Life Drawing for Beginners (29 page)

“Ah no,” Pauline replied, pleating and pleating. “I couldn’t look at it, dear.”

Outside the window the rotary clothesline whirled lazily in the gathering breeze. Audrey recognized three or four of Kevin’s T-shirts among the towels and socks and underwear. The colors blurred together as she looked out. Her eyes felt swollen and stinging, her face tight with dried salt.

She pushed back her chair and stood. “I’ll get the clothes in from the line,” she said, not waiting for an answer before opening the back door.

The sharp air felt wonderful on her hot face. As she unpegged the bone-dry clothes—out since yesterday morning, they must have been—and bundled them into one of the towels, she felt a spattering of drops.

She hurried back inside, where Pauline sat in exactly the same position. Sue was pouring water into the teapot, making more tea that nobody wanted. Audrey stood by the worktop and folded everything into a wobbly pile, shielding the clothes from Pauline with her body. What might the sight of Kevin’s T-shirts do to his mother now?

The rain fell steadily and the kitchen darkened slowly as the three of them sat on. Biscuits were produced and left untouched. Tea cooled once again in cups. Now and again Sue and Audrey would conduct a short back-and-forth of murmured conversation—​the weather, Sue’s family, the life drawing classes—​but mostly they sat in silence, the only sound the steady patter of drops on the window and the sudden rattle, every several minutes, of the fridge.

Pauline went on pleating, and said once, apropos of nothing, “His birthday is coming up, I was knitting him a jumper.” And neither of them knew how to respond to this heartbreaking item of information, so it drifted away into the silence.

At eight o’clock the doctor phoned, and Sue held a short conversation with him in the hall, the kitchen door closed so the words were inaudible to Audrey. At half past eight the doorbell rang. Sue went to answer it and returned with her husband and daughter, just up from Cork. In the ensuing flurry of tearful embraces Audrey whispered to Sue that she’d be back after school the following day, and slipped out quietly.

In her own kitchen she poured away her cold coffee and returned her chocolate biscuit jar to its home on the shelf. She toasted bread and opened a can of beans, and then found she couldn’t manage more than a mouthful. She went into the sitting room and took the brandy from its drawer and raised the bottle to her lips and took a large gulp, and spluttered and coughed for several minutes afterwards.

Later in bed, Kevin’s face was there when she closed her eyes and tried to sleep. He stood at the other side of the hedge and regarded her as calmly and unblinkingly as he always had.

She thought of Pauline’s life, changed utterly in the space of a few hours. She couldn’t imagine the nightmare of losing a child. How did anyone survive it, how could each new day be endured without that part of yourself? How would Pauline find the strength to go on, now that her beautiful, damaged son was gone?

At two o’clock Audrey gave up trying to sleep and went back downstairs with Dolly trotting at her heels. She heated milk and added a dessert spoon of brandy and a pinch of nutmeg, and drank it curled on the sitting room couch, wrapped in a red-and-green-tartan mohair blanket she’d brought home from a short break in Scotland a few years before. She began watching a black-and-white Hitchcock film and fell asleep before the first ad break.

She woke at eight, stiff and chilled and headachy, and when she turned off the television all she heard was the continuing rain.

W
ell? Which is it?” She held her hair on the top of her head and twirled in front of the dressing room mirror in one of the two dresses she’d selected from the bargain rail. “Hair up or down?” Letting it tumble over her shoulders, then gathering it back together again. “Up, I think.”

Her friend leaned against the wall, arms folded. “I thought you said he wasn’t interested.”

Jackie smiled at her reflection in the mirror. “He’s not. What about the hair?”

“Down. So what are you so perky about?”

“Audrey’s party, of course. I love a party. And the dress?”

“The other one.”

Jackie pulled the pink dress up over her head and stood in her underwear. A side effect of being a life drawing model, she’d discovered, was that parading around in bra and knickers didn’t cost her a thought now.

She slid the dress back onto its hanger. “He might be interested,” she said.

“I knew it.”

“But I could be wrong.” She pulled on the other dress for the second time and turned so her friend could slide up the zip. “Sometimes I think he is and other times…I don’t know.”

“Have you found out about his wife yet?”

Jackie adjusted the sleeves. “He might not be married.”

“Well, his daughter’s mother so. You know what I mean.”

“I figure she’s off the scene.”

“You figure? You still haven’t asked?”

“Well, it’s not something you can ask, just like that.” She regarded her reflection. “So you think this dress?”

“Definitely—and of
course
it’s something you can ask. You
have
to ask.”

“I will, as soon as I get a chance.”

But she wouldn’t. James would tell her when he was ready, and something warned her not to push it. Charlie’s mother wasn’t around, and that was enough. All that mattered right now was that they were going to Audrey’s party together on Saturday night.

She couldn’t wait. He was dropping Charlie to her house just before eight and they were driving to Audrey’s, which was on the other side of the park. She’d have him all to herself for at least ten minutes. Fifteen, if there was traffic.

She’d be wearing a new dress that looked pretty damn good on her, and she was down one and a half pounds this week. She’d been doing twenty sit-ups every day for a fortnight—well, most days, and mostly twenty—and she was feeling fine. And she might even sign up for Pilates after Halloween—which would be quite funny, even if she was the only one who got the joke.

She could tell James. He’d get the joke. They’d laugh together about it.

“Right, get me out of this,” she said and her friend slid the zip down. Jackie pulled the dress over her head, wondering if she should get new underwear too. Oh, not because anything was going to happen—how could it, with her parents at home, not to mention their children?—but just because she felt like wearing something lacy and frivolous next to her skin.

And because, after all, maybe he wouldn’t bring her straight home from the party. Maybe they’d drop by his empty house for a while.

Scanning the death notices—one sure way to tell you were moving on was when you took to reading the death notices—Michael almost missed the announcement.
O’Dea
, it read,
Kevin
, and Michael’s eye flew on to O’Reilly and Staunton and Tobin and—

O’Dea? Kevin? He traveled back up the page.

Suddenly
, he read.
Beloved son of Pauline and Hector—

Hector. In the ten years she’d worked in his house he’d never heard Pauline’s ex-husband’s name mentioned.

Removal on Friday at 7
PM
from St. Martha’s Hospital mortuary to the Church of the Redeemer, burial Saturday at St John’s Cemetery after 11
AM
Mass.

Kevin, suddenly dead. Pauline’s son taken abruptly from her, like his own son had been snatched from him. He remembered—​​could still feel—the horror of Ethan’s death, the grief that had numbed him first and floored him after. And now that grief had been visited on Pauline, who’d already, surely, had her quota of heartache. Like himself.

He was alone in the shop, with Barry gone to playschool. The two of them were going to go on living with Michael for the foreseeable future. As soon as the test results had come, all his uncertainties had disappeared. Of course they were staying with him, there was no question. They were family.

“I could show you how to cook,” Michael had said. “If you wanted.”

“Yeah,” she’d said. “I’d like that.”

“And if you wanted to learn to read, we could look into that too.” Once she got the hang of reading, she might have a hope of a job. “There are classes, I could find out about them.”

“Okay,” she’d said, her color rising.

“And that boy could use a proper haircut. I could bring him along with me next time I’m going.”

“Okay.”

She was his daughter-in-law, as good as, and he would treat her as such. She had provided him with a grandson, she was his last link to Ethan. Funny the way things worked out.

He looked down at the paper again and read
O’Dea, Kevin
. He should call Valerie, make sure she knew. He lifted the phone—and put it down again. He’d drive by her apartment this evening after dinner, he’d drop a note in her letterbox, and then he’d text her to let her know it was there. He couldn’t face talking to her again, not just yet.

He turned the pages to the crossword and unscrewed his pen.

“Are you all right?”

The third time someone had asked her this morning. Audrey gave him the same answer as she’d given the last two—“
I’m fine, just a little tired
”—because she daren’t mention the reason she looked the way she did today, in case she made a fool of herself by bursting into tears.

She could feel their eyes on her all the same, as she sat in the staff room trying to read the newspaper during her only free period on Thursday. She could sense them wondering where the normally bubbly, happy Audrey Matthews had gone. Well, she wasn’t about to enlighten them, she just couldn’t.

Her eyes felt sore; it hurt to blink. The feeling was unfamiliar, Audrey being blessed with an ability to sleep soundly each night, usually within ten minutes of getting into bed. The last broken night she’d had was when Dolly had first arrived, well over a month ago.

“Audrey, there’s carrot cake. Bernie sent it in,” someone called from across the room. Bernie, husband of their principal, regularly sent in something delicious and home-baked—presumably to keep the troops happy.

Audrey shook her head. “Thanks, I might have some later.” There, more cause for them to wonder if something was up. Unheard-of for her to say no to cake, but what could she do? The thought of food, any food, held no appeal for her today. She’d filled a cereal bowl with Crunchy Nut Corn Flakes as usual this morning—and by the time she’d taken the milk from the fridge she knew she couldn’t look at them, and she’d tipped them back into their box.

She turned the pages of the newspaper, willing the time to pass. Not just the rest of today, but the rest of the week. The next few days would be horrible, the removal and the funeral. And what about afterwards, how would Pauline cope with all the time that came after that?

The bell rang, startling her. She folded the newspaper and stood, gathering her things for the next class. At the door she met a teacher she hadn’t yet seen that day.

“Audrey, are you all right? You don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine,” Audrey told her, “just a bit tired.”

Z
arek turned over and checked his bedside clock. Half past seven, and he didn’t start work till eleven. He stretched each of his limbs in turn, working clockwise from his left leg. He drew circles with his ankles, three in one direction, three in the other. He cracked the knuckles on both hands. He lay on his back and studied the ceiling, and decided that he had to stop living a lie.

He was twenty-five years old, not some adolescent who couldn’t see his way and didn’t know what he wanted. Zarek knew what he wanted. He’d known for a long time. He’d known for years, but he’d been afraid to admit it, even to himself.

And then he’d come to Ireland, and his life had changed, everything had changed. And now he knew what had to be done, which didn’t make it one bit easier. The prospect of admitting the truth was a terrifying one. Zarek had no idea what would happen once he took a step down that path, but he had to take it before the uncertainty destroyed him.

He’d do it as soon as the next opportunity presented itself. He’d say what had to be said, and he’d live with the consequences, whatever they may be.

He put out his hand and turned on the radio, and listened to a man speaking much too quickly. After thirty seconds the only words Zarek had caught were “Dublin,” “everyone” and “following.”

He closed his eyes and wished the man spoke Polish.

“Carmel,” Meg said, “could I have a quick word before you go?”

She was going to tell her not to bring Barry back. In the three days he’d been at the playschool he hadn’t once opened his mouth, except to whisper to Carmel anytime he wanted to use the toilet. He ignored the other children apart from Emily, who built Lego towers for him and kept up a running commentary when she made a jigsaw. “See, this is the horse, it goes here, an’ then you put the tractor in this place, or no, this one, an’ the farmer goes in here…”

Barry wouldn’t touch the apple pieces that Meg fed them at break time. He didn’t join in with the singing or the dancing, or the clapping. He listened to the stories that Meg read, leaning into Carmel’s side and sucking his thumb doggedly, but he didn’t volunteer any answers to the questions she asked the children afterwards.

And he flatly refused, each morning, to allow Carmel to leave. Of course Meg wouldn’t be happy with that, she wouldn’t want a mother around all the time. Carmel waited for both of them to be sent packing.

“I was wondering,” Meg said, “if you’d be interested in making this official.”

“Official?”

“Yes. I wouldn’t be able to pay you very much. I was thinking sixty euro a week—twenty a day—but it would be cash in hand, you wouldn’t be paying tax on that.”

Carmel struggled to understand,
sixty euro
hammering in her head. “You’re askin’ me do I want a job.”

Meg smiled. “Sorry, I’m not explaining myself very well. Yes, I’m offering you a job. You’ve made life so easy for me since you’ve arrived. You’ve everything tidied away before the kids are even collected. You tie laces and wipe noses and mop up spills, you do anything that needs to be done.”

“I jus’ like keepin’ busy,” Carmel said. “It’s nothin’, I don’t even notice I’m doin’ it.”

Sixty euro
.

“Well,
I’ve
noticed,” Meg said, “and it’s been a huge help to me. Since I started this playschool in September I’ve been struggling. It’s really too much for one person; I need another pair of hands. Are you interested at all?”

Carmel licked her lips, which had suddenly gone dry. “I thought you were goin’ to throw us out.”

Meg looked at her in surprise. “What? Why on earth would I do that?”

“’Cos Barry is so quiet,” Carmel said. “He don’t mix much, and ’cos he don’t let me go home. I thought you mightn’t want us here.”

Meg laid a hand gently on Barry’s head. “He’s a great boy,” she said softly. “He’s a credit to you. He’ll just take his time, that’s all, and he’ll find his voice when he’s ready.” She smiled at the little boy. “Won’t you?”

He sucked his thumb and gazed back at her.

Carmel’s eyes had begun to feel hot. She blinked hard. “You’d pay me sixty euro a week,” she said, “for three mornin’s.”

“I know it’s not much,” Meg said, “but—”

“It’s fine, it’s plenty,” Carmel broke in. “I’d love to. Honest to God, I’d love it.”

A job. She’d just been offered her first job, in this colorful, noisy room that was going to help Barry find his voice. She was going to come here three mornings a week and help out, doing what she’d been doing anyway, without thinking, for the past three days. What was wiping a few noses and tying a few laces, and putting jigsaw pieces back into boxes? It was nothing, it wasn’t work at all.

She was going to get
€
60 every week for doing nothing. And she was going to be with Barry, they were going to be together.

“Thank you,” she said, hearing how feeble it sounded. Wanting to throw her arms around Meg, wanting to spin cartwheels around the room. “I’d really love it.”

“That’s great,” Meg said. “I’m delighted. And I can’t promise anything, but if it works out we might take on a few more children after Christmas, when there’d be two of us, and Barry could come five days a week, and I could pay you a bit more. How does that sound?”

“Fine, that sounds great.” Carmel felt the happiness erupt in her. She got to her feet quickly, afraid that Meg was going to change her mind. “We’ll be goin’,” she said. “Let you finish up.”

“Hang on a sec,” Meg said, walking to the door. “I’ll be right back.” She left the room.

Carmel crossed the floor and lifted Barry’s jacket down from its red plastic hook. A white label had been fixed to the wood above the hook, and it said
BARRY
. The room was full of white labels, all with a word written on them in black marker, all stuck with squidgy blue stuff to various objects.

Carmel had copied
table
and
chair
and
door
onto a page with a crayon as Meg had read a story earlier. She’d drawn a corresponding picture beside each word, and the page was folded in her pocket now. Next week she’d do
window
and
blackboard
and
wall
, and after that she’d start on the books that had a different word and picture on every page.

Meg reappeared. “Your first week’s wages,” she said, holding out three
€
20 notes.

“Ah no.” Carmel backed away. “I wasn’t started yet.”

“Of course you were; we just didn’t know it.” Meg folded the notes and pushed them into Carmel’s hand. “Go on, I insist. I won’t feel I’ve been taking advantage.”

On the way home—home!—Carmel bought a biro and a ruled copybook, a book with a chicken on the front and a small tube of jellies for Barry, a packet of flower seeds, a bag of potatoes, a turnip, a chicken, and a bottle of whiskey. She’d seen whiskey at the back of a kitchen press, so she knew what kind he drank.

She reached the house and stopped at the gate. Barry looked up at her.

“Jus’ a sec,” she said.

She gazed at the redbrick façade, at the place where they lived now. Number 17, Walnut Grove. The house where Ethan had grown up. The house she had keys for.

“Tell you what,” she said, “let’s have a quick lunch and then go to Granddad’s shop, okay? I have to tell him somethin’.”

She was bursting with it, she couldn’t wait till he got home from work. She was dying to see his face when she told him. She wanted him to be glad he’d taken them in, to be glad she was the mother of his grandchild.

She was alone, leaning against the radiator under the window, arms crossed over her chest, looking towards Pauline’s ancient orange carpet that was patterned with tiny brown stars, her dark hair curtaining her face.

The small room was crowded with Pauline’s neighbors and friends, stopping off on their way home from Kevin’s removal. They stood around or perched on chair arms, balancing cups and glasses and plates. The air was thick with perfume and coffee and hard-boiled egg, and humming with various subdued conversations.

Audrey threaded her way through the room with Pauline’s biggest teapot, topping up cups as she went. She reached the radiator.

“A hot drop?”

The woman lifted her head, and Audrey was struck by how lost she looked. She regarded Audrey dully for a few seconds before recognizing her.

“Oh, hello…no, thanks.”

Her cup sat by her feet on the carpet, hardly touched. A whitish film had settled on the surface of the tea. Audrey cradled the teapot and leaned against the wall next to the radiator, and the two of them remained silent for some time.

When the woman eventually spoke, Audrey had to lean sideways to hear her.

“Kevin was like a second big brother,” she said. “He didn’t talk to me as if I was a child. He taught me how to tie laces, just before I started school. I didn’t know there was anything different about him, I just thought he was wonderful.” She stopped then, and shook her head. “It’s so unfair.”

Audrey said nothing. In the far corner of the room a sudden laugh erupted, and was cut off abruptly.

“How is Pauline?” the girl asked, raising her head to look at Audrey again. “I can’t talk to her properly, with all the…”

Pauline was in the kitchen, surrounded by Sue and her family, and more callers. “She’s bearing up,” Audrey said, hearing how pathetic it sounded. What else could you say though? This girl didn’t want to hear that Pauline was completely shattered, that when she looked at you she didn’t see you, because her grief blocked everything out.

Kevin, it turned out, had suffered a massive heart attack in the water. He’d died from that, not from drowning. Not that it made any difference now.

“It’s not
fair
,” the woman repeated, her voice still low but urgent now. “Why
Kevin
, for God’s sake? Where’s the sense in that?” She rubbed her face. “God, sometimes I just…” Her voice trembled and she trailed off, bowing her head again, breathing deeply.

“I know,” Audrey murmured, putting a tentative hand on her arm. “There’s no sense to it.”

“My brother died,” the woman said then, “a few years ago. He was twenty-four.”

“Oh,” Audrey said, recalling Pauline’s upset at the time. “Oh, I’m so—”

“It’s just
cruel
, to snuff out somebody’s life, just like that. What kind of a God does that? Ethan didn’t deserve it—and Kevin didn’t deserve it either.”

“No.”

“I blamed my father,” she said, half to herself. “On some level I think I still do, but…” She stopped again, and looked apologetically at Audrey. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be saying all this, we hardly know each other.”

“I’m Audrey.” Putting out a hand, which the woman took.

“Val,” she said. “I know your name, Pauline often mentioned you. You were good to Kevin.”

Audrey demurred, but the woman said, “No, you were. She was very thankful. He used to chat to you over the hedge all the time, she said.”

The tears rose in Audrey’s eyes then, and she fished a crumpled tissue hurriedly from her sleeve and pressed it to her face. “He did,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry,” Val said. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, no, no—” Audrey blew her nose and got to her feet, pushing the tissue back up her sleeve. “Well,” she said, attempting a smile, “I’d better get on. So nice to finally meet you.”

She left the room as quickly as the crowd allowed and set the teapot on the draining board in the kitchen. She walked straight out the back door, avoiding anyone’s eye, hoping nobody was taking any notice of her as she pulled it closed.

She took great gulps of the night air, feeling the frosty nip of it steadying her somewhat. Winter on the way. She walked to the hedge that divided Pauline’s garden from her own, and she stood where Kevin had so often stood—and the thought of him undid her again, and she bent her face into her hands and allowed the tears to fall.

Val was right, it was cruel. It was senseless and tragic and so
unfair
. Audrey cried in noisy, messy sobs, leaning up against the hedge where Kevin had stood so often.

When her tears eventually abated, when her sobs lessened, she inhaled deeply again and again, trying to steady her breath. Her nose ran, her face was wet, everything inside her head felt heavy and cloddy. As she rummaged for a tissue again—not that it would be much use at this stage—the kitchen door opened behind her.

She turned to see a man coming out, his frame silhouetted against the light from the kitchen, his features indistinguishable in the darkness of the garden. She swiped at her eyes quickly with a sleeve, willing him to go away and leave her alone.

Instead he walked straight over to her. She attempted to regain her composure as he approached, as she recognized him. He reached silently into the breast pocket of his jacket, drew out a large white handkerchief, and handed it to her.

Audrey accepted it wordlessly and wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Eventually, when she felt a little steadier, she looked back at him.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice was thick, as if she had a heavy cold. Her throat hurt from sobbing.

“Paying my respects,” he replied mildly—which, of course, wasn’t what Audrey was asking at all. Had he taken her literally just to annoy her?

Oh, who cared? She folded his handkerchief and pushed it into the pocket of her skirt. “I’ll wash it and return it.”

“Keep it,” he said, his gaze directed now towards the bottom of the garden. “I have lots more.”

The air was becoming steadily chillier, but Audrey didn’t feel ready to return to the house. She looked a fright, she was sure, her hair every which way, her eyes swollen, her cheeks burning, but out here in the dark it didn’t matter.

“I assume,” he said then, “what you were asking was how do I know Pauline.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Audrey replied. It felt surreal, holding this quiet conversation with him in the darkness.

“She was my housekeeper,” he said, as if she hadn’t spoken. “After my wife died she kept house for me and my children. She was with us for ten years. They both were, her and Kevin.”

In her befuddled state, it took several seconds for the implications of his words to sink in. Audrey was dumbfounded.
This
was the man Pauline had worked for, the man she’d held in such high regard?