I open the file, take out the list of names. ‘So given I don’t have a lot of time, who’s still knocking around? Who should I prioritise?’
Swords laughs. ‘You’ll have plenty of time, loveen. Half of them have gone to meet their maker, the Lord have mercy on them. Another good few emigrated. We’ve got Mulderrians in the US of A, a few Down Under. One in Papua New Guinea, of all places!’ He seems to find this riotously funny and for that same infectious reason, so do I. ‘Colette Durkin’s still around but, God love her, the lift wouldn’t be going to the top floor, if you know what I mean. A few fries short of a Happy Meal.’
I strike a line through ‘CD’. ‘What’s wrong with her?’
He tuts. ‘Ah sure, what’s wrong with anyone? Depression, I suppose. Anxiety – isn’t that what they call it nowadays?’
‘Lot of it about, Bill.’
‘Well, not near me, thank Christ. I finished me thirty years in 2012, got me pension, bought this car, and now I have a grand old time driving about the place, listening to the radio, having the craic with folk. And a few pints at the weekend o’ course.’
Sold. I wonder if he wants an apprentice.
‘Anyways,’ he goes on. ‘the only two you need bother your head talking to are Manda Moran and Hazel Joyce. Now the three of them were very cosy. Manda Moran’s still Manda Moran. Never did marry, God love her, but she has a B&B behind St Benedict’s. Does well, I think. A great girl, altogether. Hazel Joyce’s now Hazel O’Keefe, I think. She lives in the next village up.’
For no other reason, other than my kamikaze tendencies, I look down at the file and say, ‘Oh look, how funny, there’s a Kinsella! No relation of mine, ha ha.’
His face pinches. ‘Now why in God’s name would I have questioned Agnes Kinsella?’ He thinks for a minute. ‘Ah, I know, she’d relatives over from England. One of the kids was sorta pally with the Doyle one.’
‘The McBrides?’ I say, casually, just shooting the breeze.
‘If you say so, I forget their names. Ah now, Agnes Kinsella, she was a nice woman. Decent sort. She died, oh, it must be ten years ago now.’
Eleven years. I had my GCSE Double Science exam so I couldn’t go to her funeral and only Mum ended up going in the end. Dad had to work for ‘Uncle’ Frank at the last minute. Work that involved flying to Rotterdam and back in a day.
Mum seemed to placidly accept it. I raged for months.
‘Here we are,’ Swords says, nodding towards the road ahead. ‘Didn’t take long now, did it?’
We drive into Mulderrin up the Long Road, a narrow winding track flanked by tall blackthorn hedges and grey drystone walls. Red and gold balloons, starting to wither and deflate, are tied in clusters to the Ash trees that still border Duffy’s field.
‘Big wedding last weekend,’ explains Swords in a crabby tone. ‘Children starving in Syria and they spent €2,500 on flowers, can you believe that? Plain scandalous.’
As we get closer to the town, the sign comes into view – ‘MULDERRIN’ written in austere black lettering. I’d have sworn there was a ‘Welcome to .?.?.’ back in the day but that could be me over-sentimentalising. Embellishing the facts, the way memories often do. There’s an instruction to drive carefully that I don’t think was there before. And a twinning with a town in Brittany – some lucky local dignitary quaffing Chablis at the taxpayer’s expense, no doubt. The houses look newer and it feels like there’s twice as many. Huge great piles with twin garages and pillared porches, monuments to the time when the Celtic Tiger was still having its tummy tickled and ostentation was de rigeur.
The town square’s empty. Just a few stationary cars and a lone old man creeping along the footpath with a stoop and a tin of dog food. The Diner’s called something else – we pass it quickly and I don’t catch the name – and Mrs Riley’s is now a Londis.
There’s also a bookie’s, three pubs and a funeral parlour.
Somewhere to eat, somewhere to shop, somewhere to bet, drink and die.
A blueprint for a life simply lived.
My B&B’s about a kilometre outside the town. Swords insists on helping me with my tiny case and introducing me to the owner, a tall woman with a bad bleach-job that’s left her hair the colour of off-milk. Before he sets off, he gives me the lay of the land.
‘Now, if you’re wanting a drink, you’ll have to wait a while. They don’t open till late, although if you’ve a real thirst on, you could probably give Grogan’s a bang. Matty Grogan’d be likely open up for the likes of you.’ He gives me a wink, and a gentle tap on the forearm. ‘Well, ta-ta then, Cat Kinsella. Take care of yourself, loveen .?.?.’
It’s unexpected – unexpected and self-indulgent – but for one clear second, as I watch Swords pull away, I feel a calm sense of restoration being back in Mulderrin. A return to who I once was. A quirky, trusting eight-year-old with a head full of greasy curls and a mouth full of wobbly teeth, and almost certainly wearing a Pokemon T-shirt.
Mum’s still alive and fussing around Gran.
Jacqui’s still someone I aspire to be like.
Noel’s still Noel. Just slimmer and with ridiculous tram-lines.
Dad’s still my hero and all’s right with the world.
*
Ignoring Swords’ advice to take care of myself, much later, after the wind’s died down and I’ve eaten a home-cooked stew, I take a dark and perilous amble up to Gran’s old house, using just the light of my phone to chart my half-remembered course. Heading back down the Long Road, I turn right at Duffy’s gate, doubling back on myself when it becomes apparent I should have gone the other way, and then past the field where Pat Hannon kept his cows. This brings me out at the foot of the Pot-Holey Road, otherwise known as the Road Where Gran Lives.
Or now to my mind, the Road Where I Was Last Truly Happy.
Gran’s house hasn’t changed, not in an obvious way. It’s still small, pebble-dashed white and with that stone slate roof that Kinsella clans carefully maintained for well over a century. But now there’s a satellite dish fixed to the front. A child’s trampoline where there should be a chicken coop. The paint’s definitely fresher. The windows look brand new.
Through thin gauzy curtains, though, I see the familiar glow of a turf fire and I instinctively breathe it in, convinced that I can smell it, taste it, see us all sat around it, snacking and bickering and watching game shows before bed.
Getting our last fill of Dad before he kissed us all and went out.
In the window of the largest bedroom – the one where Gran used to sleep – there’s a little girl bathed in light, no more than ten years old. She’s smiling broadly, clapping her hands and making faces so I smile back and take a photo.
She startles at the flash and retreats from the glass.
Or maybe I’m just dog-tired?
‘Overtired,’ Mum used to say when I claimed monsters were in the wardrobe or ghosts were rattling chains in my face.
Later when I check, there’s no child in the photo. Just the shadow of a coat-stand where Gran’s grandfather clock used to be.
22
I find Manda Moran the next morning, explaining the difference between black and white pudding to a group of Californian tourists. Reactions range from sceptical to repulsed.
‘Coffee and toast it is then,’ she says cheerfully, probably relieved to put the frying pan away for another day. The state of the wood-panelled breakfast room suggests it’s been a busy few hours and I’m tempted to start helping her clear things away.
I can’t say with any certainty that time hasn’t been kind to Manda Moran because I honestly can’t place her, however I’m fairly sure she couldn’t have looked like this as a teenager as I’d have surely remembered this strange triangular-shaped person. Normal(ish) on the top half, the width of a dual carriage way from the hips down. Like a tepee on legs.
‘He said you’d be calling, all right.’ She points towards a set of frosted double doors. ‘Go on through, I’ll be there in minute.’
‘Who said, Aiden Doyle?’ I feel a tiny prick of irritation. I’d wanted to catch them on the hop.