The Lake (14 page)

‘And the national school’s cake sale after Mass last Sunday raised twelve pounds for the black babies in Africa. Well done, girls. Although, I might ask that you don’t do it too often.’ Father Francis patted his belly. ‘I’m going to have trouble fitting into my Christmas vestments at this rate.’

Peggy rolled her eyes while polite laughter broke out around her. Across the aisle, the national school’s principal was grinning like a fool.

‘Wednesday evening will be the annual whist night in Our Lady’s hall. This year we are raising money for Mrs. O’Shaughnessy’s new wheelchair, a most worthy cause, I’m sure you will agree. And,’ he looked up from his notes, ‘I might repeat that, should anyone have any information as to what might have happened to Mrs. O’Shaughnessy’s first wheelchair, they speak to me at any time, in confidence. Indeed,’ he said, ‘I find that the confessional box is a very suitable place for such, confidences. So,’ he went on, ‘I’ll leave it at that. But remember,’ he added, apparently unable to leave it at that, ‘Mrs. O’Shaughnessy has been without a chair for six weeks now, and unable to attend the bridge for as many weeks as a result.’

The usually cool church had been warmed by a summer of unbroken sunshine, and Peggy found herself starting to doze off. She was being propped up by shoulders on either side, so full were the pews. And she hadn’t slept much.

‘And anyone who has not put their name on the list for the bus to Knock, could they do so today please. A place cannot be guaranteed if your name is not on the list.’

Peggy’s eyelids were gradually falling. She could just about make out the back of Martina Griffin in the pew in front of her. She noticed how nice her plait was, roped around her head in a way Peggy had seen done in a magazine. As she dozed she thought how maybe there was another person who read fashion magazines in Crumm after all. She could hear Father Francis droning on in the background.

‘Finally, today, I want you to join me in a special prayer. Perhaps we might kneel.’

Peggy jolted awake as the two warm bodies either side of her were suddenly no longer supporting her weight. All around her, the faithful were on their kneelers, heads bowed. Peggy followed their lead, a little disoriented. For a moment, she thought she had slept through the whole consecration.

‘As many of you will know, the body of a young woman was found on the shores of the lake, only a few short days ago. She has since been removed to Dublin. Now, whereas we pray that there was no devilry at play, it does seem at this stage that it might have been some evil-doing that resulted in this … ’, he looked up at the congregation, ‘this tragedy. And so’, he bowed his head, ‘let us take a moment in silence to pray for the soul of our sister. And on this eve of the feast days of Saints Michael and Gabriel and Raphael, archangels of the Lord, let us pray that our sister might at last receive a proper Christian burial, and that these, most holy angels of the Lord, might see her safely, at last, to the gates of heaven.’

The priest paused, and Peggy noticed many heads bow in silent prayer for this person whom they had never known. She too dropped her forehead to her hands, but her mind turned straight to Frank.

‘And may the Lord guide the Gardaí and those tasked with finding out the truth about our poor unfortunate sister.’

Peggy held her breath as the whole town prayed for Frank around her. She wondered if he was present, and she lifted her head to look towards the back of the church. As was customary, many of the men of the village stood there. She scanned their faces, searching, hoping, but he wasn’t amongst them. As she turned back, she caught Carla’s eye: Carla, who had not been up in time to walk to Mass with her as was their usual Sunday routine. She must have come late, Peggy thought. She was sitting closer to the rear. It surprised her to see what seemed like a genuine smile on her sister’s face. A smile perhaps tinged with apology. Peggy looked away. Then it struck her that she had not seen Coleman standing at the back of the church either. She turned again, and looked at the water font, where she and all her siblings had been baptized. That was his usual spot. It was there that Coleman could be found most Sunday mornings, grunting and muttering his way through Mass until Holy Communion, when he would be gone as fast as his bockety old legs would carry him.

Something made Peggy feel uneasy. It was highly unusual for Coleman not to be standing there. Unless he had somehow acquired a ticket for Croke Park and was already on the road up to Dublin to see the game with the rest of them. He might have got a lift with the Maher brothers. Not many would have taken him with them, but Fergal would have.

But no, Peggy knew that it was a very unlikely scenario. She thought of how he had left the bar so abruptly the previous night. Now that she had the opportunity to dwell on it, she could see how really strange that had been. Someone must have said something to him. Or what if he were sick? Peggy started to worry. She wondered if Coleman had made it home at all. His brother wasn’t here, from what she could tell, but he never came to Mass unless there was a funeral, and even then he rarely crossed the threshold. What if Coleman had been feeling unwell? What if that was why he had left the bar? What if he had had a heart attack or something on his way home? She was fairly certain that the two brothers didn’t have a phone in the house. Desmond might not have noticed that his brother was missing until this morning, and even then might not have noticed.

Peggy felt very claustrophobic all of a sudden. She sat and knelt with the rest of the people in the pew, but she heard very little of what the priest said, and she certainly said no prayers herself. As she stood to join the line filing up to receive Holy Communion, she considered turning right instead of left and leaving with the others who took this part of the proceedings as their cue for joining the exodus. But then she reconsidered. She was probably over-reacting. She’d get Jerome to drive over to the old man’s cottage after Mass, just to check in on them. In all likelihood, Coleman was fine.

‘There’s a rumour going around that ye might be showing the match in Casey’s?’

The whisper came from behind her left ear. She was only three people away from Father Francis in line, however, so she couldn’t turn her head to see who was speaking.

‘In colour?’ the voice said.

‘Body of Christ.’ The priest waited for Peggy to stick out her tongue.

‘Amen.’

On her way back to her seat, Peggy turned and saw Jim Coneeley’s balding head bent over as the priest reached up to give him his Communion. As she squeezed her way into her pew, she saw that Carla was sitting in her place, staring straight ahead of her. Peggy knelt next to her for a moment, more out of habit than intent. She couldn’t clear her mind enough to pray anyway, and it felt disingenuous praying that Frank Ryan would somehow need to return to The Angler’s Rest one more time before leaving for Dublin. So after a moment, she sat back beside Carla. Their shoulders were touching. Neither of them said anything. They watched the priest finish his ablutions on the altar.

‘I hear the match is being shown in Casey’s this afternoon?’ A gravelly voice breathed foul-smelling air into Peggy’s ear. Before she had a chance to reply, Carla twisted slightly in her seat and leaned back towards the source of the query.

‘It would be more in your line to be saying your prayers, Joseph McGowan,’ she said.

Even her whisper could cut you dead, Peggy thought, impressed.

‘I’d be praying no one tells the priest that they saw yourself and one of the Hogans having races down the main street in auld Ma O’Shaughnessy’s wheelchair after fifteen pints between ye at Grogan’s.’

Peggy sniggered loudly, and felt the removal of the foul air from her shoulder. She caught Carla’s eye and her sister winked at her.

‘Let us pray,’ the priest said from the pulpit, and the two Casey sisters knelt side by side.

Outside the church, the talk for the most part seemed to be about the body found at the lake. That, and whether or not Kerry could pull off the double later that day in Croke Park. The two Caseys hurried past the hand-shaking priest and walked off down Crumm main street, past the little houses and shops. Every door was shut, excepting McGowan’s, which was open to sell the papers. They walked just out of the town, as far as the right turn down towards the lake, without a word passing between them.

‘Your sign could do with a lick of paint,’ Carla said as they turned off the main road, passing the ridiculously large wooden hoarding that advertised The Angler’s Rest.

‘It’s as much your sign as my sign.’

Carla chuckled. ‘I’m sorry about last night. About what I said,’ she glanced sideways at Peggy as they walked. ‘No one wants you to be miserable here,’ she went on. ‘If you ever wanted to leave, well, we’d just have to cope.’

Peggy wasn’t sure which she was more shocked at – her sister’s belligerence the evening before – or the quiet compassion she was showing to her now.

‘I’m leaving, Peggy,’ she said.

‘What?’ Peggy stopped walking. ‘What do you mean you’re leaving? Leaving where?’ She watched Carla’s back as she kept walking on down the hill. ‘Carla?’

Carla stopped and turned. ‘It’s not working out,’ she said. She stood there, drawing circles in the gravelly path with her runner. Peggy thought how young she looked, her hair pulled into two, thin pigtails over either shoulder, her long legs stretching out from beneath her grey corduroy skirt. She could have been seventeen, from a distance. Up closer, whatever demons Carla struggled with made her look all of her twenty-four years. The eyes don’t lie.

‘With Tom,’ she said at last. ‘It’s not working out.’ She crossed her arms and stood up straight. ‘Look, Peggy, I think we all know it was never going to work out. Maybe I thought it might have. Once.’ She turned her eyes sharply on her sister. ‘He really isn’t happy at home, you know.’

Peggy started walking slowly towards her. They continued together on the path towards their home.

‘So,’ Peggy said, ‘where are you going?’

‘Australia. Sydney. I think.’

‘What?’ Peggy stopped for the second time. ‘Australia? What are you talking about? Why would you go to Australia?’

A middle-aged man walked past them, the Sunday paper under his arm, a pint of milk in his hand.

‘Girls.’

‘Hello, Tommy,’ Peggy said, distractedly. She waited until the man was a good way ahead before she spoke again.

‘Australia, Carla? Are you serious? Who do we know in Australia?’

‘No one,’ Carla said. ‘That’s exactly the point, sister dear. And they’re looking for teachers over there. And the pay is good.’ A breeze blew up the road from the lake, and she crossed her arms again. ‘Better than here, anyway.’

‘But Australia?’ Peggy was torn. Last night she would have gladly seen her sister sail off into the sunset to Timbuktu. She would have bought her the ticket herself. But as was always the way with Carla, when it came to it, she couldn’t stay angry with her. She was blood. And that’s all there was to it.

‘So you see; I won’t be here anymore. At weekends. Not from Halloween anyway. The school year starts there in January. I’ll probably have to leave next month.’ She pulled at her pigtails. ‘I haven’t all the details worked out yet.’ She looked over at Peggy walking beside her. ‘Not that I’ve been much help to you anyway,’ she said. ‘I know that.’

Peggy didn’t know what to say. They were almost at home now. She could see someone had turned on the lanterns either side of the front door, even though the day was bright. Probably Maura. She was always knocking against the switch with her duster.

‘I told Jerome last night,’ Carla said. ‘Peggy.’ She pulled her sister by her hand so that they were facing each other. Without heels, Peggy’s eyes were just in line with Carla’s chin. ‘I’m not asking you to stay here. Of course, I’d hate … I’d hate for the place to be sold.’

She turned and looked up at the gable wall of the pub, the flowers in their window boxes, the Harp sign hanging over the old rickety bench, the lanterns either side of the painted door. Behind it, their home, sheltered by the bar, irrevocably connected to it, just as their family’s life within those walls had been.

Peggy couldn’t imagine selling the place. She couldn’t contemplate driving past some day, and seeing someone else running the business there, raising a family in the house. It was the Caseys’ business. The Caseys’ home.

And yet, the Caseys were all but gone. None of them wanted to be here. None but herself, and she wasn’t even sure if she wanted it either.

‘You know, you really have made a great go of it,’ Carla said, her gaze fixed on the sign above the door: The Angler’s Rest, prop. Patrick M. Casey & Son. ‘You never changed it.’

Peggy looked at the painted wooden sign. ‘No.’ She remembered the day her father had fixed it to the wall. Before Hugo had left for Dublin. The summer after his Leaving Certificate, when her father had made the assumption that that was how it would be.

Patrick M. Casey & Son.

‘Come on,’ Carla linked arms with her sister. ‘Let’s go in. Hugo might be back by now.’

Inside The Angler’s Rest, the two Casey brothers were standing, one on a stepladder, the other balancing precariously on a table, their backs to their two sisters as they entered. Hugo seemed to be holding Jerome’s homemade shelf aloft, while Jerome was expending great effort turning a screwdriver into a bracket beneath it.

‘Oh, God bless the work,’ Carla said.

‘I told them they’d be better off getting Mick O’Leary to do it.’

Peggy turned to see Maura sitting on one of the stools in the window, a mug of tea and a newspaper on the table in front of her. Carla went and stood beside her, draping her arm across Maura’s shoulder, reading the headlines over her head.

‘Sure he’d have it done in half the time. Doesn’t he have all the right equipment and what not. A drill,’ Maura went on, ‘an electric drill is what they need.’ She turned her attention back to her newspaper. ‘And then I wouldn’t be scared out of my wits walking under it every day,’ she grumbled into her tea. ‘Expecting it to fall on my bloody head.’

‘Maura, Maura, Maura. Have you no faith?’ Jerome jumped down and lifted the heavy television set into his arms. ‘Wait till you see,’ he panted with the exertion. ‘It’ll be fabulous. Well, girls?’

Hugo turned to look over his shoulder at his sisters. ‘Hi Peggy,’ he said. ‘Carla.’

‘Hugo,’ Carla said, and she left Maura to her paper and disappeared behind the bar and through to the house beyond.

‘Lovely to see you too,’ Hugo muttered, turning his attention back to the shelf. ‘How are you Peggy?’

‘Tired,’ she answered, sitting down next to Maura at the little table. ‘Although you must be too. That must have been an early start for you.’ She drummed her fingers on the table. ‘What has you rushing home so urgently? Were you worried that the television wouldn’t find its way up onto the wall without you?’ She could sense Maura’s silent surprise at her tone.

‘I was due to be in Dublin tomorrow anyway,’ Hugo said. If he had heard the accusation in Peggy’s voice, he didn’t let on. ‘I got the chance of a seat on the dawn flight today, so I took it. A few of the lads from the office were coming back today. For the match. So I travelled with them.’

‘Right.’ Peggy relented. ‘Well, it’s nice to see you. It’s been … it’s been an eventful few days in Crumm. I’m sure Jerome has been filling you in.’

‘Right. That should do it.’ Jerome jumped down from the table he had been balancing on, and stood back to admire his work.

Hugo tentatively removed his hands from the shelf. It didn’t fall. He pulled at it a little. It seemed secure. ‘Not bad, Jer,’ he said.

Peggy watched him from across the room as he cautiously descended the stepladder. She noticed how his shirt bulged over his trouser belt. Standing next to Jerome, there were obvious similarities, but somehow, Hugo looked like a less shiny, less polished version of his younger brother. They were a similar height, but Hugo was a rounder, more homely version of the slim, fresh-faced Jerome. His hair was thicker too, and cut shorter. But when he turned to look at Peggy, she saw the same sparkling blue eyes, and any negative thoughts towards her older brother dissipated.

Hugo brushed his hands off each other and came over to sit next to Peggy and Maura.

‘Are you hungry?’ she asked him.

‘Nah. I’ll get something in a while. I had a breakfast on the plane.’

‘Imagine that,’ Maura said, shaking her head.

‘So how are you?’

‘Me?’ Peggy sat back. ‘I’m fine. What would be wrong with me?’ She glanced up at Jerome, who seemed very taken with the instruction booklet that came with the television.

‘Well, Jerome mentioned … I hear Carla was causing ructions. Again.’

Peggy examined her fingernails. ‘Jerome is well able to cause ructions himself,’ she said.

‘Hey!’ Jerome lifted his head from the booklet.

Hugo ran his finger over the wooden tabletop. ‘And how’s business?’

Peggy’s stare narrowed on her oldest brother. ‘Business is fine. What’s this about, Hugo? What has Jerome been saying to you?’

‘Nothing, nothing.’ Hugo looked over at his brother but any assistance he was expecting was clearly not forthcoming. ‘Nothing. I suppose … I suppose we just thought that maybe we should have a talk. About the pub. About … about the future.’

Peggy felt herself starting to panic a little. She looked from Maura to Hugo, and over to Jerome. ‘Why is this all coming up now?’ she asked. ‘Is this why you are home, Hugo? Had you all this planned? Do you want to sell, and you were afraid to tell me?’

Maura’s mouth fell open. ‘Is that true, Hugo?’ she said, horrified. ‘You can’t want her to sell The Angler’s Rest?’

‘No … ’ Hugo started.

‘And after all the work she’s put into it over the past two years.’

‘Maura, we’re not … ’

‘Sure if it wasn’t for Peggy, this place would be just another hole in the ground, like … like … like Grogan’s. You may not remember, Hugo Casey, nor you, Jerome, but things were not good here after your mother died. This place very nearly closed on more than one occasion.’

None of them spoke then. Peggy was surprised. She hadn’t known that The Angler’s Rest had been in trouble.

‘If it wasn’t for Peggy and her ideas,’ Maura went on, ‘well. Well you wouldn’t have anything to sell, Hugo Casey. And God knows where you’d all be if she hadn’t kept the lot of you together.’

Maura started to get weepy, and Peggy reached over and patted her arm.

‘Maura.’

‘No. It’s true. You have been the centre of this family for the past two years, Peggy. If it weren’t for you, sure … sure I’d never see any of you.’ She took a crumpled tissue from inside her sleeve and wiped her nose with it. ‘And I suppose Carla has told you she is going.’ She dabbed at her eyes.

The lack of surprise on Hugo’s face told Peggy that he already knew about Carla. Jerome must have told him. Or maybe he had known for weeks. Maybe they had all known but herself.

‘So you can’t sell the place from under her,’ Maura said. ‘You just can’t.’

‘Maura,’ Hugo said quietly. ‘No one will sell The Angler’s Rest unless everyone wants to sell it. It’s Peggy’s home. As long as she wants it to be. I … we just thought that perhaps she might want to … to move on.’ He glanced up at Peggy. ‘She might not want to spend the rest of her life here either. And so maybe it’s a good time to start thinking about it. Just, thinking about it.’

Maura sniffed loudly. Peggy noticed that Jerome has stopped pretending to read the television instructions and was leaning back against the bar on his elbows.

Forty-eight hours ago she had been preparing for another run-of-the-mill weekend in Crumm. She had never heard of Detective Sergeant Frank Ryan, or met Tom Devereaux, or known about Carla’s plan to emigrate to the other side of the world. She hadn’t expected to go walking by the lake with a man she had just met, or to learn about the awful things that Jerome had been enduring in Dublin. And she had certainly not expected to be sitting here, contemplating the sale of The Angler’s Rest. Forty-eight hours ago, she had been placing keg orders, planning to tar the roof, thinking about getting the front wall repainted, choosing which tile to put behind the sink.

Now … now she was suddenly faced with a whole new choice. The choice of a new beginning. A new life. She could go anywhere. If they sold the pub and the house, she’d have enough money to make a proper start somewhere else. To work in a real hotel. In Dublin maybe, or London. Or Boston.

Peggy saw three faces staring back at her. Were they really going to give her this opportunity? Just when she thought she was stuck forever in her father’s bar in Crumm, were they really offering her the chance to break free? And did she want to take it?

The silence was thick in the room. It mixed with the previous night’s turf and smoke fumes. A shard of sun sliced through the window next to Peggy, and she watched as the dust motes danced in the air above the table in front of her. Then the silence was broken by the sound of the front door opening, and a low, growly moan. The four of them turned to see Coleman stumble in the door.

‘Coleman!’ Peggy jumped up from her seat, flushed with guilt. She had forgotten all about Coleman.

Hugo, who had no reason to be concerned for the man, just stood and went behind the bar. ‘Coleman,’ he said. ‘You’re earlier than usual, sir. I’m not sure that we’re even open yet.’

Coleman hadn’t moved from the little porch inside the door, and he stood, leaning against the archway into the bar, a wilder look than usual in his eyes.

‘Coleman.’ Peggy went over to him. ‘Are you okay? I didn’t see you at Mass. I was beginning to worry.’ She heard Maura tut-tutting to herself. Peggy knew the others wouldn’t understand, but she was so relieved to see the old man standing there, that she didn’t care. ‘Will I get you a drink?’ she asked him, gesturing to the bar.

Coleman made a noise, somewhere between a cough and a growl. ‘And I’m not here for the drink,’ he said. Peggy caught the look of surprise on Maura’s face.

‘Arrgh.’ Coleman tugged at the rope holding up his trousers. ‘I need … I need … ’ He pointed wildly to the door leading out the back to the toilet. After a second, he pushed past Peggy and half-walked, half-dragged himself across the room and disappeared behind it.

Peggy stood at the porch, her mouth open. ‘What’s wrong with him?’ she said to her two brothers. But neither of them seemed to have taken any notice. Jerome’s head was back in the white pages of the booklet.

‘Did you not think he looked awful?’ Peggy said to Maura.

‘More than usual?’

‘Yes. Yes, more than usual.’

Maura shrugged.

Peggy threw her a dirty look. ‘Jerome,’ she said.

‘Hmm?’ Jerome turned a page of the booklet.

‘Jerome,’ Peggy persisted. ‘Go on after him and make sure he’s all right. What if he’s having a heart attack or something?’

Jerome looked at Peggy as if she might be as mad as Coleman herself. ‘What’s got into you?’ he said. ‘There’s not a thing wrong with him. He’ll be back out in a minute. Leave the man alone.’

Then Peggy heard a noise directly behind her, and she turned to see Garda O’Dowd coming in the door. He almost stood on her in the porch, and she backed into the bar to allow him through.

‘Peggy, sorry, I didn’t know you were, eh, standing there.’ He removed his cap and stood beside her with it in his hands.

‘Michael,’ Jerome said. ‘How are you? A bit early to be having a sneaky one, no?’ He made covert drinking signs with his hands and winked at the young guard. ‘Or are you in to see the telly? We don’t actually have a licence for it yet, but, eh, I’ll be straight on to it in the morning. Might as well make sure the thing works first, eh?’

Peggy shook her head.

‘Right. Eh, no.’ Garda O’Dowd coughed. ‘Although you will need a licence for it of course. Oh, how are ya, Hugo? Didn’t know you were back.’

‘Just in, Michael,’ Hugo said from behind the bar.

‘Right, right. Very good.’

Peggy looked questioningly at him, and for a moment Garda O’Dowd simply smiled back, twisting his cap in his hands all the while, not moving from the door of the bar.

‘So?’ she said at last. ‘Did you need something, Michael?’

‘Oh right. Yes. Yes.’ He coughed again. ‘I am here on official business.’

‘Yes?’

‘Yes. Eh, I’m looking to bring someone in. For questioning.’

It seemed obvious to Peggy that, other than perhaps at home in front of his shaving mirror, Garda O’Dowd had never uttered these words before.

‘Who?’ Peggy asked. ‘One of us?’

‘Eh, no. Coleman Quirke.’

‘Coleman Quirke?’ Peggy almost laughed. ‘Sure what could you want with Coleman Quirke?’

Garda O’Dowd’s hands dropped a little, as if he might be wondering the same thing himself. He cleared his throat again. ‘Detective Sergeant Ryan wants to ask him some questions. Up at the station.’

‘Frank wants to question Coleman? So it’s about the body? You think Coleman might have something to do with the body?’ Peggy heard Maura gasp.

‘Eh, I’m not at liberty to declare what Detective Ryan wants to speak with Mr. Quirke about. And’, he stood a little straighter, ‘might I say that it’s of no concern to you. Or anyone else.’

Peggy noted his tone. She was almost impressed with it. But she wasn’t about to let Michael go at that. It was her bar he was standing in, after all.

‘Sure didn’t he talk to him on Friday? Here at the bar?’ Peggy pointed over to where Jerome was standing, the forgotten television instructions open on the counter beside him. ‘Couldn’t he have asked him his questions then? What’s the point in dragging an old, sick man off to the station, making a holy show of him in front of the likes of Bernie O’Shea and the rest of the auld biddies who will be only too delighted to jump to conclusions?’

She stopped. She wasn’t sure why she was defending Coleman as she was. They all knew he was in the toilet. He’d have to come out eventually. But something made her hope he stayed in there long enough that Michael O’Dowd was gone when he did reappear. Bloody Michael O’Dowd. And bloody Frank Ryan. Who did he think he was, swanning into Crumm, causing mayhem, making totally unfounded accusations against crotchety old men? What could Coleman have to do with the body of a young girl? Sure didn’t she have some other man’s army tags on?

Peggy started to feel desperately uneasy. She just wanted Michael to be gone. Let Hugo and Jerome talk to Coleman, if he ever came out of the toilet. Let them sort it out. He was taking an awfully long time in there. Peggy tipped her head from Jerome to the door and back again. She glared at him, willing him to go out and look for Coleman. But then she thought about the man standing next to her, holding his cap in his hands. She guessed pretending not to know that Coleman was in there might be an offence, and Jerome had had enough trouble with the Garda already.

Then her deliberations were moot, as the door to the toilet opened, and Coleman appeared, looking like he had eaten something very bad, or had not slept for days, or both.

‘Arrgh,’ he said, holding his stomach.

‘Coleman Quirke,’ Garda O’Dowd threw a stern look at Peggy, and put his cap back on his head. ‘I’d like you to accompany me down to the station. Detective Sergeant Ryan would like to ask you a few questions.’