CHAPTER 11
11
A MAN NAMED C IAN ó’Droighneáin picks us up from Galway harbour in a small boat and tells us that it won’t take more than an hour to reach the island. I see Emmet visibly spring to life, like a wilting flower, when he’s close to water again. Somehow, the waves of the Atlantic Ocean look and smell different to those that lap towards Bondi, Manly, Coogee, or any of the other beaches I’m familiar with from Sydney. Even as the spray splashes across my face, it tastes different on my tongue. Darker, more threatening, offering a warning that travellers pass through its current at their own risk. I wonder how many souls it has claimed over the centuries in revenge for intrusion. For Emmet, however, who lets his right hand rest within it, it’s a return to his comfort zone after the lengthy plane and train journeys, as if he has reverted to the warmth and sanctuary of the womb.
The Bish. Half boy / half fish.
Before leaving Sydney, I located a small cottage online and booked it for three nights. A taxi driver waiting by the port drives us up a winding road towards it, depositing us with little ceremony by the front door. The owner of the lodging, one Peader Dooley, has emailed to say that I will find a key beneath a plant pot by the front door, and he is true to his word. Stepping inside, I’m struck by the musty smell and I suspect it hasn’t been occupied in some time. Opening the windows, I turn the light on – a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling – and look around, surveying the room, which is either a kitchen that houses a living room or a living room that houses a kitchen. It’s hard to tell. Emmet, frowning, is focused entirely on his phone.
‘There’s no Wi-Fi,’ he says, his tone one of utter disbelief. ‘Dad, there’s no Wi-Fi,’ he repeats, louder now.
‘Should I call the police?’ I ask, and he stares at me for a moment, as if he thinks I’m genuinely suggesting this, before rolling his eyes. ‘We’re in a fairly isolated place, Emmet,’ I tell him. ‘It’s possible there won’t be any Wi-Fi on the island at all.’
‘None?’
‘I mean, it’s possible.’
‘How do they survive?’
It does seem a little disconcerting to be so removed from the outside world – even I’m willing to admit that – but it wasn’t as if I had many options. There were no hotels and this was the only cottage available. I leave him to make his peace with digital isolation and take a look in the bedroom, where I’m greeted by a single bed. Before Emmet can notice it and start screaming like a banshee, I tell him that I’ll sleep on the sofa and allow him his privacy.
‘Do people actually live here?’ he asks, sounding amazed, as if he’s just walked on to the set of a historical movie.
‘Well, it’s a rental,’ I tell him. ‘So probably not all year round.’
‘But what about the other houses?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say with a shrug. ‘They’re probably a bit more up to date.’
He starts taking photos on his phone and I know he wants to send them to Damian or one of his other friends with some sarcastic comment attached but then realizes that, without Wi-Fi, to do so would cost him a small fortune.
‘Look, we’ll make the most of it,’ I say cheerfully. ‘Communing with nature and all that.’
He opens his mouth to protest but recognizes that this is exactly the sort of sentiment that he would generally endorse, so remains silent.
‘Right,’ I add, assuming that we’re done with the complaints for now. ‘Do you want to wash up or shall we just head straight out?’
‘Where are we meeting her?’ he asks.
‘Who?’
‘Mum.’
‘Ah,’ I reply, realizing that I can’t delay this revelation any longer. I’ve been putting off telling him, but it really can’t wait. ‘You might want to take a seat.’
He does as instructed, collapsing into a threadbare armchair that, even from where I’m standing, has a faint feline scent to it, looking a little anxious.
‘Go on,’ he says.
‘The thing is, I probably should have mentioned this before, but your mother doesn’t actually know we’re coming.’
There’s a lengthy pause while he takes this in.
‘I’m sorry,’ he asks, shaking his head as if he can’t quite make sense of my words. ‘What?’
‘She doesn’t … I didn’t tell her.’
‘What do you mean, you didn’t tell her?’
‘I don’t really know how else to put it.’
‘But how could you … why not?’
‘Well, it’s not as if we talk that often.’
‘No, but …’ He raises his voice and throws his arms in the air. ‘She invited us, didn’t she?’
‘Not in so many words. When she phoned to tell me the news, she simply said that she was coming here for the funeral and to let you know that your grandmother had died. She didn’t actually say that we should travel over for it.’
Emmet’s eyes open wide.
‘Dad,’ he says, trying to control his emotions. ‘We’ve flown halfway across the world! What if she’s not even here?’
‘Of course she’ll be here,’ I tell him. ‘The funeral is tomorrow, after all. Where else would she be?’
He shakes his head, trying to make sense of this.
‘So she didn’t want us to come?’ he asks, more of a whisper now.
‘It’s not so much that she didn’t want us to come,’ I explain. ‘It’s more that she didn’t specifically say that we should.’
‘What if she’s angry?’
‘She won’t be.’
He shakes his head, unconvinced, and looks around in despair.
‘This is insane,’ he says, as much to himself as to me. ‘I should have been taken into care years ago. You’re both nuts. You’re both completely fucking nuts.’
I stifle a laugh. He doesn’t sound so much angry as perplexed, but, to my relief, he’s not responding to the news as badly as I feared he would. I make my way over to the sink and turn the tap on. The water runs a hideous brown for the best part of a minute before turning clear. I pour a glass and sip it cautiously. It’s cold, fresh and delicious.
‘So how do we find her?’ he asks, his tone exhausted but resigned.
‘Well, as far as I understand it, there’s only about four hundred people on the island. And a single village at the heart of it. So, I don’t imagine it will be all that difficult. We could check the local pubs and, if we can’t find her there, then someone will probably be able to point us in the right direction.’
‘Fine,’ he says. ‘Either way, this will make a great story for my therapist in years to come.’
‘I can probably recommend some good names if you like.’
He walks past me without even acknowledging this remark and goes into the bathroom, while I unpack our cases and leave some clean clothes out for him on his bed. I hear the shower running and decide to go outside until he’s ready and look around.
It’s beautiful here. Green, hilly, natural. In the distance, I hear the sound of sheep, although, looking around, I can’t see any. There’s a good view of the ocean and a well-worn path leading down towards it. I could imagine a person sitting outside in the sunshine, reading a book, leaving the world behind them. It’s an attractive idea. Glancing to my right, I notice a raised farm on the hill next to the cottage, where a man around my age, tall and blond, is leaning on a fence, smoking a cigarette. He raises a hand in greeting and I raise mine too, considering whether I should wander over to say hello, but before I can decide he turns and disappears out of sight.
‘You ready?’ says a voice from behind me, and I turn to see my son, who looks refreshed, having changed into the jeans and T-shirt I laid out for him.
‘Sure,’ I say.
‘And remember, if this goes wrong, it’s on you.’
I nod, and we make our way along the path that, I assume, will lead us towards the village at the heart of the island. He turns to look in the direction of the beach and asks whether he can go swimming later, and I tell him that it might be dangerous at night, but there’s no reason why he can’t go down there in the morning before the funeral, and he seems satisfied by this.
‘What was she like anyway?’ he asks as we walk along.
‘What was who like?’
‘Your mother-in-law.’
‘You mean your grandmother.’
‘I didn’t have enough of a relationship with her to call her that.’
‘Nor did I. Maybe we should just call her Vanessa.’
‘OK.’
‘I only met her a couple of times,’ I tell him. ‘We went for dinner a few nights before your mum and I got married. And then we saw a little of her during that week. After that, our paths never crossed again.’
‘Why not?’
I shrug. ‘Things were complicated between them. You know that.’
‘Yeah, but no one’s ever explained to me why. Is it just a family thing with us? Mothers who aren’t interested in their kids, I mean?’
I take a breath. Perhaps now, on this brisk but sunny afternoon, in such a peaceful place, it’s time to explain to him the darker aspects of Rebecca’s childhood and teenage years, because God knows it’s unlikely she’ll ever do so herself. Maybe it will give him a better understanding of her and allow him to forgive her neglect.
‘What?’ he asks, when I stop for a moment and press my thumb and index finger to the corners of my eyes, trying to decide.
‘If you want the answer to that question,’ I tell him, ‘then I’ll give it to you. But it’s not pretty.’
He hesitates only briefly, before nodding his head.
‘I want it,’ he says.
And so, as we continue to walk, I tell him the terrible story of his grandfather Brendan Carvin, and the effect his actions had, not just on the eight little girls who he raped, but on his wife and daughters too. It takes some time and I’m surprised that he listens without interruption. When I reach the end of my narrative, however, the part that sees Vanessa arrive on this island many years earlier, he stops and sways a little, like a drunken man.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask him.
‘I need to sit down for a minute.’
And he does. Simply collapses on to the grass, as if his legs have given way beneath him. He presses his knees close to his chest and wraps his arms around them, his head buried low, as if he’s trying to make himself appear as small as possible.
‘Why did you never tell me any of this before?’ he asks eventually, his voice so quiet that I have to struggle to hear him.
‘You were too young. It’s not the kind of thing you can talk about to a child.’
‘My grandfather,’ he says, looking up, tears forming in his eyes. ‘He did things like that?’
‘He wasn’t your grandfather,’ I tell him. ‘Other than in a purely biological sense. He was just a man you never met who married a woman you never knew and fathered a daughter who gave birth to you.’
‘So my grandfather.’
‘You know grandfathers,’ I insist. ‘You know lots of your friends’ grandfathers. They’re different men. Good men. Kind men. Brendan Carvin was not one of them.’
‘What if anyone finds out?’ he asks, his voice cracking. ‘My friends. People at school.’ He hesitates for a moment. ‘Girls.’
‘No one will,’ I promise. ‘He’s dead now.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘A heart attack, I was told. So trust me, this isn’t something that anyone will ever associate you with. You don’t even share a surname.’
‘Did he hurt Mum?’ he asks, and I shake my head.
‘He didn’t abuse her, if that’s what you’re asking. But your aunt, Emma, yes. He abused her. Repeatedly.’
‘And then she drowned.’
‘She took her own life,’ I say.
He turns his head to the right and vomits on to the grass, quickly and violently. There’s not much in his stomach to throw up and, soon, it’s just dry heaves. I place my hand on his back to comfort him, but he shrugs me off and I step away, allowing him to come to terms with these revelations himself.
Time passes; a lot of time, I think. And then, finally, he rises, takes a deep breath and looks towards the centre of the island. I can read my son well. I know what he’s thinking.
He wants to be with his mother.
‘Let’s go,’ he says.
The village is even smaller than I’d imagined. A few shops. A church. And, at either end of the street, two pubs.
‘Let’s try here,’ I say, walking towards the closer one. We step inside, where we’re met with the eyes of twenty people, all of whom end their conversations immediately and turn to stare at us, like we’re two na?ve strangers wandering across the moors in a horror movie, unaware of the dangers we might face when night falls. I look around, taking them in, but Rebecca isn’t among them. In fact, there are no women here at all. ‘Let’s try the other one,’ I say, but Emmet places a hand on my arm.
‘Can we just stop here for a bit?’ he asks. ‘I just … I need to …’
‘Of course,’ I say. After everything he’s just learned, it’s not unreasonable that he needs a little time to collect his thoughts. He takes a seat at a table by the wall and the barman walks towards us.
‘What’ll it be?’ he asks, and, in deference to where I am, I order a Guinness. I glance at Emmet, and he looks up.
‘Make it two,’ he says.
I wonder what the barman will say, hoping that his response won’t diminish my son, but he appears nonplussed and simply nods before returning behind the bar to pour the drinks.
‘Another thing for you to tell your future therapist about,’ I tell him. ‘The holiday I turned you into an alcoholic.’
‘I don’t think I’ll be calling this a holiday,’ he says.
It takes a long time for the drinks to be delivered, the pints sitting on the counter for so long that I think the barman might have forgotten us, but soon he tops them off and brings them over. I take a sip of mine, relishing the taste. I’ve never been much of a Guinness drinker, but it turns out that it’s true what they say: it’s better in Ireland. Emmet takes a longer draught and it’s obvious that it’s taking all his willpower not to spit it out across the table.
‘People actually drink this stuff?’ he asks.
‘They say it’s an acquired taste. I can get you a Coke if you want.’
He shakes his head and brings it to his mouth again, taking a smaller sip this time. ‘When in Rome,’ he adds.
We drink silently and companionably for a while, and I glance around at the pub, which is tastefully decorated and seems like the model for the kind of pre-bought Irish pubs that appear in cities around the world. Some of the patrons, I notice, are still throwing covert glances in our direction, as if they’re nervous that we’ve brought the Plague with us.
‘I get that she went through a lot of shit,’ says Emmet eventually. ‘Vanessa, I mean. But none of that had anything to do with me. So why did she never want to meet me?’
I let out a deep sigh. ‘Honestly, I can’t answer that,’ I tell him. ‘I liked her when I met her so I was always surprised that she didn’t want to build a relationship with you. But things were so troubled between your mother and her. There was the occasional rapprochement over the years, but they never lasted very long. It always felt that any peace existed purely to be a foundation for another war.’
‘It seems insane that the closest I’ll ever be to her is when I’m at her funeral. And why is it here, anyway? Why did she want to be buried in this crazy place?’
‘It’s not a crazy place,’ I say, offended on behalf of the island, to which I already feel an unexpected connection. ‘I know we’ve only been here a few hours, but don’t you think it’s sort of beautiful?’
He shrugs, but I can tell that he doesn’t wholly disagree.
‘I can’t remember the full story,’ I explain. ‘Rebecca explained it so long ago. But after her husband’s trial, Vanessa came here – I don’t know why; to recover, maybe? – but it became important to her in some way. Maybe it healed her. She’d lost a daughter, remember. And, one way or another, she’d lost a husband. The entire foundations of her life had been ripped apart. All those years of marriage. All the secrets. She told me about it herself, when we met.’
‘What did she say?’
‘That the first thing she did when she came here was to change her name. Remember, she’d been through a very public scandal. Her husband was well known in the media world through his associations with the Swimming Federation and the Olympics, and so on. She didn’t want anyone to connect her with the things that had happened. Willow was her middle name and Hale her maiden name, so that’s the name she adopted. She might have only spent a year here, but I think she considered it to be the most important of her life.’
‘But no one will be able to visit the grave.’
‘The islanders will.’
‘And her husband? What’s his name? Rick?’
‘Ron. And I have no idea. You’ll meet him later, I expect.’
‘Did you meet him?’
‘Again, very briefly.’
‘And what was he like?’
‘He struck me as a decent man.’
The barman passes by, throwing a few logs on the fire, and when he walks past us again, I stop him to ask whether he knows a woman named Rebecca Carvin.
‘No one by that name living here,’ he tells me.
‘She’s visiting for a few days,’ I tell him. ‘For a funeral.’
‘Ah, that’ll be Willow’s funeral,’ he replies, blessing himself. ‘Try the old pub. End of the street. I saw them all heading that way earlier.’
‘Right, thanks,’ I say.
‘I knew her a little,’ he adds, before walking away.
‘Rebecca?’ I ask, surprised.
‘No, Willow. She used to come in here for soup and a sandwich at lunchtime. She had a right go at me one day when I was pouring out my troubles to her. I can still see her, sitting across from me, giving me hell about what she called the endless selfishness of the middle-aged man who does what he wants and leaves his wife to pick up the pieces.’ He pauses for a moment and I notice him glance at the fourth finger of his left hand, rubbing it slightly with his thumb. ‘She set me straight that day, I’ll tell you that. I never forgot it.’
I’m not quite sure how he expects me to respond to this but, before I can think of an answer, he has moved on. I make my way towards the bathroom and throw some water on my face, looking myself directly in the mirror, like a character in a film. When I return, I nod to my son and we stand up and leave. It’s still warm outside, despite the setting sun, and as we make our way along the street, we attract more curious eyes. A teenage girl passes us and I notice how she looks at Emmet appreciatively, an unknown, handsome, tanned boy in her small community, and he offers her a small smile in return. I need it, because I’m growing increasingly nervous, my stomach churning in anxiety about the reception we’ll receive when we arrive at the old pub.
When we reach the door, I pause and take a deep breath, as if I need to summon all my courage to push it open. Before I can commit to the moment, however, Emmet places a hand on my arm and I turn to look at him.
‘Dad,’ he says.
‘Yes?’
He hesitates.
‘Just to say. I know this has probably been the world’s worst fortieth birthday.’
‘You’re not wrong there.’
‘But …’ And here he avoids my eyes, looking down at the ground beneath our feet. ‘You’ve been a great dad.’ He bites his lip, embarrassed, and says the words that I’ve spent my life longing to hear, a phrase without the word ‘too’ at the end. ‘So, just to say … I love you. And I’m glad you brought me here.’
I tell myself not to ruin the moment by hugging him like a maniac. Instead, I simply nod and mentally record the moment, which I know I will relive many times in the future.
Then we push the door open and step inside.
This pub is filled with people, music and conversation. I look around, and it doesn’t take long for me to notice a table towards the rear, where the big, burdensome body of Ron is sitting, sipping a large whiskey. He’s wiping his eyes.
Next to him, dressed immaculately, her hand on his arm, is Furia.
And opposite them both, speaking animatedly, is Rebecca.
She happens to glance in my direction, then frowns, as if she doesn’t quite recognize me. It’s not dissimilar to my own reaction all those years ago when I discovered her in that apartment building in Sydney, her brain taking a moment to catch up with the reality before her.
It’s only when our son steps out from behind me that she puts both hands to her mouth in astonishment.
She stands up slowly, leaning on the table to support herself, before making her way across the floor to greet us.
I remain where I am, allowing Emmet to approach her first.
They meet somewhere in the middle and he takes the initiative, wrapping his arms around her, hugging her close to him, and she embraces him in return.
It seems obscene, like a voyeur, to watch any further, so I turn away, but not before seeing how she has buried her face in his shoulder, her tears mixing with his.