‘Let’s get pizza,’ Holly says, giving Dad the corner of a grin. When she used to go to his depressing apartment for weekends, they would order pizza and eat it on the tiny balcony, looking out over the Liffey and dangling their legs through the railings – there wasn’t enough room for chairs. She can tell by the way Dad’s eyes warm that he remembers too.
‘Here’s me giving my mad chef skills a workout, and you want pizza? Ungrateful little wagon. Anyway, your mammy said the chicken needed using.’
‘What are we making?’
‘Chicken casserole. Your mammy wrote down her recipe, give or take.’ He nods at a piece of paper tucked under the chopping board. ‘How was your week?’
‘OK. Sister Ignatius gave us this big speech about how we need to decide what we want to do in college and our whole entire lives depend on making the right decision. By the end she got so hyper about the whole thing, she made us all go down to the chapel and pray to our confirmation saints for guidance.’
That gets the laugh she was looking for. ‘And what did your confirmation saint have to say?’
‘She said I should be sure and not fail my exams, or I’m stuck with Sister Ignatius for another year and aaahhh.’
‘Smart lady.’ Dad tips the peelings into the compost bin and starts chopping the potatoes. ‘Are you getting a little too much nun in your life? Because you can quit boarding any time you want. You know that. Just say the word.’
‘I don’t want to,’ Holly says, quickly. She still doesn’t know why Dad is letting her be a boarder, especially after Chris, and she always feels like he might change his mind any minute. ‘Sister Ignatius is fine. We just laugh about her. Julia does her voice; once she actually did it all the way through Guidance, and Sister Ignatius didn’t even realise. She couldn’t work out why we were all cracking up.’
‘Little smart-arse,’ Dad says, grinning. He likes Julia. ‘The Sister’s got a point in there, though. Been doing any thinking about what comes after school?’
It feels to Holly like the last couple of months that’s all any adult ever talks about. She says, ‘Maybe sociology – we had a sociologist come in to talk to us in Careers Week last year, and it sounded OK. Or maybe law.’
She’s focusing on the garlic, but she can hear that the rhythm of her dad’s chopping doesn’t change, not that it would anyway. Mum is a barrister. Dad is a detective. Holly doesn’t have a brother or a sister to go Dad’s way.
When she makes herself look across, he’s showing nothing but impressed and interested. ‘Yeah? Solicitor, barrister, what?’
‘Barrister. Maybe. I don’t know; I’m only thinking about it.’
‘You’ve got the arguing skills for it, anyway. Prosecution or defence?’
‘I thought maybe defence.’
‘How come?’
Still all pleasant and intrigued, but Holly can feel the tiny chill: he doesn’t like that. She shrugs. ‘Just sounds interesting. Is this minced enough?’
Holly’s been trying to think of a time when her dad decided she shouldn’t do something and she ended up doing it anyway, or the other way around. Boarding is the only one she could come up with. Sometimes he says no flat out; more often, it just ends up not happening. Sometimes Holly even winds up, she’s not sure how, thinking he’s right. She wasn’t actually planning to tell him about the law thing, but unless you concentrate you end up telling Dad stuff.
‘Looks good to me,’ Dad says. ‘In here.’ Holly goes over to him and scrapes the garlic into the casserole dish. ‘And chop that leek for me. Why defence?’
Holly takes the leek back to her stool. ‘Because. There’s like hundreds of people on the prosecution side.’
Dad waits for more, eyebrow up, inquiring, until she shrugs. ‘Just . . . I don’t know. Detectives, and uniforms, and the Technical Bureau, and the prosecutors. The defence just has the person whose actual life it is, and his lawyer.’
‘Hm,’ says Dad, examining the potato chunks. Holly can feel him being careful, looking over his answer from every angle. ‘You know, sweetheart, it’s not actually as unfair as it looks. If anything, the system’s weighted towards the defence. The prosecution has to build a whole case that stands up beyond a reasonable doubt; the defence only has to build that one doubt. I can swear to you, hand on heart, there’s a lot more guilty people acquitted than innocent ones in jail.’
Which isn’t what Holly means, at all. She’s not sure whether Dad not getting it is irritating or a relief. ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Probably.’
Dad throws the potatoes into the casserole dish. He says, ‘It’s a good impulse. Just take your time; don’t get fixed on a plan till you’re a hundred per cent definite. Yeah?’
Holly says, ‘How come you don’t want me to do defence?’
‘I’d be only delighted. That’s where the money is; you can keep me in the style to which I wish to become accustomed.’
He’s slipping away, the nonstick glint coming into his eyes. ‘Dad. I’m asking.’
‘Defence lawyers hate me. I thought you were going to do your hating me around about now, get it out of your system, and by the time you were twenty or so we’d get on great again. I didn’t think you’d be just getting started.’ Dad heads for the fridge and starts rummaging. ‘Your mother said to put in carrots. How many do you figure we need?’
‘Dad.’
Dad leans back against the fridge, watching Holly. ‘Let me ask you this,’ he says. ‘A client shows up at your office, wanting you to defend him. He’s been arrested – and we’re not talking littering here; we’re talking something way out on the other side of bad. The more you talk to him, the more you’re positive he’s guilty as hell. But he’s got money, and your kid needs braces and school fees. What do you do?’
Holly shrugs. ‘I figure it out then.’
She doesn’t know how to tell her dad, only half of her even wants to tell her dad, that that’s the whole point. Everything the prosecutors have, all the backup, the system, the safe certainty that they’re the good guys: that feels lazy, feels sticky-slimy as cowardice. Holly wants to be the one out on her own, working out for herself what’s right and what’s wrong this time. She wants to be the one coming up with fast zigzag ways to get each story the right ending. That feels clean; that feels like courage.
‘That’s one way to do it.’ Dad pulls out a bag of carrots. ‘One? Two?’
‘Put two.’ He has the recipe right there; he doesn’t need to ask.
‘How about your mates? Any of them thinking of law?’
A zap of irritation stiffens Holly’s legs. ‘No. I actually can think all by myself. Isn’t that amazing?’
Dad grins and heads back to the counter. On his way past he lays a hand on Holly’s head, warm and just the right strength. He’s relented, or decided to act like it. He says, ‘You’ll make a good barrister, if that’s what you decide on. Either side of the courtroom.’ He runs his hand down her hair and goes to work on the carrots. ‘Don’t sweat it, chickadee. You’ll make the right call.’
The conversation’s over. All his careful probing and all his deep serious speeches, and she slipped right past without him laying a finger on what she’s actually thinking. Holly feels a quick prickle of triumph and shame. She chops harder.
Dad says, ‘So what do your mates have in mind?’
‘Julia’s going to do journalism. Becca’s not sure. Selena wants to go to art school.’
‘Shouldn’t be a problem. Her stuff’s good. I meant to ask you: is she doing OK these days?’
Holly looks up, but he’s peeling a carrot and glancing out of the window to see if Mum’s on her way. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Just wondering. The last few times you’ve had her round, she seemed a little . . . spacy, is that the word I’m looking for?’
‘She’s like that. You just have to get to know her.’
‘I’ve known her a good while now. She didn’t use to be this spacy. Anything been on her mind?’
&
nbsp; Holly shrugs. ‘Just normal stuff. School. Whatever.’
Dad waits, but Holly knows he’s not done. She dumps the bits of leek into the casserole dish. ‘What’ll I do now?’
‘Here.’ He throws her an onion. ‘I know you and your mates know Selena inside out, but sometimes those are the last people to cop that something’s wrong. A lot of problems can show up around your age – depression, whatever we’re supposed to call manic depression these days, schizophrenia. I’m not saying Selena’s got any of those’ – his hand going up, as Holly’s mouth opens – ‘but if something’s up with her, even something minor, now’s the time to get it sorted.’
The balls of Holly’s feet are digging into the floor tiles. ‘Selena’s not schizophrenic. She daydreams. Just because she’s not some stupid cliché teenager who goes around screaming about Jedward all the time doesn’t mean she’s abnormal.’
Dad’s eyes are very blue and very level. It’s the levelness that has Holly’s heart banging in her throat. He thinks this is serious.
He says, ‘You know me better than that, sweetheart. I’m not saying she has to be Little Miss Perky Cheerleader. I’m just saying she seems a lot less on the ball than she did this time last year. And if she’s got a problem and it doesn’t get treated fast, it could do a pretty serious number on her life. Yous are going to be heading out into the big wide world before you know it. You don’t want to be running around out there with an untreated mental illness. That’s how lives end up banjaxed.’
Holly feels a new kind of real all around her, pressing in. It squeezes her chest, makes it hard to breathe.
She says, ‘Selena’s fine. All she needs is for people to leave her alone and quit annoying her. OK? Can you please do that?’
After a moment Dad says, ‘Fair enough. Like I said, you know her better than I do, and I know yous lot take good care of each other. Just keep an eye on her. That’s all I’m saying.’
A key rattling in the front door, impatient, and then a rush of cool rain-flavoured air. ‘Frank? Holly?’
‘Hi,’ Holly and Dad call.
The door slams and Mum blows into the kitchen. ‘My God,’ she says, flopping back against the wall. Her fair hair is coming out of its bun and she looks different, flushed and loosened, not like cool good-posture Mum at all. ‘That was strange.’
‘Are you locked?’ Dad asks, grinning at her. ‘And me at home looking after your child, slaving over a hot cooker—’
‘I am not. Well, maybe just a touch tipsy, but it’s not that. It’s— My God, Frank. Do you realise I hadn’t seen Deirdre in almost thirty years? How on earth did that happen?’
Dad says, ‘So it went well in the end, yeah?’
Mum laughs, breathless and giddy. Her coat hangs open; underneath she’s wearing her slim navy dress flashed with white, the gold necklace Dad gave her at Christmas. She’s still collapsed against the wall, bag dumped on the floor at her feet. Holly gets that pulse of wariness again. Mum always kisses her the instant one of them gets through the door.
‘It was wonderful. I was absolutely terrified – honestly, at the door of the bar I almost turned around and went home. If it hadn’t worked, if we’d just sat there making small talk like acquaintances . . . I wouldn’t have been able to bear it. Dee and I and this other girl Miriam, back in school we were like you and your friends, Holly. We were inseparable.’
One of her ankles is bent outwards above the high-heeled navy leather shoe, leaning her lopsided like a teenager. Holly says – Thirty years, never, we’d never – ‘So how come you haven’t seen her?’
‘Deirdre’s parents emigrated to America, when we left school. She went to college there. It wasn’t like now, there wasn’t any e-mail; phone calls cost the earth, and letters took weeks. We did try – she’s still got all my letters, can you imagine? She brought them along, all these things I’d forgotten all about, boys and nights out and fights with our parents and . . . I know I’ve got hers somewhere – in Mum and Dad’s attic, maybe, I’ll have to look – I can’t have thrown them away. But it was college and we were busy, and the next thing we knew we were completely out of touch . . .’
Mum’s long lovely face is transparent, things blowing across it bright and swift as falling leaves. She doesn’t look like Holly’s mum, like anyone’s mum. For the first time ever, Holly looks at her and thinks: Olivia.
‘But today – God, it was as if we’d seen each other a month ago. We laughed so hard, I can’t remember the last time I laughed that hard. We used to laugh like that all the time. The things we remembered – we had this silly alternative verse for the school song, ridiculous stuff, dirty jokes, and we sang it together, right there in the bar. We remembered all the words. I hadn’t thought of that song in thirty years, I’d swear it wasn’t even in my mind any more, but one look at Dee and the whole thing came back.’
‘Getting rowdy in pubs at your age,’ Dad says. ‘You’ll be barred.’ He’s smiling, a full-on grin that makes him look younger too. He likes seeing Mum like this.
‘Oh, God, people must have heard us, mustn’t they? I didn’t even notice. Do you know, Frank, at one stage Dee said to me, “You probably want to get home, don’t you?” and I actually said, “Why?” When she said “home”, I was picturing my parents’ house. My bedroom when I was seventeen. I was thinking, “Why on earth would I be in a hurry to get back there?” I was so deep in 1982, I’d forgotten all of this existed.’
She’s grinning through a hand pressed over her mouth, ashamed and delighted. ‘Child neglect,’ Dad says to Holly. ‘Write it down, in case you ever feel like dobbing her in.’
Something skitters across Holly’s mind: Julia in the glade a long time ago, the tender amused curl of her mouth, This isn’t forever. It snatches Holly’s breath: she was wrong. They are forever, a brief and mortal forever, a forever that will grow into their bones and be held inside them after it ends, intact, indestructible.
‘She gave me this,’ Mum says, fishing in her bag. She pulls out a photo – white border turning yellow – and puts it down on the bar. ‘Look. That’s us: me and Deirdre and Miriam. That’s us.’
Her voice does something funny, curls up. For a horrified second Holly thinks she’s going to cry, but when she looks up Mum is biting her lip and smiling.
Three of them, older than Holly, maybe a year or two. School uniforms, Kilda’s crest on their lapels. Look close and the kilt is longer, the blazer is boxy and ugly, but if it weren’t for that and the big hair, they could be out of the year above her. They’re messing, draped pouting and hip-jutting on a wrought-iron gate – it takes a strange twitch like a blink before Holly recognises the gate at the bottom of the back lawn. Deirdre is in the middle, shaking a raggedy dark perm forward over her face, all curves and lashes and wicked glint. Miriam is small and fair and feather-haired, fingers snapping, sweet grin through braces. And over on the right Olivia, long-legged, head flung back and hands tangled in her hair, halfway between model and mockery. She’s wearing lip gloss, pale candyfloss-pink – Holly can picture the mild distaste on Mum’s face if she wore it home one weekend. She looks beautiful.
‘We were pretending to be Bananarama,’ Mum says. ‘Or someone like that, I don’t think we were sure. We were in a band that term.’
‘You were in a band?’ Dad says. ‘I’m a groupie?’
‘We were called Sweet and Sour.’ Mum laughs, with a little shake in it. ‘I was the keyboard player – well, barely; I played piano, so we assumed that meant I’d be good at the keyboard, but actually I was terrible. And Dee could only play folk guitar and none of us had a note in our heads, so the whole thing was a disaster, but we had a wonderful time.’
Holly can’t stop looking. That girl in the photo isn’t one solid person, feet set solidly in one irrevocable life; that girl is an illusive firework-burst made of light reflecting off a million different possibilities. That girl isn’t a barrister, married to Frank Mackey, mother of one daughter and no more, a house in Dalkey, n
eutral colours and soft cashmere and Chanel No. 5. All of that is implicit in her, curled unimagined inside her bones; but so are hundreds of other latent lives, unchosen and easily vanished as whisks of light. A shiver knots in Holly’s spine, won’t shake loose.
She asks, ‘Where’s Miriam?’
‘I don’t know. It wasn’t the same without Dee, and during college we grew apart – I was terribly serious back then, very ambitious, always studying, and Miriam wanted to spend most of her time getting drunk and flirting, so before we knew it . . .’ Mum’s still gazing down at the photo. ‘Someone told me she got married and moved to Belfast, not long after college. That’s the last I heard of her.’
‘If you want,’ Holly says, ‘I’ll have a look for her on the internet. She’s probably on Facebook.’
‘Oh, darling,’ Mum says. ‘That’s very kind of you. But I don’t know . . .’ A sudden catch of her breath. ‘I don’t know if I could bear it. Can you understand that?’
‘I guess.’
Dad has a hand on Mum’s back, just lightly, between her shoulder blades. He says, ‘Need another glass of wine?’
‘Oh, God, no. Or maybe; I don’t know.’
Dad cups the back of her neck for a second and heads for the fridge.
‘So long ago,’ Mum says, touching the photo. The fizz is fading out of her voice, leaving it quiet and still. ‘I don’t know how it can possibly be so long ago.’
Holly moves back to her stool. She stirs bits of onion with the point of the knife.
Mum says, ‘Dee isn’t happy, Frank. She used to be the outgoing one, the confident one – like your Julia, Holly, always a smart answer for anything – she was going to be a politician, or the TV interviewer who asks the politicians the tough questions. But she got married young, and then her husband didn’t want her to work till the children were out of school, so now all she can get is bits of secretarial stuff. He sounds like a dreadful piece of work – I didn’t say that, of course – she’s thinking of leaving him, but she’s been with him so long she can’t imagine how she would manage without him . . .’