He had stayed with my son until an ambulance arrived then slid back to the dark.
The following morning Killian’s friend arrived at the squat. They had robbed the contents of the silver car. A stereo and a bracelet were the only things of value they had time to steal before they were disturbed. The lad was terrified, anxious to dispose of the proceeds of the robbery. Bozo shook his head when I asked his name. He’d occasionally seen him with Killian but he never stayed overnight in the squat. The stereo fetched a small sum, hardly worth the effort. But the bracelet was a different story. Bozo Daly knew about jewellery, having handled enough of it in his day, and this was a piece with a very specific design, probably unique, with the initials LC
carved into the clasp. It fetched a tidy sum. Killian’s accomplice never returned to collect his cut.
He had no idea who owned the bracelet until he saw a programme called Artistically Speaking. It was repeat of the original programme and he watched it from his hospital bed. He used to paint once. He shuffled the words as if he understood my disbelief, conjuring, as they did, the study of still waters and bowls of luscious fruit. He recognised the bracelet. It was a chunky, distinctive piece of jewellery with strands of silver intricately criss-crossed. The effect was the same as an Aran-type stitch, with sapphires embedded into its curious weave.
“Why didn’t you bring it to the police?” I asked. “They could have traced the owner.”
He laughed thickly and coughed. He did not bother replying. It was a stupid question. The bracelet is gone, sold on, money spent, a dead trail.
I’ve watched the video seven, perhaps eight times. I look at the bracelet flashing on her arm and think of drowned sailors. Mothers in black shawls identifying their sons’ cold bones by the pattern they once lovingly knitted into their jumpers – and I think also of the Synge-like vengeance they keened towards the bitter sea.
Clips of earlier interviews were shown. She was shy of the camera in those days, uncomfortable when it stayed too long on her face. I heard and understood the struggle for acknowledgement in her voice. The bracelet hung on her wrist. The interviewer commented on its design and the camera focused when she moved her arm. Apparently, the silversmith was well known to them both. How could Bozo be sure it was the same bracelet? I asked him that question many times. He was definite it was the one he’d handled and Killian’s friend had spoken about painting materials in the boot of the car.
The programme covered her entire career, analysed how her work had evolved to the present day. Her fascination with dreams was evident in her early work but in those days she painted nightmares. Then, as if a steady hand had calmed the beast, her work changed. The presenter referred to her portraits as “quirky and cheekily Cheeverish”, an expression that made her wince and push her hair from her forehead, as if weary of its weight. She paints people in repose, smiling, pensive, animated. Knowledge of one’s sitter, she stated, is the key to a successful portrait – and so she seeks to capture the essence of her subject’s personality. He asked why she changed direction so dramatically for her last exhibition and she spoke of influences, the fantasy of Surrealism, the grip of imagination, the sexual ambiguity of the unconscious which has always fascinated her.
I understand why Painting Dreams created such controversy. Her paintings breathe with yearnings; a provocative dance of seven veils, evoking fantasies that cling to the senses long after the dreamer awakens. On the opening night of her exhibition she spoke with the assurance of a successful artist. Thin black straps rested on her shoulders. There were pearls at her neck. She looked older, weary, as if her thoughts were elsewhere. She gesticulated a lot, making language with her hands. Anticipation, perhaps, of the furore her paintings would create in the weeks ahead. Or perhaps she was remembering a desolate pier and the secret she left behind. She no longer wore a bracelet on her wrist.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Killian
Hands cover him, lull him, keep the pain away. They come and they go. Sound and silence. He sinks below the tide and rises. Light and dark. The moon is always out of reach.
Merciful Jesus, we have gathered around Killian’s bedside to plead with you, in your divine mercy, to return him to his family and friends. If it is not your will that he be cured then carry him safely and painlessly into your everlasting light. Goodnight, darling. I must leave now. Duncan is being difficult again.
Knock knock. Who’s there? Dill. Dill who? Dill we meet again … ha ha ha.
Listen mate, I’m going out with Marianne now. I’m sorry, Killian. Don’t be mad. She’s here with me now. You have to wake up! I miss you, mate.
I planted primroses on Bozo’s grave today. They’ll bloom in the spring. Remember the film Killian? It won an award. I’m going to bring it in and show it to you soon. Bozo liked you. Said you had the makings of a great director. He was right, Killian. You have to keep believing.
I tell my daughter about you, little soldier. She is going to pray to the Madonna. Like your mama, she has the faith. Smile, yes, you smile from your heart. No matter what they say I know you smile for me.
There you are, Loveadove. Did you hear me rattling down the corridor? Your da calls me the late-night express. How many fingers am I holding up? Is that a blink or a wink? Don’t fret, Loveadove. You’ll do it yet. Some things take time but it’s worth the wait.
Killian, it’s just too much. My veil still hasn’t arrived. They promised delivery from France a week ago. And the invitations have a spelling mistake! I could chop straws with my tail. There you go. Isn’t that more comfortable? God, I envy you. Lying there with fuck all to worry about.
Lullaby and goodnight, thy mother’s delight. Bright angels around, my darling, shall guard. Don’t be afraid, pet. I’ll always be here to sing for you, just as I always watched out for you. I was your buffer zone as well as your granny. They will guide thee from harm, thou art safe in my arms. They will guide thee from harm, thou art safe in my arms.
Mr Carmody, I understand your anxiety but I must ask you to refrain from exciting the boy. That was a reflex action, not a conscious movement. Recovery of conscious awareness after a patient has been in a vegetative state as long as Killian is exceeding rare. I’m not suggesting it never happens but it is rare indeed. To give you hope would be cruel. I’m afraid Killian is in another world, a deep black hole. You must accept the reality of his situation.
PART THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
His breathing was quiet and relaxed. Virginia was glad he did not snore. What was acceptable in a husband was intolerable in a lover. She traced her hand lightly across his chest and felt the regular thud of his heartbeat. He stirred, as if he sensed her restlessness, then settled into a deeper sleep. For a while she lay like this, buried in his warmth.
She looked at the clock, dismayed to realise it was only three in the morning. A busy day awaited her in the office. She focused on her meeting with Bill Sheraton, rehearsed in her mind the points she would make. Their business could just as easily have been discussed in his office but she was anxious to speak to him in a more relaxed environment and he had agreed readily to a working lunch. Her promotional skills guaranteed excellent coverage for his company and he had reason to be grateful to her. She was his bailiwick against troublesome journalists who asked awkward questions about his third-rate package holidays. How many times had she batted for him on radio phone-ins when clients complained of shoddy service? Too many to remember. As for his wife’s hunger for publicity! Only someone with Virginia’s numerous media contacts could satisfy it.
She slipped quietly from her bed and entered the living-room. The large sandblasted mirror on the wall reflected the elegant simplicity of the furnishings. She adjusted a painting and moved an occasional table into its allotted space. Minimalism, the interior designer had urged when she was commissioned to turn the dull square rooms with their boring magenta walls into a home. Clean lines, cool glass, pale wood, the clarity of chrome. Everything in the apartment should be a feature with a purpose, even if it was simply to gladden the eye. The idea of minimalism appealed to Virginia, suggesting, as it did, the removal of baggage, a new beginning without clutter or mementoes.
Insomnia was a new experience. Even at the height of their affair, when an inadvertent word or action would have brought the whole edifice tumbling down, Virginia had been able to sleep soundly, untroubled by the realisation that she was living a lie. Lies had not been an issue. She had stepped unhesitatingly across that threshold when she realised what the future demanded of her.
She opened the french doors and stood on the balcony. The globe-headed security lamps in the courtyard below her reminded her of pale winter moons shining over the lives o
f invisible people who lived side-by-side, enjoying neither comm-unication nor contact with each other. Even now, six months later, it was difficult to accept that the world they had crafted with such care had collapsed around them like a house of cards. Their love had cost a high price but if she had learned anything from her mother it was that change and challenge walked hand in hand. Eyes to the front, Virginia. Remember what happened to Lot’s wife when she looked behind. Salt of the earth she was, poor thing.
Not that Josephine was prepared to apply that criteria to her daughter’s decision. No phone call from London was complete without the terse reminder that a friend indeed was worth two in the bush – or that old friends were as scarce as gold bullion. Josephine’s determination to condense life into an abused proverb has not lessened with age. If she did not catch Virginia in the office she left messages on her voice mail.
Virginia did not need constant reminders from her mother that she had destroyed both her marriage and the most important friendship of her life. Of course there was guilt and regret. Friends did not attach themselves easily to her. Acquaintances, yes, satisfying, socially acceptable and fun. Lorraine was not always fun to be around. She had a dark side that brooded and tended to go off the deep end, like those crazy dream paintings and her decision to cut loose and head for the hills.
“Why Trabawn of all places?” she had demanded when Adrian told her where Lorraine intended moving. “It’s a hole in the wall. She’ll go crazy living there.”
But Lorraine always clung to nostalgia. Sometimes, talking about those childhood summers spent in a hamlet – where even the sight of one horse was an amazing apparition – Virginia wondered if they could possibly be discussing the same experience. In the midst of publicity and controversy, just when her career was on the cusp, Lorraine Cheevers had turned her face away and hid. As if pain could be banished so easily.
