It Could Never Happen Here, page 19
‘Roger that.’
Lorna ploughed off towards the back of the hall and Beverley took a minute to gather herself. She threw a glance in the direction of her mother, who had a group of sixth-classers in stitches. As always with Frances, Beverley did not want to know.
Just then, Woody appeared through the main doors.
‘There he is,’ muttered Beverley. ‘Gordon?’
The boy nodded. ‘I’ll go and get him.’
24
••••••
‘That bloody woman,’ said Seamus, bustling back into his workroom and throwing tools down on the floor inside the door. ‘I build her an entire cornfield, travel the length and breadth of the country collecting glass for her Emerald City, and what do I get? A fecking lecture on weather phenomena. Stick on the kettle and crack open the emergency Jaffa Cakes, before my blood pressure really takes off.’
‘I heard the racket all right,’ said Arlo, flicking the switch.
‘It’s not the kids. You’ve no idea how much I love those kids. It’s the parents.’ Seamus considered this. ‘Occasionally the teachers, but mostly the parents.’
Arlo took the only two mugs from the draining board of the small kitchen unit and threw in teabags. Then he pulled the jumbo packet of biscuits from under the sink.
‘You know what Principal Patterson says? She says the Glass Lake parents make her wish she was principal of an orphanage.’ Seamus chuckled. ‘You can imagine what Director Franklin would have to say if she heard that.’
Arlo pretended to study the row of old baseball cards Seamus had framed and hung above the sink. They were all of the same guy in a striped uniform and New York Yankees cap. Mostly, they managed to get through the day without mentioning Nuala.
‘Which of the teachers don’t you like?’ he asked, carrying the mugs from the counter to the worktable.
‘Thanks, son. Hmm? Ah, they’re grand, mostly. I’m just giving out. Ignore me.’
Arlo went back for the biscuits and then sat himself on the stool opposite Seamus.
‘Mr Cafferty? You were giving out about him last week.’
‘Arra, he’s just a bit up in your business. I can’t stand people like that. Does Woody like him?’ The way the caretaker’s eyes flickered up from his cup threw Arlo, and he thought back to his brief encounter with Woody and Mr Cafferty in the corridor earlier.
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted.
Seamus dunked a Jaffa Cake into his tea. When he’d caught the soggy biscuit in his mouth and swallowed, he said: ‘Didn’t you want to ask me something about tomorrow?’
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Arlo, as casually as he could muster. ‘I might need the day off. You said you weren’t sure if you’d need me, so I thought it would be okay.’ Half of him hoped Seamus wouldn’t allow it, that he’d suddenly have too much work on and need his help. ‘I was thinking about visiting my dad, you see, and I have jobs on most days, but tomorrow is pretty much free and there are visitor hours in the afternoon … Would that be okay? If it’s not, it’s fine. I’m not even sure if I will go. It’s just … It was just an idea.’
Seamus went to say something but a knock on the door cut him short. ‘That’s grand, son. No bother,’ he said, as the door pushed open and a small child dressed head-to-toe in orange appeared in the office.
‘Caretaker Seamus?’ said the girl, panting. Arlo wondered what role she was playing. Part of the rainbow, maybe?
‘Director Franklin said—’
‘No.’
The child blinked. She tried again. ‘She said to ask if you can—’
‘No,’ repeated Seamus.
‘To ask if you can come back and—’
‘No, no, no.’
‘But—’
‘Sorry, Amy, but no. I am not going back there. I am on my tea break now, and then I have a mountain of work to get through. You tell Director Franklin that if she wants to clear out the gutters at the back of the building, then fine, I’ll go and see to her sets.’
Orange Amy looked doubtful. ‘I don’t think she’d want to do that.’
Was there a rainbow in The Wizard of Oz, or was that just the song?
‘No,’ agreed Seamus. ‘Nor do I.’
‘But we need a broom from the storage closet, and we can’t find the key. She said you might have some sort of cutter to break the padlock.’
Seamus took a loud, long slurp of his tea.
Orange Amy didn’t budge.
‘Please, Caretaker Seamus. Us Munchkins are already on thin ice. If I go back again without the key, she might get rid of us altogether.’
‘Are Munchkins orange?’ asked Arlo, who wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen the film, or just a few stills.
But suddenly Orange Amy’s big eyes were filling with tears and Seamus was pushing himself up from his seat to pat the girl gently on the shoulder. ‘Shhh, now. It’s all right, Amy petal. Arlo will go and help. Won’t you, Arlo?’
‘I’m not sure if I’d really be wanted there … I think I’m better out of sight.’
‘Principal Patterson will be nowhere near rehearsals. She’s far too clever for that,’ said Seamus, offering the girl a Jaffa Cake.
But it wasn’t just Principal Patterson Arlo was avoiding. Director Franklin was Beverley Franklin, and Arlo’s success rate with her remained at zero. He’d decided he was better off focusing all his efforts on Ella’s dad.
‘Go on down and sort it out, Arlo. It’s a cheap warded lock. I’ve some picks and a tension wrench somewhere in the filing cabinet if you need them, but you should be able to jimmy the thing open. Okay, Amy, you’re okay. It’s going to be all right. Here. Have another biscuit.’
..................
Beverley had sent the girl to get Seamus McGrath, not Arlo bloody Whitehead. She would have demoted her to a flying monkey there and then, only the last scene, the one they’d performed for Christine Maguire and the wider readership of the Southern Gazette, had gone very well, so she was feeling generous.
‘Come on, then,’ she said to the lanky teenager who remained incapable of eye contact. ‘Let’s go, let’s go. Christine – you can come too. We’ll walk and talk.’ She led the pair of them to the storage closet beside where her mother was seated. Lorna Farrell, who never needed an invitation to ride Beverley’s coattails, was clipping at their heels. ‘Where were we?’
‘You were talking about your own acting background,’ said Christine.
‘Ah yes. Well, I’m sure you know the basics. A few high-castprofile adverts, a prominent role in Cork Life, a couple of theatre gigs – do you want to stop while you take this down?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘But then, you know, I had kids, and family won out. So, it’s great to be able to get back to my roots, to tap into that creative energy again. And of course, I still have some contacts in the business, so I just made a few calls, sent in some footage of Amelia, and boom: TV cameras in Cooney. I see a lot of what I had in Amelia. She was the only choice, really, to play Dorothy. I’ve built the production around her.’ They came to a stop at the storage door. ‘This is the lock. What are you going to do about it?’
Arlo stepped forward and tilted the silver padlock in different directions. He pulled down sharply on it. Nothing happened. He gave it two more strong tugs.
‘Is that what your expertise gets us – some brute force?’
‘Give the boy a moment, Beverley,’ said Frances, who was smiling kindly at him. Her mother’s ability to irritate her was incredible. It was like she had a sixth sense for the people Beverley most disliked and made it her business to be nicest to them.
Arlo’s face was now such a shade that he could have been an Oompa Loompa. He gave the lock another pull.
Beverley sighed. ‘Right. Well, it seems we’ll be doing the broom scene without a broom. Wonderful. Lorna, tell the children we’re going to use an old-fashioned thing called imagination.’
The teenager inspected the keyhole again. ‘Has anyone got a hairpin or a paperclip?’
Beverley rolled her eyes. ‘We’re not the Famous Five.’
‘Oh, I loved those books!’ gushed Lorna. ‘And there are five of us here. Bagsy George.’
‘No, Lorna. I do the casting around here, and you’re clearly Timmy the dog.’
‘I have a hairclip,’ said Christine, pulling a brown slide from the back of her head and handing it to Arlo. ‘Are you going to pick the lock?’
‘I’m going to try.’ He started to bend the clip out of shape. ‘Do you mind?’
Christine shook her head, her eyes following Arlo’s hands.
Of course the boy knew how to pick a lock, thought Beverley. He’d probably learned it from his father.
Once he had the clip in an L-shape, he shoved one end into the keyhole and started to push it in all directions.
Fifteen or so seconds passed, and nothing happened.
‘Time to admit defeat, I think,’ said Beverley.
‘You need a plan, crumpet,’ said Frances, stepping closer to the boy. ‘It’s a very male approach to just shove the thing in there, poke around and hope for the best. Believe me, I’ve seen it a lot.’
Dear God, let her mother not tell Arlo what she was referring to.
Frances took the straightened pin from the boy and gently laid it flat on his palm.
‘What you need, Arlo’ – how did her mother know his name? – ‘is to go in there with intent and respect. Think of the padlock as a sacred place, somewhere that should be cherished and worshipped. Know what sensation you wish to achieve and keep that in your mind’s eye.’ Frances nodded encouragingly. ‘Give it another try.’
The boy reinserted the pin.
‘Start with some gentle circles – smaller, then larger – that’s it, now vary the pressure …’
‘I’m not great when people are watching me,’ Arlo mumbled, his face glowing.
‘No,’ agreed Frances. ‘Most people aren’t. Although I don’t mind it myself …’ She shook her arms out and wriggled her fingers. ‘Just reject the shame, reject the judgement, focus on the pleasure that will come with reaching your goal …’
‘You’ve a very soothing voice, Frances,’ said Christine. ‘I should get you to record meditation tapes for my daughter.’
‘Yes, Maeve!’ said Lorna, far too excitedly. ‘Have you seen Maeve? We couldn’t find her earlier.’
‘Couldn’t you?’ Christine looked around the hall with mild concern.
Lorna’s face was pinched. ‘Yes. It was around the same time Woody went missing. That’s a coincidence, isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’
‘Don’t mind her,’ said Beverley, throwing daggers in Lorna’s direction. ‘Nobody’s missing. Maeve’s around here somewhere. And look. There’s Woody over there.’
A sudden click and the bolt came away from the lock.
‘Hurrah!’ shouted Lorna.
Arlo grinned.
Frances joined her hands together and bowed slightly. ‘Bliss.’
‘Very impressive,’ said Christine. ‘Have you done that before?’
‘Once or twice,’ said Arlo, his face starting to cool now. ‘It’s not that hard.’
‘Not once you know how,’ added Frances.
‘All right, Mother. You can go back to your seat now,’ said Beverley, who did not think they should be praising the boy for being a dab hand at breaking and entering. She grabbed a brush from the cupboard. Lorna and Frances moved away but Christine was still watching the teenage boy with fascination.
‘You wouldn’t have a business card, would you, Arlo?’ asked Christine, inspecting the hairpin that he’d returned to her. ‘I might have a bit of work for you.’
..................
Maeve Maguire finally stood and stretched out her legs. Her thighs were throbbing. She’d been crouched under Mr Cafferty’s desk for something close to forever. She’d leapt under the table when she heard the teacher’s voice in the corridor – talking to Woody – and she’d been about to crawl back out when the classroom door opened. She could only see the bottom half of the man who entered (she knew it was a man because of his big shoes and legs) but it wasn’t Mr Cafferty because he wasn’t humming. Mr Cafferty was always humming. This man was carrying a big black box, which he left on the ground. Then he’d started writing things on the whiteboard. He made that squeaky noise with the marker and more than once Maeve almost shrieked. Then he’d spent forever flicking through a notebook. She couldn’t see what he was doing, only hear the pages. She might have fallen asleep with the boredom, if she hadn’t been so uncomfortable.
And now he was gone. She had to get out of here quick. She’d been missing from rehearsals for ages and the man could return any minute. Or Director Franklin might come looking for her. Or Mr Cafferty. Or God – even her mom.
She wasn’t mad at Woody for not turning up. She’d heard him getting stopped in the corridor. She was worried about him.
She grabbed what she’d come for, stuffed it in her bag and legged it towards the door.
25
••••••
Arlo came to an abrupt stop at the lights. He’d just missed them, again. All the lights were against him this afternoon. How was it four o’clock already? Time kept disappearing, while the commitments kept multiplying. He’d managed to move the only two jobs he had scheduled for tomorrow to today and Seamus had let him go early so he could get them done.
I don’t see how you’re going to get everything done, especially now your Sugar Mama wants you to come and see her too.
He had been in the school car park, climbing into his van, when a text message came through from Fiona Murphy requesting that he call to her house today. She said it was an emergency.
She’s not my Sugar Mama, Leo, so will you please fuck off.
It’s her you should tell to fuck off, boy. She calls, you come running. You’re a wimp. I don’t care how many extra twenties she leaves on the nightstand; you don’t have time for this today.
I’m not going to leave her with a leaking sink, am I? Anyway, I’m not going running. I told her it would be tonight.
Right on cue, his phone beeped. He glanced over to where it lay on the passenger seat. One new message from Fiona Murphy.
This evening is perfect xx
A horn beeped and Arlo looked up to see the lights had gone green. He took his foot off the brake and the van lurched forward.
‘Don’t say it, Leo, don’t fucking say it,’ he said, out loud, in the van, well aware as always that he was talking only to himself.
Say what, Arly? That if it can wait several hours it doesn’t sound like much of an emergency? I wouldn’t dream of it. Now come on, we’ve places to be; move that gearstick down to fourth.
.................
Frances observed her daughter, standing at the marble kitchen counter with a beetroot, some fancy lettuce and an open recipe book. She saw Beverley as she was now but also all the versions that had come before. A profound loneliness emanated from her daughter’s past selves and she felt sad for how easily they had been discarded.
She was in Cooney because her daughter needed her. Beverley would scorn the idea but, as her mother, Frances knew it intuitively. She had been sitting at her kitchen table last Thursday, as the sun set on her birthday, and it came to her as clear as day: she must go to Cooney. And the urge had still been there the following morning, when the special brownies had worn off.
Her daughter’s face was dark as she chopped the vegetables.
They’d been talking about Glass Lake’s refusal to expel Woody Whitehead. Again. Frances had spoken to Amelia that evening and she seemed fine; no lasting damage appeared to have been done.
‘You think I’m ridiculous,’ said Beverley. ‘You think I’m over the top. I’m uptight. Go on, just say it.’ Beverley’s hand went to her chin, where the make-up was starting to wear away and two angry inflamed pimples were breaking through.
‘I love you to distraction, a stór. That’s why I’m here.’
‘That boy should not be in Glass Lake. Glass Lake means something and that’s not the sort of behaviour it accepts. You don’t know Glass Lake. That’s why you don’t understand.’
‘I understand what that school means to you. I know you credit it with all the things people usually credit to their parents. And I’m sorry you were unhappy with my mothering, but it wasn’t a coincidence you were sent there,’ she said, taking the first batch of chopped beetroot and laying it out on the roasting tray. ‘I took that job in Cooney because I wanted you to go there. And since you’re determined to resent me, I might as well say this now too: I do not believe you are upset with a twelve-year-old boy. At least, not as upset as you think you are. You’re annoyed at Malachy. And maybe yourself. You’re embarrassed, and you’ve never dealt well with embarrassment. But nobody expects you to be perfect. You’re good enough.’
‘You think I’m good … enough?’
‘Well now, you’ve taken my words and given them an entirely different meaning. That’s not how I said it.’
‘People loved me,’ declared her daughter, banging down the knife. ‘Everyone else wanted to know about life on set – which actors were bitchy, who was nice – but you never asked. You weren’t proud of me.’
‘I am immensely proud of you. You’re so self-sufficient and capable. They’re traits I’ve been working on for years and they come so effortlessly to you. But you being on television didn’t make me any prouder. All I ever wanted was for you to be happy. And I don’t think acting made you happy. I certainly don’t think that window of fame did. You weren’t in it for the right reasons, a stór. Ocastne day soon, you’ll be dead, and it will no longer matter what anyone thought of you. Having people think you’re better than them doesn’t make you better than them. And no matter what happens, you will always know that and so it will never truly feel good. All that’ll matter is that you were impressed by yourself. That you did what you believed was right, that you loved your children, that you cared for those who were vulnerable, that you were the best version of yourself. You’re always trying to prove yourself and you’re trapped in this image you’ve created. You’re good enough, Beverley, you always were.’
