Caravan of the Lost and Left Behind

by Deirdre Shanahan

  Jumping down, he came into complete, open silence. The whole of nothing. He could be lost. The notion thrilled and alarmed him. A flicker of a brush against grass. A rustle and shift. Fox or a stray dog? But no. Caitlin. She stood there in a black, sweeping raincoat, too big for her, the edges flapping open.

  ‘Hi,’ he said.

  His fingers were edgy. Nothing to hold onto, so he put them in his pockets. He might be an intruder, but seeing her face gave him a release from feeling he should not be there and his eyes were playing tricks. He needed to focus.

  ‘You,’ she said.

  He nodded dumbly, as if responding to a teacher.

  ‘Why you here?’ Her voice rose stiffly. She took a cigarette from a pocket and lit up.

  ‘I like it. Wanted to get away.’

  She squinted, not believing. Of course she didn’t. She could see he lied.

  ‘I often come,’ she said sharply, ignoring whatever attempts he was going to make to explain himself.

  ‘Right. Yes. It’s good. The quiet and the trees. The river.’

  ‘Not many people come this way.’ She sounded strict. Of course, this was her place. He should have known. He was too eager. She would make an excuse and go. He gave the wrong signs. ‘Too rocky. Even for sheep.’ She threw back her head, flicking ash from her cigarette.

  He couldn’t explain. He was not there to fish or to hang around with Pauley, but to get away to somewhere different. He wanted to say, ‘I’ve been empty without you.’

  ‘Though I’m not sure where this is?’ He glanced around. He may as well give in. She knew this place was strange to him.

  ‘North of Coolne.’

  He had heard of it but the name meant little more than a name and he dare not ask her more for she had an air like a flame. Could burn him.

  Unnerved, and zoomed with a dizzying pleasure, he had to talk. Keep talking. He had read about getting mugged, when you should keep the person talking. You were more likely to get a hold on them and be able to slip away. If he kept talking he would have space to think and if he kept talking she would have to stay.

  She crouched, hugging her knees while a swathe of fabric swam at her feet. The edges of her mac were dirtied. Further out, mountains loomed and hefts of rocks scrawled the sky.

  ‘What’ve you been doing?’ she asked.

  Calm. He had to keep calm.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing much. You?’

  ‘Working. What else?’

  Any minute, before she swept away, she would let fall stuff about her and Shane. He didn’t want to hear it. He was hot and cold. He did not want to know. Yet he did. He wanted her to keep talking. To tell him.

  ‘You didn’t need to get mad that night.’ She stamped out the fag, crushing it into the soft ground with her heel. ‘You don’t bloody own me.’

  ‘I thought he and you…’

  ‘We were talking.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He hated her being right. Knowing what to say. ‘Sorry, I…’ The path was ragged with tufts of moss and scraps of bark.

  ‘You looked stupid. You made me look pretty much the same.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to.’

  ‘Shane told me how he’d a brother…’ Her voice melted against the rage of the river so he could hardly hear and not caring if he didn’t. ‘A twin who died of meningitis.’ Her voice was rasping; strange and dangerous, as though she was drawing it out from a well within. She bent to remove a load of leaves scuffed and stuck to the sole of her shoe. ‘He said it affected him, more than he thought.’

  ‘I guess those things do.’ Torin shifted, easing his weight as he stepped close. Twigs snapped. Underfoot the rustle of leaves. ‘I lost my mum, once.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘She’d to go to some clinic. She was always coming off drink. Often at home there’d be nothing to eat unless I went to the shop. So she went there and I was put in care.’ He was relieved he had said the words and they were out in the air, freed.

  ‘An orphanage?’ Her eyes stilled and widened.

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘I was fostered.’ Her eyes darkened but he would take the chance. He could tell her anything, all the tangled bits inside. He may as well. He screwed up with her, lost his way and there was nowhere to go back to. Either way, it would not make things any worse between them. ‘I was treated okay but I hated being away, even though I hated the way it was at home. She came out but every day after, back home, I was afraid I’d come in from school and she’d be gone. And it was never the same again.’

  ‘I guess things that happen when you’re a kid, happen to you forever.’ She came close and stroked his cheek.

  He put an arm around her and they locked, close, closer, until she untangled herself and stepped back.

  ‘Have some.’ She took a paper bag from her pocket.

  Slices of cheese dripped and butter melted as corners of the bread drooped.

  ‘No, thanks.’ He shook his head.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m not hungry. What I’d really like is to get away.’

  ‘We could do.’ She finished the sandwich and scrunched up the bag, putting it in her pocket. ‘We could go away, if you wanted?’ She moved to a broken tree with grainy bark. The roots were upended, harsh and dry.

  ‘How? And I don’t know where to go.’

  ‘Can you drive?’ she asked.

  ‘I know how.’

  ‘But do you have a licence?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Then we’re stuck.’ She picked up a pebble and threw it.

  ‘We could go to a big town and get jobs.’

  ‘I could work as a waitress. What could you do?’

  ‘Anything.’ Far out beyond trees and rocky outcrops the blister of sea was calm, metallic. ‘And we could get a car later on.’

  The wind blew and flecks of dust got into his jacket.

  ‘You wanna go up this way?’ she asked.

  ‘Okay. You go on.’

  A range of boulders loomed. He could not see how it was going to be easy. But he had to stick with her. She clambered up, her legs stretching, the mac hanging down. Breaking away, she skimmed the surface of the rocks, able as a lizard. She moved across rocks onto higher ground and he was disappointed at the distance between them. They walked among trees on dank leaves. A dark coolness soaked through the soles of his trainers as he slushed and slid.

  ‘This is the best land around for miles. You can see it, for there’s nearly every species of wild flower,’ she said. Bushes and long grass brushed him as they broke a path through.

  He put out a hand to steady himself and pressed on, scrambling, letting his weight carry him. She stormed over rough, difficult rock until she was out of sight. Rocks thundered, tumbled in a storm and he could not see her.

  ‘Aahh!’ She was calling in the wide air as earth dislodged, running away with itself.

  It was everywhere, filling the light, the air, but he could not see her. He followed the line of her call and rushed to the edge of the precipice. She stood on a grassy ledge, clutching onto the tangled roots of a tree. Disturbed soil showed the path of her slippage. She raised her arm but he could not reach her.

  ‘Torin,’ she wailed.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll think of something,’ he said, stiff with fear and not knowing what to do.

  He was useless. Pauley would know what to do, he always did. But he needed a rope. He could not escape from his own body, his uselessness. He pulled off his belt. Tied it to the nearest tree. With his face against the dusty soil, he lay down and while one hand clung to the belt he stretched towards Caitlin. No good. The belt was too short. He was too fucking short.

  ‘Torin,’ she called, her voice fading.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he lied.

  Night would hurtle down on top of
them. His heart raced. He pulled off his top and knotted one end to the belt. He made another knot in the arm for a loop to hang on to and lay down. His neck strained. This wouldn’t work. This was stupid. But all he could do was go on. Go on with it and convince himself and her that it would work. He should have run back to Pauley. Run fast. His gut churned. Calm. Keep calm. He had to. For her. If he panicked, everything would spiral out of control. He wrapped his feet around a tree near the ledge and leaned over. He pushed close, dragged himself near. He was hot and numb with panic. He breathed fast. A sharp pain charged his leg. His fingers stretched. A shower of soil fell. His legs shivered with the strain and his arms ached.

  ‘Keep holding,’ he shouted, as much to remind himself what to do as anything.

  Far below trailed the faint line of a road. If she moved suddenly, she would fall.

  He tried to make his legs work and pulled against his weight. Twigs and a scrabble of dried leaves pressed in. His mouth was dry and his throat parched. He feared the pressure of the rock against his chest would break him and he would tumble over the edge, but he kept pulling as the fire of exhaustion surged through. A fist of might.

  She was up. Over the edge in a heap on top of him. All arms and legs.

  ‘What happened?’ he gulped, untangling from her.

  Beyond the curve of land lay the horizon. Easy. Peaceful. Why had he let her bring him here? He hated the space. It scared him. A person could be hidden and lost in it.

  ‘I lost my footing and the earth crumbled away to nothing. The path ran out.’ He read his own fear on her face, rubbed sweat off his nose and grabbed the side of a tree, to sit. A hole gaped in the knee of his jeans. A graze and a trickle of blood. ‘It’s my fault. I shouldn’t’ve brought us so far.’

  He was winded. His eyes were itchy. She could have lost her grip. Fallen down into a place he could never reach. Her face was pale with a mask of dust and her hair was all sticking out as she tried to get up.

  ‘I’ve an awful pain.’ She rubbed her right leg.

  ‘Try the other.’ He held onto her, his fingers weakened, all his strength drawn out of him as they edged forward.

  He slowed to her pace. He had left Pauley in the lurch. He should’ve gone back. He couldn’t even get a signal on his phone.

  ‘You must’ve had enough of this place,’ she said.

  ‘No. No. It’s all right.’

  He leant her against a tree while he gathered a heap of dried leaves and moss to rest on. Lying down first he eased her towards him. He was nauseous and dizzy.

  The air was noisy with birds. Branches shifted and leaves ran against one another. Trees were dark and the wind foraged between them.

  ‘Thanks for that. Maybe we’d best spend the night here and make our way down in good light,’ she said.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be freezing?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ She put an arm around him and warmth came from her.

  He had abandoned Pauley to the depths of the night’s dark blue sky, the wisp of a moon. But he’d see him the next day or, if not then, in the days after. He’d always see him around and when he did he would explain.

  In the husky dark, the tiny lights of houses showed like the lit windows he used to see from the flat in London. He shifted to get comfortable. The trees, tall as street lights, were slim bodies wrapped around with dark ivy leaves, as she sat solidly beside him with the night breathing.

  5

  He sat on the low wall outside Delia’s while a song sailed out, ‘the swan in the evening moves over the lake…’ His mum had sung this when the mood was on her or she had been drinking, but this time the words were

  clear. He pulled his jacket close. He hadn’t wanted to come to the house but it had been Caitlin’s idea to meet there. The ragged bush in the front garden bloomed a light pink rose, upright and elegant against black bags of rubbish. The skip for the house opposite had sheets of plywood, skirting boards and broken cupboards upended. She might have come the back way and slipped into the house. He tugged at his cuff, pulling a stray thread until it snapped. He rose and knocked on the front door. It was only the old woman he had to

  face.

  ‘Who in the name of God is it?’ Delia called.

  She appeared in the doorway, a dark skirt, its folds deep as waves, falling to the floor. Gold earrings hung low against her neck. Determined as a soldier, with cool blue eyes, she was the oldest woman Torin had seen, with skin leathery and tanned. A scarf, dark red with white stars and moons, covered her head and pressed in her grey-flecked curls.

  ‘I’m meeting Caitlin. Is she here?’

  ‘Who’s wanting her?’ Grimy hands with curling nails held open the door.

  ‘Torin.’

  ‘Tony?’

  ‘Torin,’ he raised his voice. ‘A friend of hers. I thought she’d be here.’

  ‘Don’t be shouting. I heard you good enough.’ The weight of the old woman’s arms was folded across her chest and her teeth were chipped and yellow. ‘Caitlin’s not home. But if you want her, you may come in and wait.’

  He stepped into a pool of shadow in the hall and the warmth of the kitchen. The windows were smeared with steam, and a smell of cabbage and dead spuds lingered. A plastic tub was piled with washing.

  ‘I don’t know where the girl is.’ She switched off a radio perched on a battered dresser. The lower doors were removed, leaving only one shelf on the top section. The counter was cluttered with old newspapers and cups. Leaning on a stick, she shuffled towards two plastic garden chairs. ‘Sit and make yourself comfortable. There’s no knowing what time she’ll come.’ An electric fire in the fireplace glared its three bars of orange and the air was stifling. ‘Will you have a drop of something?’ She held up a bottle of brandy.

  He shook his head.

  ‘Will you take a cup of tea, for you might be waiting long enough for that one?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  It was when she rose for the tea-pot that he noticed the wooden leg, its dull stamp on the floor.

  ‘It won’t be long till it’s boiling. It’s true. Tea’s better than drink. And you can see the future in it afterwards.’

  Her silky blue eyes trapped him. He strained with longing to ask when Caitlin usually came in.

  ‘I don’t know what’s holding her, but will you make the tea for yourself?’

  She set a battered kettle upon a gas cooker until it sang and steamed. He poured the water into a worn brown tea-pot. He took down two delicate china cups with gold rims.

  ‘Not them ones.’ She grabbed. Light was visible through the milky china, thin as paper. ‘Bone china. The finest. I wouldn’t want to use those.’ She tipped out the tea into another cup. ‘I keep them special. For medicines and the like.’ She sat and nursed it in her lap.

  ‘This one, then?’ He pulled out a mug from the back of the dresser.

  ‘Yes. I was in the yard putting out my washing while the good weather’s in it, but I‘ve no longer the strength to be getting everything I want.’

  ‘D’you want any help?’

  ‘You’re a good fella, for the devil a one does help me. Wait and have your tea and we’ll tackle it both.’

  He picked up the plastic basket of washing and followed her out to a rough squabble of grass. Dandelions poking in corners, and the pin-pricks of daisies. She jabbed with her stick at the damp clothes when he set the basket down. A thin strip of plastic line stretched from the house to a rusty pole.

  ‘Many a person’d have flung out these but I take no notice of what style I put on, for who the devil is watching? And I keep hold of them towels I got in Dunnes half price.’

  She hung up blouses and skirts along with towels and vests. When she finished, she leaned towards him, her stale breath heavy.

  ‘You’re a good lad.’ She took his face in her hands, her fingers going around his ch
in, pulling him into her eyes.

  Her hold was tight. Large pores spread her reddened nose and her cheeks had the tracking of tiny red veins. The frizz of her hair sniping from under the scarf made her fierce. He fidgeted, wanting to be out of the place.

  ‘We’ll go in and wait till herself comes.’ She released her hold. In the kitchen she sat near the dresser. ‘I’ve a terrible thirst.’ She pulled out a silver flask from a pocket in the folds of her skirt. After cleaning the neck with the end of her cardigan, she offered it. ‘You won’t take a nip?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘As you wish, son. But the brandy has five stars on it. As bright as the lads in the sky. And warm and deep like the fire we used make in the backwoods.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Fair do’s to you but you’ve been a great help. I usually only have this little fella.’ She held up the flask. ‘No other man’d do.’ She gurgled a laugh, wiping her mouth with her cuff. ‘This makes me feel good. No, not good, better than good. I’ll put on this bit of a meal, for Caitlin’ll be dyin’ of hunger when she gets in. When she’s back, I’m glad for the company. Before we landed here, we travelled all over. Only meself and her. To help pass the time I played her music. Got out me old squeezebox. My father’d taught me. ‘And straight I will repair to the Curragh of Kildare,’ she sang in a low, gravelly voice. ‘Have you any songs?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘A pity. A song is a great thing. My husband Tomeen had plenty. It was what I liked. And we fared out well, despite all the ructions from his side. I was sorely grieved when he went before me, though he was twenty years older, but at least I’d herself and I wasn’t so lonely.’

  ‘D’you think Caitlin’ll be along soon?’

  ‘She will. No doubt but she’s held up in the bar. I don’t like it, for I’ve no way of knowing what she gets up to or what kind of person goes in. And I’m telling her to be careful, for it’s time she was looking about and settling. Finding a fella from a good family.’ She slurped her lips greedily around the mouth of the flask. ‘The time does not be long passing. I heard from the father of a boy a couple of months back. It could be all fixed and she’d be set up. She needs to be thinking on it.’