Grace After Henry

by Eithne Shortall

  Grace After Henry

  Grace sees her boyfriend Henry everywhere. At the supermarket, on the street, at the graveyard.

  Only Henry is dead. He died two months earlier, leaving a huge hole in Grace’s life and in her heart. But then Henry turns up to fix the boiler one evening, and Grace can’t decide if she’s hallucinating or has suddenly developed psychic powers. Grace isn’t going mad – the man in front of her is not Henry at all, but someone else who looks uncannily like him. The hole in Grace’s heart grows ever larger.

  Grace becomes captivated by this stranger, Andy – to her, he is Henry, and yet he is not. Reminded of everything she once had, can Grace recreate that lost love with Andy, resurrecting Henry in the process, or does loving Andy mean letting go of Henry?

  Eithne Shortall studied journalism at Dublin City University and has lived in London, France and America. Now based in Dublin, she is chief arts writer for the Sunday Times Ireland. She enjoys sea swimming, cycling and eating scones. Her debut novel, Love in Row 27, was published in 2017.

  Grace After Henry

  Eithne Shortall

  First published in trade paperback in Great Britain in 2018 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

  Copyright © Eithne Shortall, 2018

  The moral right of Eithne Shortall to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Trade Paperback ISBN: 978 1 78649 387 3

  EBook ISBN: 978 1 78 649 320 0

  Printed in Great Britain

  Corvus

  An Imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

  Ormond House

  26–27 Boswell Street

  London

  WC1N 3JZ

  www.atlantic-books.co.uk

  For Colm, of course

  Grace took out her notebook and began to tut. She made a big deal of dragging a pen from her jeans pocket and clicking it into action.

  ‘Damp,’ she mumbled, ostensibly to herself but purposely loud enough to be heard by the two couples also inspecting this bathroom that time had forgotten but the carpet-fitter certainly hadn’t; worn, once-blue fabric, not unlike the kind that used to adorn her grandmother’s bedroom, was stapled all around the sides of the tub. Grace glanced up from the avocado-coloured toilet. She tutted again. ‘Weak gable wall.’

  In the mirror above the sink, she watched the reflections of her fellow house-hunters. One couple was inspecting the patch of ceiling Grace had just spent a good two minutes frowning at, and the woman in the other pair was making panicked eyes at her partner although he didn’t pick up on this because he was too busy inspecting the boiler. Men were mad for the boilers.

  ‘That’ll have to be replaced,’ said Grace, standing beside him, peering into the cupboard. ‘Hasn’t been serviced since The Beatles called it a day, or so I heard the estate agent saying.’

  Grace, who hadn’t a clue about boilers or whether bathrooms even had gable walls, gave him a sympathetic smile and sauntered out of the unhygienic 1970s lavatory and into the 1970s kitchen.

  It probably wasn’t necessary to still be scaring off the competition. Grace and Henry had gone sale agreed on an end-of-terrace house on Aberdeen Street the previous week. It was right beside the Phoenix Park, which ticked more than enough boxes for Henry, and while the second bedroom was small the house had the kind of spacious, fitted kitchen that reminded Grace why she had wanted to be a chef. They were both mad about it. But they’d had deals fall through before. And while Henry wanted to hold out for Aberdeen Street – he was convinced the Phoenix Park house was meant to be – Grace knew the shrewd move was to keep looking. Just in case.

  She checked her phone: 5.45 p.m. and no messages. He had fifteen minutes to get here. Henry was the master of cutting it fine. Grace, on the other hand, had been standing under the For Sale sign at this East Wall terrace at 5.20, ten whole minutes before the estate agent was due to arrive. Although she drew the line at queuing. She knew from experience that as soon as the door opened, everyone was going to charge in anyway.

  An older couple stepped out of the kitchen as she was on her way in. Grace caught the wife’s eye. Riddled, was what she hoped her stare said. You’d buy this dump on a Monday, and it’d have fallen in on you by Tuesday.

  Actually, this house wasn’t that bad. Despite its psychedelic décor and a smaller kitchen than Grace might have liked, it had a converted attic and no real signs of damp. It was worth keeping their options open.

  ‘Don’t think like that,’ Henry had groaned from under the duvet that morning, trying to wangle his way out of going to yet another viewing. ‘Ten months we’ve been looking. Haven’t we served our time? We’ve found our house. I don’t even want to consider another one.’

  ‘Well, neither do I but reality—’

  ‘Reality,’ Henry scoffed, making a grab for Grace’s bare legs as she sidestepped him again. ‘We might jinx it by looking elsewhere. Aberdeen Street is going to work out, I’m telling you. I can feel it.’

  Grace, standing half-dressed on the pile of newspapers that continually carpeted Henry’s side of the bedroom, extracted the toothbrush from her mouth. ‘Let me guess, you’re going to tell me it’s fate.’

  ‘Exactly. And I feel another part of our destiny involves going to see the original Mad Max, which is having a one-off screening at the Savoy this evening.’

  ‘Do you know how often house sales fall through, Henry?’

  ‘No.’ He pushed the duvet down to his midriff and grinned at her. ‘But I bet you do.’

  ‘One in four. And it’s most common with first-time buyers. What if we don’t get Aberdeen Street?’

  ‘Aber-dream Street.’

  Now it was Grace’s turn to smile. ‘I love it too, but we can’t put all our eggs in one basket. Until we have the keys in our hands, we have to keep looking.’

  ‘You’re right, I know you are. I’ll be there before the viewing is over,’ he said, finally making a successful grab for her leg and pulling her onto the bed. ‘Why don’t you put all your eggs in this basket?’

  ‘That doesn’t even make any sense.’ Grace held her brush aloft so as not to get toothpaste on the duvet but she allowed herself to be pulled back under it.

  ‘Jesus, Grace! You’re so cold. You’re bloody freezing!’

  ‘Of course I’m freezing. I’ve been in our bathroom.’

  ‘When we have a bathroom of our own, it’ll have real ventilation, not just a hole in the wall. And we’ll have a toilet cistern that refills . . . by itself.’

  ‘The dream,’ she deadpanned, before his arm reached up from below the blanket and caught her off guard. ‘Hey! Give me that back. Don’t put that in your— Gross! You absolute sicko, Henry Walsh. Get your own feckin’ toothbrush!’

  Grace pushed the flower-power curtains aside and looked out the window of the front bedroom of the East Wall terrace. 5.52 p.m. House-hunters were starting to leave; some crossed the road for a better look at the roof and drainage while others headed straight for their cars. It was threatening to rain, and still no sign of Henry’s
bike.

  He would probably arrive just as the last lingering viewers were being herded out of the property, ruffling his helmet hair and somehow convincing the estate agent to stick around for an extra few minutes while he did a quick tour of the place. Grace envied how easily he could do that. He charmed his way into things all the time and it came so naturally he didn’t even realise he was doing it. Everyone liked Henry. He exuded self-assuredness and people wanted to be around him. And Grace was happy, proud even, that he so desperately and unremittingly wanted to be around her.

  She stepped away from the window. When they moved into their own home, she would tell him how much she loved him every day. She stuck the notebook under her arm and continued into the second bedroom and then up to the converted attic. From the skylight she could see the River Liffey, flanked by lorries heading to and from the docks. It had started to rain.

  ‘That’s it, folks! Time to wrap it up!’

  Grace peered down the attic stairs to see the young estate agent standing at the bottom of them. She checked her phone again: 5.59. Where was he?

  Out in the front garden, Grace called him but it went straight to voicemail. This is Henry Walsh, leave a message. No sign of his bike from either end of the street. The last few stragglers streamed out into the rain and the estate agent shut the door behind them. Grace pushed down her hood.

  ‘I’m waiting on my boyfriend; he’s just running a little late.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said the agent, hunching forward as he pulled an umbrella from his bag. ‘We’re showing it again on Saturday.’

  Grace nodded and followed him out of the garden. He hopped into his car and she sat on the front wall, damp seeping through the arse of her trousers and water dripping from the rim of her raincoat hood.

  For feck’s sake, Henry! Where are you?

  The rain got heavier. She pulled her hood tighter and turned her mobile phone over in her hands: 6.07. She let out a frustrated sigh. She could feel the water on her shoulders, a slight trickle running down her arm. Grace repositioned her face to express maximum irritation. She intended to make Henry feel guilty. She was soaked. He’d better have a grovelling apology ready to go. He’d want to be arriving here with a good excuse, too. Even if he knew he wouldn’t make it on time, he could have called. He could have—

  A crack from above like a whip ripping the sky open. The grey clouds grew darker and the rain continued to pour. Her stomach dropped. They had fought about it so much in their early days that now Henry always called. Grace was filled with the most awful certainty that something was wrong.

  ‘Feck it!’

  The cyclist at the bike rail beside him looked up. ‘Forgot something,’ Henry told the stranger, before redoing his bike lock and jogging back to his office building. He bounded up the steps, taking them two at a time, using the handrail to propel himself onward.

  ‘Forget something else?’

  ‘Helmet. She’ll kill me if I’m not wearing it.’

  Henry went to the cloakroom, grabbed the green armour from his cubbyhole and waved it at the receptionist. ‘Last time I’ll be back, I swear.’

  ‘Until tomorrow anyway,’ she called after him. ‘Best of luck with the house!’

  But Henry was already on the staircase, winding the scarf tighter around his neck as he hot-footed it down the steps. He was dressed in a near homage to Grace. The bright red scarf she’d knitted him, and which he adored, and the helmet she insisted he wear. If he died, or suffered a terrible brain injury, what about her? It wasn’t just him anymore.

  Henry had never felt so half of something as the day he bought that helmet. It was scary to love someone so much that the end of one life could mean the end of two. He had never found the words to describe quite how he felt about Grace but he tried to show it in his actions: in being her biggest champion, in wearing a helmet like others wore a ring, in not being late for this house viewing.

  He checked his watch: 5.35 p.m. Okay. If he put his pedal to the metal and didn’t hit any red lights he would make it for 5.50. He only needed ten minutes to look around. Less, usually. And unless this house was significantly better than the shamelessly wide-angled photographs online suggested, his heart was still set on Aberdeen Street.

  Henry unlocked his bike for the second time and stuffed A Christmas Carol into his bag. That was what he had gone back to the office for on the first occasion. He and Grace were reading it. Again. Even though it was February. Henry had brought it to work for a project they were designing – the book was just the right size for a mock-up – but he needed to have it back before bedtime. It was his turn to read tonight. Though she could whistle for it if she thought he was doing the voices.

  Henry pushed off, pulling the scarf into position again. The sky was grey but he reckoned he could make it to East Wall before the heavens opened. He got stuck behind a group of tourists cycling two abreast down Dame Street and had to dismount his bike because of roadworks at College Green. The clock at O’Connell Bridge said 5.44. Shit. He’d take the quays. Fewer traffic lights and fewer cyclists. He looked right, left, threw the boisterous scarf over his shoulder once more and pushed right in unison with an articulated truck.

  The quays were always jammed with industrial vehicles at this hour but at least they were moving, their massive wheels turning, the bolts the size of Henry’s head. The cycle lane was empty. He picked up speed, recalculating his arrival time: 5.55, probably. 5.53, if he stepped on it. It didn’t really matter; he just had to get there. He pushed down harder, feeling the strain in his thighs. If Henry made Grace a promise, he kept it. He loved her. Five years together and he hadn’t grown tired of this same startling realisation that boomed outwards from his chest, reverberating in every part of him. He fucking loved her! He’d tell her when he got there. He was always telling her, but he’d tell her again. He grinned to himself. They’d get that Aberdeen Street house and properly, really properly, begin their life together. His heart swelled, driving him forward, faster. He loved this feeling; he was cycling towards her.

  A splash on his wrist. Henry looked up. He didn’t feel the scarf coming loose, didn’t register the pull around his neck as the wind that had been holding it in the air finally dropped and the Aran wool looped its way through the spokes. A second splash, and another.

  In the spokes, suddenly, all those stitches Grace had cast and caught at night, on the bus, on her fifteen-minute breaks. They had made each other’s presents last year. They needed the money for their house. For their home. And now their home and Grace and their intertwined lives, spun as tightly as any threads, were caught, wrapping round and round, until there was no more give. Then the brakes. A sudden halt. But he hadn’t touched them.

  The scarf was jammed in the brakes.

  Wheels skidding, his feet down to balance but too late, too fast, too determined not to be late for Grace.

  Only it couldn’t be over. Not Grace and Henry. Him maybe, but never them. And that was what sustained him. That was why he still didn’t believe it as his handlebars fell to the right, rain keeping time on his knuckles, skin pulled taut over them to a petrified shade of white.

  His bike toppled but the truck kept coming and like it was nothing, like he was a crisp packet sucked up by the idling street sweeper, he was under. All noise, no light and still he closed his eyes because he knew now it was over and because he was scared. He was giving up. He who had promised never to give up. He who had said that where there was her there would always be him. But there was no Grace here. He was all alone and he was scared. He closed his eyes. He was sorry. He loved her and he was sorry.

  The world shifted seismically but nothing tilted to accommodate it. The wheels turned, the rain fell, and all that love was sucked into a void. It was too late. He was gone.

  Gone in the flutter of an eye. The eyes that saw through him and still loved him. Her eyes. Grace.

  SEVERAL WEEKS LATER

  ONE

  There were moments of lucidity – the sound
of Dad abruptly starting up the vacuum cleaner and Mam screaming that hoovering disturbed the moths – but most of the early weeks passed in a fugue. I didn’t leave the bed, never mind my parents’ house, if I could help it. My social circle consisted of Mam, Dad, occasional visits from Aoife and the three other mourners I met every time I went to visit Henry’s grave.

  The day I came to, and regained some sort of awareness, my parents were jumping around their living room like Native Americans celebrating the arrival of rain. Everyone else’s life had continued, all but mine and Henry’s. Time kept passing, the sun kept rising and, as sure as spring follows winter, the moths had returned.

  ‘I got him! I got the little bugger.’

  Dad froze where he stood, right in the middle of the living room – knee bent, hands raised; an impressive yoga pose for a man with a bad lower back – and Mam, from her position on the sofa, squinted at the space above the television, the same bit of middle distance that was entrancing Dad. Neither spoke. It was, I knew because The Late Late Show had just come on the telly, 9.35 on a Friday night.

  ‘You did not get him, Arthur, look. Look! There he is now. Looklooklooklook! Quickquickquickquick!’ Mam leapt to her feet, adopting the McDonnell family’s preferred stance when it came to the extermination of moths. ‘There he is!’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘There.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Theretheretherethere!’

  ‘I see him, I see him. The fecker! I’ve got you now, my little friend.’

  ‘It’s the feckin’ heat.’ Mam grabbed the two magazines from Dad’s armchair and held a rolled-up Heat in her left hand and House & Home in her right. ‘The mild winter and all the feckin’ central heating. I told you we didn’t need the radiators on in March, Arthur. I don’t see why you couldn’t just use the tumble dryer to dry the clothes. You may as well roll out the welcome mat. They thrive in temperatures above twenty-two degrees.’