Authors: Deirdre Quiery
Eileen held her hand out.
“Cedric gave it to me a few days ago. It’s the first time I’ve worn it.”
“It’s unusual.”
The light from the chandeliers sparkled on the heart shaped stone. It flickered with roses, blues, greens and silver.
“Would you like to try it?” Eileen asked.
“I would love to. I work in a jewellery shop not far from the City Hall. Diamonds are my passion – after my husband of course.” Lily laughed as Eileen slipped the ring from her finger.
Lily brought the ring close to her face. The heart shaped solitaire was mounted in gold with four small fingers holding it
in place and a small ‘V’ at the bottom of the heart. The facets were edged like Mont Blanc – sharp, precise, angled to capture light and colour. The edges pulled Lily into a kaleidoscope, of light and colour. The heart shaped solitaire’s straight lined facets appear to move and wave like poppy petals swaying in a gentle spring breeze.
“It’s hypnotic.” She handed it back to Eileen. “It’s engraved.” Lily pointed to the inside of band of gold.
“I know. It’s not brand new.” Eileen slipped the ring back on her finger. “It says ‘P to M with love’. I would like to know who owned it before.” Eileen twisted the ring to allow the diamond to sit in the middle of her finger.
“It’s stunning.” Lily held her hands together as though in prayer. “It will have a story behind it for sure. Talking of stories, let’s go and see your painting and you can tell me all about it.”
Lily studied Eileen’s ‘Sunrise over Belfast’, painted with acrylics. It showed Belfast Lough with a long sweep of turquoise sea, tangerine clouds and dark mountains waiting to awaken.
Eileen explained, “My favourite time of day is early morning. I like to waken at five most mornings although today I was late. It was nearly seven before I got up. Normally I make a cup of tea and go out into the garden and listen. Sometimes, the birds haven’t even wakened. There is a cherry tree in the middle of the lawn. In the morning, I stand beneath the cherry tree and listen to the wind moving through the branches. In those early moments the day seems full of hope.”
“I love it.” Lily stepped back to see it from a distance. “It has lots of atmosphere. It captures a sense of peace.”
“Where is your painting?” Eileen asked.
“It’s over there.” Lily pointed to the back of the room.
They stood beside it,
“Careful. It still might be wet.”
Lily’s painting had thick oil brush strokes, a swirling moon and a tree in the foreground with dark branches reaching into the sky. There were orange and yellow splashes of light sprinkled over the foothills of Cave Hill.
“It’s vibrant. How do you like working with oils?” Eileen asked. “I’ve never had the courage to try them.”
“The first time I used oils, I fell in love with them.” Lily explained. “I mixed the colours and – Prussian blue with cadmium yellow and a dash of white and I couldn’t believe how transparent the turquoise was and I found myself mixing and mixing without even thinking. Vincent said he had never seen anything like it. I must have painted with oils in a previous life! I couldn’t go back to acrylics. But you do need patience. I normally have three or four paintings which I work on at the same time. I love capturing the contrast between the sea and the mountains. The mountains are solid, unmoving, strong and dependable. The sea is always changing, moving, never totally still even on a calm day. In the evening, when the sun is setting, there’s a special silence which falls over the land, a silence you don’t get on the Crumlin Road, but I know it’s there somewhere in the Lough and in the mountains. Painting this reminds me of that silence and beauty, of the strength and stability of the mountain and power of the sea.”
“I really like it.” Eileen moved closer to look at the brush strokes. “You’re not shy about using lots of paint.”
“I keep painting over the top of what I’ve already done. Then eventually I decide that it is time to stop. I quite like the idea that there are several layers of painting beneath the one you see. It’s a bit like the earth’s strata – you have several layers lying on top of one another made up by natural forces. I am a natural force of a certain kind.” Lily laughed. “What you see on the surface isn’t everything. The technique works well for creating texture
in the sea.” Lily pointed to the rough choppy brush strokes close to the setting sun.
“There’s lots of spontaneity in it and no fear.” Eileen took a few steps back and turned to Lily with a smile.
“How do you fancy a cup of coffee before we see more?”
Over coffee they discovered that they were both born in 1923 and were married during the Second World War, Eileen in 1940 and Lily in 1941.
“We married young.” Lily commented. “We were babies. You mentioned that you have a son who gave you the ring. Do you only have the one?”
“No. I’ve two boys. Cedric is my thirty year old. I still think of him as a boy. There is a big gap between him and my second boy, Peter. Peter is seventeen. He’s still at school, at Orangefield. He’s more quiet and serious. The age gap means they’re not really as close as I would like them to be but I suppose that’s to be expected. Peter goes out with his brother and father from time to time, but mostly he stays at home playing his records and the guitar in his bedroom. He loves music. He wants to be a doctor. What about you, Lily, do you have children?”
“No. We would have loved children but it didn’t work out that way. I always imagined a family of five. There’s nothing I like more than everyone sitting around the table laughing and crying at life over a never empty pot of tea. However, that wasn’t to be.”
Eileen pushed her coffee cup to one side. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.” She reached for Lily’s hand.
Lily squeezed her hand. “No, it’s not you. It’s not even about not having children. It’s only the memory of what happened next. We did have two children, not our own – Maria and Rose. Maria died and now there’s only Rose.”
“Did you adopt, then?” Eileen asked sipping her coffee.
“No. Tom’s sister Catherine died shortly after giving birth to Maria. We then took care of Maria.” Lily took another sip of coffee and patted the corner of her mouth with a handkerchief. “Catherine was murdered actually.”
Eileen opened her mouth to say something but nothing came out.
Lily looked at her and nodded. “I know. You don’t need to say anything.”
“I’m sorry.” Eileen whispered.
“It’s OK. It was a long time ago. The pain eventually gets buried somewhere within you. I can talk about it now. Catherine was murdered and then sixteen years later, Maria died after giving birth to Rose.”
Eileen nodded. “That makes Rose very special for you.”
Lily’s eyes lit up. “Yes indeed. She is our beautiful Rose.”
Lily spotted a waiter dispensing champagne.
“Do you feel naughty? Like a small glass of wine?”
Eileen hesitated. “I don’t normally, but why not.” She reached for a glass.
“Does your husband like art? Will he come along to the exhibition?”
“I don’t think it’s his scene.” Eileen shook her head.
Peter and Vincent walked towards them laughing out loud. “I’m not sure if this is allowed Lily.” Vincent pointed to the glass. “But then again it might be the best idea of the day.” He walked over to the waiter and returned with two glasses.
“They’ve sold the first two paintings. Not either of yours yet but I think they’ll both fly off the walls. Cheers to both of you and congratulations for making the exhibition.” Peter raised a glass.
“Cheers everyone.”
Vincent leant forward and clinked a glass against Eileen’s.
“You’re welcome to join us for our art classes. They’re very informal. We hold them on a Saturday morning.”
“Thank you.” Eileen took a sip of champagne. It was cold and the second it touched her lips, she felt her whole body warming with tingling energy. Even her toes buzzed the way they do when you’ve been walking on snow and come home and pull your boots off and sink your feet into a basin of hot soapy water. She looked into Vincent’s eyes which were smiling back at her. “That might be possible. Peter has rugby on Saturdays and I am sure that I could come from time to time.”
Lily opened her handbag and pulled out a small address book with a pink and blue flowery cover. She passed it to Eileen. “Write your telephone number down and I’ll give you a ring and explain where it is. Maybe you know it – on the Crumlin Road – the Ardoyne Hall? Does that ring a bell?”
Eileen shook her head. “No. But I’ll find it I’m sure.”
Peter dabbed his moustache with a napkin and added,
“Lily you’re also very welcome to come to our Centre. We also hold classes on Saturdays – maybe you can find time?”
“Not a bad idea. Why not?” Lily slipped the address book back into her handbag.
She heard footsteps approaching and glanced up to see Tom, Rose, Sammy and Anne approaching. “I don’t believe it – and Sammy and Anne. We haven’t seen them in months. Let’s get you introduced. You’ll love them.”
“Look who we found on the number 57 bus.” Tom placed an arm around Sammy’s shoulder, “The Philosopher and his lovely wife.”
While Rose, Lily, Eileen and Anne were looking at the paintings in the third exhibition room, Tom took the opportunity to stay at the back with Sammy, at first catching up on what was happening in Glenbryn. Then when he was sure that the
others were out of earshot, he pulled Sammy by the arm and whispered, “Sammy, I need to talk to you. It’s about Margaret Mulvenna and Clara McCann. I know who killed them. I need some advice from you about what to do about it, if you don’t mind.”
• • •
Mr McCabe pulled gently to a halt on the corner of Bedford Street near the City Hall. The city was quiet with people tired from the Christmas festivities and New Year sales. It was cold with a strong wind whistling from the north. A few seagulls glided overhead into a sky which was steely grey and threatening snow.
“Are you sure you want me to leave you here? It’s quite a walk for you.” Mr McCabe leant his head to one side like a pigeon curious about what it was seeing. He even pecked at his hand with his mouth catching the edge of his leather gloves to remove them and shake Peter’s hand.
“I’m sure. I’ll find somewhere for a coffee and then I’ll go and see Mum at the exhibition.” Peter shook Mr McCabe’s hand. It was warm. He found himself holding it with both hands.
“Thank you for everything. You didn’t need to get involved in my mess.”
Mr McCabe patted him on the shoulder. “You have my telephone number. Ring me without hesitation – at any time – if there are any developments. If I don’t hear from you, we will see each other on Monday at school. Whatever happens, stay calm.”
Peter watched the white MG slide smoothly into the distance when he felt a tug on his arm. He turned to see Jenny standing beside him, her pink pom-pom hat pulled down over her forehead. She pulled up the collar of a navy blue coat and stared
in an amused way into his eyes. He remembered that Jenny always seemed slightly amused at whatever was happening.
“I didn’t expect to see you here.” Jenny dug her hands into her pockets.
“Me neither.” Peter laughed. “What are you up to?” Peter hadn’t noticed before quite how attractive Jenny was. Somehow the dim lighting of the Black Beetle didn’t do her the same justice as seeing her in the fresh air. The freezing breeze brought a healthy rosy glow to Jenny’s face. Her fringe curled over the pink pom-pom and today she had her hair in two plaits which made her look even younger.
“Do you fancy a coffee?” Jenny pointed to the small tea shop they were standing outside which had enormous scones in the window and even more enormous doorstep sandwiches spilling salad, mayonnaise and tomatoes onto circular plates. It was the same place that Peter had been to a few days earlier with Mr McCabe.
“The German biscuits here come highly recommended.” Peter opened the door of the café and made a sweep with his arm letting Jenny pass.
“I’ve had my twenty minutes of sunshine. They say you need twenty minutes a day to make Vitamin D, it protects against heart disease.” Jenny pulled off her woollen mittens. “Well not quite sunshine but it’s as good as it gets in January. It’s a little safer than earlier this week on Portstewart beach.”
“I never thought of Portstewart Beach being dangerous.” Peter raised an eyebrow.
“Did Cedric not tell you what happened?”
“No.” Peter leaned forward.
“I slipped into the Atlantic with the help of a hurricane force gale.” Over coffee and scones Jenny told Peter about how Cedric had rescued her. As she was telling the story and
pulling the cherries out of her scone to eat separately, Peter was surprised to find that he was strangely relaxed in Jenny’s company, as though he had known her a long time and didn’t need to make an effort to talk. He tried to work out if Jenny was doing anything special to make him feel so good but the only observation which came to mind was that Jenny was natural. She was bubbly, spontaneous, funny and easy to be with. Before long her stories turned to nursing.
“Strange things happen with people when you’re nursing them. But you’ll most likely find that with medicine too. You are able to go deep in relationship very quickly. It’s as though all the superficialities of small talk drop away and you connect with the person’s soul. You know who they are in a way which words would never explain. You hold all these faces in your heart. It’s like they’re a part of you. Not only their faces.” Jenny winced. “I remember when I started on the surgical ward, this young guy was admitted who had fallen from his motorbike onto a metal railing. I had to get him ready for theatre and he was totally conscious. As we talked, I pulled off his shirt to see that he was pierced like a sausage from front to back. He looked at his stomach and I looked at his back and then we looked at one another and somehow it felt as though I was him. I knew what he was feeling, I knew what he was thinking. For a moment the two of us become one. I suppose it must be like that falling in love.”
Peter sipped on his coffee. “It sounds as though you can fall in love with anyone then.”
Jenny pulled her pom-pom hat off and threw it onto the empty chair beside them and shook her plaits as though to loosen them with her hands. “I think so, if you just keep looking at anyone closely enough. That’s what you do when you’re a nurse. You keep looking. I remember an old man who
was dying from cancer. He didn’t want to die. It felt as though death was happening too quickly for him. He was all tubed up because he couldn’t eat any solid food. I shaved him because even then when you’re only two days away from death, there’s still a sense of dignity in a human being. I shaved all around the tubing going up his nose and over to his ears. I did it as best I could but there were some difficult bits and I went very slowly around those. He kept looking into my eyes. His eyes were deep blue. He kept looking and he didn’t say anything. I felt all of the sadness of his life coming to an end and how he didn’t want it to happen so fast. The cancer was eating him up. It wouldn’t slow down for him. But when I looked into his eyes and we kept looking at each other – falling into each other – it felt as though time slowed down if only for a few moments. I can never forget him. It’s like that with everyone. They become a part of you and even their pain doesn’t matter because somehow you become so big, that you can hold it all.”