Sweet Little Lies (Cat Kinsella #1)(78)

‘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.

‘No, that old gobshite, Swords.’

Poor Bill. ‘He was a bit more complimentary about you,’ I say, smiling.

This surprises her. ‘Was he? I wonder what he’s after? Is it me body, y’think?’ She whoops with laughter, happy to be the butt of her own joke. ‘Aiden Doyle though,’ she adds, salivating comically like the Big Bad Wolf. ‘Now didn’t he grow up to be a pure ride.’

I grin a ‘no comment’.

Walking into Manda’s living quarters is like stepping through the wardrobe to Narnia – a whole different world awaits you. While the B&B’s all chintzy sofas and embroidered curtain drapes, Manda’s private space has been well and truly pimped. Less ‘nursing home’, more ‘footballer’s crib.’ An open-plan space with white leather sofas, black marble flooring and a television the size of a pool table.

The most telling thing though is the 200 or more Christmas cards that cover every shiny surface and every available wall. That’s a few hundred people who didn’t include Manda Moran in a communal Facebook share. They didn’t send her a round-robin email. They got a pen, wrote her name, licked an envelope, found her address, bought a stamp and walked to a post office and that tells me what Swords said was probably true – ‘a great girl, altogether’.

‘Sorry about the state about the place,’ she says, walking in and attacking a non-existent mess, fluffing cushions and moving magazines. ‘I don’t get a frigging second to meself round here. I don’t think half these eejits get the concept of B&B. You know, “Bed” and “Breakfast” – and maybe a light evening meal if you ask me nicely. Do you know what one of them asked me for last night?’ She doesn’t wait for my guess. ‘The wine list and a fecking ice-bucket!’