Life Drawing for Beginners (16 page)

J
ames sloshed water around the bath, rinsing off the cleanser he’d scrubbed in. He wiped down the tiles around the shower and poured bleach into the toilet bowl. He cleaned the sink and swiped halfheartedly at the taps.

He hated housework, hated the sheer pointlessness of it all. You cleaned everything, and it got dirty again, and you cleaned it again. The mind-numbing boredom of it all, the grinding monotony of it. He’d been happy to leave all that to Frances, and she hadn’t complained. It had made perfect sense to James—he’d been out working all day, she’d opted to stay at home and keep house and look after Charlie.

Now, of course, James was doing everything. Working nine-to-five with the rest of the rat race, coming home and sorting the damn house. Cleaning, cooking, washing, ironing—somehow it all got done, albeit in his slapdash, amateurish way. The dust was ignored where he could get away with it, cobwebs gathered in corners and trailed from ceilings of lesser-used rooms. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cleaned a fridge, or defrosted a freezer.

His grasp of ironing was precarious. He’d lost count of the cotton shirts he scorched before his discovery of synthetic fabrics that felt awful but never needed ironing. For everything else he kept the iron on its lowest setting. Less effective, but far safer.

Laundry was another disaster area, colors running willy-nilly into one another until he learned what went together in the machine and what definitely didn’t. A wool sweater of Charlie’s didn’t survive its first wash, barely big enough for any of her dolls afterwards. Like the iron, the washing machine temperature was set to just above cool, and rarely moved.

James’s efforts at cooking were marginally more successful, thanks to a book he’d been given as a joke Christmas present by Frances, just a few months before her disappearance.
Cooking for Dummies
, it was called, and James had laughed and put it aside—and afterwards it had become his bible.

This morning they’d had French toast, which seemed to have become their regular Saturday breakfast, and this evening he was planning a vegetable omelette. He wrote a shopping list in his head as he mopped the bathroom floor.

“Dad.”

He looked up. Charlie stood in the hall, holding up two halves of a plate. “It fell out of my hands when I was drying it.”

James dropped his mop and took the pieces from her. “Don’t pick up broken stuff, poppy—you could cut yourself. Just come and tell me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And you didn’t have to dry them.”

“But I wanted to help you,” she said, and his heart turned over. She was a good kid, she was turning out fine, despite his parental fumblings, despite their awful tragedy.

“Tell you what, let’s go to the lake when I finish the jobs,” he said. High time they saw it, and the day was fine.

Her small face lit up. “Can we bring a picnic?”

“Of course we can—have a look and see what we have in the fridge.”

“And can we go to the park tomorrow?”

He smiled. “Yes, if you want.”

“Yaaay!”

She spun around the hall, the broken plate forgotten. So easy to make her happy. He wondered how long that would last.

The girl wasn’t really trying to hide what she was doing. Maybe she didn’t realize that you weren’t supposed to pick flowers in a public park. Audrey wondered whether she should say anything. Could she point out politely, in a nonconfrontational way, that the flowers had been planted for the enjoyment of everyone?

The girl wasn’t taking very many though, just the odd one here and there. She wasn’t leaving any gaps in the display. And Audrey was well aware that her remarks, however well meaning, could be resented. Someone who looked quite harmless, like this girl in her baggy skirt and long cardigan, could turn on you and become quite nasty.

And there was a little boy with her, which you had to take into account too. He might be upset if Audrey intervened, she might startle him if she approached them. Such a small, pale little child, no bit of life about him at all.

Audrey would leave them alone. What were a few flowers? It wasn’t as if the girl were snatching handbags or breaking into houses.

She pulled gently on Dolly’s leash and walked on.

Irene waited until Martin’s program had begun before opening her sketch pad and pulling her pencil quietly from the little zipped case she kept it in. She hated using the charcoal, blackening fingers and clothes and anything you touched afterwards. Luckily, Audrey left it up to her students to use whichever medium they preferred.

From her position on the smaller of the two couches Martin’s profile was clearly visible to Irene, and she could work unobserved by him. She sketched him in quickly, trying to remember Audrey’s instructions. He leaned back against the couch, hands resting loosely across his abdomen as he watched the television screen.

His lips were parted, a tiny space between them. His long legs extended, knees bent slightly, one ankle resting on the other. He wore sweatpants and a T-shirt, socks but no shoes. At one stage he reached up to rub under his nose with an index finger.

Irene mapped in the overall shape of her husband. She positioned his head, indicated the angle his torso made against the back of the couch, scribbled in his arms, his pelvis, his legs. She regarded the drawing, and decided it was what Audrey had asked for: a quick pose with no detail.

She turned a page and studied what she could see of Martin’s face. She drew the curve of his cheek, the upward tilt of his top lip, the line of his near-side eyelash, the globe of his eyeball. She rounded out his head and sketched in his chin, added his ear and shaded in his hair.

The man in her drawing looked nothing like Martin. Her proportions were off, his features all wrong, his nose too long, his eye too small. She turned a page and began again, and her second attempt was only marginally better.

She tried his hands, and then his feet. By the time his program ended, ninety minutes later, she’d filled a dozen pages with her useless, yearning drawings.

He glanced across as he picked up the remote control. “Want to watch anything?”

Irene shook her head.

He noticed her sketch pad. “What are you at?”

Irene closed the book. “Nothing much, just scribbling.”

“How you want me?” Pilar lay on the couch. “Like this?”

“Yes, okay.” Zarek’s charcoal flew across the page. Pilar lay placidly, humming a tune Zarek didn’t recognize. He mapped her form in quickly.

“Okay,” he said, “now you change.”

Pilar lifted her head. “Change? You finish so quick?” She sat up. “I see.”

Zarek held out the pad.

Pilar regarded it doubtfully. “This is me?”

“Just quickly,” Zarek told her. “Is short pose, no small detail.”

“Where is face?”

“No face with short pose,” he explained. “Just some shape and line.” He turned the page. “Now you sit, please. Just few minutes.”

Pilar sat stiffly on the couch, arms folded, a small crease in the skin between her eyes. No humming.

Zarek sketched quickly. “If you want,” he said, “I do better drawing of you another day.” He assumed next week’s homework would involve a more detailed study.

“With face?”

“Yes, with all things.”

“And color?”

“Yes, if you want.”

She considered. “Yes, I like.” She thought some more. “I wear my new dress. And hair up.”

“Okay.”

“And not on couch; outside, in garden.”

“Okay.” He looked up. “I finish now, thank you.”

Better stop before she thought of anything else.

“A gym? You?” His wife laughed. “That’s a good one.”

The mechanic pulled off his T-shirt. “I’m serious.” He balled it up and aimed it at the laundry basket in the corner of the bedroom. “They’re offering free workouts, not every day you get something for nothing.”

She plumped up her pillow, still smiling. “Yeah, but a
workout
—​when have you ever gone near a gym?”

He unzipped his jeans and let them drop and stepped out of them. “First time for everything. Just thought I’d give it a go, that’s all.”

“Fine—go ahead. Just don’t come crying to me when you can’t walk the next day.”

He pulled off his underpants and stood, hands on hips, before her. “Want to draw me?”

She giggled. “Not just now, thanks.”

He lifted the duvet and slid in beside her and slipped a finger under the strap of her nightdress. He pictured the rich blonde woman in bed.
Bet she wears nothing at all
. “Exercise gives you more energy,” he said softly, sliding the straps off her shoulders.
Bet she’d love this, bet she’s gagging for it.
“You won’t be able to keep up with me,” he murmured, easing the nightdress down, imagining other, fuller breasts.
Bet she’d like my hands on her, bet I’d drive her wild
. “I’ll drive you wild,” he whispered. “I’ll be after you day and night.”

His wife drew in her breath as he dipped his head. “In that case,” she said, her hands gripping his dark hair, “forget the free workout—just join up.”

C
armel loved the first few seconds after waking, when the miracle of it hit her afresh, even before she opened her eyes. The sheets that smelled of flowers, the soft pillow under her head. The wonderful peace, broken only by birdsong from the garden just outside the window.

She breathed deeply, stretching her legs under the duvet, luxuriating in it all, feeling the warmth of Barry’s small body pressed up against her, the rapid breathing that caused his chest to rise and fall under her hand. She could stay in this bed nonstop for a week, no problem.

She opened her eyes slowly and saw the soft white glow of his hair in the dim light that filtered through the curtains. She bent and put her nose to his head and inhaled the minty shampoo smell of him. Her gaze traveled around the room, taking in the dark bulk of the wardrobe, the chest of drawers that held their clean clothes (clean clothes!), the little press by the bed on which she’d set Barry’s book and her treasure box, the pale ribbons of light that framed each window.

She had no idea what time it was—her watch had been exchanged, years ago, for a Saturday-night fix—but she figured it was still early enough; she never slept that late. Another hour she might have, maybe more, of simply lying here with her son safe beside her. Ethan’s father would call them in due course, she had no doubt of that, but until then they could relax.

And maybe, since it was Sunday, he’d let them stay in the house, maybe he wouldn’t kick them out. Maybe they wouldn’t have to walk the streets all day, with security men giving her filthy looks whenever they went into a shop. Maybe for once she wouldn’t have to ask the time from people who walked past as if they hadn’t heard her.

She’d offer to clean the house for him when they were having breakfast. Clean, or cut the grass, or pull weeds, or anything he needed doing. She knew he might take it the wrong way, he might get offended at her offer, thinking she meant that the house was dirty or the garden was neglected, but that was a chance she’d have to take. She wanted to pay him back in some way, and this was the only thing she could think of.

She turned slowly onto her back, trying not to wake Barry. She lay looking up at the white ceiling with the fancy lamp shade over the bulb. She listened to the repeated chirruping of a bird that must have been just outside the window.

He was checking out her story, he wanted to know if Barry was his grandson. She’d thought he didn’t care, that he didn’t want to know, but he did. He was letting them stay here until he found out, and they hadn’t even done the test yet. It mightn’t come for another few days, and then it had to be sent back and they’d have to wait some more. They could be here for ages.

She could still hardly take in what had happened. When she thought about sleeping in the shed—lying on the newspapers, listening to people screaming in the nearby houses and hoping to God none of them found her and Barry—it was like a miracle that he’d come along. He was like some kind of superhero who had rescued them. She pictured him flying through the sky like Superman, and smiled at the ridiculous image.

She’d been so sure they’d never lay eyes on him again—or if they did, that he’d just look through them like most people, pretend he’d never met them. She’d been completely gobsmacked when he’d approached them outside the library. What had changed his mind, why had he suddenly decided to help them?

And handing her a tenner, just like that. She still had eight of it left. She had about
€
12 altogether, she was hardly spending anything these days now that he was feeding them. Although Barry wouldn’t touch the ham in the sandwiches they got for lunch, and she had to promise him a pack of sweets from the euro shop to get him to eat the brown bread.

He wasn’t mad about the milk either, always asking her for Coke, but Carmel had persevered, and eventually he’d given in. It felt wrong not to eat and drink what they were getting for nothing. And she knew milk was better than Coke, she wasn’t stupid—it was just that Coke was cheaper, and Barry loved it, and she liked seeing him happy. But that was before free milk.

The
€
5 she’d got from the snotty woman in the park had helped a lot, although she’d hated taking it. The way the woman had looked down her nose at Carmel had made her feel more of a beggar than when she was sitting on the side of the street holding out a cup.

And making sure her handbag was out of reach, as if Carmel was just waiting to grab it. As if Carmel was someone who’d rob a handbag. She felt sorry for the little girl too, with a mother who looked cross when her child hurt herself.

She thought of Ethan’s father buying clothes for Barry. Going into a shop and buying them specially, brand-new. She’d nearly made a fool of herself when she’d seen them on the bed, the first clothes he’d had that weren’t from a charity shop, or found in a Dumpster. Nobody had been nice to them in so long, it had been all she could do not to bawl her eyes out in front of Ethan’s father. He would have loved that.

And when they’d come back to the house on Friday a hair dryer was on the floor outside the bedroom door, and a new child’s toothbrush in her toilet bag, and no sign of the old one. She hadn’t said anything when they’d gone downstairs; something told her not to mention it, although she really wanted to say thank you to him.

Barry stirred beside her. She stroked his hair. “Shh,” she whispered.

She wished Ethan could see the two of them, all cozy in his father’s house. She wondered if she’d ever be able to think about Ethan without wanting to cry. She pressed her eyes closed until the stinging went away.

It wasn’t all good, of course. There was the problem of getting a job when she couldn’t read or write. And even if another miracle happened and someone did offer her work, what would she do about Barry? What was the point of even looking for a job, with no one to mind him?

No—she wouldn’t think like that, or else she’d want to give up, and she couldn’t give up.

Then there was the problem of what Ethan’s father would do when the test results came out. He was probably hoping they didn’t show Ethan as the father, so he could be rid of them once and for all. What would he do with a grandchild, where would Barry fit into his life? Where would Carmel fit in?

She looked around the room again, everything becoming clearer as her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness. This must have been Ethan’s sister’s room. Ethan had mentioned a sister when Carmel had asked him about his family, but she’d gotten the feeling it was hard for him to talk about her.

She assumed the clothes she’d been given had once belonged to the sister. They weren’t new, but they were in better condition than anything Carmel had. The skirt was too long and she had to gather the top of it into her knickers to keep it up, but she liked the blouse, and the cardigan was really soft. It was the nicest thing she’d ever owned.

She wondered where the sister was now, and what she’d think of Carmel if they ever came face-to-face. Imagine if they met by accident, and the sister recognized her clothes on Carmel. Hopefully she wouldn’t be too mad; she mustn’t really have wanted them if she’d left them behind in her father’s house.

“I don’t want no powwidge,” Barry murmured then, his eyes still closed.

“Jus’ a little bit,” Carmel whispered. “It’s nice with sugar, isn’t it?”

He shook his head. He rarely wanted to eat first thing in the morning, so she’d gotten used to letting him ask for something when he got hungry later on. Now they were being presented with porridge much earlier than he normally ate, and it was taking all Carmel’s powers of persuasion to get him to take it. She knew it wouldn’t go down well if he refused it.

“I’ll get you crisps later if you eat it all up.”

“Why can’t we go to a diff’went house?” he asked then, burrowing his fist into her stomach.

She grabbed his hand and held it. “Do you not like this one?”

His head went from side to side again.

“Haven’t we a nice bed? It’s better than our last one, isn’t it?”

“No.”

“Oh yes it is. An’ a nice carpet on the floor, an’ two nice windows, look. One, two.” Stroking his hair back from his forehead as she spoke. “An’ a nice wardrobe.”

Barry pushed his head into her chest. “I don’t wike it,” he mumbled.

Of course it wasn’t the bedroom he was objecting to. Carmel kept stroking his hair. “Don’t worry about your granddad,” she said. “He’s a bit grumpy, but he don’t mean it really. Didn’t he buy you nice new clothes?”

She heard a door opening on the landing. Ethan’s father was up, which probably meant they’d have to get up soon too. After a minute the toilet was flushed. She felt Barry go still, and knew he was listening for more sounds.

She squeezed his hand. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “I’ll mind you, we’ll be fine. Don’t I always mind you?”

His bark is worse than his bite
. She remembered learning that proverb years ago in school. He was grumpy and he never smiled, but he’d given her
€
10 and bought clothes and a toothbrush for Barry, and he was letting them stay in his house and cooking breakfast and dinner for them, and giving them sandwiches for lunch. And he’d left out a hair dryer, because she’d asked him for one.

And he was Ethan’s father. It was important to keep remembering that.

James sat on a bench and watched his daughter climbing the metal frame, reaching for the highest bar. With an effort he resisted the urge to rush over and stand underneath, arms spread to catch her. Charlie was fearless, always had been. He remembered her at eighteen months, trying to clamber over the gate they’d put at the top of the stairs every time their backs were turned.

“
Daddy!
”

She waved triumphantly from the top and James waved back, his toes curling at the thought of her plummeting to the ground.
Put your hand down, stop waving, hold on tight
.

Frances had never been half as nervous about their daughter. “You’ll stifle her, watching her like that all the time,” she’d say. “Let her off, give her a bit of free rein. What’s the worst that can happen to her in the back garden, for goodness’ sake?”

James would list the hazards—choking on grass, stung by a wasp, attacked by a wild dog that had managed to jump the fence—and Frances would laugh.

“Listen to you,” she’d say. “I don’t know how you sleep at night with that imagination. Come on in and drink your tea, she’ll be perfectly safe.”

And James would make himself turn away, and nothing bad would happen to Charlie in the ten nervous minutes it would take him to finish his tea. And in the end, of course, the horrible irony had been that it was Frances who hadn’t been perfectly safe.

“Daddy, will you push me on the swing?”

James got up and crossed the playground after her, and stood behind a swing as she clambered up. This is what his life was now, working at a job he hated from Monday to Friday and entertaining his daughter at the weekends. He began to push.

“Higher, Daddy.”

He’d known there was a chance they’d run into Eoin and his mother at some stage. Carrickbawn wasn’t that big, they were bound to meet up sooner or later. He just hadn’t expected it to be two days after he’d texted her to say they weren’t going to be around for the weekend.

When the boy had materialized in the cinema James had braced himself for a meeting with the mother. She couldn’t be far behind, she’d surely appear at any moment. He’d already been casting around for an excuse—their weekend trip canceled, her number mislaid—when Eoin had vanished again, and James had been spared an awkward moment.

But of course she’d know now that Charlie hadn’t gone away after all. What must she think of him? First the abrupt text, and then to be found out in his lie. Served him right.

And what was he doing anyway, skulking off as soon as someone made contact, someone who’d committed the cardinal sin of inviting his daughter to play with her son? Wasn’t it a bit ridiculous to be running scared when his whole reason for moving was so that he and Charlie could have a normal life, or as close to normal as it could ever get for them?

And how presumptuous of him to suspect Eoin’s mother of having an ulterior motive—as if any woman in her right mind would choose him.

He still had her number. He’d text her and suggest another day for the children to get together. She might tell him to get lost, and he could hardly blame her if she did, but he’d take the chance for Charlie’s sake. He’d wait a few days, he’d text her next week sometime.

“Daddy—watch me!”

Charlie swung away from him, waiting until the arc of the swing had reached its highest point before leaping off, landing unhurt on the springy surface of the playground, but causing considerable palpitations in her father.

There was a scatter of wilting flowers by the headstone. Valerie must have stopped by. Bit of a climb down from her usual offering; this lot looked as if they’d been robbed from someone’s garden.

Michael placed his far more presentable bouquet in the center of the grave. The headstone needed cleaning, the stone spotted with a greyish-green lichen. He’d get on to someone next week. He stood back and regarded his wife and son’s final resting place.

RUTH BROWNE, BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER
, he read. Underneath were the dates of her birth and death, just twenty-seven years apart. And below that, separated from the first entry by a couple of inches,
ETHAN BROWNE, BELOVED SON
, and his dates, even closer together than Ruth’s.

Ethan
had
been beloved, whatever Valerie might say. He had been loved fiercely and completely from the moment he’d been placed in his father’s arms, minutes after his birth. Michael’s love for his son had been immense.

“There’s a girl,” he told Ethan now, “who says you’re the father of her child. I don’t know whether to believe her or not. Wish you could enlighten me.”

There had been no sign of his two visitors when he’d left the house for eleven o’clock Mass. He’d left them alone, figuring they might as well have a lie-in one day of the week—and what real damage were they likely to get up to, left alone in the house for an hour? The worst that could happen was she’d try to make breakfast and burn a saucepan.