April 2019, Clooneven, County Clare
Jessie
Jessie Daly had promised herself that she’d spend the journey from Dublin to Clooneven preparing her answers. By the time she reached home, every sentence would be honed, every possibility covered.
She should have remembered that bus trips made her sleepy. Barely had they passed the turn-off for Naas than her eyelids became heavy, and her head lolled to one side. She woke two hours later to the sound of rain rattling against the window and the suspicion that the lattice texture of the seat’s cloth had been imprinted on her face. She ran a finger down her right cheek. Suspicion confirmed.
Waking up was always the same. For a moment, everything was bright. Then it would all come back to her, and the clouds would roll in again. She’d tried telling herself not to dwell on what she couldn’t change, but it hadn’t worked. Apart from sleep, nothing worked.
After two bus changes, and a further two hours, she arrived in Clooneven. The number of passengers had dwindled to six. Alongside her, there were two women with hessian shopping bags, a man who’d spent the journey from Ennis telling the driver about his cataracts, and a German couple who slouched under the weight of their rucksacks. One of the women looked Jessie up and down before tapping her companion on the arm. In the sort of whisper that could be heard two streets away, she said, ‘You know who that is, Martina, don’t you?’
Jessie ignored them. She also suppressed the urge to tell the tourists that they were getting off in the wrong place. With its curve of pale beach, rippling ocean and horseshoe of brightly painted houses, Clooneven was heart-stoppingly lovely. At this time of year, however, it was marked by the off-season dullness common to seaside towns everywhere. The gift shops were closed, the bars quiet, the beach deserted. The town was waiting for the summer season to unfurl.
In early April, the couple would be lucky to find a half-decent meal or a drinkable cup of coffee. If they did, chances were the coffee would be provided by the woman waiting at the town’s sole bus stop. Jessie’s sister, Lorna, had a navy blazer draped over her shoulders, a large pair of sunglasses on top of her ash-blonde head and a pursed-lip expression that suggested this was not how she’d wanted to spend her afternoon.
As Jessie descended the steps of the bus and retrieved her luggage, Lorna gave a quick smile of acknowledgement. ‘That’s a lot of stuff you have with you,’ she said, followed swiftly by ‘God, you’re very pale.’
‘Yeah, well, it’s been . . .’ Not knowing how to finish the sentence, Jessie allowed it to trail away. She’d barely spoken for five or six days, and her voice was rusty from lack of use. She heaved her black suitcase into the boot of the SUV, placed her other bag onto one of the back seats and climbed in beside her sister.
Familiar sounds and smells – the squabbling of seagulls, the tang of seaweed – filled her head. The rain had been replaced by high watery cloud. Fearing what Lorna would say next, she wished she’d chosen to walk the five kilometres to the family home. She was also annoyed with herself for not spending more time preparing her story.
At thirty-six, Lorna was seven years older than Jessie. Along with her husband, Simon Keating, she was the owner of several businesses including a café, a grocery shop and an amusement arcade. As she was fond of reminding people, she hadn’t allowed her mediocre education to hold her back. ‘Hard work,’ she would say, to anyone willing to listen. ‘Hard work and perseverance.’ By contrast, Jessie with her honours-laden Leaving Cert and lah-dee-dah degree from Trinity College didn’t even own a car. What Lorna chose not to say was that the most lucrative businesses in the portfolio – the shop and the arcade – had originally been owned by Simon’s parents. He’d also inherited a house the size of a nursing home. In recent years, the couple had remodelled it into a palace of glass and pale brick.
When she was drunk, Jessie liked to describe herself as a Marxist. She was against the accumulation of wealth for wealth’s sake. She supported public housing, rent controls, a basic income for all. In her lower moments, and there had been too many of these lately, she envied her sister. She pictured life with a husband, two children and under-floor heating. She thought about certainty, stability and the sort of comforts that came with a conventional grown-up life. Not that she’d say any of this out loud. She didn’t want hypocrisy added to her list of failings.
As Lorna drove past the hotel, the seaweed baths and the golf clubhouse, she stayed quiet. Her angular face shone, like she’d taken a bath in motor oil. Maybe she’d been on a spa weekend. Or maybe it was a glow of self-righteousness.
When finally she spoke again, her words were crisp. ‘They’re incredibly upset, you know. I mean, they won’t say as much to you, but it’s difficult for them.’
‘I get that. I’ve told them I’m sorry.’
‘Everybody saw it. And, if they didn’t watch it live, they’ve come across it on Facebook. How could you do that to Mam and Dad? What were you thinking?’
Jessie pulled at the sleeves of her leather jacket. ‘Ah, Lorna. You’re making it sound like I killed someone.’
‘You’ve killed your reputation anyway. You’ll be lucky to get more work.’
‘If I come up with stories, I’ll get work.’
Even as the words left Jessie’s mouth, she knew they weren’t true. The media had changed. There were too many journalists and too few paying jobs. Dublin was overflowing with young reporters who were willing to write whatever their bosses wanted while shooting a video, recording a podcast and engaging in spirited arguments on Twitter. Newsrooms were staffed either by interns or by creaking veterans with nowhere else to go. The veterans spoke about atrocities they’d covered and expenses they’d claimed, while lamenting young people’s lack of initiative.
Once, she’d had notions of becoming a serious journalist, someone who wasn’t ashamed to list the publications she’d worked for on her Twitter biography. She’d pictured herself filing dispatches from a Syrian refugee camp or chasing an exploitative landlord down the street. Alternatively, she’d imagined moving to London and becoming one of the blondes who wrote about sex in the Sunday Times. Critics would describe her as ‘fearless’ and ‘unflinching’, and publishers would outbid each other in pursuit of her take on modern life.
Instead, she’d settled for a world where ‘Kate Middleton Re-wears Outfit’ and ‘Daughter of Famous Man Goes on Holiday’ were considered stories. Her work had become safe. Shallow. She’d written soft features about soft lives, and even that was gone from her now.
Lorna glanced in her direction. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but perhaps you should consider something else.’
‘Like what?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. What are you qualified for? Teaching? PR? Something steadier, at any rate. What does Phelim think?’
Jessie didn’t answer. She focused on the road ahead, and on the patchwork of fields that lined the way to the family home. At least Lorna was direct. Being pecked at by her was easier than dealing with their parents’ understated disappointment.
The Dalys lived in a pebble-dashed bungalow, one of many built in the area in the 1970s and 1980s. Compared to the two-storey houses of more recent years, with their glossy crimson doors and ornate gates, it looked insubstantial. If the building was modest, the front and back gardens were works of art, tended with care and no little skill by their mother, Maeve. As Jessie climbed out of the vehicle, it was the smell that struck her first, the blend of wallflowers and magnolia that meant springtime at home.
Having spent her school days with her nose pressed against an imaginary window, hankering after a world outside Clooneven, she’d left at eighteen. She’d been certain that everything she wanted was elsewhere. Her visits home had been infrequent.
Her father, Denis, worked in a light engineering plant in Ennis. It was skilled if unglamorous work. Although he could be great fun, he was also a follower-of-rules, a man who believed in turning up on time with a clear head and polished shoes. Maeve was a petite woman who distrusted artifice and show. She darned socks, went around the house switching off lights and took pride in her ability to make endless bowls of soup from a chicken carcass and a few wizened vegetables. If Lorna’s ostentation annoyed her, she was careful not to let it show.
Jessie’s father was at the front door. While usually he would have given her a hug, today he was reserved. He looked more worn than she remembered. His light grey hair needed a trim and his brown jacket shone as if given one pressing too many. He’d been wearing the same jacket, or a clone of it, for the past twenty years.
‘Were there many on the bus?’ he said, as he picked up her case. She decided against pointing out that it had wheels.
‘It was quiet enough.’
‘Not a bad old day, all the same.’
‘We’ve had worse,’ said Lorna. ‘The forecast for next week is good.’
They could carry on like this for hours, batting around words while saying nothing. Eventually, though, they would have to talk, and Jessie still wasn’t sure how much to say.
Maeve was in the kitchen, making tea. She also appeared tired. For someone who usually looked as if she’d stepped out of a clothing catalogue, she was surprisingly unkempt. Her shapeless camel cardigan was at odds with her blue trousers, which were at odds with her green slippers.
Jessie pulled out a chair and sat down beside the table. For once, the kitchen’s comfortable clutter felt claustrophobic rather than welcoming. There were too many plates on the dresser, too many mugs on the draining board, too many magnets on the fridge.
Her mother gave a weak smile, then turned to Lorna. ‘You’ll stay for a cup?’
Please don’t, thought Jessie.
‘I will indeed,’ said her sister, as she found a chair. ‘Jessie, get up there and give Mam a hand. You’ve been sitting down all day.’
So this was how it was going to be.
For five minutes, they drank tea, picked at a currant loaf and swapped small-talk. Finally, it was Lorna who mentioned the unmentionable.
‘Jessie tells me she’s apologised to you.’
‘She has,’ said their mother, ‘only that doesn’t stop us worrying.’
Their father nodded. ‘We should have noticed that things weren’t right.’
Jessie, who’d been examining her fingernails, looked up. ‘I am here, you know. You can ask me.’
‘Yes,’ said her mother, ‘only every time we tried to talk to you on the phone, you clammed up on us. That’s if you bothered answering.’
‘You were very drunk,’ said Lorna.
‘I honestly wasn’t. Well, I was, but the cameras made everything look worse.’
‘What I can’t understand is why they let you on in that state. Or why you didn’t realise you’d stopped making sense.’
Their parents exchanged a look but remained quiet.
‘Like I told you, it’s kind of hard to explain. It’s like . . .’
‘Why don’t you give it a go?’ replied Lorna. ‘We all deserve a proper explanation.’