Authors: Laura Elliot
Bill Sheraton was interested. Virginia could see it in his narrowed gaze and the almost imperceptible nod he gave when she outlined the reasons why his investment would reap a worthwhile return. He finished his coffee and signalled for the bill, slapping her hand aside when she insisted on paying. Outside the Blue Oyster, he hailed a taxi to bring her back to Blaide House.
“Initially, Adrian will have to convince my financial controller that this proposition is worth discussing,” he repeated, before she stepped into the taxi. “You’ve made your pitch. The rest is up to him. I’ll get my secretary to ring him and make an appointment. You needn’t worry, Virginia. I won’t keep him on tenterhooks.”
A message from Adrian awaited her when she returned to the office. He was engaged for the afternoon with a client and would meet her back in the apartment. At seven o’clock she finally switched off her computer. Except for herself and Brenda, the woman who cleaned the offices and whose vacuum cleaner droned faintly in the distance, the building was empty. She hesitated on her way to the exit, suddenly oppressed by the silence. Strong–Blaide Advertising had been such a vital part of Blaide House, loud with young voices, the ring of mobile phones, the clatter of computers, laughter. Its premises would soon be taken over by a finance company and Adrian had moved to smaller offices on the first floor. At least the attic was up and running again. Spiral Staircase had been a brainwave and Mara Robertson, the owner of the gallery, was confident of its success. The transformation was startling yet each time Virginia entered the gallery she found it impossible not to think of Lorraine in her paint-stained shirts and trousers, welcoming her into her cluttered space, making coffee, lounging against the wall, the two of them relaxing down for a few minutes in a busy day. Mara used lilies to decorate the gallery, arranging them in glass vases, yet their scent had not succeeded in banishing the smell of paint, a cloying odour that drifted light as mist and clung stubbornly to Virginia’s skin.
The door to Ralph’s office was open. Brenda dusted it every evening, even though it was vacant since he moved to London. Hesitating for only an instant, Virginia pushed the door further ajar and entered. His desk was clear, not even a pen or piece of paper to mar its surface, her photograph gone from its customary position. The drawers were also emptied, the flamboyant paintings removed from the walls. She sat into his chair and spun around, spinning faster and faster until it seemed as if she was physically breaking through his invisible presence, banishing a spectre that somehow, somewhere, still hovered in the air.
Josephine had rung shortly after Ralph’s departure. “I thought you’d like to know that your unfortunate husband called to see me last night. He wept like a baby in my arms. As ye sow so shall ye weep.” She sounded like an orator at a graveside.
The sheer audacity of this lie had enraged Virginia. To think of Ralph shedding tears, much less weeping in her mother’s arms, would be amusing at any other time. But Virginia was not in a mood to be amused. She had walked from her marriage with a swollen cheek and the marks of her husband’s hand on her skin. Before striking her, she had sensed the blow, watched it forming in the bleakness of his eyes, as if he was already separating himself from what he was about to do.
“Go on,” she had taunted him, her head humming from the force of his hand. “Why don’t you do it properly? You’re strong, you can take me on. It’s what you’ve always wanted to do.”
“It’s what
you
want me to do.” When he stepped back she saw his pitiless determination. “I’ve no intention of making you feel better about yourself.”
“You never owned me, Ralph. No matter how hard you tried, I was always my own person.”
He jerked his palms before her but did not attempt to touch her again. “Then go, Virginia. Whatever prison you occupied with me never had a lock.”
Her cheek was beginning to throb. The pain gave her the courage to walk from her house. The garden enfolded her, the heavy-headed pampas grass waving farewell as she drove down the driveway. Automatic gates slid open then closed slowly behind her.
Adrian had moved to a hotel and was waiting for her. A city centre hotel, frequented by those they knew, but she walked boldly through the foyer. No more lies. Lorraine had raged down the phone, her voice hoarse from weeping, unrecognisable, ranting about her exhibition and some unthinking gesture on Virginia’s part that had confirmed her suspicions. Unable any longer to continue speaking, she had slammed down the receiver.
“Who were you talking to?” Ralph asked.
Virginia had turned to face him, the receiver fused to her hand. One by one she unclenched her fingers. Disbelief gave way to a slow dawning, her body already shivering in the aftermath of lost affection.
She closed the door of the office her husband had occupied and left the building. Outside Blaide House she hailed a taxi. The driver, an elderly man who looked like a retired civil servant, switched on Lyric FM. Perfect.
La Bohème
. She closed her eyes, relaxed. The journey was short and the taxi driver soon drew up outside the apartment in Clontarf. On the grassy promenade across the road a team of young boys were in training. The staccato commands of their soccer coach carried towards her. She entered the elevator which, as usual, was empty. How could such a large community remain invisible to each other, she wondered, as it glided upwards to the fourth floor. She never met anyone entering or leaving the red-brick blocks. Yet the small balconies surrounding her held tables and sun chairs, potted plants and, occasionally, a bicycle jammed against the railings. And beyond the walls of each apartment there were other trapped sounds, other struggles for supremacy, love, peace of mind, domination.
Adrian was slouched on a low armchair, his legs stretched before him. His relaxed posture was in marked contrast to the terse expression on his face as he spoke into the phone. Emily-talk-time. She knew the signs. This ritual had been going on since his daughter moved to Trabawn. She tousled his hair as she walked past. He raised his head but continued speaking, his voice low, persuasive. She heard him laugh at some remark made by Emily, his laughter too hearty, as if his daughter needed reassuring that she was the comedienne of the year. In the beginning, Emily had been intent on slicing her father’s heart into thin withered pieces but there were signs that she was at last coming around to accepting his situation. He had driven to Galway so they could celebrate her birthday together. Neutral territory, he explained when Virginia protested at being left out of the loop.
“Just give her time and then we can organise weekends here with us. She needs gentle handling until the dust settles.”
The dust always settled. It had nowhere else to go.
She placed her briefcase beside the work station, folded the newspaper he had scattered over the coffee table, added fresh water to a bunch of orchids. They had opened fully, their delicate, speckled petals reminding her of exotic butterflies in flight. A quick shower banished tiredness. She wrapped her hair in a towel and returned to the living-room, where Adrian was standing by the window, looking down on the football team.
“Where were you all afternoon?” she asked. “I tried to contact you on your mobile but it was switched off.”
“I had a meeting with Brian Ormond. By the time it ended it was too late to return to the office.”
“No problems, I hope?”
He leaned back against the wall and drew her into his arms. “Why should there be a problem?”
“Absolutely no reason. Just that he and Ralph used to be thick as thieves.”
“Ralph’s in London. He’s happy now that the house is sold and he’s pocketed his million. I was showing Ormond some ideas for the new campaign. It was a useful meeting.” When the towel fell from her shoulders he fluffed her hair and called her his sexy punk.
She smiled, slapped his hand away. “Behave yourself. I’ve something important to discuss with you.”
“Can we do it in a horizontal position?” He waltzed her around the room, then veered towards the bedroom, singing, “I’m in the mood for love,” as they collapsed onto the bed.
She stifled her impatience, allowed him to kiss her twice before she told him about her meeting with Bill Sheraton. His arms stiffened, his playfulness instantly disappearing. He rolled over, pushed himself upright, a frown gathering between his eyebrows. “Why didn’t you tell me you were meeting him?”
“It was a toe-in-the-water exercise. What was the sense in getting your hopes up? He might have said no at the outset and then you’d have had to deal with another disappointment.”
“I understand what you’re saying but meeting Bill Sheraton behind my back is way out of line. Ralph may have allowed you to interfere in the running of the company but that’s not how I operate.”
“For goodness sake, stop looking so offended.” The enthusiasm drained from her voice. “I wasn’t trying to interfere. If Ralph is trying to make things difficult, and those two investors had dust on their heels, Bill Sheraton won’t be influenced by anything other than his own judgment. What does it matter who makes the contact as long as you’re successful? His accountant is going to ring you next week. Check up on Siamese cats. She breeds them.”
“You’re quite a mover, Virginia.” His eyes narrowed, studying her, then he smiled again, his mood lifting. “A real shaker and a mover. Dry your hair. We have to celebrate.” He reached towards the bedside phone. “I’ll book a table at Pascal’s.”
Their favourite French restaurant was within walking distance of the apartment. A violinist circled the tables and stopped to serenade them. Not so long ago they would have banished him with a cold warning look but Adrian smiled and slipped a twenty euro note into the musician’s pocket. After their meal was over, they strolled along the esplanade, holding hands, enjoying the cool night air. No shadows walked in their footsteps. They made love when they returned to the apartment, not assuaging love, not seeking oblivion, but freely, as was now their right. It had been an enjoyable night. Throughout their meal they had avoided talking about business, Emily, Lorraine, Ralph – and not once had they mentioned the boy.
O
n a September afternoon
when the clouds clung to the hills like dour grey sheep and the sea rolled queasily towards shore, the stranger Lorraine had met on the mountain road came to Trabawn. Hobbs’ barking warned her that someone had entered the lane. A few minutes later he braked his car outside her house.
“You got my message?” His glance was enquiring, uncertain of his welcome.
“My daughter told me. I was walking the beach when you rang yesterday.”
He stared around the overgrown garden, the cement and mud tracks, the crack running along the gable wall.
“I’m still settling in as you can see,” she said. “You’ll have to excuse everything. Would you like coffee or tea before we go into the studio?”
“Coffee sounds good.”
They entered the kitchen and she gestured towards a chair, set a plate of buttered scones on the table.
“My neighbour’s home cooking, not mine,” she said when he made an appreciative comment. “She always throws my name into the baking bowl. I guess she thinks I need nourishing.”
His eyes raked her but he made no comment. Self-consciously, she pushed her hair from her forehead and lifted mugs from the dresser. Slowly, as if he was memorising every detail, his gaze moved over the freshly painted walls, the spice racks, her jacket hanging from a hook on the back door; his eyes resting on the wooden table, the chairs with their broad backs and solid legs, the old-fashioned dresser filled with crockery. A red throw had been draped over the sofa where Emily usually curled watching television.
“I’m afraid your name meant nothing to me when you rang yesterday so I didn’t know who to expect. But Emily was in quite a tizz. She believes you write for television.
Nowhere Lodge
– is that the name of the programme?”
He bowed his head in acknowledgement.
She heaped logs on the fire. The flames licked the wood and the blast of heat brought colour to her cheeks. “I can’t believe it! Emily’s one of your greatest fans. She adores that show.”
“Where is she now?”
“At school. She should be home soon. Be warned. She’ll pester you for autographs.”
Emily usually arrived home from school with Ibrahim. They were now recognised in the gang as “an item” and, ostensibly, they went to each other’s houses to study. Whenever Lorraine came in from her studio, she found them sitting at the kitchen table, their heads bent over their books. Such diligence would have impressed her had she not also observed the rumpled cushions on the sofa. Remembering her own dalliance behind the sand dunes and the delirium of first love, she knew the uselessness of advising caution. Instead, she found herself delivering the same heavy-headed lectures Donna had once delivered on the trauma of crisis pregnancies and thought, “It’s actually happening. I’m becoming my own mother.”
“When did you move here?” Michael Carmody interrupted her thoughts.
“Early March.”
“Have you settled down?”
“Not really. You mentioned something about a portrait?”
“Yes. Killian Devine-O’Malley, my son.”
“How old is he?”
“Nineteen.”
“Is the portrait a present for his birthday?”
Coffee sloshed from his mug, scalded his fingers. With a muttered exclamation he laid the mug back on the table. Lorraine rummaged in a drawer and found a spray of aloe vera balm, which she applied to his hand. He flinched when she touched his skin. No wedding band or rings of any kind. His son called by a different name. He was separated from the boy’s mother, she guessed. Early forties, had known tragedy, it was in his eyes.
“Don’t worry,” she reassured him. “This will work quickly and stop the stinging. Is the portrait meant to be a surprise or shall I have an opportunity to meet him?”
“I’d like to arrange a meeting.” He drew his hand away and rested it on the table.
“Good. I prefer to meet the person. Sometimes, if it’s a surprise present, I have to work from photographs which is not half as satisfying.”
“I can show you his photograph.” He removed a wallet from his inside pocket. To her surprise he produced a photograph of a young boy, about seven, she guessed. His front teeth were missing but, oblivious of gaps and gums, he was grinning widely as he stood on a pier and pointed towards a ferry sailing across the bay from the North Wall terminal.
“He’s the image of you.” She handed the photograph back to him. “Is he your eldest child?”
“He’s my only child.”
“Emily’s my only child too. Do you have a more recent photograph of Killian? I’m sure he’s changed a lot since that was taken.”
A second photograph revealed a tall slim youth wearing a Nirvana t-shirt and jeans. He stared into the camera with the same challenging gaze as his father. Lorcan Sheraton stood beside him and Mount Subasio, looking like a fixture in a theme park, was the backdrop.
“I see we have a mutual acquaintance.” She stared in surprise at the two boys.
He nodded. “Lorcan is Killian’s neighbour. They’ve been friends for a long time.”
“I’m afraid I was rather distracted leaving Lorcan’s house that day we met. My apologies for almost slamming you back into your own driveway.”
His coffee was cooling but he made no attempt to drink it. “I was leaving Killian’s mother’s house. My apartment is in the city.”
“What a coincidence. I was delivering a family portrait to the Sheratons when we met. Lorcan hated the experience of being painted. He’ll probably warn Killian to run for cover. You could check out the portrait with Andrea. See what you think of my style.”
“I’m very familiar with your style.”
“In that case, we might as well go to the studio.”
A light drizzle was falling. The weather changed with a rapidity that amazed her. Mist could descend from the hills in minutes and rain swoop in from the sea, blinding her eyes, yet by the time she had completed her walk along the beach the sky would be milky streaked.
“Be careful here,” she warned as they walked around a cement mixer. “I intend having this area paved. Everything takes so long.” She unlocked the studio door and stood aside for him to enter.
“Was this originally a stable?” Again his quizzical glance, this time upwards towards the high arched ceiling.
“Two donkeys lived here when I was a child. Plato and Aristotle.”
“Philosophical donkeys. Makes sense.” He laughed abruptly and removed his jacket, placed it on the back of a chair. She was about to show him her portfolio when Con tapped on the studio door and entered. He took a step backwards when he saw she was busy and turned to leave.
“Sorry, Lorraine. I didn’t know you’d someone with you. I need to check delivery dates but I can call back later.”
“No. Go on ahead to the house. I’ll be with you in a moment.” She placed her portfolio on the table. “These are some samples of my work. Have a look at them while I’m talking to Con.”
When she returned, Michael Carmody was leafing through one of her sketch pads. To her consternation she realised it was the one containing the self-portraits.
“Sorry, Michael. But those are not for public consumption.”
“Such pain,” he replied, making no attempt to close the pad. “It reminds me of your early work.”
She walked quickly towards him and laid her hand protectively over the open page. “You know a lot about my paintings.”
“But not a lot about you. Are these recent sketches?”
“As I already said, they’re not for public consumption.” Firmly she took the sketch pad from him and pushed it to one side. “We were talking about your son. Those drawings are not typical of my work but if you’ve changed your mind about the portrait I understand.”
“No, I’d like you to meet him. When will you be in Dublin?”
Before she could reply his mobile phone rang. He turned from her, his voice changing, becoming more urgent. “No, I’m not at home. Why?”
His breath caught and was released on a whistling sigh. “I’m on my way, Jean.” He had already reached the studio door before he clicked off his mobile.
“Are you all right?” She followed him outside. “Has something happened?”
“I have to leave right away.” The drizzle had turned to heavy rain. Despite his protests, she took the umbrella she used when walking the beach on rainy afternoons and held it over him.
He fumbled for his keys and opened the car door. In the overhead light his face was haggard. “I’ll be in touch with you again and then we’ll talk.” Without saying goodbye he accelerated away.
He had only travelled a short distance when his car swerved and came to a standstill.
She hurried towards him. “What’s the problem?”
“Jesus Christ! I can’t believe this!” He was already hunkered down before one of the front tyres. “I hit something sharp on the way down the lane and it obviously punctured the wheel.”
He removed a jack and wheel-brace from the boot. When the car was fully jacked he tried to twist off the wheel nuts. Despite his strenuous efforts he was unable to loosen them. After ten minutes he wiped his sleeve across his forehead.
“I can’t do it without a machine.” His voice shook. She wondered if there were tears or raindrops running down his cheeks.
“I’ll drive into the village and bring back a mechanic. I know the garage owner. He’s very obliging. I’ll get my car.”
“Your car?” His furious voice stopped her in her tracks. He gripped the wheel brace in his hand and she thought for a shocked instant that he was going to fling it at her. Abruptly, as if he sensed her fear, he flung it to the ground. The rumble of Frank’s tractor drowned out his reply. The ground seemed to vibrate around them as the tractor drew nearer and shuddered to a halt.
The farmer took in the scene at a glance. “Wait a minute and I’ll get the lads,” he shouted and juddered past them towards the farmyard gate.
He returned shortly with his sons who hunkered beside the wheel, each taking a side of the wheel-brace and holding it firmly in position while Frank in his muck-splattered wellingtons stood firmly on it. Lorraine winced as the men took their father’s weight but they were obviously used to working as a team. As Frank jumped lightly and persistently on the wheel-brace, the bolts twisted and loosened. They watched while Michael put on the spare wheel, standing around him in a protective semi-circle. His frenzied movements, his haste, the tension emanating from him as he tightened the bolts increased Lorraine’s nervousness. She wanted him on the road, speeding towards whatever emergency had drained the colour from his face. She was standing by her gate when he finally drove away, her face shaded under the brim of the umbrella.
He had left his business card with one of the photographs on the table. She studied his son’s features, his fine cheeks and slim nose, the tremulous smile. A sensitive face, she decided, easily hurt or frightened. She recognised the Poolbeg lighthouse at the end of the pier and remembered a Sunday afternoon, two figures walking slowly. A vibration passed through her fingers and the photograph trembled, as if a breeze blew gently but persistently by her.
She entered her studio and opened the sketch pad containing her self-portraits. How haunted she looked, those skeletal cheeks and distraught expressions. She remembered the fury that had consumed her that night as she sketched, snapping sticks of charcoal, rubbing, shading, highlighting, shaping.
Trapped and vulnerable, without any concept of a future, she had sought refuge in childhood and the belief that the past held the key to what was to come. Perhaps it did. Sometimes it flickered, a will-o’-the-wisp taunting her to take a step forward, mocking her when she fell two paces back. Slowly, deliberately she ripped out the pages and flung them into the rubbish bin. She turned up the volume on her compact disc player and began to draw a boy standing on a pier. Michael Carmody’s face came to mind. She remembered his whistling breath and the tremor in his voice when he spoke on the phone. The caller had been a woman. Lorraine had heard the high tones, her words inaudible, her panic unmistakable, and that same fear had taken hold of Michael Carmody and sent him speeding homewards.
The thudding guitar beat and world-weary lyrics of Bob Dylan singing “Just Like a Woman” echoed around her studio. When she finished sketching she tacked the drawings to the wall. She pinned the photograph to the top of her easel and painted without interruption until the small hours of the morning. She had no idea when it happened, the shift that lifted her over the self-consciousness and forced discipline that had gripped her for so long, but suddenly her mind was free and she was painting with free, easy strokes that created a blurred impression of ships sailing over the horizon and, watching them leave, a young boy standing lonely on a pier.