The Book of Tomorrow (15 page)

He laughed and exhaled at the same time, his eyes steady on mine. ‘She’s not my girlfriend.’

‘So you said. But that’s not what my super spy glasses told me.’

‘Yeah well that was just…’ He stomped out his cigarette and then put the butt in a jar. I was thankful for that. I felt like I was a parent and had returned home to find the kids had trashed my house. ‘There are buses, you know,’ he said. ‘Things with wheels that carry people to the big smoke.’

‘From where?’ I think my reaction would have been the same if he’d revealed a cure for cancer. A way out of here…

‘Dunshaughlin. It’s less than thirty minutes in the car.’

‘And how do you get there?’

‘My dad drives me.’

Well, mine is dead.

‘By the way, is this yours?’ He rooted around in a bag and handed me a pen. It was the one I’d stolen from Arthur’s writing desk and had dropped yesterday.

I had a feeling someone was there. Someone was watching me.

‘Were you here yesterday?’

‘Em…’ he thought hard.

‘You shouldn’t have to think about it,’ I snapped.

‘I don’t know. No. Yes. No, I don’t know if I was. I found the pen tonight, if that’s what you mean.’

‘You weren’t here yesterday when I was here?’

‘I’m here most days with Arthur.’ He still didn’t answer the question.

‘You are?’

‘Well, I have to be, don’t I?’

‘You do?’

‘I work with the man.’

‘Oh.’

‘I thought you said Arthur told you.’

‘Oh…yeah. So does Rosaleen know you work with Arthur?’

He nodded. ‘I don’t think she likes me being around, but since Arthur put his back out he needs a hand around here.’

‘How long have you worked with him?’

He thought hard and stared into the distance, ‘Ooh let’s see. Me and Arthur go back about…three weeks now.’

I started laughing.

‘We only moved here last month,’ he explained.

‘Really?’ I felt my heart lift. He was one of my kind. ‘From where?’

‘Dublin.’

‘Me too!’ My excitement was way too
Famous Five
. ‘Sorry,’ I felt my face flush. ‘Just a little overexcited to meet a member of the same species. So how did you rise to be leader so quickly? Did you cast a spell? Show them how to make fire?’

‘I find that politeness goes a long way. Spying, party crashing and insults is a bit of a no-no when you’re trying to fit in.’

‘I don’t want to fit in,’ I said sulkily. ‘I want to get out of here.’

We were silent then.

‘Do you know anything about what happened here? In this castle?’ I asked.

‘You mean with the Normans and everything?’

‘No, not that. What happened to the family who lived here, more recently.’

‘There was a fire or something, then they moved out.’

‘Wow, you should write history books.’

‘We’ve just moved here,’ he smiled. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘I’m just wondering.’

He studied me for a while. ‘We could ask them if you want.’ He meant the group next door.

There was an eruption of laughter from the next room. I think they were playing Spin the Bottle.

‘No, it’s okay.’

‘Sister Ignatius would know. You know her, don’t you?’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I told you, I work around here. I’m not blind.’

‘But I’ve never seen you.’

He shrugged.

‘She told me to ask Rosaleen and Arthur,’ I explained.

‘You should. You know Rosaleen lived in the bungalow across the road from the entrance all her life? If anyone knows, she would. She could probably tell you everything that’s happened around here for the past two hundred years.’

I couldn’t tell him that the diary stated I should not ask her anything. ‘I don’t know…I don’t think they want to talk about it. She’s so secretive. They must have known the people and if somebody died, well then, I don’t just want to blurt it out. I mean, they probably still know them. Arthur can’t be working for free. Actually,’ I clicked my fingers, ‘who pays you?’

‘Arthur does. Cash.’

‘Oh.’

‘So how come you’re here?’

‘I told you, I heard you from my bedroom.’

‘No, I mean, here in Kilsaney.’

‘Oh.’

Silence. I thought fast. Anything but the truth. I didn’t want his sympathy.

‘I thought you said Arthur told you about me.’

‘I’d deserve an award if I got anything more out of him. He just said that you and your mam are staying with them.’

‘We just, you know, we just had to move. Just for a little while. Probably only for the summer. We sold our house. And we’re waiting to buy a new one.’

‘Your dad’s not around?’

‘No, no, he, em…he left Mum, for someone else.’

‘Oh, man, sorry to hear it.’

‘Yeah, well…she’s a twenty-year-old model. She’s famous. She’s always in magazines. She brings me out clubbing with her.’

He frowned at me and I felt like an idiot. ‘Do you still see him?’

‘No. Not any more.’

I was following the rules of my diary.
I wish I hadn’t told Weseley about Dad.
But I didn’t feel better for it. I was lying to Marcus as it was, and that was kind of justifiable because everything with Marcus was one big fat lie, but I didn’t feel like lying to Weseley. Besides, he’d only find out from Arthur, in about ten years.

‘Weseley, sorry, that’s a lie.’ I rubbed my face. ‘My dad…he died.’

He sat up. ‘What? How?’

I should have said something else, like he died in war or—I don’t know—just something else like a more common kind of death.

‘Eh. Cancer.’ I wanted us to stop talking about it now. I couldn’t go there. I couldn’t do it. I wanted him to stop asking me. ‘In his testicles.’

‘Oh.’

That did it.

I’d left after that. I thanked him and climbed back out the window. Halfway towards the house I stopped walking and turned round and ran back.

‘Weseley,’ I whispered, slightly out of breath, standing at
the window. He was tidying away all the cans and butts from the window room.

‘Did you forget something?’

‘Eh, yeah…’ I whispered.

‘Why are we whispering?’ he whispered, smiling, and came towards the window and leaned on his elbows.

‘Because em…I don’t really like saying this out loud.’

‘Okay…’ His smile faded.

‘You’ll think I’m weird—’

‘I already think you’re weird.’

‘Oh. Okay. Em. My dad didn’t die of cancer.’

‘No?’

‘No. I just said that because it was easier. Though the testicle part wasn’t very easy. That was just weird.’

He smiled gently. ‘How did he die?’

‘He killed himself. He swallowed a bottle of pills and whisky at the same time. On purpose. And I found him.’ I swallowed.

There it was. The face change that I wrote about. The pure look of sympathy. The nice look you’d give any horrible person. He was silent.

‘I just didn’t want to lie,’ I started to move away.

‘All right. Thanks for telling me.’

‘I’ve never told anyone.’

‘I won’t tell anyone.’

‘Okay thanks. I’m really going now.’

Cringe.

‘Good night.’

He leaned further out the window and raised his voice. ‘I’ll see you around, Tamara.’

‘Yep. Sure.’

I just wanted to get out of there.

The gang in the entrance hall all whistled and laughed and I disappeared back to the darkness.

I learned something important that night. You shouldn’t try to stop everything from happening. Sometimes you’re supposed to feel awkward. Sometimes you’re supposed to be vulnerable in front of people. Sometimes it’s necessary because it’s all part of you getting to the next part of yourself, the next day. The diary wasn’t always right.

The diary told me I had until one o’clock that day.

It was quite unusual really, the morning playing out exactly as I’d read the night before. Rosaleen waking me, telling me to stay home, and it seemed so obvious then—the second time round—that she just didn’t want me visible to the rest of her little world. Imagine the horror and shame of having to tell people that Mum and I existed; that a man had taken his life, the worst sin of all. I’d felt angry about that and had to fight my desire to demand I go to mass too but I stayed under the covers, and as I listened to their car drive away in the sepia-coloured day, here’s where my day differed to the diary. It was unusual, having things happening that I felt had technically already happened, but I was sort of getting used to it.

Instead of falling back asleep after Rosaleen and Arthur had driven off, I got dressed and ran downstairs. I was sitting on the garden wall when the yellow Cinquecento came flying down the road, with the window rolled down.

‘Ah!’ Sister Ignatius’ eyes lit up. ‘Just the girl I wanted to see. Are you coming to mass?’

I looked in the car at the four nuns squashed together.

‘Oh, you can sit on Sister Peter Regina’s knee,’ she teased, and I heard a ‘pah’ from inside. ‘We sing at all the morning masses. You’re part of a choir, you should join us if the laryngitis isn’t still at you.’

Can’t
, I mimed, grabbing my throat and opening and closing my mouth.

‘Gargle some salt and you’ll be as right as rain,’ she glared at me, then brightened. ‘Thanks for the book, by the way.’

‘You’re welcome,’ I broke my silence. ‘I picked it especially for you.’

‘I thought so,’ she chuckled. ‘You know at the beginning, I didn’t like her, Marilyn Mountrothman. She was stuck up and expected far too much, but by the end I grew to love her. Just like Tariq. It didn’t seem an obvious pairing but the way he knew just what she was thinking all the time, particularly when she was crying about the message from her father but wouldn’t tell him. Oh, that got me, I must admit. But he figured it out. He knew that she loved him. Smart man! I suppose that’s how he made his millions and became the oil tycoon. I like it when they put the photos of them on the front covers. It helps me visualise them all the way through. Him with his hair slicked back and all those muscles…’

‘You actually read it?’

‘Oh, yes, of course I did. Sister Conceptua has started it now.’

The woman in the front passenger seat twisted around. ‘Don’t tell me what happens. He’s just chartered the private plane to Istanbul.’

‘Oh, you’ve the best bits to get to yet,’ Sister Ignatius clapped her hands. ‘Two words—Turkish delight,’ she said.

‘I said sshh,’ Sister Conceptua snapped. ‘You’ll give it away.’

‘We have to go,’ Sister Mary barked from behind the wheel. ‘We’ll be late.’

‘Think of coming next week, okay?’ Sister Ignatius said to me then, seriously.

‘Okay,’ I nodded. ‘I’m thinking of going back to bed for the morning. If you see Rosaleen, you might just let her know that?’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Are you?’

‘Yes, I’m really thinking about it.’

‘I see. What are you getting up to?’

‘We really have to go,’ Sister Mary started up the engine.

‘Wait,’ I panicked slightly. ‘I just need something from you. A name.’

Moments later I was watching them fly around the corner, no indication or brake lights visible, but Sister Ignatius’ arm high in the air in a salute.

It was ten o’clock.

I had my priorities in order and Mum was top of my list. I flicked through the phone book and searched for the name Sister Ignatius had given me. The phone rang once, twice, three times, then just as it went to answering machine a man answered.

‘Hello?’ he croaked, then cleared his throat. ‘Hold on.’ I could hear he was out of breath and he fought with trying to turn the answering machine off.

I cleared my throat. Tamara Big-Girl had work to do.

‘Hello, I’m calling to make an appointment with Dr Gedad.’

‘Uh, he’s not here.’ He sounded half-asleep. ‘Can I take a message?’

‘Em…no…will he be back before one o’clock?’

‘His surgery isn’t open on Sundays.’

I paused. There was something familiar.

‘It’s actually a house call.’

‘Is it an emergency?’

I held my breath. Then: ‘Weseley, is that you?’

‘Yeah. Who’s this?’

Lie, Tamara, lie, make up a name.

‘It’s Tamara. Sorry for waking you.’

‘Tamara.’ He sounded a little more awake now. ‘Are you okay? You need a doctor? He’s my dad.’

‘Oh…it’s not for me, it’s for my mum. But it’s not an emergency or anything. Do you think he’ll be back by one?’

‘I don’t know. They go to mass and then the market. Usually they’re back at around one.’

‘What is it with the bloody mass and market here?’

‘I know, they all love it.’ He yawned. ‘I think my dad goes just to hand out business cards to anyone that coughs.’

I laughed. ‘Did you stay out much later last night?’

‘About another hour. Didn’t you hear us?’

‘It took me about a half-hour to climb back into my bedroom. I closed the window by mistake and broke all my nails prying it back open.’

He laughed. ‘You should have come back, I’d have helped you get in. I know where Arthur’s secret stash of tools are. Do you want me to get my dad to call around at one?’

‘No, it’s okay. Before one suits me best.’

‘What about tomorrow?’

I would have to wait another week for Rosaleen and Arthur to leave. Unless…I had one small window of opportunity when Rosaleen called to her mother.

‘Between ten and eleven tomorrow?’

‘I’ll run it by him. I’ll get him to call you.’

‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘He can’t call here.’

‘Well, do you have a
cell
?’ he teased.

‘No.’

‘Okay,’ he sighed. ‘It’s far too early in the morning for me to have to think. Give me a second.’

I waited.

‘Right, I take it you don’t want Rosaleen and Arthur to know, so when my dad gets back I’ll find out if he’s available and then I’ll meet you at the castle at two to let you know.’

I smiled. He could have phoned; he wanted to see me again.

I rang off, feeling fired up. One thing almost crossed off my list.

Mission two was to explore the bungalow. Or at least to have a look in the back garden; I didn’t want to scare the life out of the old lady. With my alibi prepared, I emptied a few berries into a bowl, I boiled the kettle, toasted a few slices of bread, scrambled a few eggs…very badly, managing to burn the bottom of the pan. I soaked it in the sink and dreaded the look on Rosaleen’s face when she saw it. I put everything on a tray and covered it with a tea towel just as Rosaleen did each morning. Feeling proud of my first attempt of breakfast, probably ever, I left the house and made my way, very slowly, so as not to spill the cup of tea I’d prepared. With two hands holding the tray, climbing over the gate without being able to lean on the pillar was difficult. The towel became soaked with tea but I pressed on. I passed the net-curtained living room and walked down the side passage. Again, my vision was taken from me as a bright light shone directly at my face. I closed my eyes tightly, then tried to balance the tray against the wall on one side so that I could rub them. I almost dropped the tray, making a racket as cups and plates collided. When the light had left my eyes and my vision returned, I continued on, choosing to look at the ground as I walked. As soon as I reached the end of the passageway, I stepped into the back garden and prepared to be blown away, prepared to see a little old lady tending her garden, giant mushrooms and fairies and unicorns and an entire magical world that Rosaleen was hiding. But I saw nothing. Nothing
but a long grassy field, with trees on either side. Rosaleen’s mother didn’t have green fingers, that was for sure.

The back of the bungalow was as deserted-looking as the front. Again, each window was covered by lace net curtains. There were two windows and a back door. I knew one was the kitchen, as I could just about make out the tap on the sink. The doorway seemed like the newest addition to the house. It was brown with yellow-tinted obscured glass. The second window gave nothing away.

I turned my attention to the workshed, where the object in the window continued to glisten and beckon me forward. I ignored the bungalow and began to make my way towards it. Halfway down I realised I should have left the tray, but I continued. On closer inspection, what glistened so much appeared to be a twisted piece of glass, hanging from a piece of twine. It spiralled elegantly and smoothly to a sharp point, the same shape as a bunch of grapes and was about sixty inches in length. As the draughty window blew it, it spun in circles, twirling and giving the illusion that it was spiralling down, catching the light at different points over and over again. It was hypnotising.

As I was staring at the glass, something else caught my eye. A movement. Thinking it was a reflection in the grass, I turned to see who was behind me but there was nothing but the trees moving in the breeze. I thought I’d imagined it but on further inspection, there it was again. A figure inside the shed. I moved slowly closer to the workshed, trying not to make much noise with my tray and really wishing I hadn’t bothered with it now, as the eggs and tea would surely be cold and the buttered toast would be soft. The workshed windowledge was shoulder height. I stood at the corner on my tiptoes to see inside. I didn’t dare look round the rest of the room, but kept my eyes on Rosaleen’s
mother in case she saw me and came at me with a sharp piece of glass.

I could see only her back. Her figure, in a long brown cardigan was hunched over a workbench. She had long scraggy hair, more brown than grey, which looked like she hadn’t brushed it for a month. I watched her for a while, trying to decide whether to knock or not. I didn’t even know her name. I didn’t even know Rosaleen’s maiden name to be able to address her. Eventually I built up the courage. I knocked gently.

The figure jumped and I hoped I hadn’t given her a heart attack. She halfturned, slowly and stiffly. The side of her face that was towards me was covered mostly by her long tatty hair. Over her eyes were a pair of oversized goggles, protective glasses that covered half her forehead and pinched her cheeks. She was all hair and goggles, like a nutty professor.

I balanced the tray on one knee and while the cups and plates clinked and slid, wobbled and spilled, I quickly waved, giving the biggest smile I’d ever given a person just so she’d know I wasn’t here to kill her. She just stared at me, no expression, no registering of any kind. I lifted the tray as high as I could, then balanced it on my knee again to quickly make an eating motion. There was still no response. I knew then that I was going to be in big trouble; it had not gone to plan. Rosaleen was right: her mother was not ready for perfect strangers and even if she was, I should have waited for Rosaleen to introduce us. I took a few steps back.

‘I’m leaving this here for you,’ I said loudly, hoping she’d hear me. I placed the tray down on the grass and backed away. As I was moving backward, I glanced down past the workshed at the rest of the garden. My mouth dropped and I sidestepped to take a closer look. Rows of washing lines filled the lawn. There must have been between ten and twenty lines. On each line were dozens of glass mobiles, all different
shapes, glass twisted and turned to make unique shapes, some ridged, some smooth, dangling in the breeze, catching the light, sparkling and silently swaying. A field of glass.

I passed by the workshed and went into the back lawn to further investigate. They were all far apart enough not to hit against one another. If they had been even a centimetre closer I’m sure they would surely have smashed. The lines were pulled tight, attached to a wall at the bottom of the garden and run tightly all the way to a pole at the other end. They stood taller than me so I was constantly looking up, seeing the light of the sky through the glass. They were the most beautiful things I had ever seen. Some appeared to drip, full and fluid, from the twine like giant tear drops but instead of falling, they’d frozen mid-air. Others had fewer swirls and curves, and were rigid spikes, more angry and sharp, hanging like icicles, like weapons. Each time the wind blew they swayed from side to side, I walked down the middle of one row, stopping occasionally to examine them. I’d never seen anything like them, so clear and pure. Some had bubbles trapped inside, others were completely clear. I held my hand up and looked at it through the glass, seeming obscured in some, perfectly as it was in others. Fascinating and beautiful, some distorted and disturbing others pretty and so fragile, as though touching them would shatter them.

I was going to go further and investigate the other lines when I turned round to make sure I was still alone and I saw Rosaleen’s mother had all of a sudden moved to a window that overlooked this second half of the garden. She was looking at me, her hand pressed up against the glass. I stopped walking and stood in one row, feeling like a Cabbage Patch girl in a field of glass, and smiled back, wondering how long she’d been watching me. I tried to make out her face, to see her features, but it was impossible. She was yet again showing
only her silhouette, her long hair falling to her shoulders, not grey as I had thought earlier, but a mouse-brown with white streaks. She seemed to be ageless, faceless, even more mysterious to me now than she was before I’d seen her.

I left the field of glass mobiles, taking them all in as though I’d never see them again as punishment for trespassing. Once I’d passed into the other garden, I could see her watching me still, not at the window but further away, deeper in the room.

I waved again, pointed to the tray on the grass, made eating gestures, as though it was feeding time in the zoo. She continued to stare at me making no reaction. Completely uncomfortable—hot sun, good win, very dead—I turned round and quickly walked away from the garden, not looking back once but feeling as I used to feel as a little girl, running from my friend’s house to my own house in the dark, and thinking there was a witch behind me.