Himself(26)

Mrs Cauley shrugs. ‘I don’t know. It could be.’

Mahony looks at the blank card in front of him. ‘Do you think she really tried to find us?’

‘Doosey doesn’t lie unless she’s playing poker.’

‘She didn’t tell anyone that Orla had gone to meet my father. Why?’

‘Maybe she feared for her own safety? Maybe she expected some kind of retribution?’

Mahony puts his head in his hands and Mrs Cauley watches him. If she had a heart it would break for him, just like a Communion wafer.

When he speaks his voice is low, clotted with fury. ‘My own father.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘He did it to keep her quiet, to put an end to it. There it is. He was a man with something to lose. A job, married even.’

‘It might not have been him, Mahony. You know yourself Orla wasn’t short of enemies. Now, are you ready for the next one?’

‘Bring them in,’ says Mahony grimly.

In the main hall the villagers pull out chairs and sit and talk and eat while they wait their turn. Shauna gives out copies of the play. Some read them, most put them on their knees under their plates of sandwiches. The young ones touch up their lipstick and jealously eye each others’ dresses, and the kids rage up and down the stage in magnificent unwatched productions of their own with a full cast of pirates, unicorns and ghosts in nightdresses.

Mrs Lavelle, in mourning black, sits in the corner with her eyes fixed on another realm and her tea growing cold in her hand.

Mahony nods encouragingly at the large woman in front of him. ‘Thank you for the song, Mrs Moran.’

Mrs Moran folds her fleshy hands on her lap as delicately as a child at her First Holy Communion.

Mrs Cauley returns her hip flask to her opera purse. If she had nerves they would be as shattered as her eardrums. ‘Despite that remarkable performance I’m afraid there are no singing parts this year, Mary.’

‘That’s all right, Mrs Cauley. I just wanted to do a turn for you and the young man. Will I be making the costumes again this year?’

Mrs Cauley grimaces. ‘Under Róisín Munnelly’s supervision.’

‘Grand so, and there’ll be a great call for wings?’

‘There won’t.’

‘Are there not any quantities of fairies, Mrs Cauley? As there were in A Midsummer Night’s Dream?’

Mrs Cauley’s tone is final. ‘There’ll be no fairies this year, Mary.’

Mrs Moran looks disappointed. ‘Is that so? Ah, I loved all the wire and the netting and such. What about birds? Will we have a few birds then?’

Mrs Cauley purses her lips. ‘No birds.’

‘What about a big terrifying robin red breast with a few spangles to catch the light? Or a macaw? That would be exotic, swooping down over the stage? I’ve a few bits of yellow felt that would do for the beak.’

Mrs Cauley throws her a stony glare and Mrs Moran obediently settles down and sits nicely.

‘Is there anything else I can help you with, Mrs Cauley?’ she finally asks.

‘There is. Where were you on the day that Orla Sweeney disappeared?’

Mrs Moran looks at Mahony and smiles a round little smile, for like a Communion child she’s been well prepared.

For by now the entire village knows Mahony’s identity. From the babies threading their first sunny sentences together to the grandfathers propped up in the corner with more tea in their saucer than in their cup. Every worm and sparrow, crow and badger, tree leaf and grass blade has heard Mahony’s story, such as it is. That he was abandoned on the steps of a Dublin orphanage and has come back to find his mother.

And the surprising thing is, no one is in the least surprised.

They were only surprised that they hadn’t realised before. But then, as Tadhg pointed out, they were ignoring this slice of bad news as you would a fart in a confessional box.

And as for Orla?

Well, she’s little more than a bad dream, a bad dream easily shaken off in the bustle of the village hall. The people look around themselves, at the familiar faces of their neighbours and friends. They can see that Orla isn’t here and never will be again.

And as for Mahony?

Jesus, he’s nothing like her at all! Save the eyes, and a certain wild spring in his step and that wicked curve of his smile.

Perhaps he’s like his father?

All the women of a certain age breathe a sigh of relief. Mahony hasn’t got Pat’s titanic ears, or Eamon’s walleye, or Declan’s buckteeth, with which you could scrape the carrots. Mahony is entirely gorgeous; he’s not a bit like their husbands.

The villagers look around themselves and see that everything is exactly as it was before. Nothing has really changed. Everything is just as it should be.

Then Mrs Lavelle rears up.

Mrs Lavelle’s voice is distinctive. It’s threadbare and nasal, with hysterical undertones, and is quite capable of carrying over the practising of lines, the ribbing and the rivalry, the cooing and the gossiping.

The first thing that everyone learns is that Mrs Lavelle won’t be pacified by a cup of tea and a sponge finger. Teasie tries to move her mother away from the buffet table and into the cloakroom with a few gentle clucks and a supporting hand under her elbow.

The ensuing scene is terrible.