Deceptions (36 page)

“Harriet Carmody,” he said, and paused as if he expected Lorraine to recognise her name. “The travel writer,” he added, seeing her puzzlement, and she nodded, remembering a book she had once read about India.

Shady refused to leave the commune. Unknown to her sister she had fallen in love with a young man who was showing her other ways of travelling. When he spoke about his mother, he could have been describing an ephemeral being, floating by on fairy dust, and Lorraine pictured a young woman in a long skirt, hair to her waist, beads around her neck, smoke from a joint spiralling through her fingers. The sisters agreed to separate, one moving outwards, the other travelling to distant places in her mind. Michael was born twelve months later.

His memories were fragmented, wonderful descriptions of sunsets and towering rocks and of his mother weaving lengths of golden fabric. The women in the commune mothered him. They carried him in a sling, played for him on sitars and bongo drums, brought him food to a table under vines. There were men in the commune, beards and sandals; they all looked alike to him and he called none of them his father. Nor did he have any concept of fatherhood. He belonged to a community, not a family. When he was older, he discovered that his father had exchanged his sandals for deck shoes before he was born. On the last sighting, he was crewing on a yacht in the Bahamas.

It would be a few more years before Scott McKenzie turned San Francisco into a garden for flower children and “make love not war” became a cliché with a bitter aftertaste – but for Shady Carmody, the dream was already turning sour. Once, he found her unconscious. Many times he heard her crying in her sleep. She swung him high on elation, beat him down with her despair. Her hair fell below her waist but it was matted and her feet were caked with clay. He could not understand why she sang and cried on the same breath. He was four years old when his aunt returned to the commune and held him in her arms for the first time. She placed her sister and her nephew in the back of a pick-up truck and drove away.

Shady stayed in hospital – he had no idea how long, to him it seemed an endless time – and after she was discharged the sisters returned to Ireland. They lived in Dublin where Harriet quelled her wanderlust and set about writing her first book. His mother, restless and adrift, waited tables. In the summer of ’67 she travelled to Woburn Abbey, where The Festival of the Flower Children, England’s answer to Woodstock, was taking place.

“A little holiday,” said Harriet, who had been unable to prevent her going. He still remembered the rows and his mother crying on the stairs the night before she left. He was filled with foreboding and the belief that she was returning to the commune, terrified he would never see her again. He waved goodbye to her from the pier. Harriet said they would have a good view from there. Afterwards, she took him to the Broadway café on O’Connell Street and treated him to an ice-cream flavoured with raspberry syrup.

For three days Shady Carmody danced to the anthem of an era – turn on, tune in, drop out. The car crash occurred on the night before she was due to return home. The young man driving escaped with minor injuries. She died on the spot. A flower child with daisies in her hair. Shortly after her funeral, his aunt brought him to Mayo, to the house where she had been born and where, she said, he would be safe.

Lorraine drew him to her. His heart pounded against her breast. She thought about her own childhood, playing safe in a suburban garden with Eoin and Sally Ruane, their mothers in the kitchen exchanging recipes for chocolate cake, keeping a wary eye on their children playing safely on see-saws.

“I love you,” he said. He repeated her name, as if the sound was a foreign language on his tongue. “My sweet Lorraine … I love you.”

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY
-S
EVEN

Brahms Ward
Midnight

How could I have got it so wrong? She was in New York. I want to say it again. Listen carefully, Killian. She was in New York. A continent away. In an Irish bar in the East Village, she sang “Ladies of the Canyon”. She sings off-key, said Eoin, always did. But she knows how to paint a quirky portrait. A railway station, of all places. Meg said it usually hangs in his study but they decided to show it off for their party and there it was in the living-room, a splendid thing to see.

We live in a small world but a magical one. How strange our paths never crossed before. Perhaps they did. Meg’s parties are crowded jamborees, as this one was, with crowds spilling into different rooms and forming huddles wherever there is space. Lorraine Cheevers should have been there. She rang and accepted the invitation than rang again to cancel. She had a funeral to attend.

Killian, my boy, my silent patient boy, I’ve no right to feel delirious but I’m wild with it. We talked about everything but the right thing. I told her about the commune, all of it, the dirt and neglect and how your grandmother lay like a crushed bird with no hope of ever flying free until Harriet lifted her up and tried to heal her. I’ve never spoken so freely about it. Not even in Slane. I wanted to lie beside her forever and feel her warm breath on my face but in the end she left and I’m here with you again. Back on the night shift.

I should have been honest with her. Yes, of course I should. Don’t give me that sideways look. I’ll tell her everything when I see her. It won’t be easy but she’ll understand. I’ll bring her here to meet you and you’ll see why I’m daft with happiness.

What will I say? Not to worry; I’ll find a way. There’ll be time to explain and she will listen. Just as she listened today when I laid those years before her. She’s afraid of love, mistrustful. What have I done? How could I have been such a fool? You brought us together but it was along a very crooked road. How can I even begin to describe it to her?

Snow is forecast, Killian. It’s drifting towards us on a northeasterly. But not yet. I’ve a trip to make before it falls.

Snow fall. Snorting snow. Coke-head Marianne. Wired to the moon. Marianne Lorcan me. Mammy Daddy Terence. Three blind mice. Three coins in the fountain. Maggie has three biscuits. Arrowroot Custard Cream Gingernut.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY
-E
IGHT

Ice on the runway delayed take-off for over two hours. At last the plane glided into the air. Stress fell from Virginia as effortlessly as the slanting patchwork of snow-covered fields dropping below her. She sipped a gin and tonic and flicked through the latest edition of
Prestige
. Andrea Sheraton smiled from the glossy pages. Her husband grunted when Virginia showed him the colour spread and returned to his lap-top. Although she knew little about the island, except that her mother always enjoyed a glass of Madeira sherry before her Christmas dinner, it would be easy to explore, especially with a guide and car at her disposal. Darkness had descended when they reached their destination. The volcanic slopes rose around them in invisible rocky layers and the lights of Madeira were woven like golden needlework into the fabric of the night.

From the hotel balcony Virginia heard the faint strains of dance music floating upwards through the open doors of the bar. She sat at the dressing table and applied her make-up, lining her lips then softening the inner curves with lipstick, stroking the tube back and forth.

“Beauty is only skin deep, young lady,” Josephine had warned the young Virginia whenever her daughter stared overlong at her reflection in the mirror. “It’s the mote in the eye of the begrudger.”

Whether people begrudged or beheld her loveliness remained a matter of indifference to Virginia. What was the sense in possessing a beautiful inner self when no one could see it – and the mirror reassured her that her beauty remained skin deep and unblemished. The restaurant Bill had chosen for their evening meal gave them a bird’s eye view of the island. He was only staying for one night and planned to fly from there to Portugal. They discussed the new campaign, their manner remaining business-like despite their relaxed surroundings. Virginia never mixed business and pleasure, despite the regular propositions she received from clients.

“Avoid complications,” an experienced public-relations executive had advised her when she first became involved in the business. “If you want to play away from home make sure you don’t do it on office time.”

The band was still playing when they returned to the hotel bar for a nightcap. Bill cupped a goblet of brandy in his hands while she sipped a cocktail. They watched couples dancing around the small circular floor in vigorous quicksteps or gliding into a waltz. Some of the younger guests, defeated by the old-fashioned dance rhythms, settled around the bar. A young man sitting on a high stool gazed speculatively across at her. She ignored him yet his scrutiny ignited her conversation, sparked her laughter.

“You’re good, Virginia.” The businessman watched her carefully from behind a wreath of smoke. “Sharp as a tack when it comes to publicity and promotion. But I’m beginning to have my doubts about Adrian. He needs to understand I don’t carry dead soldiers. Is it possible he’s too stressed out with his family situation to cope with the demands of the job?”

“That is an outrageous assumption, Bill! It’s most unprofessional –”

He held up his hand, unperturbed by her outburst. “Your personal life is your own business as long as it doesn’t interfere with my profit margins.”

She inclined her head in acknowledgement. “You’ve made your position perfectly clear. I’m sorry you feel it necessary to have this conversation with me”

He nodded curtly. “I also regret it. You and I have always had a sound working relationship. But perception is important in the advertising industry. If word gets about that an agency is losing its punch the inevitable starts to happen.”

“What has Lorcan been saying?”

“Lorcan has nothing to do with this conversation. But while we’re on the subject of my son, his efforts are still not being appreciated.”

“On the contrary, Bill –”

“He’s come up with some excellent ideas which Adrian hasn’t even looked at.”

“I assure you –”

“Don’t assure me. Assure him. I’m anxious that Lorcan makes a success of this job. As you know, he was running with a wild bunch for a while.” He puffed vigorously on his cigarillo. The foul smell seeped into her clothes, stung her eyes. “At one time we honestly didn’t believe he’d make it back.”

Virginia stirred her cocktail and glanced casually across the bar. The young man stared boldly back. He was sallow-skinned, obviously local, dressed in white slacks and a casual polo shirt. He lifted his glass in a discreet salute. A smile flickered meaningfully at the corners of his lips.

“That explains Lorcan’s prayer meeting.” She turned her attention back to Bill. “I overheard him discussing it on the phone. I did wonder at the time. He never struck me as particularly religious young man.”

“Lorcan religious? I think not.” He drained his brandy glass and set it back on the table with a decisive clink. “That’s me finished for the night. No, Lorcan’s definitely not religious. At this stage, I’m happy to settle for sensible. The prayer meeting was arranged by friends of ours. I’m not a great man for the church myself but if prayers can move mountains then Jean Devine-O’Malley has said enough to shift the Alps.”

Virginia lifted an olive from the dish beside her and bit hard into the acrid flesh. The taste was bitter, sickeningly so. She swallowed, forced herself to smile. She wanted to be a child again, her fingers stuffed in her ears, but Bill Sheraton kept talking about basket cases and how the police who were so good on speed checks had done fuck all to find who was responsible for the hit and run. On the circular dance floor two elderly women tangoed together. The smaller of the two wore a short kilt with pleats that kicked out as she danced. She held her shoulders stiffly, her expression never changing, even when her companion bent her backwards or spun her around. Her sturdy barrel figure reminded Virginia of her mother. “Eyes to the front, Virginia. Best foot forward.”

“How very sad,” she murmured. “I hope Lorcan’s friend recovers.”

“I don’t think there’s much chance of that.” He stubbed out his cigarillo. The barman came and removed the ashtray, left a clean one in its place. “It’s hard to get your head around it. Our kids have everything yet they dice with death and come up again for a second round. Are you heading up to bed or can I get you another drink?”

“I’ll nurse this one for a few minutes longer, Bill. See you in the morning before you leave.”

She watched him walk from the bar. He had a confident stride, almost a strut. As soon as he disappeared the young man glided towards her. His name was Rafael. In heavily accented English he told Virginia he lived in Funchal. He owned a vineyard and a winery. He knew her official guide, his mother’s second cousin, easily deposed. Tomorrow morning Rafael would take personal charge of her. He held her closely as they danced. His fingers pressed lightly but insistently against the thin material of her dress. Later, in her bedroom, she watched it slide from his fingers to the floor.