Authors: Laura Elliot
O
n Friday
I hire a van and drive to Pembroke where I take the ferry to Rosslare.
It’s a long drive to the Dingle peninsula and I’m anxious to see my son.
It’s late in the evening when I reach Slí na hAbhann.
Brian discovered the craft centre when he was cycling through the peninsula with Peter Brennan two summers ago.
That’s when he decided to drop out of college and set up his pottery.
I don’t have a favourite child but Brian stirs something deep and emotional within me.
Perhaps it’s his single-minded creativity.
I had it once when I was very young and, now, I hope to find it again.
I park the van and make my way towards the courtyard.
Lights have been switched on in the workshops and studios.
They twinkle from windows and speckle the dark depths of the mountain slopes.
I hear the rush of the river that inspired the name Slí na hAbhann.
It lies below us, a tumbling rush of water heading towards Dingle Bay.
Brian is unaware that I’ve arrived.
I watch him through the pottery window.
He’s glazing something, his attention concentrated on each meticulous stroke.
He looks broader, more rugged.
My son, the mountainy man.
I won’t cry, not now.
Plenty of time for that later.
The glazing is done and I’m in his arms, swept up on the fervour of seeing him again.
I admire his ceramic award and he proudly replaces it on a plinth.
He shuts the pottery door and we walk the short distance to his cottage.
Its sparseness used to worry me.
I’d arrive with cushions and cutlery, lampshades, pictures, crockery, rugs, and bring them home again.
He prepared a casserole.
It’s been slow cooking for hours, he says, as he removes it from the oven.
A wood burning stove warms the room.
He opens the wine I brought with me and when we’ve eaten he shows me the video of the craft award ceremony.
This is the full version, instead of the short video I’d seen of him walking to the stage for the presentation.
I see her at a table, a necklace of moonstones at her neck.
Her smile is rapturous as she rises, hands high, and claps my son who stands, self-consciously, and holds up the award.
She’s sitting between Liam Brett and Jimmy French, one of the weaselling
Core
reporters.
Jessica is there also, and Gina from Admin.
But Karin Moylan is the only face I see.
I watch the video until the end.
Brian clears the dishes from the table and then, almost as an afterthought, he says, ‘You can expect a call from your friend Karin.
She’s hoping to link up with you over the weekend.’
The shock of her name on his lips freezes me.
He’s comfortable imparting this information, no guile or hidden inferences.
‘How do you know Karin Moylan?’
I ask.
I’m unsure if it’s the glow from the stove or the wine or the charm she would have used to flatter and disarm my son but Brian looks decidedly flushed.
‘She’s been here twice.
Bought something each time.
She really likes my stuff.’
‘When was she here last?’
‘A few days ago.
She says the two of you go way back.’
‘We do.
But she’s not my friend.’
‘Not your friend?’
He stops, puzzled.
‘Why would she lie about something like that?
She knew all about Alaska and you and Dad splitting up.
She was delighted when I told her you were coming back for the weekend.’
‘She won’t be ringing me, Brian.
And if she does I’ll hang up on her.
I don’t trust her and I don’t want you to have anything more to do with her.
Promise me you’ll let me know if she comes here again.’
‘I don’t understand.
How am I supposed to stop customers coming into my pottery?’
‘She hates me for something that happened a long time ago.’
‘Like what?’
‘We fought over someone we loved.
It hurts too much to go into details but you need to trust me on this one.
Don’t make her welcome here.’
He’s not convinced.
Our night together has turned sour.
He wants more information than I’m prepared to divulge.
How can I tell him the sordid truth?
I want to contain my past, not brandish it like a fan that flicks over to reveal… what?
No, I can’t go there.
I never will.
Did she love Jake or did she use him as a settlement for a debt I’ll never be able to repay?
I feel a sudden and unexpected urge to protect him.
He’s playing with Shard in Donegal this weekend.
That’s why I’ve chosen this time to collect what I need from Sea Aster.
It’s easier this way.
The bleakness in his voice when we talk reminds me of Ali’s comment.
Walking through quicksand.
He keeps apologising for lying to me.
He needs absolution.
To ease the memory of his deceit in my forgiveness.
‘I self-harmed when I was a teenager,’ I tell Brian.
‘I was going through a difficult time and I believed it was the only way I could cope with the pressure.’
It’s hard to remember the person I was then.
The fear and self-loathing that consumed me.
Only for those faint scars, I’d never believe I’d touched such a destructive chord in myself.
‘What kind of pressure?’
he asks.
‘Bullying.
There were girls involved.
Karin Moylan was one of them.
The mind games she played almost destroyed me.
Don’t let her do the same to you.’
He looks shocked but also understanding when I tell him about the cuttings, the savage and painful path I took.
I’ll strip my soul if it stops him welcoming her into his life.
I watched my children like a hawk during their teenage years for signs of insecurity, of stealth and secret hurts.
But they are brash tiger cubs, open and unafraid to pursue their dreams.
When I leave in the morning I can tell it’s okay.
Karin Moylan will no longer be welcome in Slí na hAbhann
.
It’s late in the afternoon when I reach Sea Aster.
Winter has taken its toll on Mallard Cove.
The van judders over potholes, the wheels skid on perished seaweed.
I drive slowly, nervous in case I get a puncture.
It’s quiet on the estuary, too cold for the usual Saturday family excursions to feed the swans.
I unlock the front door of apartment 1 with the new key Jake posted to me.
He collects my post every day and sends on what’s important.
The rest is junk mail which he’s piled neatly on the hall table.
A note from him lies on top.
He left a bottle of wine and fresh food in my fridge.
I open windows and allow the breeze from the estuary to flow through the rooms.
I heat the soup and make a pasta.
The evening passes quickly.
I need to pack even less than I thought.
Coping in small spaces is habit-forming.
My bedroom looks the same as I remember.
But appearances are deceptive.
Karin Moylan was here.
I sense her presence.
She trawled through my possessions before she climbed into the attic to destroy my paintings.
Jake has sorted out the clutter.
Everything is packed and stacked, each container labelled, and ready to be stored in a warehouse until needed.
I sleep fitfully and awaken, my mind sharp with images of her smile as she flatters Brian, her hands caressing the sensuous glazes on the bowls and ceramic box she bought from him.
When morning arrives, I write a note to thank Jake for the food and wine.
An envelope lies in the hall.
I didn’t notice it last night and post is not delivered on Sundays.
My name and the Sea Aster address are printed on the front.
There’s no postmark.
She had been here during the night.
I slide open the flap and draw out a photograph.
They are together, her and Jake, staring cheek to cheek into the camera.
It’s a close-up selfie.
Lipstick on Jake’s cheek, his lob-sided grimace, as if he’s been caught unaware.
Her glistening, white smile.
When was it taken?
I find the answer on the bar receipt she stapled to the photograph.
I load the last of my possessions into the van.
Before I leave I tear the photograph into small pieces and replace them in the envelope.
I leave it where it belongs, on the hall table with the key and the junk mail.
A jigsaw for Jake to solve.
The wind is brisk, the clouds scudding above the estuary.
A lone windsurfer, rigid as an exclamation mark, shoots across the water.
Canoeists in colourful safety jackets flash their paddles in rhythmic movements as they approach the shore.
Alaska stripped the resin from my marriage, separated me from the glue of a shared life.
When I drive from Sea Aster I know I’ll never return.
Jake rings when I’m on the ferry.
I see his name on the screen and turn off my phone.
He’s a liar who sleeps with the woman who slashed my paintings.
Who, even now, all those years later, seeks to sink a blade into my flesh.
‘Ring me back, Nadine.’
He leaves a message on my answering machine.
‘I need to talk to you immediately.’
His tone is authoritative, not apologetic as I would have expected.
Its urgency alarms me.
I lean into the buffeting wind and ring him from the deck.
He answers immediately.
He’s found the photograph, joined to dots, so to speak.
‘Why didn’t you let me know you received it?’
he asks.
‘Let you know what?
That you lied about not seeing her again?’
‘I didn’t lie – ’
‘Are you telling me the camera never lies?’
‘Of course the camera lies.
It can orchestrate whatever it likes.
Anything connected with her, no matter how slight it seems, you must talk to me.’
‘She’s been to Brian’s pottery twice.’
‘
Twice
.’
His sharpness adds to my fear.
‘Did you know?’
‘I knew she was there once.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I was trying to keep things under control.’
His breath is hard, heavy.
‘What else has she done?
You must tell me everything, Jake.’
I hear about his discovery in her apartment, the pieces from our lives she assiduously assembled in my son’s beautiful ceramic box.
‘You’ve no idea how sorry I am…’ he attempts another one of those hopeless apologies.
‘That doesn’t matter now.’
The ground is shifting, draining my bitterness away.
Whatever has gone before is of no importance.
Karin Moylan is spreading her spores through our family.
Must I wait helplessly until she strikes again or confront her?
The ferry churns the water, distancing us.
When I return to Wharf Alley I google her.
Kingfisher Graphics.
I ring her number and listen to her voice on the answering machine.
Hi there…thank you for calling Kingfisher Graphics.
I’m still enjoying the weekend and am unable to talk to you right now.’
Her laughter is
dark, throaty.
I imagine how Jake would have responded, charmed by its contagious inflections.
‘
Please
leave your number and I’ll ring you first thing in the morning.
I hang up without speaking.
Soon there will be a reckoning.
F
ive musicians standing on a roof
.
Arms akimbo, folded, plunged in pockets or suggestively clasping a hipster belt.
Brooding expressions.
It was all there.
The five members of Shard staring from the cover of
Core
.
Jake bought the magazine in Malahide Village and entered a café.
He had been opposed from the beginning to the band featuring in the magazine but Mik Abel had overrode his objections.
‘It’s free publicity,’ he insisted when Jake argued that
Core
was a tabloid rag.
‘They’re interested in the band’s progress.
Otherwise they wouldn’t have approached us.
We can’t afford to look a gift horse in the eye.’
‘Mouth,’ said Jake.
‘You don’t look a gift horse in the mouth but on this occasion we can.’
‘No, we can’t,’ Mik replied.
‘I’ll look a gift horse in the arse if it gives the band free exposure.
Your personal view of
Core
is not shared by its readership which is massive.’
Last week a photographer had arrived to Sea Aster astride a Harley Davidson and introduced herself as Lucky.
She chose the barn as the backdrop location for the photo shoot.
The weathered stone walls and deep-set windows would add an uncompromising grimness to the photographs, she believed, but then she changed her mind and ordered them up on the roof.
Jake felt ridiculous as he folded his arms and stared into the camera.
He was getting too old for such posturing but Lucky refused to release them until she was satisfied she had achieved the perfect alignment.
Jimmy French, the journalist from
Core
, was a small, wiry man who studied Jake through raddled eyelids and asked a few basic questions about the band.
His lack of interest was obvious as he twisted his shoe on the butt of a cigarette and drove away.
He left Jake with an unsettling feeling that this was not going to end well.
Lucky’s cover shot could not be faulted.
The band looked menacing and rebellious, apart from Feral, who could usually brood on command but seemed dreamily preoccupied.
He ordered an Americano and opened the magazine.
His misgivings rushed to the fore when he turned the pages and saw the ominous headline.
His unease turned into dismay as he read through the feature.
Son of Right-Wing Politician Revives Satanic Band
Those who hung out in the Baggot Inn or Toners in the mid-eighties will remember Jake Saunders and his band, Shard.
Now reformed, Saunders had taken Shard back on the road again with their new album,
Collapsing the Stone
.
The Shard line-up remains the same apart from one change.
Instead of drummer Bad Boy Barry Balfe, who emigrated to Canada, Shard now has a female drummer.
With this new addition they can no longer be called a ‘boy band’, a tag that also conflicts with the aging process of its members.
The younger Shard were often accused of performing Satanic rituals on stage and indoctrinating their young fans into devil worship through brainwashing lyrics.
This added to their brief notoriety but the band broke up when Saunders married his then seventeen-year-old pregnant girlfriend.
Saunders is the son of Eleanor Saunders, the leader of First Affiliation.
She was unavailable for comment when contacted by this reporter.
She also refused to comment on her son’s impending divorce.
His wife, Nadine Saunders, is currently in London seeking the dissolution of their marriage.
Yet she and her soon-to-be ex-husband attended last year’s conference where
Eleanor Saunders, in her keynote address, presented them as a perfect example of marital harmony.
The conference was interrupted by a protest led by gay rights activist, Maggie Doyle, and her wife Feral Childe, drummer with Shard.
Politics and hypocrisy are inseparable.
Like love and marriage they go together but an inside source within the party insists that the double standards displayed by the leader of First Affiliation will no longer be tolerated.
A vote of confidence in her leadership is expected to be held shortly.
J
ake’s coffee
was cold when he tasted it.
His phone rang.
It had to be Eleanor.
If she had not already read the article she was sure to have heard about it.
Shard’s hyped publicity, the link between him and Eleanor that would be established, the threat to her position, she had known it would all come true.
Sweat broke out on his forehead as he answered the phone but it was Mik Abel calling, apologetic and apoplectic.
‘It’s too late now.’
Jake cut him off in mid-rant.
‘I need to go and see my mother… try to explain.’
He was driving along the Howth Road when his phone rang again.
This time it had to be Eleanor.
He let it ring.
Better a face-to-face confrontation than a blow-up over the phone.
The ringing stopped then started again.
On the third call he pulled into the side of the road and checked his ID screen.
The three calls were from an unfamiliar number and added to his anxiety as he rang the caller back.
‘Jake, is that you?’
The voice was high-pitched, shaky but vaguely familiar.
‘Who is this?’
‘It’s Cora.
I’m with Eleanor.
We’re waiting for the ambulance.’
‘What’s wrong.
Is she – ’
‘She’s going to be fine, Jake.
But you need to go directly to the Mater Hospital.’
‘I’m nearly at her house.
I was coming to see her.’
‘Okay… but hurry.
I’m expecting the ambulance any minute.’
‘What’s happened to her?’
‘It’s just a little turn.’
Cora failed miserably to sound unconcerned.
His mother must be listening.
Jake switched on the ignition and was about to pull into the traffic when he heard the siren.
An ambulance raced by on the outside.
His heart raced with it as he gave chase.
Eleanor was being carried out on a stretcher when he arrived at the bungalow.
On this occasion she made no effort to pull off her oxygen mask.
Nor was she shooting impatient orders at the paramedics.
Her fine, black eyebrows, those arrogant, intimidating arches, had collapsed in a slack, downwards slide.
Her mouth was pulled to one side.
Jake had seen enough television advertisements to recognise the signs of a stroke.
In the ambulance he held her hand.
She was still conscious but he had no idea of her awareness.
Her words were slurred and indecipherable when the female paramedic asked her name.
‘You’re doing real good, Eleanor.’
She adjusted the oxygen mask and took Eleanor’s pulse.
‘We’re nearly at the hospital.
There’s an expert team waiting to look after you.
You’ll be in excellent hands.’
At the hospital she was immediately whisked into intensive care.
Cora, who had followed in her car, joined Jake in the waiting room and told him what he had already guessed.
Eleanor had read the feature in
Core
shortly before Lorna Mason phoned to inform her that a vote of confidence was being organised as soon as possible.
‘I drove over to her as soon as I heard.’
Cora’s cheeks quivered as she pulled her handkerchief from her sleeve and sobbed into it.
‘I’m glad you were there.’
Jake put his arm around her and waited until she was able to speak again.
‘She kept saying the story had legs but she seemed okay after Lorna called.
You know Eleanor… she loves a fight.
But then she suddenly collapsed.
I thought she was going to die right there in front of me.’
‘Thanks to you she arrived here on time for them to give her that clot busting drug.
It’s going to make all the difference to her recovery.’
He felt queasy, shivery.
‘She’s lucky you were there with her.’
‘Lorna Mason and her lot have had it in for Eleanor since she changed her mind about Sea Aster.
They were just looking for an excuse to attack her.’
‘What change of mind?’
‘The planning permission.’
Cora looked at him in surprise.
‘Didn’t she tell you?’
‘Tell me what?’
‘That she changed her mind after it was granted.
Oh, dear, I shouldn’t have said anything – ’
‘When did this happen?’
‘As soon as you and Nadine moved into Sea Aster.
I was the only one she told about your marriage.
She kept hoping…’ She dabbed her eyes, squeezed her handkerchief into her fist.
‘Poor Eleanor.
She’ll have to resign.
What will she do without the party?’
‘Let’s get her better first.
We’ll worry about the party later.’
Three tabloid journalists rang.
They wanted information on the various angles covered in
Core
, particularly on the Satanic aspects of Shard.
Eleanor was right.
The story had as many legs as a centipede.
He gave them Mik’s number.
Let him use his publicity skills to kill it.
Cora was running rosary beads through her fingers when he went outside to ring Nadine.
Her shock reverberated back at him.
‘I’ll organise a flight and be with you as soon as I can,’ she said.
‘Had she been unwell?
Were there any signs?’
‘I’m responsible.’
‘Why… what happened?’
‘A stupid magazine feature about the band.
All that Satanic nonsense was dragged up again.’
‘But why?
That’s ancient history.’
‘We were mentioned, you and I… our marriage break-up and that conference Eleanor organised.’
‘Oh, Christ… poor Eleanor.’
‘It’s typical
Core.’
A young girl in a wheelchair almost knocked him over as she pushed past him.
‘Fuck off outa da way,’ she growled, her eyes lost in the fug of drugs.
‘Did you say
Core
?’
Nadine asked.
‘Yes.
I
told
Mik – ’
‘Who wrote it?’
‘Jimmy French.
I should have followed my gut instinct and refused to have anything to do with it.’
‘Stop beating yourself up.
Core
thrives on that kind of sensationalism.
Liam Brett is a creep and Jimmy French is cut from the same cloth.’
‘Liam Brett?
I thought he was the editor of
Lustrous
.’
‘He edits both magazines.’
‘I see…’
‘What is it?’
Her voice quickened.
‘Nothing.’
‘Don’t fob me off, Jake.
Has
she
anything to do with this?’
‘I don’t know… it’s possible.’
‘We’ll talk about all that when I see you,’ said Nadine.
‘Go back to Eleanor.
She’s all that matters for the time being.
I’ll be with you as soon as possible.’
‘I’ll be waiting for you.’