The Blackwater Lightship Read Free Page B

friendly smile. Now as she stood against the back wall of the room, she sang with ease and authority, and among the guests there was a hush which was almost reverent. The woman did not often sing in public, and if she had been asked to sing — Helen knew the rules — she would have refused, suggesting somebody else, remaining resolute in not singing. Her voice had come from nowhere during a break in the music. Her family, Helen knew, was from Donegal, but Hugh had only met her in Dublin. Her accent in Irish was pure Donegal, but the strength in the rise and fall of the voice "was entirely hers, and even the O'Mearas, Helen could see, watched her with awe. When the song was over and the singer sat down, she smiled and sipped her drink as though it were nothing.
    The music started again, this time faster than before; someone produced a bodhran and began to beat it with his eyes closed. Helen went with the O'Mearas to the front door and then remembered the Indian boy and went back in to find him. He was playing around the tables, being chased by Cathal and Manus and another boy who had permission to stay up until the end of the party. As she broke up the game she wished she had secured permission for the Indian boy to stay on as well.
    She walked with him up the street to his house.
    'Will your parents not be asleep?' she asked.
    'My mother will be waiting,' he said and smiled. She wondered if Cathal and Manus could ever be polite like this.
    'I hope she won't blame me for keeping you out so late.'
    'No, she will not blame you,' the boy said gravely.
    •          •          •
    As Helen walked back to the house, she looked at the road bathed in the eerie yellow light which oozed from the streetlamps, and the cars parked in the drives or the roadway — Nissans, Toyotas, Ford Fiestas; every semidetached house was exactly the same, built for people who wanted quiet lives. She smiled to herself at the idea and stood outside the house as a taxi, flashing its lights, approached. She watched as the driver got out, an electric torch in his hand.
    'We're looking for Brookfield Park Avenue,' he said. 'We've found Brookfield everything else. It's the wild west out here.' He flashed his torch at a neighbour's doorway.
    'It's here. You're here,' she said.
    The doors of the taxi opened and four passengers got out, each with a bag of cans under his arm. 'This is the place,' one of them said.. She could not make out any of the faces.
    'It's Helen,' one of them said. 'We've been driving around like eejits.'
    'I know you,' she said. 'You're Mick Joyce. Is it not too late for you to be out?'
    'Hold on until I pay this man,' he said and laughed.
    When the taxi drove away, she accompanied the four new guests into the party. Mick Joyce had come to the house several times before; he was a solicitor, he had done all the legal work for Hugh's school. He was the best solicitor in the country, Hugh said, he knew every trick, he was a great man for detail, but once darkness fell — and she had heard Hugh telling the story several times, using the same words — he'd do anything, go anywhere, he'd go to Kerry and back the same night if he thought there was anything going on there. He had a strong Galway accent.
    'This is the woman of the house,' he said to the others. They shook her hand. There were no introductions.
    'We kept food for you,' she said.
    'You're a great woman,' he said.
    He walked down the hallway to the kitchen and stood in the doorway as though he owned the place, or was the guest of honour. When the music stopped, several people shouted greetings. Hugh got drinks for him and his companions and then the music started up again.
    Helen noticed that Ciaran Duffy was assembling his uilleann pipes, being watched carefully by several people. It was slow, meticulous work, and she realised that those still playing were overshadowed by these preparations. She watched Mick Joyce going into the garden, finding Manus and