Chapter 34
The first photograph that filled the whole of the TV screen in the McCoys’ sitting room was one of me: standing in my tuxedo outside the front door of my house with my hands awkwardly held together, my right grasping the fingers of my left like a bunch of skinny sausages; my hair plastered down flat with Dax Wax all shiny and combed over to one side; a big grin on my face that wasn’t a natural one because I’d had to hold it for so long while Dad tried to figure out how to work the McCoys’ camera.
He’d tried to tell a joke to get me to smile bigger but I just said ‘cheese’ instead.
Earlier, Mrs McCoy had made a roast with all the trimmings for us and had made a different version for Ronan that was easier for him to eat and for her to feed him.
After we’d finished Mr McCoy spent about twenty minutes trying to connect the digital camera to the TV so that I could show them the photos I’d taken from the formal.
‘Ah, Halleluiah!’ said Mr McCoy, when a grid of tiny pictures came up on the screen. ‘Can you take it from here, Brendan?’
He handed me the camera that was attached to a short lead plugged into the back of the TV.
‘You’ll probably have to operate it beside the TV here. I don’t think it came with a remote or anything.’
I sat cross-legged beside the TV with Mr and Mrs McCoy sitting on the sofa in front of it beside Ronan.
I had been watching Ronan closely all afternoon; I think I was more nervous then than I was about going to the actual formal.
What if the photos upset him? What if all my good intent, as Mr McCoy had said, caused a bad reaction from Ronan?
What if I hurt him showing him what I got to experience and what he missed out on?
When that first grinning photo of me came up full-screen I immediately looked round at Ronan. He burst out laughing. My chest instantly dropped the tension it had been holding.
‘Ah, come on,’ I said, ‘I don’t look that ridiculous, do I?’
He couldn’t stop laughing.
‘Oh, where’d you get your tux, Brendan?’ said Mrs McCoy over Ronan’s laughter, trying to lessen any offence I might have been feeling, but I wasn’t feeling any; laughter wasn’t screaming, we were off to a good start. ‘You look so handsome.’
‘McMillan’s,’ I said.
‘There you go, Aaron, that’s where you’re getting kitted out for our wedding anniversary,’ she said, poking him in the ribs.
‘When’s that again?’ he said, winking at me before receiving a slap on the arm.
I looked at Ronan, his laughter now ended, which I took as permission to scroll to the next picture; it was another one of me standing by Mr Feeney’s BMW outside our house.
‘Oh, there she is,’ said Mr McCoy, ‘absolute beaut, that motor!’
During dinner I’d told them about how Dad and Mr Feeney had plotted together. Ronan nodded, seeming almost impressed.
I scrolled to the next picture, it was one Mum had taken: Dad was holding the back door of the BMW open for me and bowing like a humble chauffeur and I was pretending to give him a tip like some New York business tycoon, acting all snooty with my nose in the air.
Ronan laughed loudly at that one. His laugh was beginning to sound different – less restricted.
Maybe the more he was trying to speak, the more his vocal chords were strengthening; I didn’t care about the science, though, I only cared about the sound.
The next picture was one I was nervous about; I felt the tension building in my chest again, wondering how Ronan would react. It was of Jennifer and me standing outside her house. I brought it up on screen but didn’t look round at Ronan.
‘That’s some house the Beatties have!’ said Mr McCoy. ‘Is that a mansion of some kind? Some stately home or something?’
I heard him get another slap on the arm, but I still didn’t look round.
‘It’s not a picture of the house, Aaron!’ said Mrs McCoy. ‘Brendan, you and Jennifer look wonderful together.’
I turned to look at Ronan. He was staring at the screen with an expression I couldn’t read. I felt worry rising in me as I turned back to the screen, immersing myself in the image and in the memory.
Jennifer was wearing a black dress and had tied her hair up on the left side with a black bow so that her right cheek was hidden behind a curtain of straight light brown hair.
It made her look mysterious. Looking at myself standing beside her I thought I looked like a kid on his first day of school. It was sort of how I’d felt too.
I was smiling in the picture but I knew what was really going on in my head when it was taken: I was fuming.
The drive to Jennifer’s house had already been a tense one because of how nervous I was.
I was sweating so much that I could feel the armpits of my shirt soaking wet.
Dad tried small talk, but after my one-word answers he flicked through the radio stations and settled on a pop chart top forty countdown; they were on the top ten as we reached Jennifer’s house.
Mr McCoy was right, the Beattie house really did look like a Victorian mansion.
It was at the end of a long driveway that we drove up after the electric gates opened to let us in and then closed behind us.
There were two fancy and expensive-looking cars parked to one side of the house and there appeared to be a barn to the rear with the door half open and I glimpsed the bonnets of some vintage cars inside.
‘Must be a collector,’ Dad said, spotting the same thing.
I suddenly felt silly for feeling so proud of the BMW; it didn’t seem as impressive or special now that I knew Jennifer was used to those kinds of vehicles.
When I got out of the car – with a box of chocolates in one hand and a single red rose in the other – and walked towards the giant house, I felt like I was transported back to the world of a Dickens novel or something.
There was even a door knocker in the shape of a lion’s head, which I knocked and stepped back from, almost expecting a butler to answer, but it was Jennifer’s mum who opened the door.
‘Good evening, Brendan, don’t you look handsome,’ she said. Her voice had a smoothness to it which sounded mainly English but I could tell she was Northern Irish. ‘Barbara,’ she said, putting her hand on her chest by way of introduction.
She was wearing a cream business suit, as if she had just got back from a meeting, in bare feet, her blonde hair tied up tight. She had a pair of glasses on a string around her neck. Her face was glowing, although it didn’t look like she was wearing any makeup.
‘These are for you,’ I said immediately, handing her the box of chocolates.
‘Oh, that’s so kind of you, Brendan,’ she said. ‘You’ll ruin my diet, but it’ll be worth it. Jennifer is nearly ready; would you like to come in for a second?’
She stepped back and allowed me to come inside. The walls of the hallway were dark wood panelled. There was a staircase to the left that had a wooden banister the whole way up and above my head was a crystal chandelier.
‘Guest room straight down the hall, Brendan,’ said Mrs Beattie, pointing ahead.
The hall was lined with paintings on either side; some seemed very old and were of ships, countryside scenes and old buildings.
There wasn’t a single family picture or photograph amongst them.
Small tables along the hallway had vases on them that contained no flowers.
When I turned left into the guest room, it was high ceilinged and had more of the same paintings and vases.
There was a scented candle burning on the fireplace – cinnamon, I think – and a faint scent of something else, something spicy cooking somewhere in the house.
‘Take a seat,’ said Mrs Beattie, indicating a white upholstered two-seater that was in front of the large fireplace.
It wasn’t very comfortable to sit on; it was rock solid.
‘Jennifer’s father is busy in the kitchen at the moment but he’ll want to pop out and say hello before you go.
I’ll see if Jennifer’s ready. Would you like anything to drink while you’re waiting?
We have lots of different kinds of juices if you’d like? ’
‘Oh, no thank you, Mrs Beattie, I’m OK, thanks,’ I said.
Just as Mrs Beattie was about to turn, her husband entered.
He was wearing a white chef’s apron that didn’t have any stains on it and had a red-and-white tea towel over one arm.
He was almost bald, apart from some dark hair around the sides of his head that had been shaved short.
He had a thin face but his body looked overweight; one didn’t match the other.
He gave the impression of having been in the midst of more important things and was only taking a quick breather before he needed to get back to it again.
‘Hello there, Brendan,’ he said in a loud voice that had the same posh Northern Irish quality as his wife. ‘Jonathan Beattie.’ He wiped his hand on the apron and thrust it out to shake mine firmly as I stood up. ‘Lovely to meet you, you’re looking spot on. Would you like a juice?’
‘I’ve just asked him, Jonathan, he says he’s fine. I’m going to check on Jennifer,’ said Mrs Beattie, wafting off into the darkness of the hallway.
‘Alright, Barb,’ he said after her. ‘You sure you don’t want a juice, Brendan? We pressed some apples this morning or I can make you up a fresh one? Carrot and ginger? Beetroot and celery?’
‘No, honestly, Mr Beattie, I’m OK, thank you. They sound good, though.’
‘No worries,’ he said. ‘Well, I know Jennifer has been looking forward to tonight all week. She speaks very highly of you, and of your friend too – that’s just awful what happened to him.’
‘Ronan?’ I said, a little surprised to hear that Jennifer had been talking about Ronan with her parents.
‘Ronan, yes, McCoy?’
I nodded.
‘Yes, really just terrible what happened to him. How’s he doing?’
I didn’t want to talk about Ronan with someone who was a stranger to me, so I kept it general.
‘He’s good; improving every day.’