The Crowley Girl
‘Do you know something,’ Johanna said as she turned to face the sunroom, beams of light slashing through the thick glass walls. ‘I never get sick of that view, no matter how many times I sit in this kitchen.’
Keelin snorted, handing her a cup of tea. ‘Don’t be such a plámásar. You’d swear you weren’t from Rún yourself.’
‘To be fair, I don’t live here any more,’ her friend said. Keelin was the only one of the three of them who still lived on the island. Jo rented a place in Schull, near the school where she’d recently been made principal, and Seán was away fishing for months at a time, renting out his two-bed bungalow in Castletownbere to cover the mortgage while he was gone. ‘And there’s a difference to being from here and having a house like this,’ Jo said, gesturing at Keelin to pass the packet of biscuits. ‘Oh lovely,’ she muttered as she read the packaging. ‘Gluten- and dairy-free. I would have called to Mama and Papi for tea if I’d wanted this shite.’
‘Henry’s orders,’ Keelin said. She didn’t want to talk about this house, not with Johanna anyway. Jo had been her best friend since they were babies, growing from a skinny child into a skinny adult – you’d miss her if she turned sideways, Keelin’s mother used to say – with the same cropped black hair and buck teeth that were slightly too large for her mouth. They had been the only two girls born that year, and as they were both that rarefied thing on the island – the single child – they had become like sisters to one another. Keelin could not remember a time when Jo wasn’t part of her life.
‘A dairy-free diet doesn’t seem like Henry’s idea of a good time,’ Johanna said, taking one of the offending biscuits. ‘What’s brought this on?’
‘It’s a long story,’ she said. She didn’t want to tell her the truth; she knew her friend wouldn’t approve. Keelin had never dieted before now; her mother could remember rationing during The Emergency and had raised Keelin to believe that faddish eating was akin to a mortal sin: You’ll finish that plate of food right now, young lady. Think of all the starving children in Africa. None of Henry’s friends in London talked about diets either, it was considered terribly passé in their set. They ate butter and carbs, but the women still managed to be slender to the point of frailty, with spindly legs that looked as if they might break if they stood up straight. Keelin was the only woman who wore anything other than a size eight and although she wished it didn’t, it bothered her. She’d gone to Henry after the last party at the Darcys’ house in Norfolk, and asked for his help. I’m useless, she said to him, and I’ve no willpower whatsoever. Will you keep an eye on me? Call me a heifer when I’m reaching for a second slice of cake? He’d laughed, told her she was no such thing. But of course, her husband said. If you want me to help you, I will.
‘There are some benefits to living alone then,’ Johanna said, pulling a face. ‘At least I can buy whatever junk food I want.’ She pointed at the magazine rack on the floor. ‘I spy Heat mag. Gimme, please.’ She flicked through the pages, turning it around to show Keelin a photo of a boy band from a reality television show, fanning herself.
‘Not you too, Jo,’ Henry said, walking into the kitchen. He’d been out running and he was red-cheeked, his damp hair clinging to his skull. ‘They’re practically children.’
‘They’re very hot children,’ the other woman said, half standing to give Henry a hug before pretending to recoil at his sweat-stained T-shirt. ‘You know I’m mad about you, Kinsella,’ she said, backing away from him, ‘but not that much, I’m afraid.’
‘You win some, you lose some,’ he said, filling a glass with water from the Brita jug. ‘How are things with you, anyway?’ Henry sat opposite Johanna, reaching across her to grab a biscuit. ‘How’s the lovely Susan? Still devoted to me, I hope?’
‘But of course. She would leave me in a heartbeat if she knew you were available,’ she replied.
Henry turned his hands up to the sky, as if in prayer. ‘And I really think me and Susan could be happy together,’ he said. ‘But unfortunately, I love this lady too much to ever look at another woman.’ He grabbed Keelin by the waist, and she squealed in protest. ‘I’m beginning to feel rather rejected,’ he said, pulling a pout as Keelin squirmed out of his embrace, complaining about how sweaty he was. ‘Come, Ms Stein. Tell us news of the outside world, you know we’re cut off from civilisation here.’
‘Hmm, let me think,’ Jo said. ‘Well, I was just telling Keelin that I’m looking for a substitute teacher because Ríona is going on maternity leave next year. I’m up to my eyes in application forms. Zero craic.’
‘That’s a pity. Didn’t she only start last September?’ Henry said.
‘She did,’ Johanna replied. ‘Good memory, my friend. But she’s been married two years and she’s in her mid-thirties so . . .’
‘It must be frustrating,’ Keelin said, pouring herself a cup of tea from the pot. ‘I know it’s not very politically correct of me to say this, but wouldn’t it just be easier to hire a male teacher? At least you won’t have to worry about a man going off on maternity leave.’
Henry and Johanna stared at her, open-mouthed. ‘Keelin!’ Henry said. ‘Did I marry a Tory, unbeknownst to myself?’ He exchanged an outraged glance with Johanna. ‘We have a daughter, remember? Surely you wouldn’t want Evie to lose out on a job because she might need to take maternity leave some day? And you know how hard I’ve been trying to improve things here at Misty Hill. Jo, you’ll like this.’ He turned to her friend again. ‘I’ve made it our mission to achieve a completely gender-balanced ratio of artists at the retreat centre by at least—’
‘But you said the other day, you said, but, but, you said, Henry . . .’ Keelin stuttered. ‘You never stop complaining about how difficult that is.’ She could feel tears pricking her eyes; she always wanted to cry when she felt embarrassed. ‘You said loads of the female artists you invite here refuse to come because they have family commitments they can’t get out of, even if you offer them a bursary. You said that—’
‘Darling,’ Henry said, taking her hand in his. His voice became gentler. ‘We have to take into account how certain social structures make it more difficult for women to progress in their careers in the first place. No one seems to wonder why the fathers never have any issue with coming to Misty Hill for three months to finish their latest album or book or whatever.’
‘Exactly,’ Johanna said, pounding her fist on the table. ‘No one ever asks men who’s taking care of the children or how do they juggle it all. God, it’s all such bullshit and I fucking love that you can see that, Kinsella.’ She put her palm out to high-five him, Henry happily complying. ‘You’ve a good one here, Keels,’ her friend said. ‘He’s a keeper.’
‘Yes,’ she smiled tightly, putting her hand on the small of her husband’s back. ‘Do you want to have a shower, babe? You’ll catch your death.’
He wavered, clearly hoping Johanna would object, demand he stay for longer. Henry had always felt like a fraud, he’d confided in Keelin one night after too much Scotch, ever since he was a child. The boy who was sent to the best schools but who knew he was different; his family’s wealth was too new, his surname too Irish. He knew he couldn’t be one of them so he had, instead, made himself the most – the most fun, the most interesting, the most attractive. The life and soul of every party, the one who could be depended upon to say yes to one more drink or line or dance, always the last to leave. Keelin could see something in her husband, and she recognised what it was because it was within her too. A desperation to belong, maybe, or a yearning to be loved. Since her parents had died, she’d had no family except Alex, so when Henry proposed to her all those years ago, she had said, You and I can belong to each another now, Henry. I’d like that very much, he’d replied, his voice thick.
‘I suppose I should probably . . .’ he began, pausing when he heard a knock on the door. Keelin could hear a female voice calling out, ‘Hello?’, footsteps on the wooden floor in the hall, and there she was, again.
‘I hope you don’t mind but the door was open,’ Nessa said. Her skin was glowing, even without make-up. Not for the Crowley Girls the blotchy complexion Keelin remembered from her own youth, the spots that would erupt around her chin and jawline when she was premenstrual. ‘I was just passing by so I thought I’d pop in,’ the girl said, plonking her cheap tan handbag onto the countertop. She had been ‘just passing by’ every day this summer, waving a quick hello before disappearing with Alex to his bedroom. They could be up there, alone, for hours. Keelin would walk past the closed door, listening for bedsprings, low moaning, but all she heard was music, low voices, the occasional peal of laughter. Keelin couldn’t stop thinking about what she had read in her son’s diary, but she couldn’t tell Henry about that, she couldn’t tell anyone what she had seen that day. She just said that she was unhappy about the situation, it wasn’t appropriate, and her husband advised her to stay calm. Things will go back to normal when autumn comes and Nessa returns to UCC, he said. She’ll be distracted by her friends in Cork and she’ll forget all about Alex. But it was September now and here Nessa Crowley was, just ‘passing by’ Hawthorn House for the umpteenth time.
‘Alex doesn’t have a session with you today, does he?’ Keelin asked her. ‘Because he’s not here, if he does.’
‘That’s fine – I’ll wait for him.’
‘Well,’ Jo said to break the awkward silence. ‘As I live and breathe, one of the Crowley Girls in the flesh. How are you, lovely?’ She poured the young woman a cup of tea, Nessa shaking her head when Jo held up the sugar canister. ‘Are the biscuits gluten-free?’ she asked. ‘I’m coeliac.’
‘Are you now?’ Jo asked, her eyes darting to Keelin. ‘Well, then you’re in luck! Here you go.’
‘Thanks, Hanna,’ Nessa said as she took the biscuit, slipping into her baby nickname for Johanna. She never did that with Keelin; she barely acknowledged that they’d known each other before she started giving Alex grinds. If Nessa could have called her Mrs Kinsella, Keelin suspected she would have. Had she been as nervous of Seán’s mother when they’d briefly dated as teenagers? But that was different, she and Seán had been the same age, and they’d been friends for years. There was no chance she would have broken Seán’s heart, just to prove she could.
‘What were you all fighting about before I came in?’ the girl asked. ‘I could hear raised voices from the hall.’
‘Nothing much,’ Henry said, winking at Keelin. ‘Just my wife setting back the feminist movement by twenty years.’
‘That’s not fair.’
‘But surely you consider yourself a feminist, Keelin?’ Nessa asked, her eyes widening. ‘I know a lot of women of your generation think it’s about man-hating and refusing to shave your legs or whatever, but actually, it’s just about equality. Equal rights for men and women, like. That’s all it is. It’s nothing to be scared of.’
‘Women of “my generation” have access to the dictionary too,’ Keelin snapped. ‘I don’t need a twenty-year-old with zero life experience to explain the meaning of the word “feminism” to me.’ She stood up, reaching across the table to grab the younger woman’s cup, dumping the ware in the sink with a clatter. She stood there, not daring to turn around; she didn’t want to see the exaggerated grimaces, Johanna’s mouthed What the fuck? to Henry. She gripped the edges of the counter as she tried to formulate a polite apology in her head, something to make her seem less ridiculous after that outburst.
‘Erm, right, OK,’ Nessa said. ‘I’ll head up to Alex’s room, I think. I can wait for him there.’ Keelin could hear the young woman getting up behind her, exchanging polite goodbyes with Jo and Henry as she gathered her belongings, her slow footsteps on the stairs. She wanted to scream after Nessa, to tell her to come back – How dare you! The cheek of you going to my son’s room without permission! – and insist the girl leave Hawthorn House immediately. But Keelin couldn’t do that, she had made enough of a fool of herself as it was.
‘Are you all right?’ Henry said under his breath, but Keelin was silent. Not now. ‘Got it,’ he said, hugging her from behind. ‘We can talk later. I love you.’
‘Jaaaaysus. What was that about?’ Johanna asked when they were alone.
‘Nothing,’ Keelin said. ‘I’m in bad form, that’s all.’ She took the biscuits and put them back in the tin before rinsing off the plates and tea cups and stacking them in the dishwasher. ‘Just ignore me.’
‘You know, Keels . . .’ Her friend hesitated. ‘There’s been some talk around the island. Saying that one of the Crowley Girls is forever up in the Big House.’
‘There’s always talk around the island,’ Keelin said, edging her way around Johanna, her hip grazing against the other woman’s body. She walked into the sunroom, Jo behind her, and they looked out the window. It was a grim day, the water chopping angrily at the cliffs, spitting spray into the air, the clouds heavy with the threat of rain. The two women stood side by side, their fingers not quite touching, staring at the sea that had surrounded them for their entire lives.
‘Do you remember when we were kids?’ Jo asked her. ‘God, I was never out of trouble, was I? I was non-stop talking,’ she laughed. ‘If I had a student like that in my classroom now . . . I don’t know how Mr Ó Gríofa didn’t murder me. But you –’ she looked at Keelin – ‘you were so well behaved.’ She had been a quiet child, so quiet that the teachers rarely paid her much attention. Keelin Ní Mhordha was known as bright but not brilliant; she did her homework diligently but never raised her hand to answer questions, her face burning when the múinteoir called upon her in class. ‘But whenever I was caught being bold,’ Jo went on, ‘you would insist you’d been messing too, that you deserved to be punished as well, even though you never did. And the two of us would be made to stand at the top of the classroom together, like a right pair of dunces. Remember?’
‘What’s your point, Jo?’
‘My point is that I’m still standing here beside you and I’m not going anywhere either.’ She touched her fingertips against Keelin’s. ‘You would tell me if you weren’t fine, wouldn’t you?’
Keelin didn’t reply. She just squeezed Johanna’s hand as tightly as she could.