Читать книгу Once Lost - Ber Carroll - Страница 14

Chapter 9

Louise

I’m wrong on a number of counts. Mary Connelly’s house has three bedrooms, not four. Apparently, Joe and Dan (older by two years) used to share a room. Joe tells me this while laughing as he recounts the time Dan threw a steel-capped boot at him in bed, to stop him snoring. When his mother heard Joe’s yelp of pain, she barged into the room, and after assessing what had happened, whacked Dan with the same boot so he would know exactly how much it hurt.

The garden, the living area, everything about the house is more compact than I imagined. The kitchen has been renovated, the bathroom hasn’t. The deck at the back is new and modern, but the front of the house looks tired. It’s not the perfect house by any stretch of the imagination, and I feel even more jealous because of this fact.

After introductions and a quick tour, we station ourselves outside on the new deck, drinking beer while listening to Samuel, the youngest brother, who has just returned from overseas, recount some of his adventures. It’s obvious that Samuel is being selective about which experiences to share: nights spent huddled on benches in European train stations, emergencies regarding lack of money and food, bizarre misunderstandings with the locals in Vietnam. Yes, Samuel is heavily censoring, probably for his mother’s benefit. Following the furtive glances and smirks he darts to Joe, and to Dan, who is manning the barbecue, I guess that Samuel will relay the uncensored version to his brothers in the not-too-distant future. All three brothers have the same dark hair, clear skin, and strong, wiry physiques. Dan is ever so slightly shorter, and it’s easy to pick Samuel as the youngest, as his face is plumper.

Mary, when she is not fussing with the food preparation, tuts intermittently as she hears of all the near-misses and potential disasters.

‘I’m better off not hearing some of this.’

Her husband, Richie, is in agreement. ‘It’s a wonder you got home safely at all.’

They are an odd-looking couple. Mary, short and round with coiffed blonde hair, Richie tall and lean like his sons, his grey hair cut in a surprisingly trendy style. Mary looks traditional, and Richie is one of those modern-looking older men. In fact, Mary and Richie’s differences seem to be reflected in the contrasting décor throughout their house.

‘You’ll have to settle down now, Samuel, and get a job,’ Richie comments, a serious note to his tone.

‘What kind of work do you want to do?’ I ask Samuel.

He shrugs. ‘I don’t know … I really haven’t got a clue.’

Mary has no such doubts about her youngest son’s future career. ‘He has an honours degree in communications,’ she states, pride evident with each word. ‘He’ll do something media-related, I expect.’ She swings around to address Dan. ‘You might be able to get him a start at the newspaper, Dan.’

‘I’ll look into it, Mum,’ he replies in a non-committal tone.

‘Off the record,’ Joe interjects with a snigger.

‘No comment, eh, Dan?’ Samuel adds cheekily.

Dan rolls his eyes at them, and I get the impression that this particular in-joke has been doing the rounds a long time.

Going by their comments, and Mary’s reference to the newspaper, I assume that Dan is a journalist of some kind. Add that to Joe, an author, and Samuel, with a communications degree, and it’s very clear that the Connolly family has a particular affinity with the written word. For the first time since I got out of Joe’s car, I feel out of place, awkward.

‘So you’re all writers?’ I ask.

Joe grins. ‘Of some description. That’s what happens when your father is an English teacher and your mother’s a librarian.’

‘Oh. It’s in your blood then.’

I catch Dan looking at me. A brief, questioning glance. He must have heard something in my tone that the others didn’t. Thank goodness he’s distracted by his mother, who goes over to survey his handiwork and declares the meat ready to eat (quite obviously, Dan doesn’t have the requisite authority to make such an announcement). Suddenly there’s a flurry of activity, with plates being filled and passed around, drinks being replenished, and everyone finding a seat at the heavy wooden outdoor table, which is exactly like the no-nonsense table I imagined would be in the kitchen.

‘Tell us about your family,’ Mary says when the activity has died down and everyone is quietly eating. ‘What do they do for a living? Are they arty like you?’

I glance down at my food while I consider what to say. There is no breezy reply to this question. Either I tell the truth, or a bare-faced lie. Both options seem equally extreme.

I opt for the truth. ‘I have no family. It’s just me.’

Having told them the truth, I eat a forkful of steak.

Mary, when I look at her again, seems perturbed. ‘Your mother and father …’ Her voice trails away in a question.

I swallow the steak, and take a quick drink from my bottle of beer.

‘Simon, my stepfather, died when I was twenty.’

There’s a pause. No one is eating now. No one except me. If it weren’t for the conversation topic, I would be really enjoying this meal.

‘And your mother?’

Surprisingly, it’s Dan, not Mary, who has asked this oh-so-predictable question.

I look at Dan, then at Mary and Joe and Samuel and Richie. This lovely, welcoming family in their lovely, albeit not-perfect house. It seems wrong, sacrilegious, to bring up the sadder-than-sad circumstances of my family, or lack thereof. But I can see that this meal cannot progress, that no one will appreciate the meat Dan has cooked so beautifully or the salads Mary has prepared with such love, unless I satisfy their curiosity.

‘My mother left when I was eight.’ My tone is practical but Mary sounds stricken.

‘Where is she, your mother?’

‘I don’t know.’ I shrug, and even manage to smile. ‘I’m still looking for her.’