about. No family to provide for, no mortgage to meet. No one to tell him what he should or should not be doing.
I watch him disappear down the side of the house, probably on his way to Hedigan’s Pub. It’s the only time he leaves the land, except for Sunday Mass when he has his weekly wash. He has a different set of clothes for that occasion: suit, shirt and tie. His shoes are always polished to a high shine and he holds his head a little higher as he strolls through the village. When Mass is over, he visits Seamus’s grave. Then on to Hedigan’s for two pints before lunch. By two in the afternoon, he’s back in his regular clothes.
‘Shay,’ I say in a soft tone, holding the bottle so he can see it’s on its way. ‘Look what Mammy has.’ Putting the bottle under my arm, I lift him out of the crib and take him to the sofa. I notice it’s getting darker, so I check the time by pressing the TV remote which is lying on the sofa beside me. Six thirty p.m. Where is Conor? The game would have ended over two or three hours ago.
Within the space of five minutes my question is answered by the clicking of the front door lock. Straightening my body in the chair, I brace myself for what I have to do.
The smell of beer arrives in the kitchen before he does.
‘Hope you don’t mind. I went into the clubhouse just for the one but the lads all bought me a drink to congratulate me.’ He’s looking down at the little bundle.
‘No, I don’t mind, I’m glad, did you enjoy yourself?’
Conor walks over and opens the fridge door.
‘Yes, it was a good crack. Are we ordering a takeaway?’ he says, grabbing a slice of cheese and shoving it in his mouth. I wish I was hungry, but my stomach is twisted with stress. I still have the photo in my back pocket.
‘If you want.’
There is never any disagreement about what takeaway to order because there’s no choice. The only place that delivers is the Chinese takeaway beside Hedigan’s Pub. There is a fish and chip shop further down near Georgina’s place but they don’t deliver.
‘Can we wait for a while? I’m not that hungry yet.’
‘Sure, but not too long, I’m starving.’
Shay is back in the crib, fed and changed. Conor is following the soccer results on the TV. I’m building up courage.
Maybe I should wait until he’s sober – cornering him when he’s not in his full capacity might be a bit unfair. Not to mention that it might influence his reaction. Or maybe it’s the right time. The bolt on his box of secrets will be loose.
‘Conor.’
‘Yes.’
He’s not watching me. His eyes are still firmly focused on the results coming up on the screen. My hand is on the photo in my pocket. Take it out, Laura. Vicky Murphy is now on view.
‘Why do you have a picture of Vicky Murphy, Conor?’
‘What?’ He takes one last glance at the screen before looking at me. ‘What?’
I’m standing right in front of him now, holding my discovery up to his face.
‘This photograph, what are you doing with it in our house?’ Our house; it’s the first time I’ve called it that. It feels weird but also empowering.
‘Where did you get that?’ he says, standing and taking it out of my hand. I watch him closely as he stares at the photo, a look of sadness on his face. ‘God, I feel so guilty now.’
My heart is in my mouth. Why does he feel guilty?
‘What?’
‘Yes, she gave it to me a few months ago, I was supposed to give it to this guy I knew in Dublin.’
‘What are you talking about, Conor?’
‘Vicky, she was looking to do some freelance work for a guy she knew I knew. She gave it to me to pass it on but I didn’t. I was a bit fed up at the time with people asking me to do them favours. The whole town thinks I’ve a magic wand.’
Conor shakes his head as he looks at the photo before handing it back to me. He sits down on the sofa and lifts the remote.
‘But… why was it hidden in a book?’
‘Was it?’ he says, jumping in the seat when a football result appears on the TV screen. Conor punches the air. ‘Go on ya good thing.’