Lying in Wait (15 page)

I
was in love. For the first time, head over heels in love. I will never know if it was because of her relationship to Annie. I’d like to think I would have loved Karen anyway. The very first time I saw her in Scanlon’s with her father, I felt a lurch deep in my chest as if my heart had swung out of position. She did not at all resemble the girl I knew well from the press cuttings, hiding behind a veil of unkempt hair.

She was delivering bad news about Annie to her father, as it turned out. I was struck by the way she spoke to him so tenderly, concern in her eyes. I sat beside Bridget in the corner of the pub, watching this amazing woman, wondering who she was.

When Gerry introduced her as his daughter, my insides lurched again. How much suffering had my father caused her? She looked up at me and smiled, and I have no idea what we said to each other. That night I followed them home to Gerry’s house and was nearly caught by Karen, staring up at her through a window.

Karen and Bridget quickly became close friends and that made it harder. I had constant news of Karen – where she was going, what she was doing. Bridget was incredibly flattered that Karen took an interest in her, and I was jealous. Of Bridget. I found it impossible not to compare the two women, and while I stayed with Bridget, the true reason was that, without her, I wouldn’t have seen Karen. But I became short with Bridget, impatient with her, though never in front of Karen. When Karen was around, I was the perfect
gentleman. I hung around them like a lapdog, knowing full well what caused flashes of pain to occasionally cross Karen’s face. I understood her hidden grief; I recognized her loss.

I discovered from Bridget that Karen found her own modelling career faintly ridiculous. She was grateful for the income, but didn’t feel beautiful. That was so strange to me. She was stunning. When Karen and Bridget were sitting side by side, I couldn’t help thinking of Beauty and the Beast. Karen had no airs and graces about it at all. She had recently separated from her husband, Dessie, but still used her married name. I was surprised that a girl my own age could already have an ex-husband. According to Bridget, Karen thought she had married too young. She didn’t resent her ex-husband, but wished he would stop calling her and trying to rekindle their relationship.

And then one day we had that picnic in the park after Bridget’s photo shoot and Detective Sergeant O’Toole walked past and insulted her in front of us, and she told us the whole story about Annie, more than I had ever known before. Now I knew why the bracelet was inscribed ‘Marnie’. Karen was dangerously close to the truth, and when Bridget promised her that we’d help her, I felt like throwing up. I panicked. I had to tell Mum.

My mother had solutions to all these problems. She was clearly in complete denial of what Dad had done, but Mum’s primary focus was to protect me. Her plan to make Karen and her family think that Annie was alive horrified me. It seemed so dishonest and cruel, but Mum was neither of those things and I hoped it would bring them some comfort. And that it would keep me out of jail.

My old forgery skills were put to good use. I couldn’t tell Mum that I was in love with Karen. Social class meant so
much to my mother. I’d never even brought Bridget to meet her.

The idea of posting the Annie letter from Athlone made sense, I suppose. If they went looking for Annie after receiving it, her family would have an extremely wide hinterland to search.

Bridget had given up asking me to come and meet her family, so when I was the one to suggest it, she was delighted. The preparations started weeks in advance. The date of the visit was coincidentally set for Annie’s birthday in July. Bridget and her mother exchanged letters daily on the upcoming ‘arrangements’ to be made. Bridget had two younger sisters who both lived at home in their three-bedroom house. For my two-night visit, they would share a room while Bridget slept on the sofa downstairs and I would have Bridget’s childhood bedroom. Bridget said we were to pretend to be virgins. Her mother was apparently in a knot of anxiety. Did I eat fish? Because they always had fish on Fridays. They were changing the curtains to fix the draught in the bedroom. Would I attend Mass with the family on Sunday morning? Would I go with Bridget to visit her granddad in the local nursing home? There were protocols being put in place. I was being treated like visiting royalty. I don’t know what Bridget had told them, but it was clear that my impending arrival was the cause of much fuss. I hate fuss. I tried hard not to be irritated by Bridget’s excitement.

My mother thought it unreasonable that I was going away for two nights.

‘Two? In Athlone? What will you do there?’

‘I don’t know, Mum, but it would be rude to just arrive on Friday night and leave on Saturday.’

‘I’ve never been to Athlone.’

‘You’ve never been anywhere.’

She huffed a bit. ‘All you have to do is post the letter. Get the early bus back on Sunday?’

‘I’ll try.’

‘Bring an extra sweater. It’s always cold down the country.’ It was July. I suppose she must have been outside Dublin at some stage.

We set off for Athlone on the bus on Friday after work, together with all the other rural immigrants along that route to the midlands and further west to Galway, making their weekly pilgrimage home with bags of laundry over their shoulders. I had the letter in my inside pocket, ready to be posted at the first opportunity. Bridget had prepared sandwiches and bought sweets for our two-hour journey, and there was a scheduled toilet stop in Kinnegad. Her camera clicked away as we rolled out of the city, and she chattered excitedly.

‘You know that outside Dublin, dinner is called tea and lunch is called dinner? And you drink tea with every meal and between meals and before bed? Josephine is fourteen and very nosy, but you don’t have to answer any of her questions, and Maureen is fanatical about reading, so she’ll have her head in the books all weekend. Dad won’t say much, but Mam is very religious and will want to know who your parish priest is and all that.’

Mum and I had stopped going to Mass after Dad died. We had always disliked going. Our parish priest had visited and asked us to return, and we swore we would but had somehow never quite managed it.

‘Oh well, don’t tell my mam that! She’d have a heart attack.’

When we disembarked in Athlone, a creature appeared out of the crowd at the station, wearing a headscarf and a buttoned-up-to-the-neck raincoat with a handbag (plastic)
dangling over the crook of her elbow. She grabbed Bridget fiercely by the shoulders and hugged her close, then turned to me.

‘You must be Laurence. We’re delighted to have you, delighted, only delighted! I said to Bridget’s father this morning, I said, isn’t this only fabulous, getting to meet Bridget’s young man at last? After all, you’ve been going steady for a good while now, a good while, I said to Bridget’s father.’

She was nervous. I guessed that normally, in these situations, the young man in my position would have been the one on trial, but in this case she clearly felt she was the one being judged. Any nerves I had disappeared.

‘It’s very nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.’ This was probably true, though I only remembered what Bridget had told me on the bus journey.

Mrs Gough apologized that it was a ten-minute walk to the house and whooped with admiration when I offered to carry Bridget’s bag as well as my own. ‘A real gentleman, that’s what you are now, a real gentleman so you are.’

The house was a grey one in the middle of a terrace of other grey ones on a narrow street. A wooden front door stood sentry beside a single window, while two windows above looked down on us. Net curtains fronted every window, despite the fact there was nothing about the house that would make one curious enough to look inside.

The interior of Bridget’s house did not improve my impression of the place. Drab, ordinary, colourless and cramped. I always knew I lived in a big house, but I didn’t expect small houses to feel so, well, small. From the front door, I could see the back wall of the house. There was a front room and a back kitchen and a narrow stairway to the right. Bridget’s photos were everywhere, framed in the sitting room, Sellotaped to the fridge door in the kitchen, tucked into the frame
of the mirror on the wall. We left our bags at the foot of the stairs and were ushered into the kitchen, where the overwhelming smell of boiled cabbage threatened the egg sandwich that had been idling in my upper intestine since lunchtime. ‘Get in there out of the cold, the kettle’s not long boiled, you’ll have a cup of tea.’ It was a statement rather than an offer. I was compelled to sit in a straight-backed stained armchair beside an old range. It was clearly ‘Father’s chair’.

Two plain girls, Bridget’s sisters, were sitting at the kitchen table peeling potatoes. Mr Gough was in Slaney’s bar but would be home for his ‘tea’ at seven thirty. Tea was being delayed for our arrival.

The youngest sister took one look at me and said accusingly to Bridget, ‘But he’s quite good-looking. You said he was really fat!’ Whereupon she was kicked in the ankle by Maureen. ‘Josie! That’s rude.’

‘I used to be very fat,’ I said to deflate the bubble of panic that had arisen.

‘Yeah, you’re a bit fat but not massive. I thought you’d be huge,’ said Josie.

‘Josie!’ in chorus from Bridget, Maureen and Mrs Gough.

‘I’m only saying what Bridget told us. She said he was very fat and very posh.’

Bridget looked mortified.

‘You girls can go up and clean your room,’ their mother said. They trooped off, complaining it was too cold upstairs to clean. ‘Put on a jumper!’ called Mrs Gough after them.

Bridget and I sat in the sauna of cabbage steam while Mrs Gough made conversation.

‘So, Laurence, Bridget tells me you’re very good at your job?’

I answered her questions courteously but a heat was rising within me. It seems that even though Bridget had never directly mentioned it, she too had defined me by my weight. She was supposed to care for me. She acted like she was in love with me. Yes, I had been obese when she first met me, but it was the primary thing her family knew about me. I felt shame. And also malice. Bridget was no oil painting. She was no Karen.

When Mr Gough came home at seven thirty on the dot, the meal was served. This was a traditional home. Mr Gough looked me up and down, shook my hand vigorously, then stared at his shoes and said very little. A white tablecloth now covered the kitchen table.

‘We only have tablecloths at Christmas!’ exclaimed Josie, and then ‘Oww!’ as she was kicked under the table.

For the first time in months, I was absolutely ravenous. I ate everything that was offered. When I was offered second helpings I ate those too, and third and fourth helpings. Mr Gough paid attention now as the last scoop of mashed potato was dolloped on to my plate and Mrs Gough got up to fry me an extra cod fillet. I pretended not to notice their astonishment. For dessert, I ate half a chocolate Swiss roll while the family shared the other half, and after all the plates were cleared away and tea was offered again, I enquired if there were any biscuits. Maureen was sent to the shop to buy some. Even Josie was shocked into silence. Now Bridget could talk about her fat boyfriend.

The chatter was inane. What did I like to watch on television, which newspaper did I read, which sport did I follow or play? All my answers were at odds with the family. The visit was not going well. The television was turned on to the
Nine O’Clock News
to avoid further embarrassing conversation. Certain parts of Ulster were still saying no to the Anglo-Irish
Agreement. Prince Andrew had married a fat girl in England, and Chris de Burgh’s ‘Lady in Red’ had broken some records. ‘And some record players,’ I laughed, but they looked baffled and didn’t get the joke. After the news, Mrs Gough indicated that it was time for the rosary and the whole family got to their knees, clutching sets of rosary beads. Not wanting me to feel left out, Mr Gough handed me a ‘spare’ set made of dark wood. I mumbled the prayers along with the rest of the family, but I made it obvious that I was not accustomed to this ritual. Even when my father was alive, there had been no religiosity in our family outside of Sunday Mass. Ironically, I had no recollection of my father ever having gone to Confession. He, who had the most to confess.

In that moment, reminded of my dad, I compared my murdering, dishonest family to Bridget’s, and instead of feeling superior I realized they were sweet and innocent, this family who prayed on their knees together, who welcomed a stranger into their home. I felt bad for how I had behaved, how little effort I had made. Bridget caught my eye and I flashed her a genuine smile.

When everyone retired to bed, we were left alone momentarily. ‘Don’t be long, now!’ called Mrs Gough from the stairs, obviously terrified of what we might get up to if left unsupervised.

Bridget threw another sod of turf into the fireplace.

‘Laurence, why … why were you like that with them? Why couldn’t you just play along? Don’t you want them to like you?’

‘Bridget –’

‘No, stop, why did you eat like that? I’ve never seen you eat that much before. Why did you do that? Didn’t you see that there wasn’t enough food left for my dad? I don’t understand.’ She was tearful now.

How could I explain this meanness that was inside me? That I had taken revenge on her for saying that I had been fat, for having a normal family, for not being Karen? Why was I so spiteful towards this girl who had done nothing bad to me, had been nothing but kind?

I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I … I love you. I wanted them to love you too.’

Poor Bridget. She loved me. Her good eye pierced me. I reached out and smoothed her hair and kissed her on the mouth.

‘Tomorrow, I’ll try harder. I promise.’

I did not sleep well that night in Bridget’s childhood bedroom. I worried about when I would get to slip away and post the letter by myself. My stomach was queasy and the eiderdown was lumpy in places. Maureen had since occupied the room, but it was clear that this was a family who had never known privilege or wealth. The furnishings were cheap and the new curtains thin. Everything in the room was functional, no room for decoration apart from a solitary snow globe atop a bookshelf, a gift from some Christmas past perhaps, and a few obligatory holy pictures. There were no radiators in this room, but it was directly above the front room so the residual heat from the fireplace downstairs took the bite from the chilled air, and Mrs Gough had thoughtfully provided a hot-water bottle. They had done everything to make me feel comfortable. I resolved to be a better boyfriend the next day.