Fragile Lies (26 page)

O
n Christmas Eve
they left Trabawn in the early afternoon and headed for Dublin. Emily, who had cried leaving the horses, fretted whenever Lorraine drove over a pothole in case the jolt caused the collapse of the Christmas cake she had made in her domestic-science class. They stopped at Sophie’s house where she exchanged presents with Ibrahim. This changeover took such an inordinate length of time that Sophie was forced to bang on his bedroom door and order them out. It was dark when an exhausted Lorraine finally reached Dublin.

Her parents’ house was filled with determined good cheer and the smells of herbs and spices. Christmas Day passed in a haze of activity. Adrian rang, maudlin, reminiscing. She handed the phone to Emily and returned to the kitchen to baste the turkey. The annual party in Ruanes’ was well underway when they went next door to join the festivities. A crowd had gathered around the piano where Eoin was playing Christmas songs for the children. Meg and Lorraine slipped into one of the bedrooms to talk. Meg had put on weight since New York. It added a stateliness to her neck and shoulders. She had tied a headband with coloured stones around her forehead and this ornate bandanna shimmered every time she shook her head. The friendship that followed after Meg commissioned her husband’s portrait needed little more than an occasional meeting between the two women to sustain it and Meg listened without interruption while Lorraine talked about the previous year. When she admitted her suspicion that she was probably the last to find out about her husband’s affair, Meg shook her head.

“I never suspected anything was going on or spoke to anyone else who did.”

“But I
did
know.” Lorraine gave her head thee hard knocks. “In here I had a sense that everything wasn’t right. It was intuition rather than suspicion, the inner voice ordering me to wake up but I simply wasn’t prepared to listen. What does that make me? Deaf, blind, stupid, pathetic – or all four?”

“The inner voice is always loudest when it sings in hindsight.” Meg laughed as the sounds of familiar carols floated upwards. Mary banged on the bedroom door and ordered them down to join in the singing.

“We’re throwing a party at the end of January,” said Meg before they went downstairs. “It’s a chance to see our friends in one fell swoop. We’d love you and Emily to come.”

“If we can make it we will. But you and Eoin have to come down some weekend. I’m getting the house in order at last. The girls can bring sleeping-bags. Emily would love to show them around Trabawn.”

“It’ll be summer before Eoin has another weekend free.”

“He’s obviously in demand as much as ever.”

“More than ever.” Meg sighed. “I thought New York was busy but this is manic. Mary, God bless her, has offered to move in and mind the kids when Eoin is touring the UK so I’ll be able to accompany him for a change. It’s so long since we’ve had a chance to be alone together.”

The friends rejoined the party. They stood in a circle and sang carols, as they did every year, and if anyone missed the fine tenor voice of Adrian Strong, the deeper baritone of Ralph Blaide and the perfectly pitched soprano notes that poured so effortlessly from Virginia’s throat, no one commented. Lorraine, as always, sang rapturously inside her head, but softly mouthed the words. The frog in the school choir, she knew her limitations.

B
rahms Ward
, 10 p.m.

H
arriet phoned before I left
, Killian. She scolded me for being alone. A social indiscretion on Christmas Day. She’d been partying on a house boat for two days and sounded tipsy from some home-made Maori brew; rot-gut, I would imagine, but she has a stomach like an ox. She sends her love by the armload.

She was trekking through thermal springs, bathing in New Zealand mud, when she heard about your accident. She flew home immediately. A leathery existence with her home in a rucksack leaves little space for tears yet she shed them freely as she willed you to respond. You were still sleeping when she flew away again. Like me, she has a deadline to keep. Dear Harriet, journaling … journeying, eccentric as a road runner.

I didn’t have to spend the day alone. Many invitations came. Roz and Meg and your mother. Didn’t she look lovely when she was in earlier? And Laura? From gawky to gorgeous in one fell swoop. Jean worries about the belly stud and the pierced tongue. I reminded her that she once wore jeans with a slashed backside. For the first time we were able to look back on the weekend that made you and smile, remembering.

The city is empty tonight. Except for the illuminations. Trees dressed in silver, shooting stars above the bridges, even the cranes are festooned with flashing lights but there is silence everywhere. I rang her before I left the apartment. I couldn’t stop myself. Like a mad fool I rang her house and listened to her voice on the answering machine. Twice. I won’t do it again.

We’ll sit out the late shift together and sing carols. O the holly bears a berry as blood it is red. And Mary she bore Jesus who died in our stead …

I
didn’t die
… didn’t die … didn’t die … hear me!

W
hen the phone rang
, startling them from their sleep and jerking Virginia upright, she answered it with a sense of dread. Edward was calling from London. Their father had suffered a massive aneurysm and been pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital. Josephine had accompanied him in the ambulance. Edward spoke sombrely, still in deep shock, then handed the phone to his mother.

“Time and tide wait for no man,” announced Josephine. Her voice quivered, sobbed. “I need my family around me. How soon will you be able to get a flight?”

Still unable to believe that her father should die so effortlessly, Virginia was already calculating which business meetings could be postponed or delegated. “I’ll have to cancel a business trip. I’m supposed to fly out to Madeira in two days’ time. I’ll ring back when I’ve more definite information.”

Bill Sheraton was understanding when she rang. A family bereavement was first priority. He would cancel their flights and rearrange the trip. Sheraton Worldwide Travel wanted to launch a media promotion of their winter holidays and Madeira was one of the chosen destinations. Virginia had intended visiting the island and drawing up an itinerary that would appeal to a select group of journalists whom she would bring over at a later date. She was skilled at summing up locations, her intuition honed to the story that would trigger interest, create a colour feature, inspire enthusiasm. He phoned her back a few minutes later and told her he had organised a flight for her to Heathrow Airport that afternoon. A strange man, she thought, putting down the phone. An irascible bully yet capable of kindness when the occasion demanded it.

Edward was waiting in the airport to drive her to their childhood home in Forest Hill. They had no sooner left the airport than he assumed the lofty tones of the righteous and said, “You’ve been making a lot of mischief since we last met, sister mine. How long was it going on before Lorraine had the good sense to kick him out?”

She ordered him to mind his own business and he retorted, “As I happen to be closely acquainted with all the parties involved, this is my business. Dare I ask if you and Adrian are happy?”

“Of course we are.”

“Liar, liar, dirty –”

“Shut up, Edward.” They always fell back into childhood roles, bickering and teasing each other within five minutes of meeting. If he had nudged her with his elbow and told her to shove over in the seat she would not have been surprised.

“Will Lorraine be at the funeral?” he asked.

“I haven’t the faintest idea. We’re not exactly in close communication these days.”

“Don’t be so defensive. It’ll be an extremely difficult occasion for everyone involved. Mother is distraught enough without this added tension.”

“Distraught! She wanted to turn his head into a bowling ball when he left her.”

“Which should give you some indication about how Lorraine feels about you.”

“We never wanted to hurt anyone, especially Lorraine.”

“Well, as mother would say, you can’t make a omelette without breaking hearts.”

“Give me a
break
.” How pompous he sounded, in his gold-rimmed glasses and Caribbean tan, sitting like a proud chubby child behind the wheel of his Mercedes. He dyed his hair, not a hint of grey anywhere, but she could see tell-tale red tinges when it caught the light. Adrian was going grey, just a smattering and difficult, as yet, to distinguish among the blonde – but it remained a disquieting reminder of all they had been through.

Instead of the discreet and private cremation she had anticipated, Des Cheevers had left specific instructions about the type of funeral he wanted. Death notices had to appear in the Irish newspapers. His body was to be flown to Dublin and buried in Glasnevin Cemetery. Certain hymns for the burial service and, afterwards – when the clay was finally flung over his bones – he had left money to pay for a slap-up feed for his relations and childhood friends.

“I can’t believe Mother is going through with this ridiculous charade.” She ranted at her brother who agreed it was appallingly tacky – but they should be thankful their father had not also requested a gun salute from men in balaclavas.

“Everybody wants to go to heaven but nobody wants to die.” Josephine wept in Virginia’s arms and continued to repeat this truism whenever anyone called to offer their condolences. Virginia had no sooner stepped over the threshold when she was led upstairs to inspect the bedroom where her errant father had breathed his last.

“He was sitting up in bed eating a boiled egg when it happened. He just keeled over in front of my eyes.” Josephine managed to look both grief-stricken and coy in the same instant. “He always liked a boiled egg after –”

Virginia’s expression prevented any further discussion on the subject and Josephine contented herself by pointing to a stain on the yellow duvet. “That’s where he knocked over his mug of tea.”

Horrified to think her parents had been sleeping together, Virginia refused to ask the obvious question. She hurried from her mother’s bedroom, resolving to wash the duvet cover as soon as Josephine’s back was turned. Perhaps that was the reason for his aneurysm. Over-exertion. Her mind skidded away from the image. His sexual capers had finally killed him in the arms of his ex-wife. Funny old thing, life. As Josephine would say, “Truth is stranger than friction.”

Adrian rang every day. It was impossible for him to get away from the office. A slight hiccup had occurred, nothing to worry about, everything was under control. The dismay in his voice when he heard the funeral would take place in Ireland was palpable.

“Josephine is determined to carry out his last wishes.” Virginia sighed.

“But the funeral will be horrendous. When is he being buried?”

“No date yet. It depends on when the undertaker is ready to release his body and how quickly it can be flown over. I’ll ring and let you know as soon as I’ve more information.”

“Do you think Lorraine will attend?”

“She will,” Virginia replied. “She’ll do it simply to prove she can. And so will Ralph.”

Rigor mortis had set her father’s lips into their thin final position, banished his smile, so embracing and mercurial, and placed, instead, a slack-jawed incredulity on his face, as if he had been caught unaware when death crept up behind him. But Virginia saw also in his raddled mouth the weakness of a man who had lied with conviction, charm and utter sincerity.

She had betrayed him when she was seventeen. Betrayed. The word sounded strange on her tongue. She repeated it again, a breathless-sounding, sly, Judas word. Disconcerting to speak it now when he was stretched cold before her, reposing grandly on purple satin.

I
t had been raining
the night she betrayed him, falling like needles under the street lamps, trickling coldly down the back of her neck. She opened the front door and silently entered the house. The hope that her parents were sleeping, oblivious to the fact that she had spent the small hours on a tumbled blanket with a man called Razor Blade, was quickly dashed when her father summoned her into the living-room. They were waiting up for her, sitting on opposite armchairs, as inflexible as judges and united for once in common purpose.

“Slut!” he roared and grabbed her hair, pulled it so hard her eyes stung with shock. “Where were you until this hour?”

Virginia laughed, holding her cheek, remembering the heat of Razor’s hands on her hips, his lanky frame stretched beneath her, and she above him, controlling him, her hot-blooded, angry punk.

“It’s none of your business,” she retorted and tried to push past him.

“Answer me, slut.” He shoved her back against the wall.

“Don’t bully me,” she shouted. “I’m not a kid any more.”

He lifted his hand again and struck her cheek. She turned on him, her anger as strong as his own, and answered him. “We were fucking in Razor’s flat. It took longer than expected because we did it twice.”

Horror-struck, Josephine lifted her hand to her mouth.

“You foul-mouthed tramp,” he roared. “How dare you use such language in front of your mother. I’ll make you give up that punk bastard if it’s the last thing I do.” He struck her again and again, his face flushed so deeply she thought he would have a stroke. “There’s plenty more where that came from if you don’t stop behaving like a little whore.”

There was always more where that came from. When she was young she believed there was a magic spell in Sonya’s house that took all the angry lines from her father’s face. But the spell only lasted until they reached the end of her road. She had grown up with the sting of his hands on her legs, her arms and her face, his bullying voice loud in her ears. She had loved and hated him in equal measure. It was her love that kept Sonya a secret and her hatred that released it that night, when she screamed, “What about your slut, Sonya? When are you going to give her up? How many years now … how many years have you forced me to lie?”

The sound her mother made reminded Virginia of pups. The same helpless, whimpering cry she used to hear from the room where she could not go. Only now it held anguish and the acknowledgement of a truth long denied. A truth that longed to be denied. It was the loneliest cry in the world.

Her father moved out the following day. Shortly afterwards she also left home and moved in with Razor. Her mother joined a bowling team.

A
t last his
body was flown to Dublin. The atmosphere in the funeral parlour was restrained, polite greetings, whispered condolences. No tears were shed as the mourners filed before the open coffin and Virginia, shaking hands, smiling, accepting sympathy from her father’s Irish relatives, wondered how soon the charade would end. Josephine, arrayed in widow’s weeds that looked as if they had rested in mothballs since the reign of Queen Victoria, was the only person who wept, and this she did with relentless force. Edward’s plump arm comforted her. His children, two boys and a girl, all endowed with his earnest, round face and their mother’s pale complexion, gazed longingly towards the door when Josephine ordered them to kiss their grandfather’s forehead in farewell.

Brian Cheevers bowed his head in prayer then stepped back from the coffin. Donna took his hand and they stood together, offering condolences to Josephine, refusing to make eye contact with Virginia. The ingrained veneer of civility working against the odds, she thought. Still no sign of Lorraine or Ralph.

They followed the coffin into the church and sat in the front row. Behind them, the whispering, fidgeting and coughing gave way to an anticipatory silence. Virginia did not need to turn around to see whose footsteps clicked sharply up the aisle. The friction of separate particles rubbing together and igniting. Adrian shifted in his seat, as if he too could feel the electricity in the air, and moved slightly away from her.

The funeral mass was swift. The priest had never heard of Des Cheevers and had no inclination to eulogise a stranger. Wafted with incense, doused with holy water, the coffin was wheeled briskly back down the aisle. Statues and stations of the cross wavered before Virginia’s eyes. Burning hearts offering everlasting forgiveness – but there was no forgiveness in the cold gaze of Lorraine Cheevers, who stared unflinchingly as the small family procession approached. The brash red jacket she wore should have clashed with her hair but it added luminance to her appearance, a vibrant statement. Virginia knew it had been chosen with care.

More handshaking outside the church. Virginia smiled at the elderly men who came forward and told her what a card her father had been. A great man when it came to the wine and the women. As if the latter fact needed verification, a woman in a Zimmer frame twinkled up at her and confessed that she and Des had quite a thing going in the olden days, not a twinge of arthritis between them, the pair of them as frisky as young goats. She guffawed loudly and shuffled back into the crowd. Ralph had also arrived during the funeral mass. He shook hands with Edward and kissed Lorraine for longer than was appropriate at a funeral ceremony. Virginia signalled the undertaker to depart for the cemetery. The day was gathering its own momentum, sweeping them haplessly on its back.

At the graveside they stood opposite each other, Lorraine flanked grimly by her parents. The hole into which Des Cheevers was being lowered was only a fissure in the distance separating them. After the burial people hung around the graveside. Virginia wanted to clap her hands and scatter them. The Irish had no sense of decorum. They turned every gathering, even a funeral, into a party. Her jaw locked painfully when her mother again related the boiled-egg story, this time to Ralph, who listened, his head tilted to one side, and asked if it had been hard or soft boiled.

Firmly, Virginia escorted her mother back to the mourning car. She slammed the door on her protests and walked back to Ralph. “Thank you for coming.” Her tone was as formal as her handshake. “Don’t let me detain you any longer.”

“Des was a fine man. He’ll be sadly missed.”

Her smile glittered. “He was a bad-tempered bully who never cared where he landed his fists. I remember he planted them in your teeth once. It’s a memory I’ll always cherish.”

“Indeed … memories. Where would we be without them. Fancy your father dying in Josephine’s bed. Who knows? There’s hope for us yet, my darling.”

The mourners filed from the graveside and were joined by a man who had been standing slightly apart from the main gathering. Virginia had no recollection of seeing him in the funeral home or the church. When Lorraine approached with her parents he stepped forward and spoke to her. She drew back, surprised by his appearance, then shook his hand.

Virginia was sure she had met him before. His face was familiar, the angular boniness and narrow chin, an expressive face, but arrogant too, and it was this arrogance that clicked the memory into place. He had come to Blaide House demanding Lorraine’s address and been unnecessarily rude when she refused to give it to him.

Lorraine stood talking to him. She allowed her parents to walk on ahead and laughed at something he said. So long since Virginia had heard her laughter. The sound shocked her. When she allowed herself to think about Lorraine, she thought only of tears and ranting grief.