“Why don’t you stay?”
“Not yet.”
“OK.”
Then she was out of bed and gone. Back a few minutes later, carrying something. She said,
“I want you to look at something.”
“Sure.”
“It’s Sarah’s diary.”
And offered a pink, leather-bound book. I physically recoiled, said,
“Jesus, Ann, I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t go through a teenage girl’s diary. It’s wrong.”
“But why? It will give you an idea of who she is... who she was. Please.”
“Oh God, I really don’t want to do this.”
I couldn’t tell her that nothing would have me reaching for a bottle quicker than that. A glimpse into the mind of a young dead girl.
Ann still held it out. I said,
“I’ll try. I can’t promise I’ll be able to but I’ll give it a shot.”
She put her arm round me, kissed my neck, said,
“Thanks, Jack.”
Walking home, I felt its weight like a bomb in my pocket. I thought of calling Cathy B. Asking her to read it. But I couldn’t just hand it over. Ann would never go for that. Cursing like a trooper, I was home in under ten minutes. I put it under my bed so I wouldn’t see it at first light. No way was I opening those pages at night.
Next morning, I showered, coffee’d, paced, then decided to face it.
The cover was well worn, the pink leather frayed from use. Inside was:
This diary is the property of
Sarah Henderson,
Poet,
Ireland
And is PRIVATE
So no peeking, Mom!
Christ! It was worse than I thought.
Blanked my mind and tried again. A lot of the entries were predictable. School, friends, music, clothes, diets, crushes.
Was able to get through this but every so often.
Mom says I can have a mobile
phone at Christmas.
She’s like the BESTEST.
And I’d want to scream.
Got to where she began work part-time at Planter’s.
Mr Ford is like so un-cool.
All the girls tease him behind
his back. He is so weird city.
Then the tone changed. Now she was excited, flushed, enraptured.
Bart asked if I’d like a lift home.
His car is mega. I have like the
biggest crush.
Then Bart... just the name... or a heart with Bart and Sarah... for pages. The final entry:
I can’t keep this diary any more.
Bart says it’s for children. He’s
promised me a gold bracelet if I
go to the party on Friday.
I got on the phone, called Cathy. She said,
“Where the hell have you been?”
“Undercover.”
“Under the bleeding weather.”
“That, too.”
“You’ll be wanting some-fink?”
“Pretty simple thing.”
“Yeah.”
“When you did research on Planter, did you keep notes?”
“Course.”
“Good girl. What’s his first name?”
“Lemme check.”
Then,
“Got them, let’s see... oh yeah, here it is... Bart... holomew.”
“Great!”
“Don’t go yet. Listen, I’ve got a gig.”
“Terrific, when?”
“This Saturday, at The Roisín; will you come?”
“Definitely. Can I bring somebody?”
“Bring hundreds.”
A GALWAY LAMENT
You watched — through
April
from
a place of
forbearance
... called fortitude.
The Roisín Dubh has showcased most of the major music acts. It still retains the atmosphere of intimacy. Read crowded. Ann was wearing a short leather jacket, faded 501’s, her hair tied back. I said,
“Now, that’s gig gear.”
“Is it OK?”
“Dynamite.”
I’d faded to black. Sweatshirt and cords in that colour. Ann said,
“You look like a spoilt priest.”
“Petulant?”
“No, spoilt as in... ruined.”
“Mm... we could work on that.”
We squeezed through the crowd, got near the stage. I said,
“Listen, I’m just going to see how Cathy’s doing.”
“Will she be nervous?”
“I am.”
Cathy was in a tiny dressing room, said,
“I knew you’d come.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure, you still have some moves, even for an old guy. Here...”
She pushed a glass at me, it was a double, no a treble something. I asked,
“What’s that?”
“Jack... as in Daniels. Get you kick-started.”
“No, thanks.”
“What!”
“I’m not drinking.”
She turned round, said, “You what?”
“Been a few days. I’m working at it.”
“Wow!”
I’d have given my back teeth for it. The light seemed to catch the glass, made the liquid sparkle. I looked away. Cathy asked,
“And the beard? What’s with that?”
“Notions.”
“That’s an Irish answer. Tells me absolutely zero. Go... I need to focus.”
I bent down, kissed the top of her head, said,
“Star trouper.”
Ann was holding drinks, said,
“Cokes... I didn’t mean to presume.”
“Coke is great.”
Various people shouted hello, commented on the beard, scrutinised Ann.
Lights went down and I thought I spotted Sutton near the bar.
Then Cathy was up. The crowd went quiet. She said,
“Hello.”
“Hello yourself.”
Straight into a punk version of “Galway Bay”. Like when Sid Vicious did “My Way”. Difference being that Cathy could sing. Gave the song a poignancy I’d lost over too many hearings. Next came Neil Young’s “Powderfinger”.
She covered a huge range, from Chrissie Hynde through Alison Moyet, to conclude with Margo Timmins’ “Misguided Angel”. Stormed through that. Then she was gone. Huge applause, whistles, calls for more. I said to Ann,
“She won’t do an encore.”
“Why.”
“Never keeps a reserve — she’s done.”
She was.
The lights came up. A wave of camaraderie, good will pervaded the place. Ann said,
“She’s brilliant. What a voice.”
“Drink? Have a real one, I’m OK truly.”
“White wine.”
“Sure.”
When I got it, I turned to find Sutton blocking my path. He looked at the glass, said,
“Wine? It’s a start.”
“Not for me.”
“Whatever. That English chick can sure belt it out. I’d say she’d murder you in bed.”
“Not your type.”
“They’re all my type. You’ll remember our Mr Planter?”
“Sure.”
“He does admire painters. Fancies himself a collector.”
“You spoke to him.”
“Lovely man. I’m due at his place at noon tomorrow. You can come as my assistant.”
“What are you planning?”
“To frame the fuck. I’m a painter, Jack. Remember? I’ll pick you up at 11.30.”
I gave Ann her drink, said,
“I’ll just say goodbye to Cathy.”