Thirty-five

She saw the funeral on the nine o’clock news. It was held at the church in Killiney, for some strange reason, and Sorcha was at it. There was a shot of her, in a black trouser suit, her fair hair spread across her shoulders, weeping. Afterwards in the porch a reporter asked her if it were not ironic that Vincy had been beheaded after virtually rescuing her from a possibly similar fate only months earlier. Sorcha gave him a stony look and mumbled shyly, yes, yes. It was ironic.

Joe, Vincy’s best friend, was there too. He was a man, not a woman. How did she know it was Joe? She just did. He was holding Sorcha by the waist, as if he were her partner, or lover. But maybe it was just the sort of touchy-feely thing fashionable people do at funerals, Anna thought, remembering Four Weddings and a Funeral, where everyone hugged everyone else all the time, at the funeral as well as the weddings.

Vincy was cremated then. She saw the coffin, which was open so she could see Vincy clearly, his head beside his body – odd that they had not tried to make him look as if he were in one piece, for this last television appearance – being pushed behind the curtain at the crematorium, and then she saw the flames rising and the smoke, over the round tower and the cypress trees, and the rooks circling over the grey walls. The sky darkened and the rooks fluttered across the face of the moon

Anna opened her eyes. The faces of Rory and Alex hovered above her. Two moons. They lit up.

‘She’s awake!’ Rory shouted. He tried to hug her.

Alex pulled him back. ‘Careful! You might hurt her!’ he said, in a loud whisper.

‘I won’t hurt her! Does this hurt?’ He clutched Anna in a tight clasp.

She smiled weakly and said, ‘No, darling’, although it did hurt, in more ways than she could say.

‘See?’ he said to Alex. But he climbed off his mother and stood beside his father at the side of her bed.

‘How do you feel?’ asked Alex. He would have liked to hold Anna’s hand, but was afraid to.

‘I feel fine,’ said Anna. ‘Vincy is dead.’

She didn’t care. She was glad.

‘No, he’s not,’ said Alex grimly.

‘He is,’ said Anna. ‘I pushed him under a tram.’

‘You didn’t push hard enough,’ said Alex. ‘I was talking to him this morning. He telephoned me to ask how you were.’

Vincy telephoned Alex to ask how she was? She was a child. They were taking care of her, as if she were not able to do that herself.

‘He’s fine. Much better than you are,’ said Alex. ‘He told me to tell you he was asking for you; he’s going back to Iraq.’

‘What?’

‘Soon. Apparently he’s got a commission from someone to write a book about it,’ Alex said. ‘He won’t be back here for a while,’ he added.

Anna looked around. She was in a small cubicle surrounded by pink and orange curtains. Her bed was high and had steel bars along the sides. All around she could hear voices, low and high; also the rattle of steel and the sound of footsteps.

‘Where am I?’ she asked.

‘In the A & E,’ said Rory importantly.

‘The Mater,’ Alex explained. ‘The Mater Hospital. You’re in the A & E unit, on a trolley. You’ve been here for two days. I don’t know what we are paying four thousand euro a year to the vhi for.’

Anna tried to remember what had happened recently. She recalled being at a book launch, listening to Lilian Meaney read from her new book, the book that all but plagiarised Anna’s own. She could hear Lilian’s sweet voice even now, reading the lines that she herself should have been reading. There was not another person on the beach. It was an ordinary Tuesday. Everyone was at work or at school, which was where Jonathan should be. But today he had decided not to go, because as he left his house with his bag on his back a large grey heron had hopped out in front of him on the roadside and talked to him. ‘Do not go the school,’ the heron said. ‘Come down to the beach, where someone is waiting to see you.’ She could see Lilian, in the wonderful green dress she had bought for the occasion. She could even recall a conversation she had had long ago with Lilian, in which Lilian had commented that women in paintings almost always wore green dresses. It was the most poetic colour, for a dress.

That was all Anna remembered. Had she collapsed then, in the middle of Lilian’s reading, from envy and annoyance and righteous indignation?

‘So,’ said Anna. ‘What happened? Did the launch go on anyway?’

‘The launch?’ Alex did not remember that Anna had been at a launch, that that had been her reason for being in the centre of town when the accident happened.

‘Lilian’s launch. The Wonderful Adventures of Jonathan Murphy, or whatever. In the National Library.’

Alex looked bemused. But he nodded, as if he understood. Humouring her. ‘They called me from the hospital. They said you had been knocked down by the Luas,’ he said.

Anna raised her eyebrows quizzically. ‘I was knocked down by the Luas?’

‘Yes.’ Alex nodded. ‘You weren’t seriously injured, but you were concussed. That’s what they say here anyway.’

Anna felt her legs to make sure they were still there. They seemed to be in place.

‘Are you ok, Mom?’ Rory kissed her again, his face full of love. His face smelt fresh, like milk and apples. He was being looked after by someone.

‘I should try to get a doctor.’ Alex patted her on the forehead worriedly. ‘They can discharge you and you can come home then. The sooner you get out of here the better.’

Anna lay back on her pillow.

‘I’ll get a nurse in to look after you at home, for a few days,’ Alex said. ‘Or whatever, however long you need her.’

Anna closed her eyes.

The crossroads and junctions become fewer and fewer. She saw them, the crossroads of her youth, softened by hedgerows, white hawthorn, dripping elderflowers. Quite soon you find you are on a straight road with no junctions, leading to an inevitable destination.

‘I’m jumping into the forest,’ said Anna. ‘I need to go somewhere. Alone.’

‘Of course you do,’ said Alex, glancing warningly at Rory. ‘That’s perfectly understandable. Would you like to come home now, and then …’ He looked at her carefully. ‘Then, when you’ve recovered from this’ – he made a vague gesture that took in the entire A & E corridor – ‘then you can decide what to do.’

She looked up at Alex and Rory. They looked at her, on her trolley, with her black hair spread across the flat, white pillow. It was not lanky or greasy, even though she had been knocked down by a tram and unconscious for two days. It still looked as clean and shining as if she had just washed it. Her face was pale but as perfect as ever.

‘Thanks very much,’ she said slowly. ‘But no. I won’t go home.’ Rory frowned, and turned his face away from her. ‘Not for a while,’ she said, taking his hand. ‘Anyway. Not quite yet. I need to … do something.’

‘All right,’ said Alex. Rory was going to say something but Alex silenced him with a nudge. ‘That’s sensible. You need space and time.’

‘Yes,’ Anna said. ‘Where is this? Where are we?’

‘The Mater,’ said Alex. ‘The A & E in the Mater.’ He couldn’t remember if he had told her that already or not. ‘It’s very busy, you’ve been on this trolley for two days.’

Anna was trying to remember a name, but it would not come to her. It was very frustrating, like trying to get your Internet connection to work when the link has broken.

‘There’s a nice letter for you,’ Alex said.

‘How do you know it’s nice?’ asked Anna.

‘I don’t. But it looks nice. Here.’ He handed it to her.

It was a nice envelope, white and thick, with her name and address handwritten in rich blue ink. The envelope was sealed but only just – Alex had probably opened the letter and read it, then tried to make it look as if he hadn’t. That’s how he knew it was nice. If it had not been nice, he would not have brought it to her in the A & E.

The letter was from a literary agent, to whom Anna had sent a synopsis and the completed chapters of Sally and the Ship of Dreams a few weeks earlier. The agent wrote that she had fallen in love with it. They say these things. There were so many good things in it. And it was great that the heroine was a heroine, a girl. A lot of the big successful children’s books were about boys – Harry Potter, Artemis Fowl, Eragon – all the rest of them. When you think about it, it’s true. Goodnight Mister Tom. Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Charlie and the Giant Peach. It wasn’t like the old Alice in Wonderland days. Pippi Longstocking … They say such a lot of crap. If Anna could emphasise the feminine aspect – point it up, make it more obvious – she might be able to find a good publisher, get a good advance.

Emphasise the feminine aspect.

Make Sally more girly.

And more strong and heroic.

‘So?’ asked Alex, when she had put the letter down. ‘Was I right? Is it nice?’

‘Quite nice,’ said Anna sadly. The agent had not yet encountered The Wonderful Adventures of Jonathan Murphy, obviously.

‘I’m glad you’re pleased,’ said Alex, not noticing that Anna was on the verge of tears. ‘So now, I’ll go and hunt for a doctor … if there is one to be found in this place, which I begin to doubt.’

He left the cubicle.

Anna reread the letter. Then she pulled something out of her bag. The brochure Christine had given her.

Annaghmakerrig.

A gabled house set in a fringe of evergreens.

A dark lake, green slopes of daffodils.

A retreat, a place to write or paint, to compose. To recharge the batteries. To walk in the forest or swim in the lake. To work all day and all night. To enjoy the company of fellow artists.

Art.

Peace and tranquillity and art.

The gabled house, yellow ochre, the smiling windows.

I need that.

Tranquillity and peace.

I need to see what art is, what artists do. Like that woman in the desk by the window, typing, looking out at the slope of flowers, the wagtail dipping in the pond.

No talk of advances, bestsellers, pricing your book.

I want to write what I have not yet written, something deep inside me, not yet seen, not yet felt, not yet known, to me. Myself. I want to write. Real, I want to write, and unreal.

She felt a bit more cheerful then.

Rory kissed her again. He glanced at the brochure. ‘Now you can come home and write your book,’ he said. ‘And we’ll all be happy.’

Anna hugged him.

‘What happened to me?’ she asked.

‘You were knocked down on O’Connell Street,’ said Rory. ‘You know, that big street where the spire is.’

‘Yes, I know that big street,’ said Anna. ‘But where am I now?’

‘In the A & E,’ said Rory. ‘They brought you here in an ambulance. Whee-whee-whee-whee-whee! Then they phoned us. They got the number from your mobile.’

Anna nodded. ‘How is your father?’ she asked.

Rory was puzzled. ‘He’s ok. He just went out to look for a doctor. He’ll be back in a minute.’

Anna tried to remember the name again. Her head was clear at the front, but at the back it felt like a mass of thick wool, in which all memories were lost. The name would not come to light.

‘How is Luz Mar?’ she asked.

That was not the name.

‘She’s gone,’ he said. ‘Luz Mar. She left months ago. I have another one now. Marike.’

‘Marike, yes,’ said Anna. ‘And your father? Where is he?’

Rory was getting cross. ‘I told you, he just went to find a doctor. He will be back soon.’

‘That’s good. Is there a doctor here?’

‘It’s a hospital,’ said Rory wearily.

‘Which hospital?’ asked Anna.

‘I don’t know,’ said Rory. ‘I forget. What Matter, or something like that.’

‘What Matter?’ Anna said. ‘That’s a good name for a hospital.’

She looked around the cubicle again. Her clothes on the floor in a little heap, with her handbag on top.

‘I need to go to the toilet,’ said Anna, pushing back the blue bedcover.

‘You turn right, go down to the door, turn left, go down the corridor, turn right, go up the stairs, and it’s just there in front of you,’ said Rory.

‘I suppose I’ll find it,’ said Anna, who had not taken in any of his rapid directions.

‘You can ask people. I had to ask a few times,’ said Rory. ‘The natives are friendly.’

‘Oh good,’ said Anna. ‘I better put on my clothes, I suppose.’

‘I’ll go out for a minute.’ Rory vanished through the pink and orange curtain. There was nothing he hated more than seeing his parents in a state of undress.

Anna clambered down from the trolley. Her legs were unsteady but she did not fall, and she managed to get her clothes on quickly enough. She brushed her hair and checked her face in her compact mirror: she looked washy but normal. Pushing the letter into her handbag, she emerged from the cubicle – an expensively dressed woman, who seemed out of place in the shabby hospital. Rory was standing outside the cubicle, playing a hand-held computer game. He pointed along the corridor, not speaking.

Anna walked along as instructed. Trolleys were ranged along one wall, on each one a patient, some old and very ill, some very young. Nurses moved up and down, occasionally stopping to talk to a patient, telling them they were moving up the list and would see a doctor before the end of the day if all went well, or covering the face of someone who had passed away, weary of life on a trolley. Some of the patients looked at Anna with some interest, as she trotted along on her high heels. The nurses did not seem to see her.

She found the toilet after about ten minutes.

But when she had used it, she could not find her way back to her cubicle.

She walked along the corridors of the hospital and finally came to a door that led outside, into a car park. Once she smelt the air, she decided she might as well go out. So she crossed the car park and left the hospital yard.

When she reached the street, she stopped to consider.

She was in a grey place. Stony houses, black roofs. Little streets to her right, a long, dark street to her left. A lot of traffic but not many people walking. No shops.

Seagulls wheeled over the spire of a dark church, their voices hardly heard on the street in the din of the traffic. Still, they seemed to call to Anna. She decided to turn towards them – northwards. It was early afternoon, a mildly overcast day. The sun could be sensed hovering behind the pearly clouds, but it wasn’t going to break through.

She walked past the black church, and along some unfamiliar streets, where time seemed to have stood still. Soon she was on a long straight road, lined with big houses. Their gardens were shaded by sycamore and chestnut trees. Drifts of leaves filled every corner, and were heaped up at the edge of the garden railings. The smell of autumn, that mysterious mixture of earthiness and decay, caught at her soul.

She walked along the straight, wide thoroughfare. Now, at the end of the road, she could see an oasis of greenery – the Phoenix Park, although she did not recognise it.

Before she came there, long before, something else caught her eye and caused her to stop.

It was something that was unusual in a front garden in Dublin: an apple tree. They were mainly grown at the back, probably to make sure nobody stole the apples. But nobody stole apples these days. Nobody had even harvested these ones. The grass under the tree was littered with windfalls and there were many apples left on the tree. It had lost most of its leaves but the apples hung there, a bright orange-red, like robins’ breasts, glowing on the black branches like toy baubles. The tree was so perfect that it might have been painted by a cheerful child.

Anna stood looking at it for almost ten minutes. It seemed to her that she had never seen anything so lovely.

It reminded her of something. She frowned. She tried to remember what it was – a name, the name she had been trying to remember all day.

But it would not come up.

She could not remember the name, not for the moment.

So she continued to walk up the road.

She walks in a wood. The moss encrusts the tree trunks. Birds move in leaves, shuffling sounds, a white-tailed hare sits in her path, at her approach leaps away. She walks, through the wood to a clearing. Below, the black lake, fringed by feathery evergreens. The sloping greensward. The yellow house rising on the crest of the hill like a rock that has been there forever.

Her room, a large, plain room with green walls, a shelf of old books, a fireplace. Her desk by the window, overlooking the pond. Wagtails dip in the pond, frogs spawn there. First buds erupt on old apple trees. Soon – a month, two months – veils of blossom will lace the orchard.

Anna writes, tries to write, writes, tries to write. Lets the words float to the top like spawn on the water, lets the words sit like a hare on the track, lets the words leap like a trout in the lake, lets the words sing like the finches. Lets the words. Lets the words. Lets the words.