by Marian Keyes
‘You sound very sure of that.’
‘I am.’ Holding her hand, tightly, he moved them towards the Luas.
The house was empty. The boys and Baxter were on a reluctant sleep-over with Cara’s parents.
‘Tonight was everything,’ Cara said, dreamily, wandering after Ed as he unplugged stuff and turned off the lights. ‘The weather – can you believe the weather? The crowd were so mellow. No one off their face or pushing or …’ She yawned. ‘It was totally …’
She climbed the stairs, Ed following.
Absently, she unwound the bobble around her ponytail and threw it over her shoulder at him.
‘Oh, yeah?’ he said.
Oh. Yeah.
In the bedroom, she put on the music. With careless distraction, she removed her clothes as Ed rolled a spliff. Tonight, she was comfortable in her own skin. He lit the spliff, she lay back against the pillows and he put it to her mouth.
As she inhaled, the very last of her tension drained away. Then they kissed.
Every touch felt different, better. Moving with Ed, the feel of her skin against his, was delicious. The judgey voices in her head were dialled right down to silence.
Afterwards, they lay entwined, listening to the music. Through the open window, the cool night air moved over their bodies.
Cara was falling asleep when ‘Mykonos’ came on. ‘I’ve just realized. This. It’s about addiction? His brother is an addict?’
‘What it sounds like.’
‘And he’s telling him to go to rehab? “You go today”? It must be so tough to do that.’
‘Brutal.’
‘So what’s the “ancient gate” he’s waiting at?’
Ed laughed sleepily. ‘Some old three-bar to keep the donkey from escaping?’
‘It’s a choice, right? Between getting clean or not?’
‘Well, if you knew, why’re you asking me?’
‘Because … I like asking you things … Are you asleep? That’s okay. I’m asleep too …’
THIRTY-FIVE
‘… throat or jaw pain.’ Johnny read on, with interest: ‘Feeling sick, sweaty, light-headed or short of breath.’
An article titled How To Tell If A Heart Attack Is Imminent had popped up in his feed. ‘I’m only forty-eight!’ he told his iPad.
So much for targeted advertising!
But he’d read on and was now anxiously rubbing his ribcage.
‘Sudden sweats’. A sheen of perspiration was suddenly beading his forehead. According to this, you mightn’t even get a pain in your chest if you were mid-heart attack. You might just feel ‘uncomfortable’.
No, hold on, you’ve got me all wrong. I run fifteen K a week.
He didn’t, though. In theory he ran five K three mornings a week, but between the school run and the work travel and the sheer, unrelenting knackeredness, he managed maybe one run a fortnight.
But he often walked the dogs. That counted for something.
‘Coughing or wheezing’. Instantly he coughed. Ah, he was definitely having a heart attack!
The following article covered signs that indicated a person had a blood clot. ‘Coughing for no reason’ – he’d just done that! ‘A racing heart’. Well, it was racing now.
He needed Jessie. She’d talk sense into him.
Well, maybe not. But she’d mock him back into his right mind.
Jessie, however, was on a day trip to Geneva, armed with gifts for Jin Woo Park and Océane, giddily hopeful that the chef was about to sign on the dotted line.
Even thinking about how much all this was costing was enough to start Johnny’s heart racing again. But when she was in chef-stalking mode, there was no talking to her.
It wasn’t just that. Even though he and Jessie were equal shareholders in the business – it was her wedding present to him – he never felt he had the right to criticize. How could he ask her to tone down her spending either on the business or in real life? Ultimately she had earned the money.
… Maybe he’d have a little snooze for himself. It was a Sunday afternoon, the rain was pelting down outside, and for once he had nothing urgent to do –
‘Oh, Joooooohnnneee?’ Saoirse sidled into the room.
Noooo! She was about to ask for something. Something awkward …
‘I need a favour.’
A sweat broke out on his face. Now, which one was that? Heart attack or a blood clot? Or just the realization that his rare peaceful afternoon was being stolen from him.
‘Ferdia and me are going to Errislannan.’ She meant Rory’s family. ‘To Granny Ellen’s. It’s their wedding anniversary. There’s going to be cake and that.’
A lift, that was what she was about to ask for. She’d point out at the rain and appeal to his kinder instincts.
‘It takes an hour and fifty minutes by public transport. Or twenty-five minutes by car. Google Weather says the rain’s not going to stop. Would you give us a lift?’
‘Ah, Saoirse! Can’t you drive? Or Ferdia?’
‘We’re not insured on your shit-bucket.’
‘The Beast?’ But, no, Jessie had driven to the airport in the people-carrier. Johnny admitted defeat. ‘Okay. Come on.’
As Johnny drove through the rain, he was reminded of the first time he’d visited Errislannan. It had been a Friday evening, a few months after he, Jessie and Rory had started working together. They’d had a particularly gruelling week.
‘Pub?’ Johnny had suggested. ‘Pints?’
Jessie had shaken her head. ‘Going home to bed.’ Then, ‘You know what? I want my mammy to make my dinner and put her hand on my forehead and tell me I’m great. But I’m too destroyed for the four-hour journey to the backarse of Connemara.’
‘I’d like that too,’ Johnny said. ‘But without the mammy.’
‘Come down home with me!’ Rory said. ‘We’ll be there in forty minutes. Mammy Kinsella will feed us and praise us.’
‘She’s had no notice.’ Johnny was thinking about how his mum Rose would react to unexpected visitors.
‘And we’ve no things,’ Jessie said.
‘What do you need? Pyjamas? Face-cream? My sisters will sort you out. And Ellen Kinsella doesn’t need any notice. She’d love the challenge.’
‘Seriously?’ Johnny was tempted.
‘Course! C’mon, the lurcher had pups last night – you can’t miss that.’
‘We’d have to bring something,’ Jessie said urgently. ‘A tin of biscuits, a bottle of Baileys.’
‘We can get them in the Spar on the way to Busáras.’
Jessie and Johnny looked at each other. ‘Will we?’ she asked.
‘Feck it, why not?’
‘Hurry it up, so,’ Rory said. ‘We’ll get the eighteen ten bus.’
Errislannan was a hamlet a few miles outside Celbridge, where the Kinsellas’ low bungalow, a jumble of small, cosy rooms, was attached to three acres of land. The senior Kinsellas were both schoolteachers. As a sideline, Michael bred lurchers and Ellen kept hens.
From the word go, for Johnny, it was like stepping into a fairy-tale family.
Ellen, short and bright-eyed, welcomed them with energetic warmth. ‘Johnny Casey, we’ve heard so much about you.’
‘Sorry for arriving in on top of you with such short notice.’
‘Haven’t you lovely manners?’ Ellen said admiringly. ‘And Jessie! Cailín áileann! Tar isteach. Michael Kinsella, come out here.’
Michael, an older but otherwise identical version of Rory, came from the kitchen. With a gentle smile, he pressed hands. His kindness triggered quiet panic in Johnny. Someday he might have to return the favour and invite Rory to Beltibbet, to his awful parents. They treated Johnny like a useless embarrassment and upped the ante for any of his friends.
‘Into the good room with you,’ Ellen said. ‘I’ll shout when the dinner is up.’
Michael opened the door into a well-preserved-looking sitting room, with brown velvet couches and a smoked-glass coffee table. A
heavy crystal tumbler was placed in Johnny’s hand, then Michael was pouring hefty measures of Johnnie Walker for the four of them.
‘Sláinte.’ He took a sip. ‘Ah, here’s Izzy.’
‘Hi!’ Izzy, tall and lanky, with a thin, mobile face and dark curly hair, stuck her head around the door. She focused on Johnny. ‘Hel-lo, you’re a bit of a lash. But mind you don’t get lumbago from that couch.’ Then, turning to them all, ‘They could slap a protection order on this place. It’s a museum piece.’ She stuck out her hand. ‘You must be Jessie?’
Jessie took the offered hand, her face glowing. She looked like she’d just fallen in love.
‘Come on for the dinner,’ Ellen called.
In the small, steamy kitchen, mismatched chairs were clustered tightly around the table. Ellen was flinging thick slices of roast lamb onto plates.
‘Milk, MiWadi or stout?’ Michael asked Johnny.
‘Milk!’ Johnny was delighted. Rose had never countenanced milk at the dinner table: she said it was ‘a bog-trotters’ drink’.
Then Keeva showed up. She looked like her mother, short, fair-haired and gimlet-eyed. ‘I’m the eldest, a nurse and getting married next year to a fella I’ve been going with since I was eighteen. I’m the boring one.’ But she laughed when she said it. ‘Izzy here, she’s the youngest. A right bright spark, a graduate fast track.’
‘I’ve my own car,’ Izzy said. ‘I’d have driven the three of you down if I’d known.’ She gave Johnny a long, hard look. ‘Especially you.’
‘She has no confidence, though,’ Michael said sadly.
Everyone laughed.
Ellen, bright-eyed and interested, wanted to discuss world events. ‘That’s an awful business in Rwanda. It escalated very fast … Didn’t it?’
Johnny hadn’t much of a clue, but he nodded anyway.
‘Ah, now!’ Ellen complained, to the table. ‘What’s the point of having children educated to third level, if they won’t talk about important matters of the day?’
After Ellen had eventually stopped pressing lamb and roast potatoes on them, she produced a rhubarb tart from the Aga, with custard made on the hob by Michael.
Then came tea and biscuits.
When the conveyor-belt of food finally came to a halt, Johnny said, ‘I’ll do the washing up.’ Right then he’d have walked through fire for this family.
‘We’ve a dishwasher, you eejit,’ Izzy said.
More laughter.
They played rummy and beggar-my-neighbour in the back living room (the ‘not good one’, Izzy said), until nine o’clock, when the evening news was put on and it was time for more tea and biscuits.
Jessie slept in Izzy’s bed, and Izzy and Keeva shared Keeva’s.
Rory slept on the divan in the back living room. Johnny got Rory’s bed. He slept deeply and dreamlessly on the soft, often-washed cotton sheets and awoke to the sound of rashers and sausages spitting on a pan.
‘Come over and see the pups,’ Michael said, when breakfast ended.
In the porch there was a jumble of wellington boots. ‘Have a rummage around,’ Michael said. ‘Find a pair that fits.’
Outside, the day was bright and blowy and the air was thick with the smell of fresh earth. The pups were in an outhouse in the next field. Tiny little things, still blind, trying to suckle. ‘Only born on Thursday night.’ Michael smiled, looking daft with love.
‘Is there something wrong with that one?’ Johnny moved forward to take a better look at the puppy on the margin.
‘Yes. He’s the –’
‘– runt.’ Johnny’s heart twisted. ‘Will he be okay?’
‘Indeed he will,’ Michael said. ‘We’ll make sure of it.’
THIRTY-SIX
Extract from Irish Times theatre page. Timer, The Helix, 13 June to 11 July
Undoubtedly, the star of the show is Nell McDermott’s set. An immersive, imaginative, almost phantasmagorical experience results from an ingenious partnership of props and lighting (courtesy of Garr McGrath).
Thirteen giant clocks, from sundials to mobile phones, form the centrepiece but the audience are kept aware of the restless activity of time, thanks to unceasing ambient motion on stage: autumn trees shedding their leaves morphing into snowfall, which eventually becomes flurries of cherry-blossom petals as the lighting moves from russet through silver into pink.
Using mirrors, McDermott pulls off ingenious tricks with perspective, where water appears to flow backwards and rain falls upwards. What makes these feats more remarkable is that they are undoubtedly managed on a shoestring.
McDermott’s undeniable talent and commitment to resourceful work bode well for her future, perhaps in collaboration with Garr McGrath.
It was 7.32 a.m. and Nell was late. Her dad was waiting outside Johnny’s Baggot Street flat, surrounded by decorating equipment.
‘Sorry, sorry, sorry!’ She cycled towards him at speed and hopped off just at the last minute.
‘Ah, you’re okay,’ he said. ‘You’d a big night last night. Will the van be all right there?’
‘Did you pay and display?’
‘I’ve a yoke on me phone. An app. I’ve to do it again in three hours.’
‘I’ll see you right. It’s enough you’re giving your labour for free.’ She put the key into the lock of the red door. ‘Here, I’ll take the ladder. In you go there, Dad. Pull everything into the hall.’
When all of Petey’s paraphernalia was hauled across the threshold, she shut the door to the busy street. Immediately everything quietened down.
Nell lifted her bike. ‘We’re going to the first floor.’
‘Careful on the stairs. They’re shocking steep, but.’
In two journeys, they hefted the ladder, their rollers and bags of equipment up the treacherous stairs to Johnny’s flat. The tenants had vacated it just the day before.
‘A cosy little spot.’ Petey stood in the living room and looked around. ‘Even though we’re right on Baggot Street. The fecking angles of the walls, but.’ Petey did a walk-through of the kitchen, bedroom and bathroom. ‘These old buildings are all on the slide. If you’d a’ been asking me to paper this place, I’d be on me way home now.’
‘Just painting,’ Nell said. ‘Freshen the whole place up.’
‘We’ll do a good job for Johnny,’ Petey said. ‘I like the chap. Are you still upset about the Airbnb business?’
‘Yeah, but it’s not Johnny’s fault.’
‘It’s the way of the world, Nell, the way of the world.’
Maybe. But if Liam had never suggested it to Johnny, some lucky local people would be moving in, delighted with their new pad.
That evening at Dilly’s first communion, confusion had been the first thing she’d felt when Liam had opened his mouth – why would he suggest something they were both so opposed to? But then to discover that, actually, he wasn’t opposed to it had led to further puzzlement. Then anger.
He’d apologized and apologized until her shock went away.
But he wasn’t exactly the man she’d thought he was and that scared her. Because they were married.
When she’d been persuading her dad to help with the decorating, a short, angry rant had burst from her. About a week ago, she’d blurted it out to Garr: ‘You’re a man, what do you think? Am I overreacting?’
‘Did he literally lie? Or just nod along with you?’
‘I can’t remember. Maybe just the nodding along.’
‘You set sorta high standards.’
‘I should change?’
‘No, but … So, I’m not married,’ he’d said tentatively, ‘but they say marriage needs work.’
What did that even mean?
‘I guess you have to forgive someone for being an asshole sometimes,’ he said. ‘Instead of just dumping them.’
‘Working on your marriage’ had always sounded dull and noble – and vague to the point of being meaningless.
Now she saw that this mysterious ‘work’ meant dis
covering an unattractive streak in your special person and accepting that you couldn’t change them.
‘No one’s perfect,’ Garr said, and Nell gratefully grasped onto that.
Liam had doctored his value system to present himself in the best light in their early days. But one flaw didn’t turn him into a terrible person.
‘Right!’ Her dad swept his hand around. ‘We’ll start here in the living room, sugar-soap the whole gaff, give us a nice clean canvas.’
‘So, Dad.’ Nell couldn’t dampen down her fizzing excitement one moment longer. ‘What did you think of my play last night?’ Petey and Angie had been to the opening night.
‘Didn’t understand one blind word of it. Time can’t go backwards! They’re just misleading people.’
‘It’s a metaphor.’
‘So your mother kept telling me, if I only knew what one of those is. But!’ He held up a hand to forestall any objections. ‘You did a good job, Nell. Everything flush, although I’d need to get up closer to see the edges. I was proud of you. Tell me, did you use a mitre box to do those curves on the clocks?’
‘Joking me! Got me a circular saw.’
‘Ah, here, that’s cheating … And what’s up?’
Nell’s phone had beeped with a text, which was taking all her attention.
‘What is it?’ Petey asked. From the expression on her face, he couldn’t decide if it was good news or bad.
‘A screen shot. From Garr. Oh, Dad! It’s a review in the Irish Times. Of the play. And they’re nice about my set!’
‘Show us.’
Petey read it. Then he read it again. ‘In the Irish Times? The paper? The paper-paper, I mean, not just this online bit? That’s …’ He paused. ‘D’you know something? This might be the proudest moment of my life. It’s a pity none of the neighbours ever read the Irish Times. Muck savages, the lot of them. Ring your mother.’
‘Can I ring my husband first?’
‘That’s right, you’ve a husband. I keep forgetting. Because you didn’t let me walk you up the aisle, the memories never got a chance to embed … You ring Liam and I’m going down to buy twenty copies of the paper. The paper-paper.’
