Ninemile House Page 8

  Just when her reserves of patience had almost reached empty, Derry had a brainstorm. If memory served her right there was an old fashioned little shop secreted up a side-road off O’Connell Street, where farmer’s wives, up in the big smoke for the day, came to kit themselves out in Crimplenes, tweeds and other 1950s time warp garments. There, she struck pay-dirt, decking Gabby out with three pinafore style frocks in navy, black and brown, hanging to mid-calve and shapeless enough to conceal any hint of feminine curves, half a dozen plain high-necked, long-sleeved blouses, three woolly cable-knit cardigans of the type a woman in her 70s might wear, ten vests, ten belly-warmer knickers and, under duress, a couple of bras, plain white and of heavy-industry construction. Gabby, predictably, refused point blank to get herself measured properly, accusing the poor shop assistant of being dirty and a sinner when she told her to pop into the changing room and remove her top. Embarrassed beyond belief, Derry hurriedly paid the bill and dragged her off to Clarke’s Shoe Shop, where a pair of flat, black basket-weave shoes of the kind very likely favoured by Sr Peter, herself, almost sent her sister into raptures. Derry didn’t even attempt to initiate her into the ecstasy and the agony of high-heels. That would literally be going one step too far. Taking a well-deserved break with a cup of coffee – tea for Gabby, who had never had coffee - and a cake in the Kylemore in Grafton Street, she next turned her attention to the tricky subject of Gabby’s hair, breathing a sigh of relief when her sister gave in to the idea of having it cut and coloured without too much fuss. That, Derry guessed, was mainly down to gratitude and it both amused her and saddened her to see the way Gabby kept sneaking glances into the plastic shopping bags, her face and eyes glowing with happiness at being the beneficiary of such style. Style! Derry wouldn’t be caught dead in anything less than Donna Karan, which, once more, served to emphasise the yawning gap between the pair of them. What did Gabby know of designers and labels and being seen in the right thing, at the right place, at the right time? To her, happiness was simply having something new, something that wasn’t a hand-me-down, something that wasn’t patched and darned and faded out of all recognition. And, Derry couldn’t help reflecting, wasn’t Gabby better off in some ways! At least her palate wasn’t jaded by excess and materialism and she could still find pleasure in small things. But what a terrible price she had paid to preserve her innocence.

  Although, Gabby submitted with good grace to having her hair done, the time it took came as something of a shock and Derry found herself amused once more as peering grumpily out from beneath a head of foil-squares, Gabby determinedly ignored the young, punk-haired, hairdresser’s gossipy chit-chat. Or, perhaps, it was simply that she didn’t understand the references to “clubbing at the weekend” Or, “Ibeetha” or “Johnny Depp”. Whatever the case, the end-result was well worth the wait, and Derry found her eyes filling up as, hardly able to tear her eyes away from the mirror, Gabby gazed long and hard at her new and improved reflection with its glossy dark hair cleverly low-lighted with shades of auburn and old gold, and sculpted into a shoulder-length bob.

  “I look like you, Derry,” she said, when finally she found her voice, her hand reaching wonderingly up to stroke the satin-smooth curtain.

  “Of course you do.” The hairdresser held up the hand-mirror, so she could see the back of her head, angling it this way and that. “You’re like two peas in a pod, the pair of you. Honestly, I’ve never seen two sisters more alike.” And with that off-the-cuff remark she earned herself the biggest tip she had ever made, although for the life of her she couldn’t work out why. Certainly, the woman’s hair had turned out nice, especially when you considered the bird’s nest it was when she first came in. But still, a fifty-quid tip! It would come in very handy when she went clubbing at the weekend.

  On a roll, Derry bore Gabby back to Brown Thomas’s cosmetic department, where a beautician showed her how to make up her face. Nothing too dramatic, on Derry’s instructions, just a light film of foundation to even out her skin tone, a dusting of bronze eye-shadow and mascara to emphasise her beautiful dark eyes and a slick of peachy lip-gloss to draw it all together. She could also benefit from having her eyebrows shaped, Derry noted, but still, the difference was absolutely staggering. Gone was the haunted looking, sad-faced creature who had come almost stumbling out of Ninemilehouse only the day before and, in her place, sat a pretty, sloe-eyed woman with the kind of Slavic cheekbones that would see her beauty last well into old age.

  “Gabby, you look amazing.” Awed, Derry’s eyes feasted on the transformation as the beautician stepped away to reveal her handiwork, a mascara wand held in her hand, like an artist with a paintbrush. “Truly beautiful.”

  “Do I?” Gabby smiled uncertainly, and with a slight clutch of the heart, Derry realised it really was like looking at herself, a slightly older version albeit, but if that’s how she was going to look in ten years time, she’d have no cause for complaint, but every reason to bless her genetic makeup.

  “Yes, you’ll be fighting the men off with a big stick,” she laughed, then could have bitten her tongue off as a dark shadow stole across her sister’s face and her smile was replaced by a frown. Derry sighed inwardly and, trying to claw back lost ground, flipped her sister a reassuring smile. “Oh, look, Gabby, that’s just an expression. Don’t look so worried. I didn’t mean it literally.” Ignoring the beautician’s curious gaze, she squeezed her hand lightly. “Now, how about I take you down to the beach, like I promised. I think you and I have had all the shopping we can take for one day.” It was the right thing to say. Gabby’s frown disappeared almost as if by magic.

  “Oh, can we Derry? Can we really?”

  “Walk this way,” Derry laughed, scooping up their purchases, and feeling a heck of a lot more optimistic than an hour or two ago.

  ***

  “Well, I must say you kept that well under your hat.” Sheila Knox, Derry’s neighbour and best friend from two doors up, nodded towards the waters edge where Gabby, an expression of intense joy on her face was paddling hand in hand with her two nieces.

  Derry shrugged. “To be honest, I wanted to get her settled in a bit first before I began the parade of introductions and explanations.” Bending down, she took the ball, Sheila’s little Jack Russell had dropped at her feet and flung it as far as she could, smiling as the little terrier scampered after it, his short legs scattering sand every which way.

  “So,” Sheila demanded, pulling out a packet of Silk Cut, extracting a cigarette, lighting up and inhaling in one fluid motion. “Come on, give me the whole story.” She let the first exhalation back out in a stream of blue-tinged smoke. “You know I’ll only get it out of you one way or another.” She sat down on a flat-topped rock, nudged up to make room for Derry. “You know, the minute I bumped into the pair of you just now, I knew she had to be your sister. Honestly, you’re the living spit of each other.” The second one to say as much today. Derry followed the other woman’s eyes, lingering on Gabby who, much to the twins’ delight, was kicking the water high into the air where, caught in the light of the sun, it broke into a million fragments and rained down crystal. Sheila tilted her head to one side. “So how come you never mentioned her?”

  Taking Sheila’s cigarette, Derry took a quick drag and handed it back again. She had given up smoking whilst pregnant with the girls but every now and then she still felt the urge for a heartening shot of nicotine. “It’s a long story,” she said, and began to fill Sheila in, finding a certain relief in sharing Gabby’s sad history with someone other than James.

  “God almighty, the poor thing!” Shelia wiped away a tear as Derry finally reached the present day. “Hard to believe how those poor women were treated, isn’t it?” She gave a great snort. “So much for Catholic Ireland. It’s well and truly with O’Leary in the grave. I treat my dog better than that poor girl was treated.” Right on cue, Skippy appeared back, ball in mouth, a long trail of saliva dripping from his mouth, eyes bright with anticipation. Nor was he disappointe
d, as his owner reached for the ball and a moment later saw him scuttling away again. “And how is James taking it?” Sheila knew enough of Derry’s husband to guess it wouldn’t all be plain sailing. Billy, her own husband, was of the opinion that James Quinn was much too far too up his own behind and wondered more than once how come a lovely girl like Derry had fetched up with him. But Sheila had no difficulty in seeing the attraction. James Quinn had it all. Blond film star looks! Cornflower-blue beguiling eyes that made you think you were the only woman in the world whenever he spoke to you. A perfect physique, neither too bulked up nor too weedy, just nicely toned and with that healthy golden glow that owed nothing to sun beds and everything to the open air. There was no doubt about it, when Derry’s husband set out to charm you, he’d have you eating out of his hand in five seconds flat. Up his own behind or not, James Quinn was a fine thing and if he hadn’t chosen politics, he could easily have been an actor. “Same bloody thing,” Billy had remarked scathingly, when Sheila had made the observation one day.

  “James?” Derry avoided looking at her neighbour, kept her eyes fixed on the three gambolling figures on the edge of the sea, doll-like silhouettes now against the darkening horizon. “Oh, fine. He’s having to adjust, of course. We all are really. It’ll take time.”

  “Ah, it will.” Sheila agreed, not missing the sudden brightness in her friend’s dark eyes, that owed nothing to the sun, which was slowly being mopped from the sky by the impending clouds of evening. “It’s never easy having another adult about the place.” Her mouth twisted. “Whenever my mother or, worse still, Billy’s old bat comes to stay, it’s World War II all over again.”

  “Well, it’s not that bad,” Derry laughed, but for the first time she could remember, the thoughts of seeing her husband that evening filled her with dread. He always seemed so angry lately. Angry and stressed, ready to blow his top at the slightest excuse and, really, Derry couldn’t believe it was all simply down to having Gabby come to stay. But try as she might, he refused to be drawn and even the twins approached with caution these days.

  Sliding off the stone into an upright position, Sheila stuck two fingers in her mouth and gave an expert whistle that had Skippy tearing back like all the devils in hell were hot on his heels. “Well, I suppose I’d better go home. The hunter will be home from the hill soon or back from the station even and if his dinner isn’t on the table we’ll have the mother and father of a sulk all evening.”

  Derry smiled in sympathy. Sheila’s policeman husband’s sulks were legendary but, as with a lot of big men, his bark was worse than his bite and it was plain he adored his wife.

  “Come round for dinner, Saturday,” she said impulsively. Maybe a bit of company would cheer James up and it would also help with Gabby’s socialisation. The more people she met, especially men, Derry reasoned, the sooner she would learn adapt to society.

  “That would be lovely,” Sheila smiled her thanks. “I’ll bring a bottle and we can all get merry.”

  “Now, that,” Derry said with heartfelt enthusiasm, “really would be lovely!”

  ***

  “I didn’t know days like today existed,” Gabby, sat on the chair before her dressing table, while Derry showed her how to take her make up off with cotton pads and lotion. “Honestly, Derry, it’s been like a dream. I have to keep pinching myself.”

  “That was just the beginning,” Derry smiled, catching her sister’s eyes in her mirrored reflection. “There’ll be loads more days like that, Gabby, you’ll see.” Wiping off the last traces of make-up, she showed her how to apply night cream, patting it gently on around the eye area and slathering it on her neck with the upward strokes that were reputed to keep the skin firm. “Now, prayers and bed.”

  “Prayers and bed,” Gabby echoed so obediently, Derry almost screamed at the way her sister had been brainwashed by the nuns. The twins had more spirit, more fight in them. She didn’t scream, though. She kept her own counsel. Step by step, she told herself, and a moment later found her joining Gabby on her knees before the Sacred Heart lamp. “Oh, angel of God, my guardian dear,” she began, realising that the saying of prayers was to become a nightly ritual. But if it comforted Gabby, a few minutes on her knees wouldn’t hurt.

  “Amen!” Reverently, Gabby bowed her head, as together she and Derry reached the end of the prayer.

  “Amen.” Grasping the side of the bed, Derry pulled herself up and waited till Gabby had climbed into it and pulled the covers up around herself like a papoose. “Sleep well,” she said. “And remember what I said. There’ll be lots more days like this. The sea isn’t going to go away.”

  “And neither am I, Derry, am I?” Gabby’s voice was anxious, desperate for reassurance.

  “No, neither are you. Never again.” Derry’s fingernails dug into her palms as she made the vow. “We’ll get through, no matter what. Things will get easier, for both of us.” The last was said more in hopes than expectation. Closing the door, she leaned up against it for a minute, closed her eyes and sighed deeply, before descending to the living room where, James, surprise, surprise was ensconced with a drink in his hand. Surprise, because lately he treated the family, most of all herself, like lepers, choosing to spend most of his time in his study or, failing that, sloping off to the gym.

  “Everything all right?” He raised his eyebrows as she came into the room, and she couldn’t help noticing how tired he was looking. The little fan of laughter lines at the corners of his eyes, seeming so much deeper all of a sudden.

  “Fine,” Derry answered, trying hard to hide her delight at finding him so affable. “The twins are asleep and poor old Gabby is tired out from all the shopping today and, of course, the seaside wiped her out altogether. Honestly, darling, I feel so angry when I think of all the things she’s missed out on. You should have seen her down on the beach. She was like a child.”

  James patted the arm of his chair in invitation. “Ah, well, she’s luckier than some. She’s got you for starters. Now, c’mere and give me a kiss.”

  Without waiting for a second invitation, Derry perched on the arm, reached down and kissed him lingeringly on the lips. “And so have you,” she reminded him, then taking advantage of his good humour, “but you know what, James, I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong because, honest to God, you’re like a bear with a sore head these days. I feel like I’m treading on eggshells around you. We all do. Is it work? Are the elections getting to you?” She tilted his chin upwards, looked deep into his eyes for clues. “Tell me, please.”

  For a moment, he looked as though he might actually open up to her. An unreadable expression flitted across his face. But when he spoke it was only to turn the tables and ask about her. “Never mind bloody work. Let’s leave that in the office. Tell me about you. When are you planning on going back to work yourself?”

  Disappointed Derry sighed. He obviously wasn’t ready to share and that was that. Still, looking on the bright side, the lines of communication were open again, for which small mercy she could only be thankful. “Monday,” her voice grew heavy with regret. “There was only so much time I could take off for Gabby. I’m not happy about it, although Sheila said she’ll pop in and keep an eye on her and take her out occasionally too, which will be a big help.”

  “Sheila’s a good sort.” And besides, you can’t baby-sit Gabby all her life. Surely the whole idea is to make her independent, give her a normal life.” Thoughtful, James took a sip from his drink. “Anyway, it’ll do you good to get back. It’s never a good idea to be away from work for too long. Too many vultures queuing up to take your place.”

  “The vultures are more than welcome to it.” Gloomily, Derry picked at a loose thread on the settee, realised what she was doing all of a sudden and tried vainly to pat it back into place. “It’s been so long since I had a good story, I doubt if I’d know one if I fell over it. Honest to God, I can feel the women’s pages beckoning me. Death by cellulite and anti-wrinkle cream. I don’t think I can bear it.”

/>   James laughed. “Ah, come off it, woman. You’re a born journalist through and through. Something is bound to turn up. You were born with the nose of a bloodhound.”

  “Speaking of which,” Derry cleared her throat, slanted him an assessing look and dived straight into a topic she had prevaricating about, the Ides never, until now, appearing to be auspicious. “Actually, something has turned up that would put me back on the scent. A personal matter, though. Nothing to do with work.”

  “Really?” James quirked an eyebrow. “Well, go on Sherlock, I’m intrigued.”

  “Gabby,” Derry said in a sudden rush. “Or, more accurately, her baby?”

  “Oh, no,” James bolted upright, held up his hand as though to ward her off. “No, Derry, please don’t tell me you’re thinking about going down that route.”