Deceptions (10 page)

“It’s going to be a hard pull.” Sophie beckoned Lorraine closer. “We’re having some difficulty with one of the legs.” The cow had gone into an early labour and Joe, Sophie’s husband, was on his way back from Killarney where he’d been attending an agricultural conference. Ibrahim had already phoned the vet who was out on another call and had promised to be with them as soon as possible. The cow, however, was not prepared to wait for the experts to arrive.

“We’re in trouble if we can’t manage this ourselves. Ibrahim’s trying to ease the leg free. He’s done it before with Joe but never on his own.” In the village, Sophie always cut a dash in her vibrant costumes and traditional headwear but this evening she was wearing jeans and wellingtons. The sleeves of her red t-shirt were already stained with perspiration. The animal, in distress and lying exhaustedly on a bed of straw, raised dull agonised eyes towards her. She spoke in a soft Arabic tongue to the cow as Ibrahim eased his arm into the animal’s back passage. Emily uttered a tiny shriek which she stifled with her free hand, her other hand engaged in preventing the tail swiping Ibrahim’s face. She stared fixedly in the opposite direction as he probed, his arm disappearing up to his elbow, his face crumpled with the effort of locating the calf ’s bent leg and drawing the two forelegs parallel.

“I’ve got a hold,” he grunted.

Emily allowed herself a horrified peek before settling her gaze once more into the middle distance. Lorraine, feeling no calmer than her daughter, replaced Sophie at the cow’s head. Tentatively, she touched the sleek neck, jumping back when the cow gave vent to an enormous bellow, its bloated belly shuddering in another spasm.

“We’ve no time to waste.” Sophie’s voice shook as she assisted her son with the calving jack. It was a large frame, six feet or more, Lorraine reckoned, but they handled it deftly, securing it to the cow’s back end and attaching the ropes to the calf’s first joints. Together, mother and son began levering the handle of jack. They paused frequently to allow the exhausted animal a short respite then continued with the slow, laborious process until the feet and head appeared and the calf slithered free.

Emily dropped the tail and sobbed into her hands. She walked to the wall and stood facing it, her shoulders heaving. Ibrahim disinfected the calf ’s navel then turned Emily around and pointed. Together they watched the mother revive her new-born calf. Gently, persistently she stroked her tongue over the glistening flesh, her pansy eyes resting protectively on the wriggling animal who began, under her gentle persistence, to stagger upright before collapsing again in a sprawl of knobbled legs.

“At this stage we leave the rest to nature,” Sophie spoke softly as she gathered detergents and disinfectants. She splashed water from the buckets and led the way back to the farmhouse. Darkness had fallen while they worked. A full moon dragged the hedgerows. How close it seemed, touchable almost, and splendid in its ripeness, as splendid as the experience of watching life come into being. And so Lorraine Cheevers paused to savour its beauty and to fleetingly touch the rising beat of happiness.

“
I’ve just given birth to a calf. It was a laborious process. Mother and baby both doing well
.” On the car journey home, Emily texted the message to her friends in Dublin. “See what they make of that!” She giggled and sat back to await their response. She was high with excitement, still shaking from the birthing experience. “Wasn’t it absolutely, awesomely amazing?” she said. “Wasn’t it the most wonderful thing you ever saw in all your life?”

Lorraine nodded, her hands still trembling from shock. Her daughter’s capacity to recover was more immediate.

“I’ve made two life-changing decisions tonight,” she announced when she reached the house. “I’m going to study to be a vet and I’m going to marry Ibrahim O’Doherty. Any man who can put his arm up a cow’s backside and still turn me on deserves to spend the rest of his life with me.”

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

Brahms Ward
10 p.m.

Killian, I’ve to break some sad news, I’m afraid. Bozo Daly is dead. His liver finally gave out. Live by the bottle, die by the bottle. He was a good patient, the nurse said, one of the quiet ones, fading out like a whisper. No second-guessing death, no outrage that his day was done and lady luck, that elusive, bitchy lady luck, had flicked the dust of departure with her high-buttoned boots.

We buried him this morning. Your mother attended his funeral, Marianne also. The woman with the silver boots was there and some young people from the squat. They tell me it’s ear-marked for demolition soon. We were a small gathering around a pauper’s plot. Jean says she will erect a wooden cross with his name inscribed and place it on his grave. Luke (Bozo) Daly. R. I.P.

It’s hard to believe that two years ago I’d never heard of him. I probably passed him on the quays and turned my face away or, feeling magnanimous and in tune with the world, gave him coins if he stretched out his hand. The destruction of his squat won’t be the cause of preservation angst or street protests. But until the time comes for the developers to move in it will still provide shelter for the young people who crawl nightly into its dark corners.

I wrote about it last night. My fingers flew over the keys, cut, copy, paste, delete. How easy it is, with the passing of time, to write with clarity. How simple it becomes to chart the mistakes, the unthinking actions that spin the future from our grasp. I never wanted to write a memoir. Screenplays, quick action, instant dialogue, that’s usually my style.

I’m still searching for her, Killian. I’ve checked her out on the Internet. She had a web site but it’s out of date. Her e-mails come back with a delivery failure message. She’s out there somewhere. She’s running from me but I will find her, Killian, that I promise you. And when I do … then we shall see …

Run … run … run rabbit run rabbit … whirr-whirr … smash … crash … glass … pick up … pick up … bracelet …

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

The Sheraton portrait was ready. Andrea’s hands had been gracefully elongated and draped across her lap. She sat regally on a throne-like armchair, chin tilted, mouth softly curved. Her husband, solid and substantial, stood behind her. Then there was Lorcan, miraculously transformed, fresh-faced, smiling, his elbow elegantly placed on the mantelpiece, his gaze fixed fondly on his parents. The perfect composition of a successful family unit.

“Do you mind if I say something insulting?” Emily arrived into the studio one evening when her mother was applying some final strokes to the portrait.

“Why should I mind? I’m a mother.” Lorraine sighed and braced herself for the worst.

“That painting is actually
awesomely
awful.”

“Thank you.”

“I mean it’s brilliant as a portrait but it’s awful because there’s nothing of you in it. It’s just like a
really
posh pretentious photograph.”

“But the woman who commissioned it will love it. Believe me.”

“She looks like a proper poser. Who’s the guy hanging over the mantelpiece?”

“Her son.”

“Mmm … does he
really
look so groovy gorgeous in the flesh?”

Lorraine shrugged, remembering Lorcan’s scowling countenance. “A few brush strokes of artistic licence. But given time and the right circumstances, who knows what the future holds?”

Andrea Sheraton removed a bottle of champagne from the fridge. “We must celebrate.” She perched herself on a high kitchen stool and poured the champagne into two glasses. “Here’s to you, Lorraine. Long may your talents last.” One spiked high-heeled shoe beat against the breakfast bar, the other dangled from her toes. “I must say you’re looking wonderfully healthy. Must be the country air. The wild Irish image suits you but I still can’t get used to the idea of you in wellies. It quite boggles the mind.”

“The mind can get used to anything.” Lorraine took a sip from the glass and laid it back on the counter. The cloying sincerity in Andrea’s voice was as irritating as her comments.

“No, I mean it sincerely. You’ve been through a wretched time. It’s inspiring to see you coming out the other side. This portrait will attract a lot of attention. Expect commissions from my friends.” She held the glass carefully by the stem and studied the bubbles. “I was talking about you to someone the other night. Your ears must have been burning.”

“Not that I noticed.”

“It was at the opening of the Spiral Staircase Art Gallery. You remember I mentioned it a while ago? Such a wonderful night. Everyone but
everyone
came. Check out this month’s
Prestige
. The photographs are in the centrefold.”

For an instant Lorraine was too shocked to reply. How the wineglasses must have clinked as invited guests gathered in Blaide House to celebrate the opening. She leaned her elbow on the counter. The chill of the marble surface sent an involuntary shudder along her arm. “I’m afraid there’s not much of a demand for
Prestige
in Trabawn.”

“No, I shouldn’t imagine so.” Andrea released a trill of laughter. Her eyelids closed over her slightly protruding eyes and Lorraine was reminded of a bird of prey that waits for the exact moment to strike.

The tapping shoe quickened its beat. “Do you know Mara Robertson?”

“We were in college together.”

“She’s running the gallery. I hope I’m not upsetting you, Lorraine?”

“Of course not. Time has moved on, Andrea. My studio was on prime city space. It’s the perfect location for an art gallery.”

“I admire your spirit. I really do. So courageous. Mara’s hoping you’ll do your next exhibition with her. Rather an insensitive aspiration, under the circumstances.” Her accent was contrived, too many drawled vowels, each word carefully pitched to provide maximum hurt. “Bill invested in another painting. Cost him well over the odds. It’s staggering the prices you artists demand. I’ll show it to you before you leave. I’d like your opinion on its market value.”

“I have the utmost trust in Bill’s investments.” Lorraine eased off the stool. “I’m sorry to rush off but I’m already late for an appointment.”

“Oh, dear.” Andrea’s fingers fluttered to her lips. “This has upset you. I can see it in your eyes. No, no, don’t bother denying it. Bill says I’m far too sensitive for my own good. I pick up other people’s vibrations so easily.”

“Andrea, I never impose my personal life on my professional relationships and I expect you to extend the same courtesy to me.” She stared coldly at the other woman until Andrea was forced to look away. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to leave without engaging any further in this inappropriate conversation.”

High gates opened at the end of the avenue. Distracted by her anger she drove too fast onto the road. A car exiting from an opposite driveway stopped with a screech of brakes and the driver, shocked by her sudden appearance, was jolted forward. She signalled an apology and smiled through the window at him. He reversed back and allowed her to drive ahead.

A van, parked illegally and too close to the T-junction leading onto the main road, blocked her right hand vision. She advanced cautiously, unable to see if the road was clear of approaching traffic. As she drove forward, nosing past the rear of the van, a car came into view, travelling too fast, the headlights flashing warningly, forcing her to slam on her brakes. Within a few seconds the car coming from behind thudded against her bumper. She saw the driver raise his hand to his forehead. He sat in that position for an instant, his hand obscuring his face, then opened his door and walked towards her.

Together, they surveyed their cars. There appeared to be little damage to her own, apart from a dent on her bumper and some scratches.

“We seem destined to
almost
do serious damage to each other’s cars.” She spoke jokingly but his lips tightened, as if he resented her attempts to lighten the situation. He walked around her car, examining it from all angles, then leaned his hands upon the bonnet, breathing deeply, still obviously shocked by the collision.

“Twice in five minutes would certainly suggest we were destined to meet.” His voice was low, as if addressing the words to himself. “But it could have been worse. We could have knocked someone down.”

“Thankfully, we didn’t. There’s hardly any damage done. If you’re happy to leave things as they are, then we needn’t bring it any further.”

He held her arm as she attempted to open her door. “Don’t go yet. We’ve both had a shock.” He gestured towards a hotel across the road. “At least allow me to buy you a coffee before you begin your journey?”

Black hair hung low over his forehead and on his neck. His strong dark eyes observed her, an unnervingly intimate stare. His face would make an interesting study, she thought, and was conscious of a slight, almost-forgotten response, an awareness of a man’s attention and the challenge it excited within her. Once more she attempted to open the car door, aware that there was strength in his grip on her arm. “I’m afraid I haven’t time. But thank you for the offer.”