Grace After Henry

by Eithne Shortall

  He was trying to find out if Frances Clinch had any surviving family. There could be aunts or uncles or maybe even other siblings. From me, though, he just wanted to know about Henry.

  So I told him how his brother had grown up an only child in a south Dublin suburb. His father was a successful lawyer and his mother had worked in the Department of Education before having Henry. ‘Before Henry came along,’ I corrected myself. He went to school in the city and was good, but not great, academically. People liked him. That was his biggest asset. It had done more for him than grades ever had. He made friends easily. You could bring him to a party where he knew nobody and be sure he’d be fine. He went to university straight out of school: an arts degree, then a Masters in graphic design.

  ‘He had an easy confidence,’ I said. ‘I always thought it came from his parents. They were so proud of anything he achieved.’

  ‘Lucky,’ said Andy.

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘But he knew it.’

  We talked and talked and talked. Sometimes I’d break off in the middle of a story and laugh at the absurdity of it, and other times I’d go a whole anecdote without realising what was unfolding. It meant everything to have someone who wanted as much as I did to talk about Henry. Once I started, it was easy. There were so many stories. There were things Henry and I used to recall all the time but without him around, I had started to forget. I had almost forgotten how, when he carried me to bed, he would declare ‘Last stop!’ as he dropped me on the mattress. It came back to me only as I told another story. I was shocked it had wandered, even a little, from the forefront of my mind.

  I told Andy about the trip to Portugal, the one where that photograph of us sitting on the wall was taken, and about the Christmas Eve he walked me home and awkwardly asked me out.

  Every time I finished a story, he looked at me expectantly. His eyes didn’t glaze over when I recollected the minutiae of situations he hadn’t been present for or the inter-personal politics of people he didn’t know. He always wanted more.

  Even when the conversation verged into other territory, I knew we were both enjoying it. He had a laid-back aura similar to Henry but while his brother’s resting face had been one of gentle mocking, Andy’s suggested intense concentration. It was unnerving but also so disproportionately serious that it made him easy to tease. I mocked the way he put ‘ay’ at the end of questions that were actually statements.

  ‘Crazy, ay?’ I said in my best Australian accent and he grinned and leaned back in his chair. It was good, too, to have that face so close again.

  When I heard the buzz of the street lamps illuminating outside, I checked the time.

  ‘Eleven o’clock,’ I said. ‘I’d no idea.’

  Andy scraped back his chair, stood abruptly and left the kitchen.

  ‘Andy?’

  I heard him climbing the stairs and presumed he was going to the bathroom. But he reappeared a few minutes later, headed straight for the double doors that led to the back garden and leaned down.

  ‘There,’ he said, when he’d straightened up again. ‘Now we can all rest easy.’

  I got up to look where he was looking and saw that the gap in the rubber draft excluder was a gap no more.

  ‘You had a bit of overhang on the window upstairs,’ he said, packing up his toolbox. ‘I clipped it off with nail scissors.’

  ‘My own MacGyver.’ I grinned and followed slowly as he made his way through the sitting room and into the hall. From behind he was exactly the same.

  ‘Have you ever heard of changelings?’ I asked, and he shook his head. ‘My ancestors would have said Henry had been taken by faeries, and that you were the changeling left in his place. You look like the human, but inside you belong to the faeries.’

  ‘You’re starting to sound like my Mum,’ he said. ‘Do you have a side gig selling magic crystals too?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe it’s an Irish thing. Do these changelings sell crystals? Or the faeries?’

  I folded my arms and assessed him. ‘Are you the one doing the mocking now?’

  ‘Looks like it.’ He grinned. ‘Ay?’

  I twisted my arm around him and opened the latch on the front door. I thought too late to inhale the smell of him; my breathing pattern was all off.

  ‘I’m on a site a lot of the week but maybe the weekend—’

  ‘Tomorrow, or Sunday?’ I said eagerly. ‘I’m free.’ Even though I actually had plans with Aoife, and Larry was supposed to call in to fill a pothole in the back garden.

  We settled on Sunday and the Phoenix Park. I’d show him Henry’s favourite places. ‘And I’ll bring a few photos,’ I added.

  He repeated the meeting point, committing it to memory – ‘Wellington Monument, Wellington Monument’ – and headed down the path.

  ‘Goodnight,’ I called after him, enjoying the impact of the half-whisper on the quiet street.

  When he’d climbed into the car borrowed from his landlady and driven out of sight, I shut the door gently. I allowed the moment to stretch. It expanded along the hallway, up the stairs, into the bedroom and straight through the night. I read those first few pages of A Christmas Carol, right up to the bookmark, and for the following ten hours, I slept like a log.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘Grace. This is a surprise.’

  ‘Sorry, Mam,’ I said, closing the door behind me. ‘Are youse in the middle of dinner?’

  ‘No, we’re going out for our dinner, actually. Some place your father’s been reading great things about. Just waiting for him to finish varnishing the skirting boards in our bedroom.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘What is it the restaurant’s called again? The chicken is supposed to be excellent.’ She walked over to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Arthur! ARTHUR!’

  ‘WHAT?’

  I winced at the volume as she leaned on the banister and continued to bellow.

  ‘WHAT’S THE NAME OF THE RESTAURANT WE’RE GOING TO?’

  ‘NANDO’S!’

  ‘WHAT?’

  ‘NANDO’S!’

  ‘WHAT?!’

  ‘NAN! DOHS!’

  ‘NANDO’S?’

  ‘YES! NANDO’S!’

  She turned back to me: ‘It’s called Nando’s.’

  ‘So I hear.’ I took off my coat and hung it at the end of the stairs. My mother was wearing the green suit she’d worn to my culinary arts graduation.

  ‘You know it’s not like a restaurant-restaurant, Mam?’

  ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘Nando’s. It’s more of a . . . it’s like a fancy fast-food place.’

  ‘Who’s that, Sarah? Who is— Oh hello, love!’

  Dad came down the stairs wearing his Christmas Day slacks and the shirt Mam got him for his last birthday.

  ‘Grace says it’s not a restaurant at all, this Nando’s. More of a fast-food place.’

  Somehow she managed to make ‘fast-food place’ sound fancier than ‘restaurant’.

  ‘Well, it is a restaurant, sort of,’ I said. ‘It’s just very casual.’

  ‘Have you been, Grace?’

  ‘No, but I know all about it. They’re everywhere . . .’

  ‘Your father’s been reading a lot about it. It’s in all his magazines.’

  ‘Miley Cyrus is a fan. And Robert Pattinson. And Vicky Pinkerton.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The tall lass from Only Made in Chiswick,’ he said, taking his suit jacket from under the stairs. ‘She’s the one Ben Thompson cheated on in Marbella with Lettice.’

  ‘What is it you said they were called, Arthur?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The sex mice?’

  ‘Love rats,’ he corrected and I remembered how glad I was not to live here anymore.

  ‘Well, I’m not sure I want to eat in a place favoured by love rats. What if someone we know sees us?’

  Dad sighed wearily. ‘Vicky is not a love rat, Sarah. She’s the one the love rat cheated on. She had the twelve-page tell-all in Heat. Reme
mber? I showed you.’

  ‘I don’t think you did, Arthur.’

  ‘And Niall Horan eats there. It must be fairly fancy, if all the celebs are going,’ said Dad, sliding his wallet into his suit jacket pocket. ‘I’m thinking about having the chicken.’

  ‘Come on, Arthur, we’ll be late,’ said Mam, before turning to me. ‘We’ve to be there in half an hour.’

  ‘Do Nando’s do reservations?’

  ‘Sorry to be running out just as you’re arriving, love. Do you want to come with us? I’m sure they can add an extra seat to the table.’

  ‘They don’t really have tables, Dad.’

  ‘No tables?’ Mam echoed in disgust. ‘What sort of place is this, Arthur? No tables, no reservations, not even a restaurant really. Nothing but celebrities. Do they have chairs, Grace?’

  ‘Of course they have chairs, Mam, and tables—’

  ‘You just said they didn’t have tables.’

  ‘I meant not the kind where they add chairs. You share— It doesn’t matter. Have fun. And thanks, Dad, but I’ve eaten. I’m just here to pick up a few photos and then I’ll be off.’

  ‘Oh love.’

  My parents looked at each other, as if matching their sad smiles before turning them on me.

  ‘Pictures of Henry, is it, pet?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not . . . I’m not going to get all maudlin over them, I just . . .’ There was zero chance I was telling them about Andy. Not yet. Not until I had gotten my own head around it. ‘I’d like to have some.’

  A horn beeped and you could make out the glow of the taxi sign through the front window. Dad took Mam’s coat from under mine and held out an arm for her as he opened the door.

  ‘Our carriage awaits!’

  ‘The photo albums are under the bed in your room,’ said Mam, linking her arm into his. ‘They might smell a bit funny; we’ve had to up the mothball count.’

  I watched them bundle into the back seat, Dad giddy with excitement. It reminded me of the time they’d gone to see The Ring thinking it was a romantic comedy but enjoyed it anyway because they were just so happy to be out together. They did up their seatbelts and Mam leaned into Dad as he put an arm around her. I hadn’t always wanted what they had, being half of something so whole. I used to think of myself as an unyielding individual. I could be a partner but never half. It was only with Henry that I discovered the horrific elation in giving up part of yourself.

  There weren’t as many photographs as I remembered and it didn’t upset me to see Henry grinning out from a grainy Polaroid taken on Dollymount Strand or in a photobooth strip from his cousin’s wedding in Galway or the series of pictures printed out from my iPhone of the weekend we moved into the flat. I looked at his silly head peeking over an upside-down newspaper and I didn’t feel particularly happy or sad or bereft. All I could think was that for thirty-three years, there had been room in the world for two of those faces.

  ‘Get up.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Take that pillow off your head, Grace McDonnell. This is the first day of the rest of your life.’

  ‘You always say that.’

  ‘And it’s always true. Get up, get dressed, go in there and show Dermot why he has to make you head chef.’

  I groan and roll over but you’re sitting firmly on the mattress blocking my path.

  ‘It’s not even a proper restaurant!’

  ‘Grace. Give me – stop – just, Grace – now. Listen.’ The pillow and blanket pulled away, the sun in my eyes adding to the injustice.

  ‘He’s going to give it to Simon.’

  ‘Has Simon been there since Day One? Did Simon invent the famous Portobello Hotpot? Did he? There are people in Cork talking about that Hotpot. Probably London, too. New York, who knows, Beijing . . .’

  I make for the blanket but you intercept, sitting on the duvet before I can get a good grip.

  ‘Henry!’

  ‘Well, did he? Did he?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No. Simon did not. You did. You’re a better cook than Simon. And you’re better-looking.’

  ‘What has that got to do with it?’

  ‘Get up!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s the first day of the rest of your life.’

  ‘So you said.’

  ‘And because I love you.’

  ‘Ugh! Fine.’ I push the blankets back and stomp off to the bathroom. ‘Fine fine fine fine fine.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  Despite the unusually warm weather I had forgotten I owned summer dresses until I opened a neglected box. I hung a couple of my favourites in the spare bedroom to air and went digging around for a razor. Whenever I went looking for some particular item, I tried to think like Dad. Where would Dad have packed such-and-such? This was fairly easy as my father was a lateral thinker, but the process often resulted in me casting my mind back to when Dad would have packed up our flat, Henry not long dead, me lying at home like a useless lump, and by the time I found whatever I was looking for I often couldn’t muster up the sense of purpose to use it.

  But this morning was different. I found a razor in a black bag of miscellaneous toiletries I hadn’t missed since moving in – nail varnish, sanitary pads, hairspray, an exfoliating glove (I took that too), razor – and willingly, happily even, got into the shower.

  I tuned the bedroom radio to some non-stop music marathon. I was approximately ten years too old for non-stop music marathons but I sang along without knowing any of the words as I towel dried my hair, moisturised and got dressed.

  ‘I love you, I hate you, I don’t fffggg fffuggg you,’ I declared with unrestrained passion as I pulled the dress over my head. ‘You don’t bbb-da-da-da, you don’t bbb-nnna me. But I doooo!!!’

  I opened the bedroom window and wiped the dust from my sandals onto the street below with an old neck scarf. ‘Oooo-oooo, naaaa-naaaa, oooo-oooo!’

  I danced back to the bedside table, jutting my head from side to side in time with the music. I pushed my phone, wallet and keys into my handbag and pursed my lips while wagging my finger at the imaginary man who had done me wrong. ‘No, no, no. Oooooo. Yeahhhhh! Ah ah ah ah . . .’ Then, reluctantly, I switched off the radio, ran downstairs and left the house.

  I was standing on my doorstep, double checking I had everything, when a voice from behind made me jump.

  ‘Making more noise?’

  ‘Jesus!’ I turned, my hand on my chest. ‘You scared me.’

  ‘Ah yeah. I’m sure I did.’ Betty leaned over the fence. ‘Will you be in for Telly Bingo this week?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said, finding the house key and double locking the door.

  ‘Well, don’t do me any favours.’

  ‘It’s just I’m fairly busy at the moment.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it’s the lad with the toolbox is keeping you busy?’ she said with a smile somewhere between butter-wouldn’t-melt and the-cat-who-got-the-cream. Definitely dairy related, anyway. ‘Two days in a row, and he stayed a lot longer than any handyman I’ve ever had. Must be charging for overtime . . .’

  ‘Have you considered offering your services to the FBI, Betty? Your surveillance skills are wasted on domestic DIY and parking bust-ups,’ I said, heading down the garden path. ‘Anyway, I’d love to stay and gossip, but I’m running late.’

  I darted down Aberdeen Street, walking out onto the road to get around Larry’s van, and turned right in the direction of the park. Every time it was safe to do so, I closed my eyes and took a few steps without looking where I was going. I imagined a thread pulling me towards the Wellington Monument and that if I allowed myself to move without thinking it would draw me there anyway. I shut my eyes and grinned as I stepped over the threshold into the Phoenix Park.

  I spotted Andy in the middle of the open lawn when I was still about three minutes away.

  A gang of teenagers lounged at the base of the monument and standing slightly to their right, hands in pockets, right foot worrying a
tuft of grass, was Andy. He raised his head, but not like he was looking for anything, just like his neck could do with a change. He never searched around him. I couldn’t have stood in such an exposed place and been so at ease. I took a moment to appreciate this and then made my way towards him. I hoped he wouldn’t spot me; three minutes was a long time to be watched. He wore a black T-shirt bleached grey by the sun and shorts that went just below his knees. Henry never wore shorts. I guess he hadn’t known how much they would have suited him.

  He clocked me at the halfway mark and raised a hand. ‘I thought it was supposed to be almost summer,’ he called when I was within earshot. He hopped from one foot to the other. ‘Flaming heck!’

  A football landed at his feet and he kicked it back to the teenagers who let out a mocking cheer. He did not cease to exist under their gaze or melt in the sun. It was strange and wonderful and entirely incomparable to be out in the world with this face. I didn’t feel bad for cancelling on Aoife and Larry. There was sadness and death and countless mornings where I feared I wouldn’t get my body out of bed with the weight of it, but in that moment my heart could have cried with relief. I watched him prance from side to side and I laughed loudly. It was the most joyful laugh I’d channelled in some version of forever.

  ‘Welcome to Ireland, my friend.’

  We walked the length of the park, talking about the weather and work and the house. I told him how the mortgage was covered for another year or so and then I’d have to consider getting a lodger. He told me about the B&B and how the lady who ran it knocked a bit off his bill in exchange for him doing odd jobs around the place.

  ‘It’s great to be useful,’ I said as we crossed a field of long grass.

  ‘Cooking is useful.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘It is,’ he insisted.

  ‘Everyone can cook,’ I said. ‘It’s not useful beyond the basics. A mackerel vinaigrette isn’t going to count for much when the apocalypse comes.’

  ‘Whenever we’d go to visit my grandma, I’d spend the whole journey looking forward to whatever she was going to put on the table when we got there. It’d be the first hot dinner I’d have had in months. Don’t underestimate it. A good cooked meal can be better than medicine.’