The Last Lost Girl

  The Last

  Lost Girl

  Maria Hoey

  POOLBEG

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names,

  characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the

  author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons,

  living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Published 2017 by Crimson

  an imprint of Poolbeg Press Ltd

  123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle,

  Dublin 13, Ireland

  Email: poolbeg@poolbeg.com

  © Maria Hoey 2017

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Copyright for editing, typesetting, layout, design, ebook

  © Poolbeg Press Ltd.

  1

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-78199-8311

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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  About the Author

  Maria Hoey has been writing since she was eight years old. Her poetry has appeared in Ireland’s foremost poetry publication, Poetry Ireland, and her poems and short stories have also appeared in various magazines. In 1999, Maria won first prize in the Swords Festival Short Story Competition.In 2010, she was runner-up in the Mslexia International Short Story Competition and was also shortlisted for the Michael McLaverty Short Story Award.

  Maria was raised in Swords, Co Dublin, and has one daughter, Rebecca. She lives in Portmarnock with her husband, Dr Garrett O’Boyle.

  The Last Lost Girl is her first novel.

  Acknowledgements

  My thanks to all the lovely people at Poolbeg, in particular Paula Campbell and my superb editor Gaye Shortland. My gratitude and love to all my family, especially my mother Mary and my father Noel who long ago taught me a love of books. My thanks also to my extended family, my friends and colleagues, all of whom have cheered me on to finish this book.

  And finally, my thanks and indebtedness to my wonderfully patient and earliest readers: my husband Garrett O’Boyle, my daughter Rebecca D’Arcy and my sister Caroline Hoey-Edwards.

  For Rebecca, who always believed

  Chapter 1

  1976

  Lilly’s radio is playing “Young Hearts Run Free”.

  Lilly is lying face down on the brown blanket. Her green bikini has a tiny frilled white skirt that flutters when the wind blows, but there isn’t any wind today. Lilly’s toes almost touch the glass bottle that glitters in the grass. Jacqueline can just make out the words on the bottle’s greasy label – Red Lemonade – but there isn’t any lemonade now, only oil mixed with vinegar to make Lilly’s skin turn brown in the sun. Jacqueline closes her eyes, but the light seems to seep under her eyelids and there is no escaping the heat. Even the tar on the road is sweating – it clings to the soles of Jacqueline’s white summer sandals like black chewing gum. Daddy says this is the hottest month of the hottest summer in living memory. Jacqueline supposes he means that only dead people can remember a hotter summer, but that doesn’t make any sense. So many things don’t make sense, like why Goretti Quinn gets to lie next to Lilly on the brown blanket when Jacqueline does not. But Lilly is my sister, Jacqueline thinks, not Goretti Quinn’s. She opens her eyes. Goretti Quinn has rolled over onto her stomach. The waistband of her skirt is folded so far down that Jacqueline can almost see Goretti’s bottom. Mrs Quinn won’t let Goretti wear a bikini. “Big girls should wear big skirts,” she says – and, looking at Goretti Quinn’s thick pink thighs, Jacqueline thinks that she agrees with Mrs Quinn.

  “Get us some water, Jacks, please? I’m parched.”

  Jacqueline is so surprised that for a moment she does not move. Lilly is smiling at her, calling her ‘Jacks’ and saying please. Then she jumps to her feet and runs all the way to the house.

  Daddy and Gayle are at the kitchen table – Daddy is teaching Gayle how to gut fish. He looks up and smiles when Jacqueline comes in.

  “What are you up to, pet?”

  “Lilly needs some water – she’s parched.”

  “Why can’t she get her own water?” says Daddy. “You’d think she’d be glad to get out of the sun for five minutes. The pair of them must be roasted alive out there by now.”

  “Lilly is just trying to get a bit of colour – what’s wrong with that?” says Jacqueline’s mother, coming into the kitchen with Granny’s vase full of red and white roses. She carries it the way she always does, as though, Jacqueline thinks, it were made of gold instead of glass. “Out of the way, Jacqueline. You’ve no idea how heavy this thing is when it’s full of water.”

  She puts the vase on the dresser and steps back to look at the flowers, her head dipping from side to side.

  “What’s wrong with the colour she was born with?” Daddy gives Jacqueline a wink. “And do they have to stretch themselves out like that for the whole world to see? That Quinn girl looks like a Mullingar heifer.”

  Jacqueline laughs as loudly as if she has never heard the joke before. Through the open window, she can hear Lilly’s radio playing “Let Your Love Flow” and remembers why she has come in. She takes the big jug from the press, and carries it to the sink.

  “That’s not fair,” says Jacqueline’s mother. “Goretti is a perfectly nice girl.”

  “All the same, she’s no Liz Taylor,” says Daddy.

  “Everyone can’t be Liz Taylor, Frank. And will you stop running that tap, Jacqueline Brennan. In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a water shortage. When are you going to be finished with that mess, Frank? You’re stinking the house out.”

  “We’re nearly there,” says Daddy. “Now, are you watching this, Gayle?”

  “Yes, Daddy,” says Gayle.

  Jacqueline turns off the tap and carries the jug carefully across the room. She stands next to her sister. Gayle’spale-blue eyes are staring at the fish lined up on the table. Herbody is stiff – exactly, Jacqueline thinks, as though she has died standing up. Her long fair plait reaches almost to her bottom. Lilly says Gayle is too old at fourteen-going-on-fifteen to be wearing her hair in a plait all the time, but Gayle says who cares, it keeps it out of her way for running.

  Jacqueline looks down at the blue-bellied mackerel – they stare back from dead eyes. The Irish Times is spread across the yellow oilcloth – fish scales have fallen between the headlines like silver confetti.

  BANK STRIKE TALKS TO GO AHEAD BUT SHUTDOWN LOOKS LIKELY

  THREE SHOT DEAD IN PUB OUTSIDE BELFAST

  “Are you watching, Gayle?” Daddy’s knife slides along the length of the fish’s belly. “You want to make your cut here, at the gills. Then you stick your finger in and pull gently, just a little tug, like this, to detach the gut. Now, you see that little dark vein running along the backbone? Do you see it, Gayle?”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “Well, you need to scrape that right out. There you are.”

  Daddy holds up the knife and Jacqueline sees what looks like a thin dark worm on the glinting silver blade. Gayle’s hands go to her mouth and Jacqueline wonders if she will throw up all over the table. She kind
of hopes she will.

  “Why do you want to learn how to gut fish, Gayle?” she asks.

  Gayle does not answer and Jacqueline remembers something Lilly once said: “You’re such a lick, Gayle – always trying to make Daddy notice you.”

  Jacqueline had not understood what Lilly meant, because Daddy notices Gayle – he notices her all the time. The china cabinet in the sitting room is full of trophies and medals that Gayle brings home from running: “Look, Daddy, look at what I won today!”

  Gayle is the one he wakes first in the mornings, to go collecting mushrooms. Gayle is the one he asked to hold the ladder when he mended the roof and it is Gayle he takes with him to gather sticks for the fire. Daddy taught Gayle how to repair a bicycle puncture and how to oil the lawnmower and how to pluck a turkey. Looking at Gayle’s face now, Jacqueline wonders if Gayle really likes mending punctures or plucking turkeys either.

  Daddy slides the fish onto a plate. “There we are, all done. Give those a rinse under the tap, Gayle love. Gently does it now, don’t damage the flesh.”

  Gayle carries the plate to the sink with outstretched arms, as though she wants to keep the fish as far away from her as possible. Daddy gathers up the newspaper, folding it over the fish heads and guts.

  Jacqueline carries the jug to the back door.

  “Tell Lilly her dinner won’t be long,” says Daddy, “and maybe she’d like to put some clothes on.”

  Jacqueline turns in the doorway. “What’s Lilly having for her dinner?”

  “She’s having fish like everyone else – what do you think she’s having?”

  “But Lilly doesn’t eat fish, Daddy.”

  “Of course she does. Lilly loves a bit of mackerel.”

  “Not any more, she doesn’t,” says Jacqueline. “She’s a vegetarian now. She says she’s never going to eat anything with a face ever again.”

  Daddy laughs. “Lilly a vegetarian? I’ll believe it when I see it. Lilly likes her meat too much.” He walks to the sink and moves Gayle aside. “Here, let me do that – you’ll be there all day.”

  Outside in the garden it feels hotter than ever. Lilly has turned over onto her back and Jacqueline puts the jug down carefully next to her head.

  “I got your water, Lilly.”

  “Thanks.” Lilly doesn’t open her eyes and Jacqueline sits down at the edge of the blanket. Lilly prods her in the back with her toes. “You can’t sit there – get your own blanket.”

  When Jacqueline doesn’t move, Goretti Quinn raises her head and says, “You heard Lilly – now, go on, scoot!”

  Jacqueline feels her face going red. She gets up as slowly as she can and takes a few steps away from the blanket. Then she sits down on the grass, folds her arms, and watches them. She wishes now that she had told Lilly to get her own water. She tries to think of something clever to say that will make Lilly and Goretti Quinn sorry.

  “Daddy says you have to eat a big fat mackerel for your dinner, Lilly Brennan!”

  Goretti and Lilly turn their heads and look at one another, then they burst out laughing.

  “Top up my back, will you, Goretti?” says Lilly.

  Goretti Quinn groans, but she gets to her knees and reaches for the bottle. She pulls out the paper stopper and pours the oil and vinegar mixture into the palm of her hand. Jacqueline watches as she rubs her hands together then begins rubbing the oil into Lilly’s back.

  Goretti looks up and sees Jacqueline watching her. “What do you think you’re looking at?” she says.

  “‘I’m looking at you, your eyes are blue, your face is like a kangaroo!’” says Jacqueline.

  Lilly and Goretti start laughing again.

  “You smell like a chip shop, Lilly Brennan,” says Jacqueline.

  “Do I look like I care?” says Lilly.

  Jacqueline sticks out her tongue at them but nobody sees.

  Lilly has stretched out her hand and is turning up the radio. “Oh, I love this song!”

  “Oh, me too!” Goretti Quinn pushes the stopper into the bottle and stands it in the grass. “I hope they play it at the festival dances. I can’t wait, can you, Lilly? Did you ask your da yet?”

  “Not yet,” says Lilly and begins singing along to the radio.

  Goretti Quinn rubs her oily hands against her thighs, then she lies down next to Lilly again, closes her eyes and begins to sing too. Jacqueline is the only one who sees Daddy coming. His shadow falls across Lilly’s back.

  “For God’s sake, turn that racket down, Lilly!”

  Jacqueline smiles. Daddy thinks all music is a racket, unless it’s Frank Sinatra or Jim Reeves.

  Lilly stops singing but she does not move.

  Goretti Quinn jumps up. “Hiya, Mr Brennan!” She tries to pull her skirt down but it won’t go.

  “Hello, Goretti,” says Daddy but he does not smile.

  Jacqueline knows why. Daddy wishes Lilly wouldn’t hang around with Goretti Quinn so much. Daddy thinks Goretti is as thick as two short planks. She heard him say so.

  “What if she is?” Jacqueline’s mother said. “Not everyone can be intelligent. And Lilly likes Goretti so that’s all that matters.”

  But Daddy said, “That’s all very well, but I like to think that Lilly is just that little bit above.” Daddy is always saying that the Brennans are “just that little bit above”. When he says it, he puts one hand above the other like shelves. Jacqueline supposes he means that they, the Brennans, are the top shelf.

  “Lilly, I asked you to turn that music down,” says Daddy.

  Lilly slowly reaches out and turns the silver dial. “There, are you happy now? And can you get out of the way, please, Daddy? You’re blocking the sun.”

  “Do you not think you’ve had enough sun for one day?”

  “I could never have too much sun,” says Lilly.

  Daddy, looking down at her stretched out on the blanket, scratches his head. “Well, anyway, your dinner will be ready in half an hour. I got us a nice bit of mackerel.”

  Jacqueline looks at Goretti Quinn as though to say: I told you so. Goretti Quinn starts to giggle.

  “I don’t eat fish anymore,” says Lilly. “I’m a vegetarian. Daddy – please – the sun – do you mind?”

  “Told you,” says Jacqueline to Daddy.

  Daddy opens his mouth as if he is going to say something else, but then he just turns and walks away.

  Goretti watches him go. “Bye, Mr Quinn!” she calls.

  Daddy does not answer.

  “I think your da is lovely,” says Goretti. “You should have asked him about the dances, Lilly.”

  “I’ll ask him when the time is right,” says Lilly.

  “Do you think he’ll let you go?” says Goretti.

  “He has to let me go,” says Lilly and she reaches out and turns up the radio again, just in time to hear the man say, “That was Dr Hook, and ‘I’m Gonna Love You a Little Bit More’.”

  Chapter 2

  Afterwards

  He had the front door open before the car came to a stop. Jacqueline watched through the windscreen as he carefully negotiated the two shallow steps. His hair was too long and he was wearing a shabby old grey cardigan, too heavy for a fine July evening. Jacqueline was almost certain it was the same one he had worn the last time she saw him. As he came closer, Jacqueline could see that the third button down had been sewn on with bright-blue thread. She imagined him holding a needle up to the light as he struggled to thread it. She told herself that Gayle would see to it when she came home.

  She got out of the car and they embraced clumsily, their lips missing one another’s cheeks so that he ended up kissing her right ear. It made her smile that, like her, he had never quite got the hang of this hugging and kissing lark, every single time you saw someone. Then again, it had been a long time since she had seen him.

  “You’re as welcome as the flowers in May,” he said, and Jacqueline smiled again.

  She wondered how she could forget, every time, how effortlessly
he disarmed her. This close, she could scent the whiskey on his breath, but he smelled clean too, and under the terrible cardigan he had on a fresh shirt and cream slacks with sharp creases. His green eyes seemed cloudier than she remembered, like bloomy grapes. She noticed how the wattle under his chin wobbled when he moved, how the light shone through the pink tips of his ears like sunshine flooding through a stained-glass window. She turned away from him and went to the car. She pulled out her bag and her laptop.

  “Is this all you have?” he said and took them from her, ignoring her protests. “Gayle said you’d be staying the three weeks. Gayle always stays for three weeks in July. Right up until … well, you know. But I suppose with your work and all …”

  “I can work anywhere as long as I have broadband, Dad,” said Jacqueline, “but that’s neither here nor there. I’m here for three weeks.” She saw the anxiety leave his face.

  “Oh, we have the broadband alright,” he said. “Gayle got it for me. Broadband, isn’t that a marvellous thing?”

  “Marvellous,” Jacqueline agreed.

  She walked behind him to the house, thinking that he looked like he might snap under the weight of her bags.

  “Poor old Gayle, always trying to teach me how to use the email, but sure I can’t get the hang of it at all. She’s an awful woman to be spending her money on computers and the likes for me.”

  “She likes to keep in touch,” said Jacqueline.

  “She’s a good girl. The things she does for me when she’s home, you’d hardly believe it.”

  “Oh, I’d believe it,” said Jacqueline, remembering the last in a series of telephone conversations with her sister.

  It had begun with an assurance: “Please don’t think of this as a to-do list, Jacqueline, and I’m not suggesting for a minute that you have to do everything. I’m just telling you what I do. Are you with me?”

  Jacqueline said she was with her, and Gayle began. “Well, I always like to give the place a good going-over when I’m there. To be fair, Dad does his best but it’s man-clean if you know what I mean. He’d never think of washing the paintwork now, or a wall or anything like that. And you’ll need to take down the nets – it wouldn’t occur to Dad to wash a net curtain.”