The Lives of Women (31 page)

Rachel behind me: ‘I don't know what made me call around. I couldn't sleep thinking about tomorrow and thought she might be nervous and so I— Jesus, what are we going to do? Oh God, what are we going to do? Why did she do it, Elaine? Why would she have to go and do it on her own?'

‘To stop us from getting into trouble,' I say. ‘And maybe she thought Patty was going to tell.'

‘But why would she think that? Patty promised, she wouldn't say a—'

‘Because I told her. Because I thought Patty was going to tell. I told her, I told her.'

Oh, Agatha.

*

I stay calm. For years to come, I will wake in the night and wonder how I did that. I go to Agatha and see that she is alive.

‘An ambulance,' I say.

Agatha grabs my hand and says, ‘Don't. Don't leave me.'

I can see through the window, Michael and his bicycle at the side of the pillar.

‘I'll get Michael to do it.'

Rachel is screaming now. ‘Well, I'm getting Karl at least; he should be here. He's the bloody father – it's all his fault. Oh God, oh God, what will we do?'

Agatha won't let go of my hand. ‘No,' she says. ‘No, Elaine, please. No.'

‘I have to call an ambulance, Agatha,' I say. ‘I
have
to.'

‘Karl isn't the father,' Agatha says and then, slowly and precisely, presses a name into my hand.

‘I know,' I say out loud.

Agatha presses another few words into my hand – a question.

‘For the past few weeks,' I reply.

Then once again, she shapes words on my palm – a request this time.

‘Never. I promise – not a soul, not a word.'

 

Paul Townsend and Karl are in the room now and I see Michael is gone from the pillar.

‘The haversack, get the fucking haversack out of here,' Paul is saying.

He doesn't go near Agatha, he doesn't say a word about an ambulance, he just begins to gather things off the floor: the instrument, the pill box, his drawing. He is shouting at Karl to help him. Karl is standing there, hands by his sides, staring at Agatha with his mouth wide open, crying.

 

I prise my hand free from Agatha's grip and run out of the room. No longer calm, I am running now into the cul-de-sac. I know I am headed for the Shillman's house and that I am overcome by an impulse to stand in their garden screaming and cursing up at their windows. But just as I get there, I see Michael standing in the gate -way, his feet firm on the ground, the shape of the bike beside him.

‘What's happened?' he says, ‘Is it Agatha?'

I nod.

‘Why are you here?'

I stand for a moment and stare at Michael. Around us the curve of houses in darkness, apart from the lone square of lighted glass in Mr Slater's garage; behind it, the sound of his little trains whirring around and Michael's voice asking me a second time: ‘Why are you
here
?'

I turn away from him, turn again more than once. The houses spinning and closing in on me; I almost fall. But I find my feet again and am running again, out of the cul-de-sac, back round the corner, and then I am howling outside Mrs Ryan's door, banging on it.

My father is studying the racing page when I finally come back into his room. Tomorrow's racing: life goes on, it always goes on.

I ask him if he wants anything before I go to bed and he says I'm looking a little pale and I tell him that it's nothing.

He nods and wheels himself back to his desk then lifts the big brown envelope. ‘I marked a few things,' he says, ‘nothing to worry about, but in case you want to double check…'

He looks at me. We both know the lawyers in New York are not only thorough, but they are also on my side: his marks are unnecessary and I think of my mother's little message pad upstairs and can't help thinking – who's playing office now?

He says, ‘Have you done whatever it was you needed that clear head for?'

‘I have.'

‘Maybe you should have that drink now.'

As I begin towards the drinks cabinet, he adds: ‘Do you know – I might join you. No ice, though, it's too late for ice.'

 

We sit companionably enough for a few moments as I flick through the documents and pretend to take an interest in the few pencil marks he has made.

‘So…' he says then, ‘I take it you'll be going back?'

‘Yes,' I say, ‘there are things I need to…'

‘Of course. And when are you going?'

‘Tuesday. I booked the flight today.'

‘Tuesday,' he repeats.

There is a moment. One small, solid moment – I could almost hold it on the palm of my hand. A moment when I think he may ask me to stay, or to return anyhow, after I've done whatever I need to do in New York. And I know if he takes the moment, that I will say yes. He looks into his drink and then looks up at me.

‘Well, we'll see each other anyhow, before you go.'

When he says this, I am heartbroken and at the same time entirely relieved.

I drag Karl's haversack out from under my mother's bed, remove it from the black plastic sack and spread it out on the floor. My eye hops from badge to badge. The white eagle of Poland. The red kiwi of New Zealand. A London bus. A few different versions of the American Flag. A map of Africa. I see the elk of Norway. The gates of Dublin. The twin lions of Holland, the single lion of Venice. I see Turkey and Hong Kong and Cairo: I see the whole world collected in small faded badges.

I hold up the haversack, grope around the edges. Then I lift it up and shake it. There appears to be nothing inside. I unpick the cord at the top, stretch it open and stare down into the mouth of it. It smells like a boy's schoolbag. I put my hand down into it and feel around. Nothing. I go through the pockets on the side and on the front – all empty. No instrument, no sheet, no pillow case, no scraps of flannel.

I haven't a clue what happened to these things, whether they were found by a parent and destroyed in our interest, or if Paul
managed to get rid of everything before he was packed off to boarding school. I don't know. And I don't need to know.

I turn the haversack in my hands and examine the exterior more closely. There are stains on it, a variety of stains, but none too large or noticeable. These stains could be anything: beer spills or cider stains, a leak of oil from a bike or motorbike, the grass from the lawn that no longer belongs to the Shillmans. Anything.

 

I sit back on my heels and wonder what I should do with this haversack. I know it can't stay in this house. Somehow, I will have to get rid of it. I could dedicate my last day to it: maybe take it to the beach where Serena used to bring us on drives, follow the tide as it peels away from the strand. The sea roaring dully ahead in the dark. I could go in as far as I could before flinging the haversack into the waves. Agatha would have got a kick out of that.

Or I could bring it somewhere and burn it. Down into Arlows' valley, where it would hardly be noticed – just another charred heap on the dog-walkers' route. One last night walk, myself and the dog. I could say goodbye to Agatha there. Next day I could call Brendie from the departure lounge to tell her she can stop worrying now.

 

I wrap the haversack up again and leave it by the door, then go back into my own room and take the journal from my bed. I put it in a drawer where Mrs Larkin is bound to find it. She may or may not show it to my father. He may or may not choose to read it. Who
knows, he may even want to write down his version of events in it some day.

I find my suitcase and take it back to my mother's room where I lay it on her bed. It is way too large for purpose. I don't have much to bring back to New York, or at least I don't intend taking much with me.

I feel light and ready to start again. Not a clean slate though – never that. I know it will always be something of a struggle. There will still be those nights of waking suddenly to the sound of something scuttling: inside the wall, under the bed, on the far side of the ceiling. Bleats of shadow will inhabit my days. There but not there, caught but not caught, always one scurry beyond my line of vision.

 

Christine Dwyer Hickey
is an award-winning novelist and short story writer.

Her novel
Cold Eye of Heaven
won the Irish Novel of the Year 2012, was shortlisted for the Irish Book Awards novel of 2011 and nominated for the IMPAC 2013 award.
Last Train from Liguria
was shortlisted for the
Prix Européen de Littérature
and
Tatty
was chosen as one of the 50 Irish Books of the Decade as well as being nominated for The Orange Prize and shortlisted for the Irish Book Awards novel of 2004. Her first novel
The Dancer
was shortlisted for Irish Novel of the Year.

She has won several short story awards and her first collection
The House on Parkgate Street and other Dublin stories
was published in 2013. Her first play,
Snow Angels
premiered at the Project Theatre Dublin in 2014.

Christine is an elected member of Aosdana, the Irish academy of arts and letters.