Holding

by Graham Norton

  She had slumped into the spare dining room chair she kept by the hall table, a light bulb in one hand and her letters in the other. Pat had rushed forward. ‘Are you all right there, Mrs Riordan?’ Brid had immediately rallied and reassured him as she stood up that everything was fine. She waved him on his way and shut the door. Then, without ever deciding to, she headed straight for the fridge and poured herself a large glass of white wine.

  Brid Riordan had never been the prettiest girl in Duneen. Her mother’s weak chin combined with the broad features and stocky build of her father meant she had always had the look of a much older woman, even as a child. At school she had relied on being clever and the first to make jokes at her own expense in order to survive. After school she continued to live at home on the farm with her parents and got a job doing the books for the largest chemist’s shop in Ballytorne. She made the most of herself, spending her wages on make-up and clothes, and went to all the dances, but somehow, despite her longing for a boyfriend, she knew that none of the boys who spoke to her were good enough. She flicked through magazines and gazed into the moist eyes of John Travolta, or imagined David Soul placing his hand on the small of her back as he helped her step into a low open-topped car.

  By the time she reached her mid-twenties she had still never had a boyfriend. Her friends from school were one by one announcing their engagements, and a few were even pushing prams. Brid had been a bridesmaid three times, and of course everyone told her as she stood at the reception wearing some ill-fitting dress in a colour that didn’t appear in nature that she would be next. She would smile and nod even though she knew it wasn’t true. Despite all of this, though, she didn’t panic. She knew the other girls had their assets – the shiny hair, the beautiful bodies, the perfect teeth – but she was also aware that she would develop her own allure.

  Early one Sunday evening, while her father was still out finishing the milking, her mother had sat her down at the kitchen table for ‘a talk’, in an act of parenting that was as breathtaking as it was brutal. When the radio was switched off, Brid knew it was serious.

  Her mother started to speak to her about boys, and Brid instantly dreaded the conversation that was about to happen. She had heard some of the older girls at the convent talking and laughing about ‘willies’ and ‘hard-ons’. It all sounded awful. In fact the conversation took a very different turn as her mother carefully explained to her that she wouldn’t find it easy with boys. They would always be more interested in the pretty girls. Brid’s eyes filled with great globe-like tears and her mother stroked her hand, telling her calmly that she mustn’t worry. Her father was getting on and not in the best of health, and when he went, the boys would be knocking the door down for the farm. Brid would find her man in time, and he’d be a good steady worker who would make a great father, because he’d have his head tied on straight. It wasn’t what any teenage girl dreaming of princes and pop stars wanted to hear, but it had prepared her for the next ten years of her life.

  Once her father had been hospitalised for what seemed to be the last time, various friends of her mother’s would arrive with cake, or a stew, to save her cooking, since she was having to make the journey up and back to Cork every day. They also brought with them sons. Giant children who sat awkwardly in the kitchen staring at the floor while their mothers talked to Brid for them.

  ‘Brendan did the Leaving Cert a couple of years after you, but he was very good at English. Don’t you like reading, Brid?’

  ‘Kevin is just back from the agricultural college over in Darrara. He did very well. He’s mad for the farming. Aren’t you Kevin?’

  These evenings were torture for everyone, and of course pointless. There was only one gentleman caller in the village who was going to get any sort of welcome, and that was Tommy Burke. He wasn’t very tall, but Brid kind of liked that. With his dark hair and shy smile, he had the look of a Spaniard about him. She wondered if something as simple as land could really get her a man like that and decided that, until she knew for certain, she wouldn’t even consider any of the dolts in their Lee jeans and baggy sweatshirts bearing the names of American cities they would never see.

  Her courtship of Tommy lasted for several months without him knowing anything about it. On Fridays she would follow him from stall to stall at the market in Ballytorne. From a distance she began to know him. He was a great man for cheese and he liked white pudding more than black. She stored away these details ready for when they started their life together. After mass, she stood as close to him as she dared in O’Driscoll’s when he was getting the papers. He smelled lovely. Nothing like the other boys.

  When her dreams finally came true, it all seemed to happen so fast and effortlessly. He had waited until after her father’s funeral, which she thought was a nice touch, and then he drove up to the house to pay his respects. She remembered her mother taking the bottle of red wine he offered and passing it to her to put in the back kitchen with all the other unopened bottles that people had brought with their words of condolence. Tommy and her mother had made stilted conversation. He asked long, serious questions about the amount of acres and the yields, while she stared at him with the wide, gormless smile of a girl who did not appear to be too upset at the death of her father.

  After Tommy left, her mother was transformed into a giggling schoolgirl, gushing about his eyes and his lovely skin. Brid felt decidedly uneasy. She didn’t want to think about her mother having those sorts of feelings towards any man, but especially not the one who was going to make her the happiest girl in all of Ireland.

  The next contact came after mass, when he approached them on the chapel steps. With no preamble of any kind he blurted out an invitation to go to the pictures in Ballytorne on the following Friday. It wasn’t entirely clear if he was asking her or her mother, or possibly both of them. Only the sight of her mother glaring at her prompted Brid to utter a breathless ‘Yes. That would be lovely.’ The expression on Tommy’s face didn’t change. He just grunted and said, ‘I’ll be up for you about seven, so.’ And then he was gone. Out of the corner of her eye she could see her mother looking at her with eyebrows arched and lips pursed.

  ‘What?’ Brid asked. ‘It’s only the pictures!’ The two women smiled at each other, and then, as they walked back to the car, they both began to laugh.

  As it turned out, none of the dates were quite how Brid had fantasised. There were no long, passionate kisses. His rough cheek never rubbed against her smooth white neck. No walking hand in hand in the moonlight. That first trip to the cinema, to see Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves – Kevin Costner looked fierce old – had set the tone for the six or seven dates that followed. He opened doors for her and bought her a box of Maltesers, but sitting in the dark he never once tried to put an arm around her or take her hand. Brid had sat too close so that their arms touched and even through the wool of her cardigan she could feel the heat of his body.

  Afterwards he had bought two bags of chips and they had sat in the car, eating more than talking. He asked a couple of questions about her father’s funeral and talked a little about how strange it was being in his house by himself, with no mother or father. Brid made small noises of agreement or sympathy as she piled chip after chip into her mouth. She thought of the two of them alone in his house. It would be different there. Hands would be everywhere, they would be tangled up in large white sheets, and then … Her imagination drifted in a vague warm mist.

  When the car pulled into the yard to the back of Brid’s house, Tommy had jumped out at once and run around to open her door. She stepped from the car and found her face very close to his. She could feel his breath, the smell of vinegar. She waited. Tommy cleared his throat.

  ‘Right. Thank you very much. Would you like to go out again?’ She stared at his face but it gave nothing away. He showed more enthusiasm when he was choosing cheese.

  ‘Lovely, yeah,’ she replied, and then, more out of desperation than desire, she leaned in and kissed his cheek. Still nothi
ng. It was as if he was embarrassed for her, and his lack of response was his way of sparing her further humiliation. Brid had behaved the same way when her Aunt Rhona’s dressing gown had gaped open, revealing a pale, veiny breast.

  She stood in the hall with her back pressed against the front door and listened to his car drive off, unsure of what had happened. Had she done something wrong? Was this just what first dates were like? She made sure not to air her doubts when her mother quizzed her about the evening, and by the morning she had managed to reconstruct the whole date in her mind. He was the perfect gentleman and clearly he saw her as his princess, not some trollop who would let any boy kiss her tits for a glass of wine.

  Two months later, they still hadn’t kissed, and he certainly hadn’t tried to undo her bra, but despite that, she still found herself opening a small white box with a ring inside. They were parked in Tommy’s car in the main square of Ballytorne on a Saturday afternoon. Brid watched people walking by with their shopping, some talking, some laughing, but most looking bored and beaten by their lives. She looked back down at the small diamond ring, and then at Tommy. He turned away and, staring straight ahead through the windscreen, said, ‘I wondered would you like to get married?’

  Brid imagined she was standing in the street looking at their car. That girl was being proposed to by Tommy Burke! That girl was clearly the luckiest girl alive, and yet whatever she might be feeling at that very moment, Brid was fairly certain that it wasn’t lucky. She longed to ask him questions. Do you love me? Do you want me to be happy? Will you … She opened her mouth and, a little louder than she expected, said, ‘Yes.’

  She reached forward in her bulky coat to hug him. He let her kiss him on the mouth. His lips felt warm and very dry. Then he gently pushed her away and started the engine. As they drove in silence back out to Duneen, past the familiar bungalows, fields and junctions, she pulled herself deep inside her coat and wept great jagging tears.

  As news of the engagement spread, so did the joy. Everyone loved a wedding, and especially after all the tragedy that had befallen the village of late. There had been far too many funerals. It was Brid’s mother’s idea to put the announcement in the Irish Times. She wanted everything done perfectly. She knew how keenly her little girl had dreamed of this day, and she was going to make sure it was everything she had hoped for and even more.

  After the awful scene with the Ross girl, and in the days following Tommy’s disappearance, Brid often wondered if everyone had known all along. Had all those people shaking her hand and beaming their congratulations at her been secretly pitying her? She had decided they hadn’t, partly because that was what she believed but also because to think otherwise would have driven her insane. It was hard enough to imagine how life would continue as she and her mother sat in the kitchen wrapping up wedding presents ready to return.

  The door of the kitchen opened with a jolt. Anthony stood there, his face gleaming red and still wet from the shower. His plaid shirt clung to his thin frame where he hadn’t dried his back.

  Shit. Had she been asleep? She didn’t think so. Pushing her hair back, she made an attempt at a smile.

  ‘Good morning.’

  Anthony gave her the look. The look that said everything that was wrong with their lives but mostly told her that she disgusted him.

  ‘Have you been up all night?’

  She was at the sink now, turning the tap on, trying to look like she had a purpose.

  ‘I had a little nap down here. I didn’t think I could sleep and I didn’t want to keep you awake as well.’ She tried another small smile.

  Anthony muttered something as he made his way to the fridge. She saw him making a point of ignoring the empty wine bottle on the counter. She rolled her eyes. Another day in paradise.

  8

  Detective Superintendent Dunne had decided to drive up to Dublin to talk to the cousin who had sold the land. Of course he didn’t have to go himself, but it was as good an excuse as any to spend a night away from June and the new baby. It was agreed that one of his colleagues would come down from Cork to conduct the interviews with both of the women who had been associated with Tommy Burke. PJ was to be in effect a combination of driver and local guide.

  Linus had just left Cork behind him and was driving north towards Dublin on the M8 when his mobile rang. He waited for the Bluetooth to pick it up, but it didn’t. Of course it fucking didn’t. He hesitated before reaching down for the handset and prayed he wasn’t stopped by the guards. Listening without comment to the news that a fatal stabbing overnight in the city meant his colleague was no longer available, he reluctantly agreed that Sergeant Sumo could make the initial contact with the former girlfriends and conduct the interviews. He reasoned that surely even Sumo could get the bare facts; if they needed any further information, he could always see the women later himself. As he hung up, he glanced down at the petrol gauge. He figured it would get him as far as Urlingford.

  Somebody knew. One of the faces that he passed must know who was buried up there and how it had happened. Maybe they all knew. Was there a conspiracy of silence amongst the good people of Duneen? Certainly PJ had never been made to feel like such an outsider in all his time in the village. Conversations stopped when he was spotted, and if people caught his eye, they seemed sheepish and furtive; even Mrs Meany served his meals in silence. PJ didn’t like it. Did they all have something to hide or were they just unsure of how to treat him now that he finally had a real crime to investigate?

  He wondered how this morning’s visit would go. What was that saying about answered prayers? He had been cursing the fact that he wouldn’t get to do any interviews by himself, but as the gates of Ard Carraig came up on the left, he found himself dreading it. He had taken his unexpected responsibility as a vote of confidence, but now, as his car slowed to a stop and his heartbeat increased alarmingly, he began to wonder if that confidence had been misplaced.

  He switched off the engine and took a moment to collect himself. Though he had passed the gates many times over the years, this was the first time he had ever had cause to come down to the house itself. The grey-plastered facade was less grand than he had imagined, and although it had the large Georgian fanlight above the front door, and tall sash windows, the rest of the house seemed very plain and bare. Still, it had an air of quiet elegance, sitting at the edge of a wide sweep of gravel driveway. To the left, behind a high stone wall, he could see a plume of grey smoke drifting up into a matching sky.

  Right, he thought, somebody must be in. He had feared they weren’t when he had arrived and seen no sign of a car parked outside. He hoped that the sister he was looking for – he checked the scrap of paper on the passenger seat: Evelyn – was at home. He opened the car door and placed one foot on the gravel, but then, as if the ground was covered with burning coals, jerked his leg back into the car. How was he going to play this? Was he going to pretend he was hearing the whole story for the first time? No. That would be stupid. Sure, why was he here if he knew nothing? Would he be all friendly with her? Maybe it was better to try and intimidate her?

  He noticed he had started to pant again. He gripped the steering wheel and took a few deep breaths. Evelyn Ross was not a dangerous woman. He would simply play it by ear. Before he could talk himself out of it, he hauled himself from the car and slammed the door. He hesitated for a moment before deciding to head straight for the source of the smoke. He walked past the house and made his way to a small door in the high garden wall. He noticed that the paintwork was very well maintained.

  Good, he thought, I’m noticing details. That’s good. I’m good at this. He tried the handle, and with a slight jolt and a long creak it opened. On the other side he found himself in a small cobbled courtyard, lined with various outhouses. The smoke was coming from somewhere behind them.

  Evelyn Ross was beginning to think the bonfire had burned down low enough for her to leave it and head back inside. Her eyes were red, but that was from the smoke rather than from a
ny tears at the loss of her Vogue hill. The reality hadn’t left her quite as elated as the thought of doing it had the night before, but still she felt she had taken the first few steps on some sort of journey to a new life. She looked about her. The arch of the trees behind the chimneys, the fields sloping away down towards the overgrown banks of the stream where their childhood pets were buried, the damp patches on the stone wall of the long shed, all so painfully familiar that they seemed to gently mock her: ‘What are you still doing here?’ Evelyn glanced down at the dark green of her wellingtons, which she’d had for so long she couldn’t remember buying them. Why was she rooted to this spot?

  She had never imagined that this house and these few fields would be her whole life. Somehow she thought there would come a moment when it felt right to leave, but it appeared that she was still waiting for it. She remembered so well the day Florence had come back from college. The bags in the hall bearing the names of impossibly glamorous shops in Dublin: Brown Thomas, Switzer’s, Boyers. The tissue paper on the kitchen table where she had unwrapped her gifts – a hairband covered in tiny pearl-like beads and a pair of slippers trimmed with rabbit fur. She had felt truly happy that day for them all to be back together, but when Florence had made her big announcement about her new job at the school in Duneen, Evelyn’s joy, even then, had been tinged by guilt. She knew that Florence had only come back for her, but what could she do about it? She had never asked her to. It wasn’t her fault. If Abigail had made her return, then blame her! But she knew in her heart that both of them had stayed for her, and if she had decided to go it would be like telling them they had wasted their lives, that she had never needed them. It was ludicrous. Was it really possible that she could have wasted so much of her own life out of a demented sort of politeness?