Barefoot Over Stones (7 page)

A week later Ciara went back to Leachlara for the Christmas holidays. She unpacked the small parcel of decorations that were kept on the top shelf of the wardrobe in the box room. Tinsel, baubles, old Christmas cards and a horrible-looking plug-in candle were the best of what she found. Well, it might not be Michaelmas, she thought, but they could surely do better than this. A trip to the discount shop on the main street of Leachlara and two bags later she was ready to bring some semblance of Christmas to her family.

Leda was waiting to puncture her sister’s attempts at festive spirit.

‘Jesus, Ciara, why would you bother? Christmas in this house is a lost cause. Dad will have started on the whiskey before breakfast and it will all crash and burn around dinnertime. More tinsel is not going to help the situation.’

‘The place could do with a buck-up, that’s all, and you could get off your backside and help me put these up,’ Ciara said, handing her sister one end of a silver garland.

‘I can give you ten minutes before I have to get ready for my shift in the pub,’ she offered miserably.

Ciara tried to ignore Leda’s negativity about Clancy family Christmases but in her heart she knew that while decorations were a start they wouldn’t be enough. Ted Clancy had won an enormous twenty-pound turkey in Shanahan’s Christmas raffle. (He had bought books of tickets so in reality had shelled out for an entire flock.) Proud as punch, he warned Aggie to make proper stuffing for the fine bird he had provided for the Christmas dinner. He hauled it home after closing time on Christmas Eve but he never thought to put it in the fridge. When Ciara and Aggie
got up on Christmas morning it had dripped its juice down the front of the kitchen cupboards and all over the kitchen floor. Ciara cleaned up the mess and set about helping her mother peeling spuds and carrots. Aggie had made plenty of stuffing and for a while that morning Ciara thought things might be different that year. The turkey would only fit into the gas oven if they cut off the legs and squashed it into the one battered roasting tray the kitchen possessed. After an hour a smell of gas filled the kitchen instead of the smell of roasting meat that Ciara had expected. Her mother had gone to lie down on Ciara’s bed and her father hadn’t surfaced yet so she sent Michael to the shed looking for a spare bottle of gas that she knew in her heart he would not find. The Clancys had always made scant provision for the future. Leda sat at the corner of the table munching on a bowl of breakfast cereal. She brought her empty bowl to the sink, all the while smirking at her sister’s disappointment.

‘Well, all we need now is for a fairy godmother to appear with a bottle of gas under her wing. I did tell you that all the decorations in the world wouldn’t change this house, Ciara. Christmas here is always a fuck-up, made worse by the fact that it’s the one day Dad can’t disappear to the pub and give us all a break.’

Ciara knew Leda was right but a stubborn streak wouldn’t allow her to give up just yet. As far as she knew, the microwave still worked. She took the still-mostly-raw bird from the oven and, using the blunt carving knife, she hacked lumps of meat from the carcass and laid it out on plates. She would nuke it at dinnertime and hope for the best. Pot noodles and gravy would only need the addition of boiling water from the electric kettle. Vegetables they could live without.

Her mother cried when she found out what had happened. ‘I gave money to your father to pay for briquettes and gas at Murtagh’s. I rang when they didn’t deliver during the week but they said the bill was still outstanding and we were not to have anything else on credit. I just hoped the bottle of gas would last. He will be so cross, Ciara.’

Ted Clancy was as sour as a pig when he finally emerged from bed to do some work on the farm at midday. ‘The finest specimen of a turkey this house has ever seen and you had to fuck it up,’ he roared at Aggie, who looked miserable and cold as she leaned against the kitchen counter.

Ciara was not about to allow him to get away with blaming her mother. ‘Well, if you had paid the bill at Murtagh’s with the money that Mammy gave you instead of drinking it at Shanahan’s they might not have left us without gas to cook the shagging turkey. Now go and feed the cattle before they go down to the neighbours’ looking for something to eat. Dinner will be at two.’

Ted cursed his way to the cowshed. His head was sore and his stomach heaved from drink and no food to undo its poison. He kicked his loyal cattle dog in the shins when it ran in front of him, welcoming him to their morning’s work.

The turkey was tough and a bit charred after ten minutes in the microwave. The noodles and gravy tasted as they should but the food was nothing like a real Christmas dinner and the lack of conversation around the table made the meal almost unbearable. Ciara had bought a box of Christmas crackers but they could stay under her bed for another year. Even she hadn’t the stomach for that. Michael and Leda milled through the jelly and ice cream that Ciara doled out in big bowlfuls in an attempt to make amends for the lousy first course they had endured. Ted threw savage looks at his wife but Aggie had taken herself off to another world with the help of a couple of her pills and didn’t notice.

As dusk fell Ciara went to the kettle to make herself a hot drink. The house was cold and she thought about draining a bit of whiskey from Ted’s stash to add to her coffee. He was out in the yard, most likely having a swig from some bottle he had hidden out there, so he would hardly notice. Leda and Michael were stretched out watching the TV and Ciara offered up a quick word of gratitude that at least the electricity hadn’t been cut off. From the kitchen window she could see her mother doling out the still-meat-rich carcass of the turkey to the dogs and cats that lined up in grateful appreciation at their unexpected good fortune. Well, at least the animals are having
a good day, Ciara thought as she took her drink to her room and lost herself in a book Alison had given her for Christmas.

A balding waddle of a man shuffled down the bustling corridor that led to the St James and Pious wing of the Mercy Hospital. His voluminous bolster of belly flesh operated the swing entrance doors so he didn’t have to raise his hands to the job. They remained firmly buried in the pockets of his trench coat. He had young Abernethy pegged the moment he spotted a crowd of white-coated junior doctors subserviently tailing a consultant down the length of the corridor, disappearing and reappearing from the wards like a string of performing puppets. Dan Abernethy stood a good half a foot taller than any of his cohorts and so was plainly visible even to the somewhat shortsighted advancing pensioner. Had Dan not been paying such rapt attention to the teaching consultant he would have seen Johnny Columbo Connors making for him with frightening intent.

His father’s right-hand man in the constituency had stood with Con Abernethy at every rain-sodden commemoration. He had canvassed at doors without number and remained resolutely cheerful even when they slammed in his face. He attended funerals of people he had never heard of and made sure his candidate knew the name of the bereaved spouse and any children’s names so he would appear heartfelt in his sympathy. Columbo wore out three pairs of shoes at every general election campaign making sure that Con would be returned to his Dáil seat. His job was to serve the party and the party deemed Con Abernethy to be the right man to represent them. Columbo did not appear to possess any latent ambition ever to be the candidate himself or, if he did, its concealment was impeccable.

Con Abernethy was never seen anywhere without his faithful servant close by ready to shake a hand, pass on a request or stand a drink to grease a palm.

Columbo’s constant presence meant that Dan had been slagged endlessly by lads in his class in Leachlara Community School. In the run-up to any election the ribbing became ever more vigorous.

‘So tell us, Dan, how does your mam feel when she wakes up to find your dad and Columbo in the bed with her talking quotas and strategy?’

‘Does Columbo eat the dinner with you all or does he have a dog bowl at the foot of the table?’

‘Will it be your mother or Columbo that gets the first passionate snog the night of the election count?’

On and on it went and Dan coped by laughing the loudest of all. He could have swung a languid punch and knocked any of the smart alecs on the side of their cocky jaw. As the tallest of all his classmates, one punch might have been enough to silence a multitude. He decided early on that the relaxed approach was the best one. Leachlara had plenty to say about the Abernethys without hot-headedness from Dan giving them further ammunition.

As an only child Dan relished the company of the lads in school. He found the quietness and order at home stifling. His father even ran his TD clinics from Shanahan’s pub on Main Street because his wife would not allow the great unwashed of Leachlara to step on her carpets or put their car keys on her French-polished furniture. In truth the dog-bowl-for-Columbo jibe was not
too far off the mark. There was a green mug that he always got his tea in when he called to see Con. Columbo took it as an honour that he was so much part of the family he had his own mug. In truth Mary Abernethy did not want Columbo’s dentures, and the filth she imagined they carried, defiling the china. She mostly discouraged Con from bringing him further than the back door and certainly no further than the kitchen table, where the tiles could cope better than her carpets with anything that might fall from his shoes. Columbo felt he had a seat at the heart of Con’s home and that was an honour in itself. As for the trench coat that had earned him his nickname, well, she tried not to think where that had been and how long it had travelled without so much as a whistle of dry cleaning. She had made Con give Columbo a generous voucher for Harty’s Gentleman’s Outfitters in Tipperary when he topped the poll at the last election, in the hope that he would get a new overcoat. A pair of brand-new wellington boots for the ploughing championships seemed to be the only purchase so far and possibly some fabulously loud neckties which were whipped out with overwhelming pride for party functions, especially the odd nights in the Dáil bar when Con brought the faithful to the city to reward their hard and relentless work on his behalf.

‘Tell him to buy himself a decent coat, Con. He is no addition to you dressed like that.’

Dan watched his mother vigorously clean the chair that Columbo had just vacated with a small lake of disinfectant. His father eyed his mother dismissively. ‘Columbo is not responsible for most of the foul smells around here.’

Mary Abernethy, oblivious it seemed to her husband’s sharp dig, cleaned on like a woman whose very existence depended on the polishing cloth.

Dan did wince inside when the mockery moved to speculating about Columbo sharing his parents’ marital bed. He could not remember a time when his parents had slept in the same room. As far back as his memory could recall his mother’s room had been at the top of the landing while Con Abernethy slept in the back of the house in a room that doubled as his office. While the Dáil sat he stayed in Dublin in the apartment he had bought near the Burlington.

Mary Abernethy travelled to Dublin on only very rare occasions, usually to show her face for the first day of parliamentary business after a general election or at the annual party conference. On these occasions she mostly stayed in the Gresham, in a room overlooking O’Connell Street. Con’s apartment was small, she reasoned, and there was always bound to be some hanger-on from home wanting to pitch themselves in the TD’s place, anxious for a sniff at the pot of power. She preferred to hold court in Leachlara while her husband attended to business elsewhere. Her only son was her favourite project. He would turn out perfectly, she would see to that.

Dan felt the pressure of his mother’s ambition for him but he did not allow it to weigh heavily on his shoulders. He loved his mother, or at least he thought he must, but his father was his real companion in the house. He looked forward to him coming home from Dublin on a Thursday night because his presence made the shipshape house a shade unpredictable. The phone would start to ring checking that Con was back and party workers would troop to the kitchen table (through the back door, that was understood) to hear the gossip from Dublin and share any snippets of local news or dissent that Con would find useful before his Saturday-morning clinic in Shanahan’s lounge. Dan loved to join in these kitchen-table conferences and his presence was respected and encouraged by his father’s troupe of workers. Who knew? They could be looking at a future candidate. No one wanted to start off on the wrong foot with someone they might well be championing in the future. Whatever their reasons for tolerating him in their grown man’s world, Dan was grateful, not least because his father’s job and Dan’s access to his coterie of supporters gave him some sense of the world that lay beyond Leachlara, a world he planned to escape to at the first available opportunity.

So it was with a mixture of affection and utter bemusement that Dan turned in the direction of the familiar booming voice that had interrupted Consultant Mackey’s lecture. Columbo was no
stranger to the loudhailer style of delivery and had neglected to turn down the volume in the hushed surroundings of a corridor in a teaching hospital.

‘Heartiest apologies for interrupting the serious work at hand, sir, but I need a quick word with young Dr Abernethy here on urgent personal business.’

Dan flushed. Columbo had awarded him his medical qualification about a year prematurely. He shot a glance at Consultant Mackey and he could see the look of withering disdain building behind the forbidding spectacles.

‘Well, it is most irregular to have a teaching slot interrupted but I suppose,
Mr
Abernethy, if your personal business is more important than my time then so be it.’ Then, beckoning to Dan’s fellow students, he said haughtily, ‘Further training, for those of you that remain interested, will take place in the Alphonsos Ward.’