‘What I’m trying to say,’ she smiles, ‘is that I like it. I’m Lyrebird.’
13
‘Oh Solomon, she’s a beauty,’ Solomon’s mother, Marie, says breathily, greeting Solomon outside the house, as though he’s brought his first-born home from the hospital. She hugs her son, eyes on Laura the whole time. It’s almost as if she’s astonished, or her breath has been stolen. ‘My goodness, look at you!’ She takes Laura’s hands, no longer paying the slightest bit of notice to her son. ‘Aren’t you an angel? We’ll have to take good care of you.’ She pulls her close and wraps an arm around her shoulder.
Solomon carries the bags inside with his father, Finbar, who nudges his son so deeply in the ribs he drops the bag. Finbar laughs and hurries ahead of him.
‘Where are we going with these, petal?’ Finbar asks his wife.
‘The orchid room for dear Laura,’ she says.
‘That’s my room,’ a head peeks out from the doorway of a room to the right-hand side. ‘Hiya, bro.’ An identical but older version of Solomon, Donal, steps out and hugs his brother and greets Laura.
‘Hannah down the road will take you,’ she says. ‘If you weren’t on your own, Donal, we’d find somewhere else for you here, but that’s how it is now.’
‘Ouch,’ Solomon laughs, punching his brother in the arm. She’s punishing him for leaving the only woman everyone thought he’d marry.
Laura smiles, watching them with each other.
‘Is Solomon in the orchid room too?’ Donal asks innocently, and his mother throws him a look of pure evil that he sniggers at. Solomon busies himself with the bags and tries to usher Laura away from the conversation.
‘Solomon is in his own bedroom,’ Marie huffs, enjoying the teasing. ‘Now, off with the lot of you. Laura, angel, I’ll take you to your room. Don’t be starting anything with him in there, Donal,’ she warns them as they go into Solomon’s room.
Donal laughs. ‘Mam, I’m forty-two.’
‘I don’t care what age you are, you were always at poor Solomon. I know it was you who kicked him off the bunk bed.’
Donal’s grin gets wider. ‘Oh, the poor baby Solomon.’
‘I wasn’t the poor baby and you know it,’ Solomon says, distracted, trying to catch Laura’s eye to make sure she’s okay with all this, concerned that going from no contact with people, to this, in a matter of days, must be affecting her.
‘Wawwy,’ Laura says, a perfect mimic of Solomon’s childhood speech impediment, and Donal howls with laughter. He holds his hand up for a high-five, which Marie drags Laura away from before they see her laugh. A mother’s job, in her opinion, is to be stern; if they ever saw her lose her composure then she would lose her power. Now they try to constantly egg her on and it’s her little game to maintain that composure.
Laura is brought away to the new ‘wing’, which is an extension of two new bedrooms for the B & B after the children had left home, though Rory is the only remaining child and probably will be for the rest of his life, at the rate he’s going.
After giving her a few minutes to settle in, Solomon knocks on Laura’s door.
‘Yes,’ she says quietly, and he pushes the door open. She’s sitting on the double bed, her bags untouched on the floor at her feet, looking around at the room.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she says dreamily.
‘Ah yes. The orchid room is Mam’s favourite,’ Solomon says, stepping inside. His mother putting her in this room says a lot. ‘My sister Cara is a photographer. These are her photos on canvas. For some reason, she likes to photograph flowers. And stones. But they’re in the stone room. Crazy Uncle Brian is in that room. Mam’s not so keen on stones.’
She laughs. ‘Your family is funny.’
‘That’s one word for them.’ He clears his throat. ‘So the festivities will begin in one hour. About all of Spiddal is about to burst in here, with a song to sing, an instrument to play, a story to tell, or a dance to dance. You are free to stay here, in safety.’
‘I’d like to come.’
‘Are you sure?’ he asks, surprised.
‘Will you sing?’ she asks.
‘Yes, everybody has to do a piece.’
‘I want to hear you sing.’
‘Be warned, they might force you to sing. I’ll try to stop them but I can’t promise you anything. They’re a tough bunch and I have zero sway with them.’
‘I’ll hide in the back,’ she says, and he laughs.
‘Why are you laughing?’
‘The idea of you hiding. Even in a room filled with people you’d stand out.’
She bites her lip at the compliment, which he didn’t intend to sound so corny. He backs away to the door cringing internally.
She mimics his throat-clearing.
‘Exactly,’ he agrees. ‘Awkward. Sorry for that. I’ll give you time to freshen up, shower, whatever. Is thirty minutes okay?’ For Bo, thirty minutes would be enough, she doesn’t spend much time thinking about how she looks, she is naturally beautiful and throws everything together to look cool. Preppy. Brogues and turn-ups, thin cashmere sweaters and blazers like she should be going to Harvard, a J.Crew wet dream. But he’s had girlfriends where thirty minutes wasn’t even enough time to dry their hair.
She nods. ‘Wait.’ She looks nervous. ‘Is it dressy? I don’t really have anything fancy. I made some things but … they’re not really right for here.’
‘What you’re wearing now is perfect. It’s casual.’
She looks relieved and Solomon feels bad that this would have been a concern for her all this time. This is the kind of thing Bo would have done better.
‘What’s the deal with the blonde?’ Donal asks, as Solomon steps out of the shower and finds him lying on the bed in his bedroom. Donal is scrolling through Solomon’s phone.
‘Go ahead, look through my personal stuff, why don’t you.’
‘Where’s cow?’
‘Bo is in Dublin. She was lecturing for film students at the university this afternoon. She couldn’t get here on time.’
Donal sucks in air, but sarcastically. ‘Bet she couldn’t get out of that.’
‘I told her not to even try. It’s a big deal.’
‘Sounds like it is.’ Donal studies him.
Unhappy with his brother’s gaze, he drops his towel from around his waist and holds his hands up in the air. ‘Look no hands!’
‘That’s mature.’
‘Yeah, well,’ Solomon roots in his bag for a clean T-shirt. ‘It’s easier for me that she’s not here,’ he says, back turned, while he hears the click of Donal’s phone. ‘You lads make it hard for me.’
‘We don’t.’ He angles the phone on Solomon’s arse and takes another photo. ‘We’re looking out for you.’
‘By calling her cow.’
He genuinely laughs at that. ‘You said speak English to her.’
Bó is the Irish for cow, something Solomon’s Irish-speaking family delight in calling her.
‘You never give her a break.’
‘It’s only banter.’
‘She doesn’t have the same sense of humour.’
‘Wrong. She doesn’t have a sense of humour. And she barely sees us, so she doesn’t have to put up with us often.’
‘Please stop taking photos of my balls.’
‘But they’re so pretty. I’m going to send them to Mam. She can decorate a new room, call it the bollox room.’
Ashamed to find that childish joke funny, Solomon laughs.
‘So, do you go to Bo’s folks’ place, parties, brunches, soirees and the like?’ he asks putting on a posh Dublin accent.
‘Sometimes. Not very often. Once. Me and Bo are better on our own. Away from our families.’
‘Away from each other.’
‘Come on.’
‘Fine. Last question. Are you going to get married?’
‘Are we going to get married?’ He sighs. ‘You sound like an old woman. Why the fuck do you care if I get marrie
d?’
‘Man, I think your dick shrunk when I asked that. Look –’ He holds the camera up to show him. ‘Before I asked the question.’ He slides the image. ‘After.’
Solomon chuckles. ‘It’s a fine thing, you asking me all these questions. Single man of forty-two. You should have been a priest.’
‘Might have got more action,’ Donal says and Solomon rolls his nose up in disgust.
Donal chuckles at his own joke.
‘Seriously, I overhead a conversation between Mam and Dad about you being gay.’
‘Shut up,’ Donal says, pretending not to care but dropping the phone.
Solomon picks it up. Thirty-two photos of his own bollox on his phone.
Donal changes the subject. ‘Mam said you were in Boston. How did that go?’
‘The Irish Globe gave us an award.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Thank you.’
‘So you’re happy.’
‘I’m always happy.’
‘So are you going to marry her?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘What’s with the blonde?’ he repeats his opening question.
‘Laura.’
‘What’s with Laura?’
Solomon fills him in on Laura’s background and her lyrebird qualities, everything he knows about her.
‘Why wouldn’t she go to Dublin with Bo?’
‘Because she wanted to stay with me. I was the person who found her. She trusts me,’ he shrugs. ‘Go on, tell me it’s weird.’
‘It’s not.’
Solomon searches his face for the sarcasm.
‘Man, would you put your jocks on.’ He throws a pillow at him.
‘This is what you get for taking photos of my cock. I’m going to text it to you and you can stare at it all you like.’
The door opens and two more brothers squeeze through the doorway. ‘Wahay!’ they all cheer, bundling into the room with a six-pack of beer.
Solomon laughs and catches the boxers Donal throws at him.
‘What’s going on here?’ his eldest brother Cormac asks, looking Solomon up and down. ‘Nice bollox.’
‘Your date is standing at the window of the orchid room imitating cuckoos,’ his youngest brother Rory says, opening the bottle’s cap with his teeth.
‘Yeah. And?’ Solomon tenses up. He slides his legs into his jeans and faces them all, ready to fight, ready to defend. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d punched any of them in the face.
‘And. She’s hot,’ Rory says with a grin, and passes him a bottle.
Going downstairs, Laura hears the sounds of the crowds and stalls a little in fear. The brothers notice but keep on going without a word, which Solomon appreciates. If it was Bo they would never have let her go, probably would have picked her up and carried her down over their heads themselves.
‘It’s okay, I promise,’ Solomon says gently. He wants to place his hand on her waist, guide her, he wants to take her hand. But he doesn’t do any of those things. He looks down at her, seeing the light freckles on her nose through her long lashes. She did change her clothes after all, a dress that she must have made herself. A simple design, long sleeves, but short hemline. Different fabrics sewn together. When she moved to the Toolin cottage she obviously moved with the garage of fabrics.
‘You’ll stay with me?’ she asks him, looking up.
He wants to move the hair that’s fallen before her eyes.
They’re standing so close on the stairs that she feels the heat from him. She wants to press her face against the skin she sees through the open buttons of his T-shirt. She wants to smell his skin, feel the heat on hers.
They stand there just looking at one another. He feels the intensity of her stare. He clears his throat.
‘Of course I’ll stay with you. If you promise to stay with me. I could get eaten alive down there.’
She smiles.
She reaches out and links arms with him, hugging his arm close to her body; she couldn’t stop herself.
‘You’ll be fine,’ he says softly, to the top of her head, so close his lips brush her hair and he smells her faint sweet perfume.
14
The connecting doors of the living room, the dining room, the den and the kitchen have been opened, along with those leading into the conservatory, creating a grand space for the party. The dining table is filled with food that Marie has prepared and that neighbours have brought with them. There are one hundred people squeezed into the ground floor of the house and already Finbar is centre stage and telling a special-edition story of how he met Marie. It’s in English, especially for her family and friends who travelled from Dublin.
After his story he presents her with a wooden heart that he carved himself from a tree that fell during a storm. It’s the tree he claims they shared their first kiss under, but Solomon guesses it’s closer to being a tree that stood in the park they once walked in. Still, the sentiment remains the same. In the four chambers of the heart are four drawers, inside each drawer is an item that represents the four generations together.
There are tears in everybody’s eyes, phones are in the air capturing the moment as Marie, who always sits on stage with Finbar as he acts, loses herself in an embrace. Marie is next to perform. Before having four children and opening her own guesthouse, Marie was a professional harpist who travelled the world, mostly the US, playing birthdays, weddings, stage shows. She played classical, traditional, whatever was required, but Celtic music is her personal favourite; it was thanks to the Celtic show that came to Galway that Finbar first laid eyes on her. This red-haired goddess behind an enormous harp, entrancing everybody. Not to take away from her talent, but Solomon and his siblings have been hearing the same routine their whole lives and, while not bored of it, the sheen certainly has come off. It’s in seeing the delight on other people’s faces as they hear her for the first time that reminds them of her skill to capture a crowd.
Marie starts to play ‘Carolan’s Dream’ and instantly Laura, who has been sitting by Solomon’s side in complete silence the whole time, sits up, utterly transfixed. Solomon smiles at her expression and sits back, arms folded, to watch Laura watch his mother.
His pocket vibrating makes him sit up and check his phone. Bo. He excuses himself, though no one even notices or cares, all eyes are on Marie, as he slips from the room into the kitchen.
‘Hi,’ he says, picking at the party food on the kitchen island.
‘Hi,’ her voice shouts, and he pulls the phone away from his ear as the hum of a crowd breaks into his serene surroundings. Pub noises.
‘I thought you were working at home,’ he says, trying to keep his voice down.
‘What?’ she yells.
‘I thought you were working at home,’ he says a little louder and somebody shushes him and closes the door. He opens the back door and steps outside to the garden. The scent of honeysuckles is strong, reminds him of a life spent playing outside, long hot bright summers, adventures in every corner of the garden.
‘I was. I am. Research,’ Bo shouts, and he can tell by her voice that she’s had a few drinks. It doesn’t take Bo many to get drunk. ‘I’m meeting with an anprothologist,’ she says, then she giggles. ‘You know what I mean. Anyway, I was trying to find one, so I sent footage of Laura off. Jack loves her. He wants her to audition for StarrQuest, he thinks she’d be amazing. We can’t let anyone know he’s seen her because the judges aren’t supposed to know the acts before they audition, but he thinks she’s incredible. I know what you think of the show but I’m thinking of exposure for Laura, you know, what that would do for the documentary?’
Bo’s breathless with excitement and she sounds like she’s walking too. Down the longest noisiest busiest street there is in Dublin. Or perhaps she’s pacing.
Solomon’s blood boils. ‘Hold on. Jack Starr wants Laura to audition for StarrQuest?’
‘It could be great, if you think about it, Sol. We could film her entire journey. She wants a n
ew start, how exciting would it be for her? He doesn’t just want her to audition, he’d want her for the live shows. Definitely. But again, don’t tell anyone, they’re not supposed to say that in advance. Think about it, how exciting would it be for Laura?’
‘I am thinking about it and I think it’s a fucking disgrace that you’re even thinking about it,’ he practically spits down the phone.
She’s silent for one, two, three … ‘I should have known you’d piss all over the idea. I called you, excited, Sol. Why can’t you ever be enthusiastic about the same things as me? Or at least share in my happiness about something. You always drag it down.’
‘What are you doing drinking with Jack?’ he demands. Jack is her ex-boyfriend of five years, the guy she dated and lived with before Solomon. A middle-aged has-been who was the famous lead singer in an American soft-rock duo that had a handful of hits. He moved to Ireland in the eighties, dated a string of models and has lived off his name ever since. Now he’s a radio DJ, fronts a TV talent show that Solomon once worked on, a job for the money, not for the love, and drives Solomon crazy. Jack enjoys that he and Bo were together before Solomon, dropping one annoying and degrading comment after another to taunt him.
‘I wasn’t out drinking with him,’ she defends herself. ‘I emailed the footage of Laura, looking for an anthropologist—’ She gets the word right this time, careful to watch every syllable.
‘Why the fuck would he know an anthropologist, Bo? He’s a washed-up fucking crooner. This is bullshit – you rang him because I’m away and you wanted to hook up.’ He’s not quite sure where the anger is coming from, where the jealousy has surged from. He knows he has a right to feel a little put out, but certainly not this much; he can’t help himself though. It’s guilt for how he’s been feeling for Laura, added to the natural protective role he’s taken on. It fires him up.
She squeals down the phone, her absolute fury and disgust at being accused, but he talks over her, neither of them listening to one another but catching the occasional insulting word and jumping on that. They go in circles. And finally they go silent.