Read Online Controlled Explosions by Claire McGowan - Free Book Online
Authors: Claire McGowan
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PJ – spoke in a rusty voice. ‘I will.’ His bad leg was stiff but he stood up straight in a new black suit bought for the occasion. Paula suspected he was hating it all, but he’d have done anything for the woman standing next to him in an ivory suit from Debenhams, several nests’ worth of dyed feathers attached to her head.
Aidan’s mother, Pat O’Hara, said her vows quick and earnest: ‘I will.’
They would. They were both so sure. How could you be sure? Paula stole a glance at Aidan – what was he now, her stepbrother? – and saw his dark eyes were wreathed in shadows, his hair tinged with grey over the ears. She’d never noticed that before. He saw her watching, and both of them looked away, her belly as big and unavoidable as the lies between them.
Oh Aidan, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
Then it was done, and Pat and PJ were wed, and they trooped down the aisle like a bride and groom in their twenties. Aidan grasped Paula’s arm without meeting her eyes, escorting her out, because that was what you did. His hand was cool on her hot, fat skin. Everything about her was squeezed. The ridiculous lilac bridesmaid dress, strained over newly discovered breasts, was like a cocoon she might burst from at any moment. Aidan could barely look at her. She didn’t blame him.
They were out now, and posing for photos taken by one of Pat’s friends, who couldn’t work the camera, and Pat was all smiles and tears, kissing Paula with her five layers of lipstick. She’d had her colours done for the wedding, plunging into manicures and spa days and shopping trips like a first-time bride. Paula had tried to play along, because she loved Pat, but it was hard to be excited about a wedding when its very occurrence hinged on the fact that your mother, missing for seventeen years, had been declared legally dead. And maybe she was dead – dead as Pat’s husband, who’d been shot by the IRA in 1986. But maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t.
Maybe
. When you got married you did not say ‘maybe’. You said ‘I will’, you put your feet on the good, solid stone of certainty. ‘Maybe’ was like shifting sand. She wished so much there was something, anything she could be sure of. Whether her mother was alive or dead, for a start.
It was warm outside, and the sunlight played around the old church, which was painted in crumbly lemon-yellow. Paula had made her First Communion here, and they’d also chosen it for her mother’s memorial service back in the nineties – no funeral, of course; nothing to bury. Now Pat’s friends had gathered to throw confetti, twittering women in their Sunday best suits, lilacs and yellows and blues covering crêpey arms, hats pressed out of boxes and set atop tight-curled hair. Many greeted Paula –
hello, pet
– some kissing her cheek, though she barely recognised them. She knew they’d be looking at her vast pregnant belly and bare left hand, and speculating about her and Aidan and what might be going on there. He’d been her boyfriend when she was eighteen and he was nineteen – was he the father of the wean? Honestly, she’d have told them if she knew.
Suddenly it was too much, all of them there, and the kiss of the sun on gravestones, and the sight of a small plaque in the vestibule bearing the name
Margaret Maguire. In loving memory.
‘Maguire?’ It was Aidan, speaking his first words to her all day. In months, in fact, since she’d told him about the baby. She realised she was sagging gently down to the steps, like a deflating balloon. ‘You all right?’
‘It’s just the heat – the sun …’ It wasn’t especially warm – it never was in Ireland, of course – but her body seemed to produce its own waves of heat now.
‘Sit down.’ Aidan led her inside to the incense-scented dark. She slipped off her tight lilac shoes and the stone floor was cool under her feet.
‘Thanks. I’m OK.’
Aidan sat beside her in a pew, leaning forward so his tie flopped between his
Aidan’s mother, Pat O’Hara, said her vows quick and earnest: ‘I will.’
They would. They were both so sure. How could you be sure? Paula stole a glance at Aidan – what was he now, her stepbrother? – and saw his dark eyes were wreathed in shadows, his hair tinged with grey over the ears. She’d never noticed that before. He saw her watching, and both of them looked away, her belly as big and unavoidable as the lies between them.
Oh Aidan, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
Then it was done, and Pat and PJ were wed, and they trooped down the aisle like a bride and groom in their twenties. Aidan grasped Paula’s arm without meeting her eyes, escorting her out, because that was what you did. His hand was cool on her hot, fat skin. Everything about her was squeezed. The ridiculous lilac bridesmaid dress, strained over newly discovered breasts, was like a cocoon she might burst from at any moment. Aidan could barely look at her. She didn’t blame him.
They were out now, and posing for photos taken by one of Pat’s friends, who couldn’t work the camera, and Pat was all smiles and tears, kissing Paula with her five layers of lipstick. She’d had her colours done for the wedding, plunging into manicures and spa days and shopping trips like a first-time bride. Paula had tried to play along, because she loved Pat, but it was hard to be excited about a wedding when its very occurrence hinged on the fact that your mother, missing for seventeen years, had been declared legally dead. And maybe she was dead – dead as Pat’s husband, who’d been shot by the IRA in 1986. But maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t.
Maybe
. When you got married you did not say ‘maybe’. You said ‘I will’, you put your feet on the good, solid stone of certainty. ‘Maybe’ was like shifting sand. She wished so much there was something, anything she could be sure of. Whether her mother was alive or dead, for a start.
It was warm outside, and the sunlight played around the old church, which was painted in crumbly lemon-yellow. Paula had made her First Communion here, and they’d also chosen it for her mother’s memorial service back in the nineties – no funeral, of course; nothing to bury. Now Pat’s friends had gathered to throw confetti, twittering women in their Sunday best suits, lilacs and yellows and blues covering crêpey arms, hats pressed out of boxes and set atop tight-curled hair. Many greeted Paula –
hello, pet
– some kissing her cheek, though she barely recognised them. She knew they’d be looking at her vast pregnant belly and bare left hand, and speculating about her and Aidan and what might be going on there. He’d been her boyfriend when she was eighteen and he was nineteen – was he the father of the wean? Honestly, she’d have told them if she knew.
Suddenly it was too much, all of them there, and the kiss of the sun on gravestones, and the sight of a small plaque in the vestibule bearing the name
Margaret Maguire. In loving memory.
‘Maguire?’ It was Aidan, speaking his first words to her all day. In months, in fact, since she’d told him about the baby. She realised she was sagging gently down to the steps, like a deflating balloon. ‘You all right?’
‘It’s just the heat – the sun …’ It wasn’t especially warm – it never was in Ireland, of course – but her body seemed to produce its own waves of heat now.
‘Sit down.’ Aidan led her inside to the incense-scented dark. She slipped off her tight lilac shoes and the stone floor was cool under her feet.
‘Thanks. I’m OK.’
Aidan sat beside her in a pew, leaning forward so his tie flopped between his
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