Girl Unknown (22 page)

Caroline didn’t say anything, just stood there gaping at me, open-mouthed, like a fish.

‘I’m going to be late,’ I said, moving past her to the door.

‘David, I didn’t push her.’ She came into the hall after me. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

The confusion on her face was annoying. It seemed over-dramatic. Fake.

‘Robbie!’ I called. ‘Let’s go.’

‘David, please. This is serious,’ Caroline said. ‘What kind of accusation has she made?’

Robbie was in the hall now, a slice of toast clamped between his teeth as he attempted to put on his jacket and school bag simultaneously.

She didn’t wish me luck and I didn’t kiss her goodbye, didn’t say goodbye at all, I just pulled the door shut behind us with force, felt the slam of it reverberating through the air as I hurried down the driveway to the car, where Robbie was already waiting.

The show’s producer had sent a brief outline of what the interview would entail and it had all seemed fair-minded and reasonable. Even though I had not prepared as much as I would have liked to, when I took my seat in front of the microphone, I felt there was nothing to be concerned about. Behind the studio’s internal window, I could see Robbie sitting alongside the producer. I gave him a wave and he smiled back.

The show’s presenter, Des Earley, introduced me to Sean Kelly, a local councillor, who was to give an opposing point of view. I hadn’t been informed of this, and thought it a bit haphazard and hastily arranged, but in hindsight I see more clearly what it was: a set-up, an ambush.

‘The 1916 centenary celebrations are fast approaching and figures leaked last week show an astonishing level of
government overspend. Many are reading this as both a political stunt and a calculated measure to impress the populace in advance of a general election and thereby boost their votes,’ Earley said for his opening salvo.

Kelly piped up: ‘Buying votes!’

‘As a member of the expert advisory group, Dr Connolly, can you justify the kind of money that has been earmarked?’

‘Well, first of all I would say that those figures are not entirely accurate,’ I began, ‘and I couldn’t comment on something that isn’t official.’

‘Why not?’ Earley wanted to know. ‘After all, many people in Ireland think the amount of money being discussed is eye-watering. Surely it would be better spent on tackling the homelessness crisis or the problems in the health service rather than spending it on commemorating an event that is largely irrelevant today.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t agree that it’s irrelevant,’ I argued. ‘For many people, the 1916 Proclamation and the circumstances under which it was made …’

The words were coming out of my mouth, but they were somehow disconnected from my brain. I had a flash of memory to the night before and the words
lovely mouth
sprang up before me.

‘It’s all cant, isn’t it?’ Kelly was saying. ‘Why else would the Relatives Association have boycotted the launch of the plan?’

I tried to answer as evenly as I could, but my thoughts were muddled and I muttered something about not putting a price on history.

‘You don’t think twenty-two million too much to
spend on what, after all, is simply a slap on the back to republican-minded people out there?’

‘No, no, I don’t … It’s a chance to re-imagine the future,’ I stammered.

I was tired, I suppose. Stressed. Here I was, the history expert, yet I couldn’t even get to grips with the events of my own past, couldn’t see or understand the history of my own life. A little voice in my head whispered:
You’re a fraud.

‘You’re just a mouthpiece for government ministers,’ Kelly sneered.

‘You’re taking the whole thing out of context,’ I said. ‘The purpose of the commemorations is to –’

‘I’m not one of your students, Dr Connolly.’

‘For Christ’s sake, will you let me finish?’ I said sharply.

‘Okay, briefly now, before we finish up,’ Earley interjected, trying to bring the conversation back on track. But Kelly was leaning in, his face reddened with fury.

I hardly heard what he said, some acerbic remark about academics in their ivory towers. I thought about Caroline in Aidan’s arms, his mouth on hers. Hers on his. I thought about Zoë’s battered face.

‘You’re talking complete
shite
,’ I said. ‘Is that plain enough for you? You ignoramus.’

The words flew out of my mouth. I could almost see them flapping around the studio like birds. Earley went straight to an ad-break, and Kelly sat back, arms crossed over his chest, a smile of satisfaction on his stupid face. ‘I can already see the headlines,’ he gloated.

I took the earphones off and left.

I hurried to my car, Robbie half running to keep up with me. There was a storm in my brain, fury coursing through my body. If I had come across Kelly in the car park, I’d have decked him, but in truth it was myself I was furious with. We got into the car, slamming the doors. I leaned my head on the steering wheel and let out some of the breath I had been holding in a long sigh.

‘Are you okay, Dad?’

I closed my eyes. It seemed like everyone lately was asking me was I okay. And I knew I wasn’t. I was trying to hold it together, but inside I was quaking. ‘I’m sorry, Robbie. I wish you hadn’t been a witness to that.’

‘It’s okay,’ he said.

I sat back in my seat. ‘I shouldn’t have lost my temper.’

‘The guy was a tosser.’

‘Still. It was wrong.’ I pressed my fingers against my eyelids, felt the throb of a nerve at the back of my eye. ‘Christ, what a disaster.’

‘Don’t worry about it, Dad.’

‘I don’t know what came over me.’

‘Sometimes it just happens,’ he said. ‘Something snaps and you just see red.’

I took my fingers away from my eyes.

‘Once I thought I was going to lose it, big-time,’ he began, his voice a bit timorous – no doubt he was finding it strange to offer comfort to his father rather than vice versa. ‘It was at a rugby-club disco. I was outside, in the bleachers. And I saw this guy I knew – and something kind of snapped in me. You see …’

He went on, but I wasn’t really listening. My nerves were back with me again, anger replaced now with a
stomach-churning dread at the thought of all those listeners, what they must have thought. My mind was racing ahead to media reaction at my outburst, the possible consequences within my academic circle. Which of my colleagues might have heard me? What about members of the interview board? My students? There was no way to erase my performance. The interview had been broadcast. It had been put into history, and there was no way of expunging it from the record.

‘… and the thought that I might have done something like that – it was really scary,’ Robbie was saying.

‘Right,’ I said distractedly, slotting the key into the ignition and starting the car. ‘Let’s get you to school. The last thing you need is to be late after your suspension.’

His eyes were on me while I reversed; there was no mistaking his disappointment. Then he looked out of the window, and hunched against the passenger door.

I dropped him at school, neither of us saying another word.

As I walked up the stairs to the History Department on the third floor, my phone began to ring. It was Caroline.

‘I suppose you heard that,’ I said, referring to my disastrous radio performance.

Instead she said: ‘David, I’ve just seen Zoë’s face.’

I trudged up the final few steps and turned down the corridor.

‘You can’t believe I did that to her? My God …’ She sounded hysterical.

‘Calm down,’ I told her. ‘We’ll talk about this later.’

‘She must have done it to herself,’ she went on, as if she
hadn’t heard me. ‘She must actually have smashed her face into a wall
on purpose
, David.’

‘I can’t deal with this now.’

‘It’s frightening,’ she said. ‘That she would do something so violent … I don’t think I can go into the office today. I’m all over the place.’

Caroline was normally so together, unflappable. It was disconcerting to hear her so agitated, admitting to her own insecurity. ‘Please, love,’ I said, softening my voice, ‘try and pull yourself together.’

I was passing Alan’s office, the door open, and heard him call my name.

‘Listen, I have to go,’ I told her. ‘I’ll call you back shortly.’

Before she could stammer a reply, I hung up.

My head was like a jar of bees with what-I-should-have-said and what-I-should-not-have-said scenarios. I knew, entering Alan’s office, that he had listened to my interview and was about to reprimand me.

To my surprise someone else was there, waiting, it appeared, for me to arrive.

‘Niki?’ I said.

She sat rigidly, her hands clasped, a little startled, though she must have known I was coming. Alan told me to take a seat.

‘Niki came to see me about something,’ he told me, ‘and, rather than me feeding you the information second-hand, I thought you’d like to hear it from her for yourself.’

I could tell Niki was intensely uncomfortable from the way she shifted in her chair, as if trying to avoid my gaze. It was obvious she didn’t want to be there. Alan prompted her with a gentle cough.

‘I’m withdrawing from the PhD programme. I’m sorry.’

PhD students have been described to me by Alan as ‘the holy grail’: the more quality PhD students we ‘complete’, the better it reflects on the institution’s reputation and on our chances for funding. Losing Niki was not just a personal defeat, it was an institutional failure.

‘But why?’ I asked.

‘I’ve been offered a fellowship at Trinity.’

‘You never said anything about applying elsewhere.’ It seemed to me that Niki had grown shifty, not meeting my eye.

‘I’m sorry, David. I was at a Royal Irish Academy meeting in January, which you were supposed to be at. Afterwards I was approached by a professor from Trinity. It’s not that I went looking. I’ve been unhappy for some time, but whenever I wanted to discuss it with you, you seemed too busy or distracted.’

I don’t think, even with hindsight, that I was too busy or distracted to talk to Niki about her work. To me her argument was self-serving. ‘I think you should reconsider, Niki. You’ve made good progress on your work here. By all means accept the fellowship, but defer. Finish your research here first.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t really want to do that.’

Alan dropped a sheaf of papers on to his desk as if he were swatting a fly. ‘Niki says she tried to meet with you, but you didn’t make yourself available.’

‘Well, there was that one time I couldn’t see you,’ I said to Niki, then turned to Alan: ‘I had to cancel, but it was only the once.’

Niki said, her voice gaining a little strength, ‘There
were other times when you were unavailable. And it’s not just that. I was hoping to be more included in the research unit, and to play more of a contributing role in the department.’

‘But that’s all to come,’ I said.

‘I just don’t feel I’m getting the support I need,’ she said in response.

I said, in my defence, ‘I’m sorry to hear that, but a good deal of research is self-led independent learning.’

‘I need regular rigorous feedback,’ she said, as if she had rehearsed it.

‘Can I ask you to reconsider? We’ve already made some excellent progress.’

‘I’ve made up my mind,’ she said, avoiding my eye.

We talked for a few minutes more, but nothing I said seemed to appease her. Finally, she stood up, and Alan nodded his assent. She held out a hand and I shook it, with some annoyance.

‘I’m very sorry about this, Alan,’ I said, when she had gone. ‘Is there no way of persuading her to stay?’

‘I tried. I explained the process, how it makes us look.’ He sat down heavily. ‘Of course we’ll have to carry out an internal investigation.’

‘Is that really necessary?’

‘She was the vice-chancellor’s fellow, for God’s sake!’ He spread his hands across the desk. ‘We’ll have to form a committee and formally sign off on her release from her research with us.’

‘I don’t know what to say … I can’t believe she didn’t come to me before.’

‘Apparently, she tried.’

‘I can check my emails but, really, I don’t think I missed anything.’

‘It’s disappointing,’ Alan said. ‘I just hope we can make up for her departure in some way.’

‘We’ll certainly try,’ I said, in an effort to sound positive.

He appeared distracted, and I took it as my cue to leave.

‘One other thing,’ he said, as I got to my feet. ‘The radio interview this morning …’

‘You heard?’

‘I’m afraid I did. What on earth came over you?’

‘I’m sorry, Alan. I was very tired. I slept badly last night …’

My voice petered out, silenced by the weight of concern in his stare.

‘The timing couldn’t have been worse.’

I apologized again.

‘I’ll have to speak on your behalf to the dean. I’ll explain the pressure you’re under at home.’

I dropped my eyes, uncomfortable at the unspoken assertion that I had allowed problems in my personal life to pollute the working environment of the department.

‘How are things at home, David?’ he asked, his tone changing, becoming avuncular. ‘How’s your mother doing?’

In one of our informal chats over coffee, I’d told him that she had moved into a nursing home for palliative care. ‘She’s not so good. It’s only a matter of time now.’

‘Time is precious. I often think time is the commodity we deal in, as historians. An examination of its passage …’

Alan’s patter began to sound perfunctory, and I lost focus on what he was saying.

He must have noticed my wavering attention, my despair: ‘What about taking a break?’ he asked.

I protested, but only mildly.

‘Take a few days,’ he said. ‘Spend them with your mother. With Caroline and the kids. A break will help you get your affairs in order, and let matters blow over here.’

‘What about my lectures? My seminars?’ I asked.

‘Don’t worry about any of it. I’ll ask John McCormack to cover for you.’

Great, I thought, as I left his office. McCormack to the rescue.

17. Caroline