Towards the end of July she’d received a phone call from Ronan Crowley. The week before her death, Colette had sent a few new poems to her publisher. Solace: Poems 1994–1995 – a slim volume, there was to be a small number printed, more to commemorate his mother’s life than anything else, Ronan had explained. But he’d asked if she’d be willing to help him organise some kind of launch, if she could rally the other members of the creative writing group. She’d suggested holding the event at the café. And so one evening in the last week of August a small crowd had raised a glass to Colette’s life and work. Shaun and Ann, and Colette’s three sons, had lined up at one side of the room, like they were waiting for a procession to pass by and pay their respects. The creative writing group had gathered around the drinks table. And as Izzy had expected, Eithne complained about the heat, Fionnuala complained more generally, Thomas bored them with anecdotes about Colette’s life, and Helen cried. The whole thing had felt so paltry.
For the briefest of moments, Izzy had considered inviting Dolores Mullen. She’d seen Dolores several times over the summer, pushing her newborn baby around in a pram. She was seldom alone, usually accompanied by one of her sisters or her mother. And she’d wanted to go up to her and tell her that she understood, that no one blamed her for a thing that had happened. But she wasn’t sure that was true, and she reassured herself with the knowledge that Dolores had her children, the support of her family – she would be OK. And Dolores had enough to contend with. In the not-too-distant future a hearing would take place where Donal would be sentenced, and the only possible outcome for a man who’d killed a pregnant woman was life imprisonment. She would raise her children alone, and her husband would spend the next thirty years in jail, where she had helped put him. And Izzy struggled with that idea, of what ‘life’ meant, when in thirty years’ time Donal could be back in the town enjoying his retirement.
Izzy’s attempts to engage with Carl and Barry during the evening had met with reticence, like they were suspicious of her sudden significance to their lives. And she didn’t blame them. But Ronan was a grown man, solid and serious like his father. He’d asked her if she’d mind holding on to a box of the books. The café had agreed to keep a small table where the books could be purchased and he asked Izzy to keep an eye on it from time to time. And every week since, Izzy had visited the café, tending to it like an altar.
But today the table looked a mess, she thought, and she’d told the staff several times that the books should not be fanned out in this way but piled one on top of the other so that people could actually see the cover. Izzy gathered them together and placed them in two neat piles.
Passing the waitress on the way out the door, she said, ‘You’ll mind those walls – we spent a fortune having the place done up.’
Outside, the street was lined with signs for the divorce referendum, every telephone pole and lamppost swathed in them. ‘Hello Divorce . . . Bye Bye Daddy!’ one of them read and she thought that a good laugh. Her children hardly saw their father. James spent most of his time in Dublin supporting his party’s campaign to ensure divorce was legalised. And every time she watched the news or turned on the radio there was some discussion of the subject, but in day-to-day life people skirted around the issue, giving little indication of what their real feelings were. And she had thought a great deal about what all of this would have meant for Colette. She knew how Colette would have voted, or thought she did. An educated woman like her – she could have headed back to Dublin, gotten a job teaching, and remarried if she’d wanted to. But for a middle-aged woman who’d left school at sixteen and known little else but married life in Ardglas, where the scope of her life was so small – what material difference would any of this really make for her?
She lowered her head and kept it down. A few drops of rain began to fall. She hurried along the main street towards the Harbour View, and was about to cross to where her car was parked on the Shore Road. She looked left and she looked right and then she looked left again because something had caught her eye – a young fellow in a St Joseph’s uniform barrelling down the street. He had a head of thick dark hair that hung down over his eyes. She waited until he came into focus.
‘Barry Crowley!’ Izzy said, as the boy got closer, but he ignored her and walked straight past.
‘Come back here, Barry Crowley, ya scut. I know you heard me.’
He stopped but did not turn around to face her.
‘Don’t think you can go pushing past me in the middle of the day and I won’t stop you.’
‘Oh, piss off, you!’ he said.
‘Where are you going?’
‘None of your business.’
‘Barry? Why in God’s name aren’t you at school at this time of day?’
‘I told you – it’s none of your fucking business.’
‘Well, see if I don’t make it my business, Barry. What have you done this time?’
A light rain filled the air like a cold mist gathering round them.
‘Come on, Barry – out with it,’ she said.
‘They’ve sent me home.’
‘Why?’ But she couldn’t make out his response. ‘What?’ she asked.
‘I called Mrs Frawley an old wagon,’ he shouted.
‘And they sent you home for that?’
He bucked his head.
‘I’d say there’s a bit more to it than that, Barry. I’d say you have their heart broke out there. And why if you’ve been sent home are you not heading in that direction?’
She knew that he was probably headed for the lane beside the chip shop where the boys went to smoke at lunchtime.
‘I can’t go home,’ he said.
‘Why not?’
‘I need a lift.’
‘Are you too scared to go out to the factory and ask your father for one?’
‘Master O’Connor said he’s going to expel me,’ he said.
‘Well, Barry,’ she said. ‘I think we need to go and have a chat with Master O’Connor about that. Come on.’
She strode away from him along the footpath, Barry’s voice calling after her and growing faint. She stopped and turned. ‘Come on now, Barry. You may as well follow me because if you don’t, I’ll do it on my own,’ she said, and continued on her way, past the newsagent’s and past the Ulster Bank.
‘But what are you going to do?’ Barry asked.
She could hear him shuffling along behind her.
‘What are you going to say?’ he pleaded. ‘He’s not going to listen to you.’
‘We’ll see about that.’
They were meeting other students from the school now coming in the opposite direction, heading into the town for lunch. One lad stuck his head out of the group he was filing along with and shouted, ‘Where the fuck are you going, Crowley, I thought you were turfed out?’
Barry was tripping along beside her. ‘Ah please, calm down. Don’t do that. I’ll go and talk to my father. He’ll talk to Master O’Connor. Please.’
‘Sure, it won’t do any harm for me to have a chat to him in the meantime.’
