Left you on the pier. How crazy were we? Wired to the fucking moon. What were we fighting over anyway? Some shit piece of junk jewellery.
Lay thee down now and rest: May thy slumber be blest. Lay thee down now and rest: May thy slumber be blest … Granny is here, Killian. Look, I’m shaking the glass snowball. See the flakes dancing. Stop fretting We’re with you every step of the way … Lay thee down now and rest: May thy slumber be blest. Lay thee down now and rest: May thy slumber be blest.
I’m late tonight, Killian. Give me a chance to catch my breath and I’ll tell you everything. I found her … found her … found her. I thought she was an apparition, my fury summoning her from the ether. It was too easy, you see. All that searching, scanning cars, the faces of drivers, wondering if she was among them, watching her on video, she had taken over my mind – and there she was in the flesh, driving impetuously and much too fast from Sheraton’s driveway. I thought I’d lost her when she accelerated away but she had to stop at the end of the road, you know how dangerous that junction can be, and before she could escape again I forced my attention on her. A light bump, skilfully executed.
She was puzzled rather than angry as she surveyed the damage. Not that there was much to see, at least outwardly, but all I saw was the dent of your body beneath a sheen of polished silver. I wanted to strike her, watch her fall helplessly at my feet. Instead, I offered her coffee. There was a hesitancy in her smile – how well I know it now, how familiar her gestures seem. She refused and drove away.
What would we have discussed if we had sat opposite each other sharing a pot of coffee? A portrait of my son? How could I have uttered such foolish words? I spoke without thinking yet in that instant I wanted her to know you, to stroke you to life with her brush, capture your innocence, the hopes you once cherished.
She lives a long ways down the road, Killian, hours away. I’ll have to make time, leave you for a while. She talked about childhood holidays and sounded nostalgic for sunshine summers. But she too suffers from selective memory. Of course it rained. Just as it rains tonight, splashing silverfish off your window pane.
I was nine years old when I went to Trabawn with Harriet. We stayed in a guesthouse that smelled of gravy and toilet cleaner. Under the shelter of rocks on a windswept beach we shared sandy cheese sandwiches. Waves swept me off my feet. My mother had died in the spring. Harriet cried and pretended it was rain on her face. There were children in raincoats, jumping from high sand dunes. Was she among them, I wonder. A young freckle-faced girl running through the summer, engraving memories on her soul that would last forever?
PART TWO
Eighteen
T rabawn , 1969–1980
T rabawn never changes . That’s the most wonderful thing about it. Lorraine is convinced the population of farmers and fishermen falls into a magic slumber when the Cheevers leave at the end of their summer holidays and only awaken again on their return the following year.
Soon Market Street is left behind and the countryside spreads greenly before her. Uncle Des pulls out into the centre of the road and passes them, loudly honking his horn. From the back window Virginia and Edward shake their fists triumphantly. The two cars race each other to see who will reach the caravans first. Old Red Eye, the one-eyed dog, is crouched, waiting in the lane.
“Barking mad as usual, daft mutt!” Lorraine’s father laughs loudly as the dog ducks and dives beneath the whirring wheels. He enjoys this annual contest of wits which he wins every time – for who, he shouts, slapping his leg for emphasis, but a suicidal mongrel will argue with a blue Toyota Corolla?
Celia, the owner of the caravans, waits at her gate to welcome them. She wears hobnailed boots and a long red skirt. Her hair is tied in a hairnet which sparkles with coloured beads. Two
Lay thee down now and rest: May thy slumber be blest. Lay thee down now and rest: May thy slumber be blest … Granny is here, Killian. Look, I’m shaking the glass snowball. See the flakes dancing. Stop fretting We’re with you every step of the way … Lay thee down now and rest: May thy slumber be blest. Lay thee down now and rest: May thy slumber be blest.
I’m late tonight, Killian. Give me a chance to catch my breath and I’ll tell you everything. I found her … found her … found her. I thought she was an apparition, my fury summoning her from the ether. It was too easy, you see. All that searching, scanning cars, the faces of drivers, wondering if she was among them, watching her on video, she had taken over my mind – and there she was in the flesh, driving impetuously and much too fast from Sheraton’s driveway. I thought I’d lost her when she accelerated away but she had to stop at the end of the road, you know how dangerous that junction can be, and before she could escape again I forced my attention on her. A light bump, skilfully executed.
She was puzzled rather than angry as she surveyed the damage. Not that there was much to see, at least outwardly, but all I saw was the dent of your body beneath a sheen of polished silver. I wanted to strike her, watch her fall helplessly at my feet. Instead, I offered her coffee. There was a hesitancy in her smile – how well I know it now, how familiar her gestures seem. She refused and drove away.
What would we have discussed if we had sat opposite each other sharing a pot of coffee? A portrait of my son? How could I have uttered such foolish words? I spoke without thinking yet in that instant I wanted her to know you, to stroke you to life with her brush, capture your innocence, the hopes you once cherished.
She lives a long ways down the road, Killian, hours away. I’ll have to make time, leave you for a while. She talked about childhood holidays and sounded nostalgic for sunshine summers. But she too suffers from selective memory. Of course it rained. Just as it rains tonight, splashing silverfish off your window pane.
I was nine years old when I went to Trabawn with Harriet. We stayed in a guesthouse that smelled of gravy and toilet cleaner. Under the shelter of rocks on a windswept beach we shared sandy cheese sandwiches. Waves swept me off my feet. My mother had died in the spring. Harriet cried and pretended it was rain on her face. There were children in raincoats, jumping from high sand dunes. Was she among them, I wonder. A young freckle-faced girl running through the summer, engraving memories on her soul that would last forever?
PART TWO
Eighteen
T rabawn , 1969–1980
T rabawn never changes . That’s the most wonderful thing about it. Lorraine is convinced the population of farmers and fishermen falls into a magic slumber when the Cheevers leave at the end of their summer holidays and only awaken again on their return the following year.
Soon Market Street is left behind and the countryside spreads greenly before her. Uncle Des pulls out into the centre of the road and passes them, loudly honking his horn. From the back window Virginia and Edward shake their fists triumphantly. The two cars race each other to see who will reach the caravans first. Old Red Eye, the one-eyed dog, is crouched, waiting in the lane.
“Barking mad as usual, daft mutt!” Lorraine’s father laughs loudly as the dog ducks and dives beneath the whirring wheels. He enjoys this annual contest of wits which he wins every time – for who, he shouts, slapping his leg for emphasis, but a suicidal mongrel will argue with a blue Toyota Corolla?
Celia, the owner of the caravans, waits at her gate to welcome them. She wears hobnailed boots and a long red skirt. Her hair is tied in a hairnet which sparkles with coloured beads. Two
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